"I mean, on the downside. A boy you knew would make it, but didn't."
Sam nodded. "Many times. You can never be sure what's inside a boy. The heart and guts thing. Whether they'll thrive on pressure or fall apart. And there's always the injury factor. One injury and a promising career can be over."
"What if you're wrong about William? You want him to give up a great education at the Academy and the Ivy League for football? What if he doesn't make it?"
"Plan B."
"Which is?"
"His rich daddy. He can go back to college, maybe law school. No worries for William. It's the black kids, the ones without a Plan B, they're the ones I lose sleep over. Football's their only way out of the 'hood, it's all or nothing. A lot of them end up with nothing." Sam stared at the field. "But I'm not wrong about William."
"So I'm supposed to make a major life decision for my son based upon your appraisal?"
Sam held his hands up as if in surrender.
"Hey, you're his dad. I'm just a scout."
Sam chuckled then took a long drag on the cigar and blew out smoke.
"Frank, when you were a kid, did you dream of being a pro athlete? You sure as hell didn't dream of being a lawyer."
Frank nodded. "Golfer."
"Did you love the game?"
"I did."
"Were you any good?"
"Not good enough."
"What if you had been? And not just good, but great. How would that have felt? Would you have chased your dream? Would you have been mad if your dad had denied you that chance?"
Sam Jenkins answered his own question.
"You would've hated him. And William will hate you."
Sam waved the cigar at the teams on the field.
"That's his dream, right out there. You gonna take that dream away from your son, Frank?"
A good father wouldn't take his son's dream away, would he?
William's team was losing. Again. He had scored five touchdowns, but the other team had scored nine. His team ran off the field. The linemen bowled over Ray and knocked him to the ground. All the water bottles he carried in his little carry rack went flying. Ray was now the team manager, aka, the water boy. William stopped and helped his friend up. He then picked up the plastic Gatorade bottles and replaced them in Ray's carry rack. It looked like an old-time milkman's carry rack, except Ray carried bottles of Gatorade not milk.
"You okay, Ray?"
"Yeah. Thanks, William." He nodded at the other players. "They've got no respect for water boys."
William stuck a fist out. "Knucks."
As in "knuckles." They fist-bumped.
Sam Jenkins had left, and Frank stood at the fence pondering the scout's advice when his cell phone rang. He checked the readout. It was an Austin number. He answered.
"Frank Tucker."
"Frank. Scooter and Billy."
Scooter McKnight was the athletic director at UT. Billy Hayes was the head basketball coach. They were on a speakerphone. Frank had a feeling they weren't calling to offer game tickets.
"Can we talk?" Scooter said.
"Shoot."
"Not on the phone. Can you come to Austin? Tomorrow?"
"Can't."
"Saturday?"
"Scooter, I told my son we'd play golf—"
"It's important, Frank."
Scooter was not given to drama. So Frank and William would play Sunday instead.
"All right. At your office in the stadium?"
"At the jail."
"The jail?"
Scooter sighed into the phone. "Watch the news."
Frank disconnected and wondered what the meeting would be about. More specifically, whom it would be about. Frank had handled some high-profile matters for the athletic department, which is to say, he had represented athletes who had found themselves on the wrong side of the law. Most were just young and stupid and bulletproof, or so they had thought. They were living in those gap years, with bodies like men and brains like boys. Testosterone and stupidity had apparently joined up to produce another bad result. He knew Saturday's meeting would not be a happy affair. Happy people don't call criminal defense attorneys.
"We've got the society luncheon tomorrow."
His wife's perfume announced her presence. He turned to her. She was forty-two now, but daily workouts and regular spa treatments had deferred her aging. She was still lean and fit; climbing the social ladder in Houston required stamina.
"What time?"
"Noon."
"I can't."
"You promised."
"Nancy's son is coming home from Iraq."
"So?"
"In a casket."
Her son had died at twenty-two, only eight years older than William. Where would Frank's son be at twenty-two? Not dying from a roadside bomb in a foreign land to help people who hated Americans. Would he be playing pro football for Americans who loved the game more than life itself? Was his son's dream in Frank's hands? Was Sam the scout right? What would a good father do?
"Who was that you were talking to?" his wife said.
"On the phone?"
"No. That man."
"College scout."
"Why?"
"He came to see William play. Scouting a fourteen-year-old boy."
"So what did he say?"
Frank recounted his conversation with Sam Jenkins to his wife.
"He really thinks William could be a star in the NFL?" she said.
"Apparently."
"Then we've got to do it."
"Hold on, Liz. We need to think this out, the consequences for William. Not just what he wants, but what he needs. What's best for him. He's as big as a man, but he's still just a kid without a clue."
"What's a vagina look like?"
Frank spit out the beef from his beef taco. Becky covered her face.
"Oh—my—God! William, that is so disgusting. And at the dinner table."
Liz had gone into the kitchen to check on Lupe. They were not sitting at the table in the kitchen in the old house. They were sitting at the formal dining table in the formal dining room in the new eight-thousand-square-foot house. They had sold the old house and moved into this house a year ago. It was new and austere and filled with marble, like a mausoleum. It did not feel like home to Frank. Or to the kids. Or to Rusty, one holdover from the old house. This new house had cost four and a half million dollars. Frank was carrying a two-million-dollar mortgage. All to keep the peace. To be with the kids. Becky, who was sixteen now and had only two more years at home, and William, whose size made him seem older when in fact he was just a fourteen-year-old boy working his way through puberty. Sometime in the last year, girls had become interesting.
"It's my one question," William said.
About a year before William had figured out that there was a secret world called sex, so he began peppering Frank with questions. A lot of anatomical and mechanical inquiries. Five, ten a day. Frank felt as if he were being deposed. So he reminded his son of the rule—if he asked a question, Frank would tell him the truth; but he had to be sure he wanted to know the truth—and then limited his sex questions to one per day. He couldn't deal with that much sex talk each day, particularly given that he was no longer a practitioner. But the preferred place for the daily question was not the dinner table.
"So how did this particular topic come up?"
"Some of the guys were talking about it at practice. Timmy McDougal said he had seen a picture online. Then his mother blocked porn sites on his computer. Petey Perkins said he had seen his sister's, but that made us all want to throw up."
Lupe came in with a platter of Mexican food. She was the other holdover. The house was new and the furnishings were new, but their maid was two years older. She did not wear a colorful peasant dress but instead all black, like a waiter at a fine restaurant. Liz had decided that Lupe needed to upgrade to a uniform when they moved into the new house.
"So why do you want to know?" Frank asked.
&nb
sp; "I'm the only fourteen-year-old kid who's never seen one, not even a picture. I should know that sort of thing."
"Can we talk about something else?" Becky said.
"Why?"
"Because this is gross."
"My question was directed to William."
"All the other guys do. I feel stupid."
Frank tried to recall when he had first seen a vagina. It was in a Playboy magazine another boy had smuggled into school like contraband. He was in ninth grade and never looked at girls the same way again. Answering his son's sex questions had fallen to Frank, father-son and all. Telling him there was no Santa Claus was easier. That talk had also fallen to Frank.
"All right. After dinner. We'll find a vagina on the Internet."
Becky stared at Frank with her mouth gaped. Frank turned his hands up.
"What?"
"If I had asked to see a penis when I was fourteen, would you have shown me a picture on the Internet?"
"No."
"Exactly."
"And have you seen one?"
She pointed at her brother. "His … but not recently."
There was more for her to tell, but Frank could not summon up the courage to ask. She answered anyway.
"Don't worry, Daddy. I'm still a virgin. I'm not going to let a guy use me to make his high school memories. I'm smarter than that."
Frank leaned over and kissed her forehead.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being a better daughter than I am a dad."
"You're welcome."
Everyone said the first child would be easy. Not so much the second.
"Can I ask a follow-up question?" William said.
"No."
He did anyway.
"Jimmy said girls put IUDs up their vaginas so they don't get pregnant. But I told him that would be dangerous because your secretary's son died from an IUD in Iraq. Jimmy's dumb, isn't he?"
"He is," Becky said.
"But not about that," Frank said. "Nancy's son died from an IED, an improvised explosive device. An IUD is an intrauterine device. A form of birth control women use."
"Do they hurt?"
"Women? Yes."
Frank smiled at Becky.
"Funny," his daughter said.
"What's for dessert?" his son said.
William's cell phone buzzed. Incoming text. He checked it then jumped out of his chair and ran into the kitchen to the nearest TV. He clicked it on and found the local news. Mom stood next to him. She was mad because Dad wasn't going to some lunch with her the next day.
"Dad!"
Dad and Becky walked in a few seconds later. William pointed at the screen. The reporter was talking: "Bradley Todd, the star UT basketball player, was arrested today in Austin and charged with the brutal rape and murder of a UT coed. He's being held without bail in the Travis County Jail. The D.A. is going to seek the death penalty."
"So that's it," Dad said.
"What?"
"The AD and coach called me today at your game. We're meeting Saturday morning. About this."
"I thought we were playing golf Saturday?"
"Sunday."
"Is he the son of the Todds of Highland Park?" Liz asked. "The billionaire?"
"I don't know."
She did.
"They're high in Dallas society."
"His dad'll buy his way out," William said. "Just like Kobe bought his way out."
"Kobe wasn't accused of murder."
"You're not seriously going to be his lawyer?" Becky said.
"Depends."
"Daddy, you can't represent a rapist and a murderer!"
"I'm not going to. I'm going to meet him, see if he's being wrongfully accused, if he's innocent."
"And if he's not? Innocent?"
"He'll have to find another lawyer."
Chapter 7
The Travis County Jail anchored the corner of Tenth and Nueces in downtown Austin. One any given day, several hundred men resided there; several thousand more resided in the long-term jail facility south of town. They all resided there involuntarily. They had been arrested and charged with violations of the Texas Penal Code. Assault. Robbery. Rape. Murder. Some could not make bail. Some were denied bail. All wanted out. Desperately.
Bradley Todd was one such man.
Sitting on the inmate side of the Plexiglas partition in the interview room, he did not look like a rapist or a murderer. He looked like a very tall Mormon missionary. But he was not a missionary. He was twenty years old and the star player on the UT basketball team. Coach Billy Hayes shook his head in despair.
"I finally find a white boy who can play D-One basketball, then he does this."
"Did he?" Frank said. "Do it?"
"Rape and kill her? No. I mean, get himself arrested."
Scooter McKnight sighed. "Book 'em Horns."
"Hook 'em Horns" was the Longhorn slogan. After a number of UT athletes had been arrested in recent years for various violations of the law, the Austin media had taken to saying, "Book 'em Horns."
"He's a player," Billy said. "A real shooter. He could go pro, but he wants to be a doctor—you believe that? A false accusation like this could ruin his life. He's religious and Republican—Republicans don't rape and murder college coeds. Jesus, Frank, he goes to Sunday school. What basketball player does that these days? These girls, they throw themselves at star athletes. It's hard to say no when all you have to do is say yes. Then they claim rape."
"How many claim murder?"
The coach gave Frank a look.
"You know what I mean. Look at him."
They spoke in low voices. Frank, Billy, and Scooter were standing on the visitor side of the Plexiglas; Bradley's parents stood against the wall behind them. They were in fact the billionaire Todds of Highland Park. Their son stood six feet eight inches tall. His hair was short. He had no visible tattoos or piercings. He was engaged to a nice girl. He was white. Would Frank feel the same about him if he were black and accused of raping and murdering a white girl? If he had dreadlocks and tattoos and wore his pants below his butt? If his name was D'Marcellus or LaMichael? If his parents were poor?
"They can pay the full freight, Frank," Scooter said. "They live in Highland Park."
Dallas' billionaires lived in Highland Park just as Houston's billionaires lived in River Oaks.
"You name your price, they'll pay. They want you."
"Why?"
"The dad, he's buddies with Senator Ramsey. She told him to hire you."
"You know my rule, Scooter."
"He's innocent, Frank."
"On the TV, the police chief said they had his DNA."
Billy sighed and nodded. "Semen. Like I said, these girls throw themselves at the players."
Frank studied Bradley Todd. Was he a brutal rapist and murderer or a falsely accused innocent young man? Like the three Duke lacrosse players who made the mistake of going to a party where a stripper named Crystal Gail Mangum performed. After the party got out of hand, she accused the three players of raping her. The university, faculty, students, police, and district attorney (who was up for reelection) presumed their guilt. Feminists and faculty staged campus protests and demanded that the players be expelled. They were. The grand jury indicted the players for rape and kidnapping. Fortunately for the players, their parents had money; they spent three million dollars proving their sons' innocence. The North Carolina Attorney General declared that the three players had been falsely accused and revealed that District Attorney Mike Nifong had withheld exculpatory DNA evidence. Nifong was subsequently disbarred for prosecutorial misconduct and convicted of criminal contempt; he served one day in jail. The players sued Duke University, which settled with them, and enrolled in other colleges. Mangum wrote a memoir and was later convicted of murder after stabbing her boyfriend to death. Three innocent young men would be in prison still if a lawyer hadn't believed in them.
"I need to talk to him," Frank said. "Alone."
>
"Why?" Billy asked.
"The attorney-client privilege doesn't apply if third parties are privy to our conversation. You could be called to testify."
"But I'm his coach."
"Sorry, Billy. There's no legal privilege for basketball coaches."
"That doesn't seem fair."
Frank repeated his request to Bradley's parents.
"I'm staying," the father said. "I want to hear what you have to say. I'm paying you."
"If I take his case. And I can't decide if I'm taking his case until I talk to your son, Mr. Todd. Alone."
The father stared at Frank, then surrendered.
"The judge denied bail. Said he's a danger to the community. If you take the case, can you get him out of here?"
"I can."
"He's innocent, Frank."
A father's undying belief in his son. Mr. Todd walked out of the interview room. His wife followed him. Scooter and Billy followed her. Frank sat in the chair facing Bradley Todd. His expression was that of a deer caught in headlights—and about to be run over. Being arrested will do that to an American citizen. When the police show up and slap the cuffs on you, read you the Miranda warning, and then haul you off to jail, fingerprint you, and take a DNA cheek swab, you are filled with the fear of God. The fear of losing your freedom. The fear of prison. Bradley Todd was full of all those fears. Frank picked up the phone on his side and gestured for Bradley to pick up the phone on his side.
"Bradley, my name is Frank Tucker. I'm a criminal defense lawyer. I usually represent white-collar defendants, not defendants accused of rape and murder. So if I'm going to represent you, you must tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you rape and murder Rachel Truitt?"
Rachel Truitt had been an eighteen-year-old freshman at the University of Texas at Austin. She had been brutally raped and then strangled to death behind a bar on Sixth Street.
"No, sir, Mr. Tucker. I didn't rape her. I didn't kill her."
"The police recovered your DNA from her body. Semen. You had sex with her?"
Bradley's eyes dropped.
"Yes, sir."
The Case Against William Page 6