The Case Against William

by Gimenez, Mark

  "Hey, Frank." Not Mr. Tucker. "You want to earn another million bucks?"

  Frank held the phone to his ear and the front page of the newspaper with Sarah's photo to the glass.

  "Did you rape and kill Sarah?"

  "Are you my lawyer?"

  "Depends on your answer. But whatever you tell me is still confidential."

  He nodded.

  "Why?"

  "She broke it off a year ago, our engagement."

  "Why?"

  "She said she got tired of all the other girls."

  "And?"

  "And I kept trying to get her back. But she wouldn't come back."

  "What happened the night she died?"

  "I went to her apartment and found her with another guy. I got pissed, her fucking around on me."

  "She broke off the engagement a year ago. She wasn't your fiancée."

  "Like hell. She was mine and she was always gonna be mine. That's what I told her."

  "So you raped and killed her?"

  "I had sex with her."

  "Sex without consent is rape, Bradley."

  "We had sex while we were engaged."

  "It's not a lifetime pass. What happened then?"

  "She tried to call the cops."

  "So you stabbed her? Forty-seven times?"

  He shrugged. "I got mad."

  As if that made it justifiable homicide. They stared at each other through the Plexiglas. Frank did not want to ask the next question, but he had no choice.

  "Did you rape and murder Rachel Truitt two years ago?"

  Bradley's eyes were void of remorse.

  "Yeah."

  "You lied to me."

  Bradley shrugged again. "You wouldn't have defended me if I had told you the truth."

  "And Sarah lied to protect you?"

  "We were engaged."

  "Did she know you killed Rachel?"

  "No. I told her I was partying on Sixth Street, which was true, but if she didn't say I was with her, the jury would convict me."

  "They would have. So she committed perjury for you. And now she's dead. I believed you, Bradley. I thought you were innocent. Now another girl is dead."

  "So are you going to be my lawyer?"

  "No."

  Frank got drunk in the hotel bar.

  Chapter 14

  Six months later, Frank's cell phone rang. He answered.

  "Mr. Tucker, this is the court clerk. Are you stuck in traffic? The judge and the jury are waiting for you."

  "Uh, yes, the traffic. I just pulled into the parking lot. I'll be right up."

  Frank unscrewed the top on the pint bottle of Jim Beam and took a long swallow. He screwed the top back on, grabbed his briefcase, and got out of the Expedition.

  Almost two years before, the subprime mortgage market had collapsed. A year before, his client had been indicted by a federal grand jury for mortgage fraud. For doing exactly what the federal government wanted him to do: make home loans. Prop up the residential real estate market. The economy. Easy money kept the nation's economy humming along, the people employed, and the stock market high. Easy money was good for America.

  But when the market crashes, someone has to be punished.

  The politicians—the drug lords of easy money—are never punished; the mortgage brokers—the street dealers who implemented easy money—are. His client had approved mortgage loans guaranteed by the full faith and credit of the United States government to anyone who could fog up a mirror. Income to repay the mortgage was optional. Wall Street bankers bundled the mortgages into salable securities and sold them to mutual funds, pension funds, foreigners—to any sucker they could find. No one complained as long as real-estate prices marched upward; but, of course, what goes up must come down.

  The housing market came down.

  The politicians pointed fingers at the big banks before voters pointed fingers at them. But the government bailed out the Wall Street bankers then indicted the brokers. Including Frank's client. The trial had lasted two weeks. The jury had a verdict. Frank was late. He rushed into the courtroom in the federal building in downtown Houston. He hurried up the center aisle and sat at the defense table. The judge was not happy; he nodded to the bailiff. He disappeared through a door then returned with the jurors in tow.

  The jury acquitted Frank's client of all charges.

  After the jury had been dismissed and the courtroom had emptied, the judge motioned Frank to the bench. Frank walked over to the judge.

  "Another acquittal, Frank. Congratulations."

  "Thanks, Melvin."

  The judge sniffed the air; more specifically, Frank's breath. In his rush, he had forgotten to use the breath spray after that last shot of Jim Beam.

  "Frank, have you been drinking this morning?"

  Like most drunks who didn't know they were drunks, he tried to laugh it off.

  "Hell, Melvin, I've been drinking every morning."

  "You tried this case drunk?"

  Frank shrugged. "I still won."

  "You won, but not like you usually do. You never made mistakes before, Frank, but you made a lot of mistakes this time. You won because the prosecutor made more."

  The judge regarded Frank Tucker. He had gained weight. His complexion had reddened from the whiskey. He wasn't the man or the lawyer he once was.

  "Frank, what the hell happened to you?"

  "A girl died."

  Melvin sighed. "I read about all that. Frank, it wasn't your fault. That's part of the job description. Your client might be guilty."

  The judge's expression turned judicial.

  "Frank, showing up in federal court drunk … you crossed a line. You need help. And your clients need a sober lawyer, even if you are better drunk than most lawyers are sober. I've got no choice. I've got to report you to the bar association."

  "Melvin, please—"

  "Frank, they'll suspend your law license."

  Chapter 15

  Frank Tucker didn't start drinking because his client had raped and murdered Rachel Truitt, the first girl. That's a risk every lawyer takes when he takes a case, that the client might be lying. He was convinced that Bradley Todd was telling the truth. That he was innocent. That he was not a rapist and a murderer. He was wrong. But Bradley had already raped and murdered Rachel when Frank agreed to represent him. So he suffered no moral guilt over her death. Rachel Truitt's death had not occurred on his watch.

  But the second girl's death had.

  Sarah Barnes had died because he had won an acquittal for Bradley Todd in the first case. His client had been guilty of brutally raping and murdering an eighteen-year-old coed, but Frank Tucker had "gotten him off," as the newspapers referred to Bradley's acquittal after he was arrested for the second murder. So Bradley Todd wasn't on death row where he belonged, but on the streets, free to rape and murder another young coed. And he had. Sarah was twenty-one. She was sister to Ben and Carla. Daughter to Gary and Cindy. She was a cute Christian girl. A dead girl.

  Her face haunted Frank Tucker.

  He had found himself in the press again, but it wasn't favorable press. Travis County District Attorney Dick Dorkin finally had his revenge. He had been quoted in the Austin paper: "Frank Tucker once called me a failed politician. Perhaps I am. But at least I don't have that girl's blood on my hands. At least my conscience is clear. At least I can look myself in the mirror each morning and know I'm not responsible for Sarah Barnes's death. I tried to put Bradley Todd on death row for raping and murdering Rachel Truitt. But his billionaire father could afford to hire Frank Tucker and pay him a million dollars to get his son off. And Frank Tucker did just that. He set Bradley Todd free to kill again. And kill he did. Frank Tucker got the verdict he wanted for Bradley Todd two years ago. I hope he can live with his own verdict of himself today."

  He could not.

  He stared at Sarah's photo from the two-year-old story in the paper. He carried it with him always. He looked at her face daily. He downed another shot of wh
iskey straight up. Four shots would usually blur her image from his mind. He would pass out on the fifth shot.

  William sat in a chair behind a table set up on the artificial turf inside the indoor practice arena. The head coach stood to one side, his mother to the other. His father was supposed to be there, but it was probably just as well that he wasn't. If he were drinking, he might make a scene on national television. Arrayed on the table in front of William were five caps bearing college emblems: UT, A&M, ND, USC, and F. The five finalists competing for William Tucker.

  I am a star.

  William was eighteen and a senior; he hadn't mowed the grass or washed his own car or gone a week without sex in two years. He had led his team to a third straight undefeated record—he loved winning—and a third-straight Class 5A state football championship. He stood six feet five inches tall and weighed two hundred twenty pounds with seven percent body fat. He had a forty-eight inch chest and a thirty-two inch waist. He benched three-fifty and squatted four-fifty. He ran a 4.4 forty. He wore a size seventeen shoe. He was a beast, a freak of nature, and the number one college prospect in the nation. And the nation was waiting for him to decide where he would play his college football. He would make that decision today and then graduate from high school next week, before the Christmas break. In January, he would enroll in college for the spring semester. For spring football practice.

  "Two minutes," the television producer said.

  The world was mired in the Great Recession, but football-loving America—which is to say, most of America—took a timeout from their economic misery to watch ESPN that day. It was national signing day, the first day high school seniors could sign binding letters of intent to play Division I-A football on full scholarships at the colleges of their choice. The expensive and time-consuming process that had begun when the boys were twelve—the scouts watching their middle school games and charting their progress and size through high school; the recruiting letters to thousands of boys beginning in their freshman year; the on-campus visits by hundreds of boys; the head coaches' home visits to a select few—it all came down to this day. Today the process either succeeded or failed. Each school's recruiting class would be graded by college football analysts on cable television: A to F. Who won, who lost. Who had convinced the best football players in America to become student-athletes at their school for the next four years, although there was little student left in the student-athletes of today and few stayed long enough to graduate. The best players left school after their sophomore or junior years. Money awaited in the NFL.

  "One minute."

  Aimed at him was the ESPN camera. He wasn't nervous. At eighteen, he had already given dozens of live TV interviews to local, state, and even national sports channels. Being the top high school football player in America, his signing would be carried live on national television. The sports cable channels ran twenty-four/seven; Americans were addicted to sports. But mostly to football. High school football, college football, pro football, fantasy football. Football had captured the nation's imagination. It was America's sport. Invented in America and played by Americans. On college campuses across the country, football in the fall brought alumni and money and perhaps the glory of a national championship to the school, much more than, say, a professor winning the Nobel Prize in physics; in the year after Johnny Manziel won the Heisman Trophy at Texas A&M, the school raised a record $740 million in donations. The signing of a star quarterback was far more important to a college's financial future than the signing of a star professor.

  I am special.

  Consequently, his choice held the nation's attention. Where would he go? Would he play quarterback for the Texas Longhorns, the Texas A&M Aggies, the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, the University of Southern California Trojans, or the Florida Gators? Each of the five schools had live feeds into its campus, similar to when the Olympic Committee announced the next host city. Coaches, students, players, and alumni gathered in front of their televisions. America awaited his decision. William Tucker's decision that day would determine which of those five schools would have a legitimate shot at the national collegiate football championship during the next four years. Which of those schools would reap a revenue bonanza from bowl games, TV contracts, ticket and skybox sales, and merchandising profits. Which of those schools would make or lose money on their athletic department. College football today was a big business worth billions.

  "We're live."

  The anchor from New York: "William Tucker, you're the star of this year's high school recruiting class. A special player indeed. You're going to be a hero to one of five colleges today."

  On the five monitors set up in front of him, William could see live shots of the crowds of students, coaches, and alumni at each of the schools, like Catholics waiting for the naming of the next Pope. Except these campus crowds featured sexy cheerleaders holding posters that read WE WANT YOU, WILLIAM TUCKER and COME PLAY WITH US, WILLIAM TUCKER and THESE STUDENT BODIES LOVE YOU, WILLIAM TUCKER.

  "William, where are you going to play college ball?"

  There was a drum roll. Seriously, the show did a drum roll.

  "Will it be Texas, A&M, Notre Dame, USC, or Florida?"

  The campus crowds on the monitors fell silent. Students put their folded hands to their faces as if praying. Coaches clenched their fists as if to will a decision for their school. Athletic directors dreamed of BCS bowl game revenues. Alumni envisioned bowl wins over their archrivals.

  "I'm taking my football talents to …"

  William reached out and hovered his hand over each of the caps for a few seconds, just to generate some suspense for the viewers, then grabbed the UT cap and put it on.

  ". . . Austin, Texas. I will play for the Texas Longhorns."

  The crowd on the UT campus jumped for joy. Students screamed. Coaches threw their arms into the air and hugged each other. William Tucker was coming to Austin.

  The losing crowds collapsed in stunned disbelief. Coaches cursed, and coeds cried. Athletic directors and alumni looked as if they had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer. William Tucker would not be playing for their team.

  I am William Tucker.

  Elizabeth Tucker stood next to her son. NCAA rules required that a parent sign the letter of intent if the player were under twenty-one years of age. She would sign as William Tucker's guardian. Her son would be the star she had never been.

  She signed the letter of intent then smiled for the television camera. At forty-six and after a few minor nips and tucks, she was still photogenic. She wasn't the UT beauty queen that she had been twenty-four years before, but she was still a beautiful middle-aged woman.

  But was she beautiful enough?

  Beautiful enough to compete in Houston for a wealthy middle-aged divorced or widowed man? A man with money? They were hot commodities in Houston. So many women forty and older had had their husbands dump them or die on them that the competition for a man with money was fierce. At forty-six, her pool of men with money started with the fifty year olds. A man with money her age could marry a teenager in Houston. And beautiful though she still was, she could not compete with a teenager. And even a fifty-year-old man with money could reach down twenty years for a bride. Perhaps she would have to make do with a fifty-five-year-old. Or settle for a sixty-year-old man. But settle she would, for a man with money. Because her husband had bankrupted the Tucker family. Two years before, he had started drinking and never stopped.

  Because of a dead girl.

  They would lose the house. The cars. The club. Becky's college. Lupe. Everything. Hurricane Ike had already destroyed her husband's beloved beach house. Now her husband had destroyed his family. Once word had spread through the legal community that the great Frank Tucker was a drunk, the referrals had stopped. Rich clients don't hire drunks to defend them in a court of law. Not when their freedom is on the line. Not even if the drunken lawyer is Frank Tucker. The firm held out hope that he would return to form, but after a year they had fired
Frank. Now Elizabeth Tucker's life—the life she had worked so hard to build the last twenty-four years—would be ripped from her being as brutally as a purse-snatcher ripping her Gucci handbag from her grasp. It would all be gone.

  She had filed for divorce that very day.

  William took a deep breath then blew it out and pushed the barbell up. Three hundred fifty pounds. Once. Twice. Ten times. He replaced the barbell in the rack and sat up on the bench. He was pumping iron in the school's weight room, which rivaled any of the college weight rooms he had toured on his recruiting visits.

  "So I tell the coach that my jersey number is twelve, you know, 'cause it was Joe Namath's number. And he says, 'Well, we have another player wearing twelve, but he's a senior, so you can have it next year.' I said, 'I've always worn twelve. It's my number.' And he says, 'William, I can't take his number away from him.' And I say, 'Sure you can, Coach. Just ask him if he'd rather wear number twelve or have me quarterbacking the team with a chance to win the national championship."

  His teammates laughed. But not Ronnie. He had not received any Division I-A offers. Or Division I-B offers. Or even Division II offers. His football career was over. After ten years of playing football from peewee through varsity, after thousands of hours of training and weight-lifting and drills, after taking steroids the last two years to get bigger—he still only weighed two-sixty, tiny for an offensive lineman—Ronnie would be playing intramural flag football during his collegiate career. He would also attend UT just like William, but he would be watching the game from the stands.

  He burned with jealousy of William Tucker.

  "William," Ronnie said, "did you know my dad is president of the bank that holds the mortgage on your home?"