If this wasn't the end of the world, he was close to it.
Where the hell's the shampoo? Frank felt the bottom with his toes—rock, wood, stone, another rock—
"Shit!"
Not a rock. He lifted his leg until his foot cleared the waist-deep water. A crab had clasped its claw onto his big toe and wasn't letting go. Frank yanked the crustacean loose and flung it into the surf. He searched with his foot again until he found the plastic bottle then ducked underwater; he emerged with the shampoo. He squirted the gel into his palm and applied it to his shaggy hair. He needed a haircut. He bathed in the Gulf of Mexico each morning because the sea was warmer than the shower; the water heater had broken, and he couldn't afford a new one. He scrubbed his hair then shampooed his body. He had put on weight. A liquid diet would do that to a middle-aged man.
Frank regarded his beachfront estate sitting just beyond the high tide line. The sea wind had caused the wood structure to cant landward, making it appear as if it might fall over at any moment; a strong gust could finish the job. The eight-hundred-square-foot bungalow—which sounded more romantic than "shack"—had been paid to him in lieu of legal fees in his final case. He had tried the case drunk but had still won an acquittal. His client was happy, but the judge was not amused; he reported Frank to the state bar. The third judge to do so. Three strikes and Frank Tucker was out. His license was promptly suspended pending substance abuse counseling and rehabilitation.
Which was still pending two years later.
One day a developer would come along and put up condos along this stretch of beach, and the town would declare his bungalow uninhabitable to make room for yuppies from Houston or refugees from Matamoros. Until that day came, this was home to Frank Tucker. And Rusty. The dog bathed only once a week, so he chased gulls on the beach while Frank bathed. He went underwater to rinse his hair and body. Another crab scurried along the bottom—or was it the same crab? They all look alike. Frank grabbed the shampoo and stood; he wiped the water from his eyes and combed his hair back with his fingers then walked out of the surf and onto the sand. A white-haired couple wearing wraparound sunglasses had wandered onto his part of the beach wielding long metal detectors—more tourists searching for lost Spanish treasure. Good luck with that. Frank walked past them; they recoiled as if they had seen a ghost.
"Morning," Frank said as he walked past them.
They stood speechless. Not the friendly sorts, he assumed. Must be from Dallas. That or they had never seen a grown man naked.
"We've got a big day, buddy. Need to protein up."
Frank filled Rusty's bowl with a high-protein feed then prepared his breakfast. He first brewed a pot of coffee. Then he set up the blender. Into the glass pitcher he dumped a scoop of Ion Exchanged Microfiltered Hydrolyzed vanilla flavored whey protein … a cup of frozen organic blueberries … a cup of frozen organic strawberries … one large organic banana … a cup of unsweetened organic almond milk … two cups of organic plain nonfat Greek yogurt … and a shot of vodka. The breakfast of champions. He blended the concoction then drank directly from the pitcher. He stepped the few paces to the small television and turned it on. Reception was fuzzy, so he adjusted the rabbit ears. He found the Today show and sat down in his favorite albeit ratty chair. Good Morning America on ABC was too perky for early morning and the CBS morning show too boring, so he watched Today. He liked Al. He downed the smoothie in long gulps while watching a segment on Buzz Bissinger, the famous author of Friday Night Lights and father of three, who had confessed in GQ to being addicted to Gucci clothes—$5,000 leather pants and $22,000 leather jackets—wearing women's underwear, makeup, and six-inch stilettos, and having dabbled in S&M on the side. Shit, he could have kept that to himself. The guy wrote a hell of a book about Texas football, which became a hell of a movie about Texas football and then a hell of a television series about Texas football, but he felt compelled to embarrass his children in the national media. Of course, it did make Frank feel somewhat better about himself: he had only embarrassed his son by showing up stumbling drunk at his nationally televised football game. He placed the empty pitcher on the plank floor next to the chair. The fruit and protein gave renewed vigor to his body, but the vodka made him …
He fell asleep in his chair.
Rusty barked him awake. The sun shone through the east-facing windows so it was still morning. Which meant either the dog had to pee or—
"Do we have an appointment?"
Rusty doubled as his secretary. Frank cleared his vision and pushed himself out of his chair. He rinsed a mug and poured coffee then stepped outside. A young man in a suit sat in one of the plastic lawn chairs on the porch. He stood and stuck a hand out. They shook.
"Frank."
"How're you doing, Ted?"
"Not so good."
"Well, let's talk about it in my office."
Ted kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks and rolled up his trouser legs. He kept his coat and tie on; a lawyer could get only so casual. They walked to the sand and turned toward Galveston. Rusty bolted ahead to clear the beach of seagulls. The first lawyer had shown up about six months after Frank had landed in Rockport. Word quickly spread up and down the coast that the great Frank Tucker now resided in Rockport. He could no longer practice law, but he could still consult with lawyers who could.
"Prosecutor's being an asshole," Ted said.
"That's redundant."
"What?"
"You said a lawyer's being an asshole. That's the same as saying a lawyer's being a lawyer or an asshole's being an asshole."
"Huh?"
"Never mind. What's he doing?"
"Withholding exculpatory evidence … I think."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
Ted was a criminal defense lawyer in Corpus Christi thirty miles down the coast. He was defending a seventeen-year-old Mexican national against federal drug conspiracy and murder charges; an undercover DEA agent had been killed in a buy-bust gone bad. With the border drug war invading north across the river, it was an emotionally charged high-profile case. Ted was thirty-two, and this was the biggest case of his young career. He practiced alone; he had no senior partner to advise him. So he came to Frank. Often.
"But the judge has denied every motion I've filed to force discovery."
"Why?"
"His son was killed five years ago. Went into Mexico on spring break, didn't come back. Mexican police said he tried to buy drugs down there, cartel murdered him."
"And you think his son's murder is causing the judge to be biased against your Mexican client, an alleged cartel member and murderer?"
"Seems that way."
They walked in silence through the wet sand where the high tide had left seashells and shrimp and fish out of water. Rusty returned with a stick; Frank threw it sidearm, and the dog raced after it.
"My client isn't getting a fair trial, Frank."
"It's your job to see that he does."
"What should I do?"
"Is he innocent?"
"Yeah. He is."
"You sure?"
Ted nodded. "He's just a kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. All he wants is to get the hell back to Mexico."
"File a motion for recusal."
Ted regarded Frank as if he had just advised him to swim to Cancun.
"You want me to ask a federal judge to withdraw from the case? Shit, Frank, he's the only federal judge in Corpus. He could destroy my career."
"He could send an innocent boy to prison."
Ted stopped and picked up a shell. He flung it into the sea.
"Is that what you would do, Frank?"
"It is."
"For a Mexican?"
"For anyone."
"Why?"
"Because that's what lawyers do. Defend the innocent."
Ted dug his toes into the sand for a time then looked up at Frank.
"Frank, I don't mean any disrespect, but defending the innocent is what put you on thi
s beach."
"No, Ted, defending the guilty is what put me on this beach."
They walked a bit more then returned to the bungalow where another man in a suit sat on the porch, his shoes and socks off and his trouser legs rolled up. Ted paid Frank with a $50 dollar bill. In Houston, he had charged $1,000 an hour.
"Thanks, Frank."
Ted headed up to his car on the road but turned back.
"Hey, Frank—I hope your son wins the big game up in Dallas today. I hate Oklahoma."
Frank Tucker was a family man. But he had no family. His wife had divorced him and remarried a man with money. She was now Mrs. Dale Joiner; he was the oilman whose wife had died of breast cancer. Liz was fifty; Dale was seventy. But he was also a billionaire, which lessened the age difference considerably.
His daughter had come home from Wellesley and finished school at a public college. Becky now taught English in a Houston public school. She had never needed her father, but she drove three hours once a month to spend an afternoon on the beach with her old man. He saw the disappointment in her eyes.
He hadn't seen his son in two years.
Or talked to him. Or communicated with him by mail, email, or text. Before his cell phone plan expired, Frank had called his son several times a week and left messages. He had even called collect—he had been past due on the bill—on the old landline in the bungalow. But his son had never called back.
William Tucker had no need for his father.
Who could blame him? His father had shown up drunk for his big game; which became his worst game. His son had banned his father from his life. But Frank Tucker had kept up with his son's personal life through his daughter and his son's football career through the sports pages. What father wouldn't? William had won the Heisman Trophy his junior year and was a sure bet to win it again his senior year. He had led his team to an undefeated record. They had four games left in the season, but for all intents and purposes the game that afternoon against Oklahoma would decide the national champion. Frank turned the television on, switched channels until he found the game, and then adjusted the rabbit ears until the reception was almost clear. The camera caught number twelve running onto the field. Rusty barked.
"Yep, there's our boy."
It seemed like yesterday when William was his boy. Twelve years old and throwing the football in the backyard. Dreaming of being a pro quarterback. Thinking his dad was the best dad in the whole world. Those are the times a father remembers and then regrets that they didn't last longer. That they had ended. That the twelve-year-old boy had grown up and become a man. That he wouldn't always be your boy.
That he wouldn't always think that you're the best dad in the whole world.
But he does grow up. And the boy who hugged you tightly when you came home from an out-of-town trial, who sat in the stands with you and watched the varsity play, who wanted to be with you, who was proud of you, who looked up to you—no longer does. When he's twelve, you want him to be better than you; when he's twenty-two and realizes that he is better than you, he has no reason to look up to you. He sees his dad not as a hero but as a human. With faults and frailties and failings and fears. And he moves on with his life. Away from your life. And your life is less.
Without a son.
William's star had risen as far and as fast as Frank's star had fallen. He was twenty-two and movie star handsome. He possessed extraordinary athletic ability. He was big, strong, and fast. He was the best college quarterback in the country and would be the number one pick in the NFL draft in April. He would soon be a very rich young man.
Frank would soon be drunk.
He and Rusty watched the game. Texas versus Oklahoma was one of the biggest rivalries in college sports. Longhorns versus Sooners. Burnt orange versus bright red. Each side of the Cotton Bowl Stadium in Dallas was filled with the respective school colors. Ninety thousand fans. Millions watching on television. Watching William Tucker play football. Perfectly. Amazingly. He ran for two touchdowns and threw for three more. But Oklahoma recruited most of its players from the state of Texas too, and they had come to play, so the game came down to the final play for William and the Longhorns. Fourth down. Eight seconds left. Losing by four points. Fifty-four yards to the end zone. They didn't draw up plays for that situation. The camera caught William in the huddle, calling the play and firing up his teammates for one more big play.
Frank's heart pounded. He did not want his son to fail.
The team broke the huddle and hurried to the line of scrimmage. William stood back in a shotgun and barked out the signals. One receiver went in motion across the formation. The center snapped the ball back to William … his receivers raced downfield … a linebacker blitzed, but the halfback cut his legs out . . . William rolled right … to the sideline … he set his feet … raised the ball … stepped forward … and threw the ball deep down the far sideline … to the end zone … to D'Quandrick Simmons … touchdown. Frank jumped out of the chair.
"Yes!"
He low-fived Rusty's paw and fell back into his chair. That's what perfect looked like. His son was a thing of beauty on a football field. That first college scout eight years before—What was his name? Sam Jenkins?—had been right after all: William Tucker was born to play football. He was special. But the scout had been wrong about one thing: Frank had followed his advice to the letter—public school, personal trainer and nutritionist, quarterback school, speed coach—but his son still hated him.
The fans swarmed onto the field and surrounded William. He threw his arms in the air. His face showed the pure joy of perfection. The television crew stuck a camera in his face and a female reporter yelled a question over the crowd noise. His son took no credit. Instead, he gave all the credit to his coaches and teammates and—
"The Good Lord."
Frank felt proud even from a distance of four hundred miles. His son had grown into a fine young man. Modest. Respectful. Not your typical star athlete. The kind of young man any father would be proud to call his own. But William Tucker had done it without the need for a father.
Frank Tucker never felt more useless in his life.
Frank again woke to Rusty barking. The sun shone through the west-facing windows and cast long shadows.
"Another appointment?"
Rusty dropped a golf ball in Frank's lap.
"Oh, is it our tee time?"
Frank Tucker teed up a Pro-V-One ball, the choice of your top touring pros. A four-dollar golf ball. He pushed his left hand into a Footjoy cabretta leather golf glove, his last one. He pulled his driver from the small carry bag and removed the head cover. It was a Titleist D210 with a Diamana Whiteboard 73 stiff shaft, which kept the ball down in the wind, a must on the difficult beach course. The sea lay to his right, and the wind was off the sea, so he played for a draw. He turned his cap backwards and adjusted his sunglasses he wore on a red cord around his neck. He stepped to the side of the ball, placed the driver behind the ball, adjusted his foot position, waggled once, and swung the club. The ball rocketed off the tee and into the blue sky and out over the water, where it hung for a long suspenseful moment … until the wind carried it back into the middle of the fairway.
Rusty barked his approval then raced ahead to the ball.
A lot of your exclusive country clubs don't allow members to play barefooted or dogs to serve as caddies. But being that Frank was the founding member of this particular club, he could play without shoes and with a canine caddie. He picked up his can of beer and the carry bag that contained seven clubs—he had found that the regulation fourteen clubs were not necessary on the beach course; he did carry a sand wedge—and slung the strap over his shoulder. Even at fifty-five, he enjoyed walking a golf course. The sand was wet and cool under his bare feet. The beach course was not the River Oaks Country Club, but there were no monthly dues. And he could just walk on.
He paced off two hundred and forty-seven yards. All carry. You didn't get a lot of roll on these fairways. Rusty stood guard nex
t to the ball so a hungry seagull did not mistake it for food. Frank couldn't afford to lose another Pro-V-One. He was down to his final dozen. The last remnant of his River Oaks life.
"What's the yardage?"
Rusty barked.
"One sixty?"
Frank dropped the bag then grabbed a handful of sand. He tossed the sand into the air and gauged the sea breeze.
"Pin's on the right side of the green. I'm going to have to hold the ball in the wind with a cut. What do you think, seven-iron?"
Rusty barked.
"Six-iron? You really think so?"
Another bark.
"Okay, you're the caddie."
Frank took a swallow of the beer then pulled the six-iron and set up for a cut. He swung the club. The ball bored through the wind and held its line to the green. It hit the sand and stuck. Stiff.
"Greens are holding today."
Rusty barked.
"Yeah, you made a good call on the six."
A caddie who demanded credit. They walked to the green. The sand was wet and smooth; the ball would run true. But you had to putt around shells and dead fish. They were not considered loose impediments but instead part of the course. Local rule. Rusty dug a little hole fifteen feet away.
"I believe I was closer than that."
Rusty held his ground.
"Fine. A stickler for the rules of golf."
Frank yanked the putter from the bag. He lined up the putt and put a smooth stroke on the ball. He skirted a deceased jellyfish, but the ball broke left just before the hole. Rusty barked.
"Hey, how many times did Nicklaus have to putt around a jellyfish at the Masters?"
They walked to the tee box on the second hole, a par three. Frank tried to play nine holes every day. Never know, there was still the senior tour. Plan C. Thoughts of which he entertained until he duck-hooked a drive on the ninth hole into the Gulf of Mexico—against the wind. Rusty ran into the surf and dove for the ball, but to no avail. Damn, a Pro-V-One. The sea was a lateral hazard, so Frank suffered only a one-stroke penalty. But he got his four-iron approach shot up in the wind; it sailed into a dune right of the green. Sand shot. He pulled the sand wedge and pitched on; he two-putted. Double-damn-bogey. His caddie knew to keep his snout shut.
The Case Against William Page 12