The Case Against William

by Gimenez, Mark

  "You look old."

  "Being a drunk will do that."

  "Do what?" Chuck said.

  The guys stood behind Frank; they could only hear Frank's side of his conversation with William.

  "Make you look old."

  Chuck turned to Chico. "Do I look old?"

  Chico shook his head. "Just ugly."

  Frank's son now regarded Dwayne, Chuck, and Chico.

  "Who are they?"

  "Your defense team."

  "Are they drunks, too?"

  "They are."

  "Get me out of here."

  The Austin newspaper said his son was being held on a $5 million bail. His father was a broke drunk, but his mother's new husband was a sober billionaire.

  "I'll try."

  "They said I killed a girl. A Tech cheerleader. Two years ago."

  The newspaper story said a Texas Tech cheerleader had been murdered after UT's game against Tech in Austin, the same game two years before when Frank had shown up drunk and embarrassed his son. His son had played the worst game of his career; then he had banished his father from his life.

  "I'm innocent."

  "I know," Frank the father said.

  Over two hundred thousand males were behind bars in the state of Texas. Did their fathers know they were innocent, too? Bradley Todd's father had known his son was innocent. But he wasn't. Frank held the front page of the newspaper with the image of the dead girl up to the Plexiglas. Her name was Dee Dee Dunston.

  "Did you know her?" Frank the lawyer asked.

  His son leaned in and studied the image. He slowly shook his head.

  "You don't recognize her?"

  "No. I've never seen her before in my life. I swear."

  "Did he know her?" Dwayne said.

  "No. Says he's never seen her before." Back to the phone and William: "The newspaper said the police recovered your DNA from her body."

  "How? I don't know her, I never met her, I didn't have sex with her. How could they get my DNA?"

  From his saliva, sweat, semen, secretions, skin …

  "Why was your DNA in the database?"

  "A month ago, a bunch of us were partying over on Sixth Street, a cop got mouthy with us, we got mouthy with him. He said he was going to arrest us for public intoxication, I told him to fuck off. So he arrested me for resisting arrest. Hauled me down here. Soon as they found out who I was, I signed a few autographs, took a few photos, they let me go. But they did a cheek swab."

  Anyone arrested in Texas for a serious crime—and resisting arrest qualified—will have his or her DNA collected and input into the national database.

  "Why'd they have his DNA?" Dwayne said.

  "Arrested. Public intoxication and resisting arrest."

  Dwayne grunted. "That'll do it."

  Back to William: "So they input your DNA, and the database matched it to an unsolved murder."

  "That's what the cops said. "

  "William, tell me everything you did that day."

  His son shook his head. "I can't."

  "Son, everything you tell me is confidential. I'm not just your father, I'm your lawyer. Sort of. And they're working for me, so the privilege applies to them as well."

  "Are we getting paid?" Chuck asked.

  "No," William said. "I mean, I can't remember what happened."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't remember anything from that day. Concussion. The whole day is gone."

  "You don't remember anything?"

  "No." He shrugged. "Every time I've had a concussion, that day, most of the next week, it's just a black hole."

  "He had amnesia?" Chico asked.

  "Concussion," Frank said.

  "I had amnesia after my concussions," Chuck said. "Still got it."

  "He's going with an amnesia defense?" Dwayne said. "That ain't gonna fly."

  Back to his son: "How many concussions have you had?"

  "Four or five. Six. Maybe seven."

  "Seven concussions? And they still let you play?"

  "I don't tell the coaches."

  "Why not?"

  "They won't let me play."

  "Maybe you should stop playing."

  "Maybe I should stop breathing. I'm a football player. That's who I am. What would I be if I stopped playing?"

  "My son."

  "That won't get me a hundred-million-dollar guaranteed contract."

  It would not. Being Frank Tucker's son was not worth much in this world. Only slightly more than being Frank Tucker.

  "What was your normal schedule for a game day?"

  "That was a day game, wasn't it?"

  "Yeah."

  Frank had been drunk, but he did not suffer a concussion. He remembered that game day.

  "I usually get up around eight, eat breakfast in the athletes' dining hall, walk over to the stadium."

  Frank had woken at ten that morning, hung over at the hotel. Not the five-star Driskill Hotel in downtown Austin, but a cheap hotel fronting the interstate not far from the UT stadium. He had passed out the night before and slept like a baby; the whiskey drowned out the traffic noise. He had his usual breakfast of vodka and orange juice—not too much orange juice—then a liquid brunch and an early liquid lunch. He was too drunk to drive, so he walked over to the stadium. His son had given him a sideline pass—the star quarterback could do that for his father—so Frank Tucker received VIP treatment just like Matthew McConaughey and other UT alumni who had achieved celebrity status. By the time he entered the stadium, Frank Tucker was stumbling drunk. But he still thought his son would be happy to see his dad on the sideline. When you're a drunk, you think things like that.

  "Then what?"

  "Pre-game stuff. The trainer tapes my ankles, I suit up but no pads, go out onto the field and warm up. Stretching, jogging, passing drills. That was the game you came to, wasn't it?"

  It was.

  Frank Tucker stumbled down the sideline past the TV cameras and reporters and celebrities and cheerleaders and into the team's equipment. He fell to the turf as if he had been tackled. The next thing he knew, his son was helping him up and placing him in the care of a guy named Bennie. He took Frank upstairs to a suite and got him a hamburger and coffee. A lot of coffee. Frank had sobered up by the fourth quarter when William suffered a brutal helmet-to-helmet hit. And a concussion.

  "Worst game of my career. Five interceptions."

  "You remember?"

  "Read about it. Couldn't bear to watch the film. Cost me the Heisman."

  "After the game, they took you to the hospital. You remember that?"

  William shook his head. "Coach said they gave me a brain MRI, stitched up my elbow."

  "What happened after I left?"

  After his son had told him to leave and stay the hell out of his life. After he had said his father was a fucking loser. The truth hurts.

  "Coach Bruce said he got me some dinner, took me back to the dorm, put me to bed."

  "Did you stay there all night?"

  "Must not have. Guess the guys decided I needed some fresh air."

  "What guys?"

  "Back then, would've been Cowboy and Red."

  "They're your best friends?"

  "They're the guys."

  "Who's your best friend?"

  He pondered a moment.

  "Coach Bruce, I guess."

  "You don't have a steady girlfriend?"

  "You mean, like, someone I'd take home to meet my … sister?"

  "Like that."

  "No. Those girls don't groupie for athletes. And I don't have time for commitments in my life, except football. No distractions, focus on football. That's the ticket to the NFL."

  "What about life?"

  "Football is my life."

  And perhaps it should be at twenty-two.

  "Where did Cowboy and Red take you?"

  "Sixth Street, I'm sure."

  "Did you drink?"

  "I'm sure."

  "At the Dizzy Rooster?"

/>   The victim's body had been discovered in the alley behind that bar.

  His son shrugged. "We go there a lot. But I don't remember if we went there that night."

  "Was he there?" Dwayne said.

  "Doesn't remember."

  "That ain't gonna fly."

  Back to William. "You don't remember anything?"

  "When you get a concussion, you're in a fog for days, like a dream you can't remember when you wake up."

  "How can you go to a bar in that condition?"

  "Hell, I've played entire games in that condition. Your body just goes on autopilot."

  "Did you meet this girl?"

  "I told you, I've never seen that girl before in my life."

  "Did you meet other girls?"

  He shrugged again. "I'm sure. I'm William Tucker. I always meet girls. Or they meet me."

  Just as a matter of fact.

  "Did you have sex with a girl that night?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Because of the concussion?"

  "Because there's been too many girls on too many nights. Even without the concussion, I couldn't remember a girl from two years ago."

  "You just go into a bar and pick up a girl and have sex?"

  "Wow," Chuck said from behind.

  "They pick me up."

  "Do you always wear a condom?"

  William shook his head. "I never wear a condom. No one does."

  "He doesn't wear rubbers?" Chico said. "Man, that's loco."

  "I don't wear condoms," Chuck said.

  "Yeah, but you can't catch nothing from your hand."

  "True."

  "AIDS, STDs, pregnancy," Frank said to his son, "any of that mean anything?"

  "Not really. But I went to bed early that night. The guys took me back to the dorm."

  "You were back in your dorm? What time?"

  The newspaper said the girl had been killed between midnight and two A.M.

  "Around midnight."

  "You remember that?"

  "The guys told me."

  "What time?" Dwayne asked.

  "Midnight."

  "Convenient. He don't remember nothing except he was in his dorm when the crime was committed."

  "Get me out of here," his son said. "I've got a game Saturday."

  Frank didn't have the heart to tell his son that his season was over.

  "Your bond is five million. I'll try to get it reduced, but—"

  "Call Mom. She's in Europe with Dale. He's a billionaire. Tell her I need money for bail and to hire a lawyer."

  Frank Tucker used to be the lawyer every accused wanted to hire.

  "You have her number?"

  "It's on my cell phone. In my dorm room. Jester West, room five-twenty-one."

  "The cops probably took your phone when they searched your room."

  "They searched my room?"

  "Standard police procedure. Is there anything you wouldn't want them to find?"

  His son shrugged. "No."

  Father and son regarded each other across six feet of Plexiglas-partitioned space. A father always sees the twelve-year-old boy who thought he was the best dad in the whole world; he never sees the twenty-two-year-old man who thinks his dad is a loser. A man can't handle that truth. Frank reached out and placed the palm of his right hand flat against the glass then waited for his son to match hands, a jailhouse high-five. And waited. His son stared at his father's hand then at his father. He stood.

  "Frank, get me the fuck out of here."

  "Frank?"

  "What do you want me to call you—Dad?"

  His son hung up the phone and turned his back on his dad. He walked out of the inmates' side of the interview room. The four men on the visitor's side remained quiet for a long awkward moment until the silence was broken by Dwayne's voice.

  "Not the kind of kid you like right off, is he?"

  Chapter 19

  "So, Frank, you get over that drinking thing?"

  "No."

  He had drunk his daily protein-and-vodka breakfast shake just to get the day going, beer on the drive up from the beach, and then a quick shot of whiskey before facing the Travis County District Attorney. The last time the two men had been in the same room, it was a courtroom upstairs in this same building when the not-guilty verdict had been read in Bradley Todd's first trial. Frank had won, but the district attorney had been right. He didn't figure his bitter, lifelong legal rival would fail to remind him of that fact. Hence, a shot before meeting the D.A.

  Dick Dorkin sat behind a massive wood desk in his office on the first floor of the Blackwell-Thurman Criminal Justice Center at Eleventh and San Antonio Street; the office befit the most powerful politician in Travis County, Texas. He wore a suit and tie, but not because he had just come from church that Sunday. Frank occupied a visitor's chair across from him. The guys occupied the sofa along the wall behind Frank. After he had left his son at the jail, Frank had asked the desk sergeant for the homicide detective in charge of the case. But the sergeant informed him that the case had already been referred to the district attorney's office. The D.A. had already taken the case to the grand jury. And William Tucker had already been indicted for rape and capital murder.

  "Well, at least you got a nice tan, lying on the beach."

  Frank was not dressed in a suit and tie, but in jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was ragged and too long for a lawyer. His sunglasses hung on a cord around his neck. He wore no wedding ring. He did have a nice tan.

  "I've dealt with these prima donna athletes before, Frank, too many times, as you well know. They think playing football or basketball means they don't have to play by any other rulebook. But there's no exemption for star athletes in the penal code. Your son's had some run-ins with the law before—public intoxication and resisting arrest, DUI, solicitation—"

  "Solicitation?"

  The D.A. shrugged. "Coeds moonlighting on Sixth Street."

  "Coeds? Like at the Chicken Ranch?"

  Back in the seventies, rumor had it that the infamous Chicken Ranch whorehouse in La Grange sixty miles southeast of Austin employed UT coeds; it made for a good Broadway musical, but no one actually believed the rumors. Apparently those rumors had come home to Sixth Street.

  "—but he played the star card every time. Signed a few autographs, took some photos, and the cops released him. A Heisman Trophy will do that for being drunk and stupid, even resisting arrest. But not for rape and murder."

  "I just came from the jail. William swears that he's never seen the victim, never met her, never had sex with her."

  "Defendants lie, Frank. As you are well aware."

  Frank knew Dick Dorkin would wield the Bradley Todd case like a sledgehammer.

  "And that he was back in his dorm by midnight, before the time of death."

  "Careful what you think you know, Frank."

  As if he knew something.

  "How'd you get his DNA if he didn't have sex with the victim?"

  "We didn't get his semen. We got his blood."

  "Blood? On her clothes?"

  "On her skin. She fought him, hard enough to bring blood. Traces were found on her arms and thighs. DNA doesn't lie. People do. He's guilty, Frank."

  "His blood doesn't prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt."

  "Tell that to the jury. And then explain how his blood got onto her body. Only one way: direct physical contact. As in forcible rape. And then murder by strangulation."

  The D.A. had come in on a Sunday for a news conference that afternoon; hence, the media throng in the plaza. The circus outside played out on a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. William Tucker's arrest for rape and murder constituted news. National news. Cases like this didn't come along often, so a politician couldn't afford to squander his moment in the spotlight. You never wanted to get between an ambitious politician and a news camera.

  "No semen but he raped her?"

  "Maybe he wore a condom."

  "How many rapists wear condoms?"

>   "Ask your son."

  "He said he doesn't use condoms."

  "Oh. Okay. Then I'll dismiss the case."

  "Wow, that was easy."

  Chuck's voice from the sofa.

  "He don't mean it," Dwayne said. "It's called sarcasm."

  "Ohh."

  The D.A. chuckled. "Where'd you find these guys, Frank? Alcoholics Anonymous?"

  "We don't believe in that," Chico said.

  "Being an alcoholic?"

  "Being anonymous."

  Which elicited another chuckle from the district attorney.

  "Comedians." He frowned and pointed a finger at Chuck. "Why does he have a football?"

  Frank could only offer a lame shrug before he asked, "No witnesses?"

  "The only witness is dead."

  "Did they recover his skin tissue under her fingernails?"

  "Nope."

  "Saliva?"

  The D.A. shook his head.

  "All you have is his blood?"

  "All? That blood is more than enough to convict your son."

  The D.A. stared at Frank as he processed that information. William's blood on the victim, but not his semen inside her.

  "I'll consider a plea offer," the D.A. said. "Life in prison."

  "He's innocent. We'll take it to a jury."

  The D.A. picked up a remote and pointed it at the TV and the circus outside. The volume came on. A middle-aged woman in a crowd of middle-aged women was being interviewed.

  "I watched every episode of the Casey Anthony trial."

  "Episode?" the reporter said.

  "But this show isn't going to be on TV, so we came down to the studio."

  "Show? Studio? You do understand that this is a murder case?"

  "Oh, yes. Those are the best shows."

  The D.A. muted the volume and turned to Frank.

  "There's your jury pool, Frank. You want to put your son's life in her hands?"

  No. He did not.

  "Can we get into his dorm room?"

  "We?" The D.A gestured at the sofa behind Frank. "You and the Three Stooges going to investigate the case?"

  "The defense team."

  "That's funny," the D.A. said.

  "What about the dorm, Dick?"

  "Sure, why not? Knock yourself out. The detectives searched his room, and it's not a crime scene. And you're his father." He paused. "Are you his lawyer?"