The Case Against William

by Gimenez, Mark

  "He's going to hire a lawyer."

  The D.A. nodded almost as if he were embarrassed for Frank. But Frank knew he was not.

  "Must be tough, even your own son doesn't want you to represent him."

  "Will you agree to a reduction of his bail?"

  "He's accused of a brutal rape and murder, and his DNA was on the victim. I couldn't reduce bail for my own son, if I had a son. And I'm up for reelection. My Republican opponent would crucify me. And what if he raped and killed another girl, like Bradley Todd?"

  "Five million is unreasonable bail."

  "Capital murder, he's lucky to get bail."

  "I'll take it to the judge."

  "You? You mean, William's lawyer? Well, good luck with that. Judge Rooney's got the case, and he's up for reelection, too. He can't let an accused rapist and murderer back on the street—he's got to show he's tough on crime, even in Austin."

  Austin was the blue hole in the red Texas donut. But even liberals feared violent crime.

  "And Harold won't forget that he let Bradley Todd out on bail because you were his lawyer and as we all knew, you only represented innocent people. You made him look like a fool, Frank."

  "Then you'd better segregate my son from the other inmates or you won't have a defendant to try—he's already been in one fight—and your opponent will enjoy asking you why a suspect was killed in jail."

  The D.A. pondered the political ramifications then nodded.

  "All right. I'll call over to the jail, get him transferred to the solitary cellblock."

  "I want the homicide file."

  "I don't have to give you the file."

  "The lawyer for the accused is entitled to every piece of exculpatory evidence the state possesses."

  "True, but you're not his lawyer, Frank. You're not even a licensed lawyer at the moment."

  "I'm his father."

  At forty-five, Dick Dorkin had been a short, pudgy little prick. At fifty-five, he was a short, even pudgier little prick. But he held the fate of Frank's son's life in his hands. So Frank tried to mend fences.

  "Look, Dick, I know we've had our differences, but—"

  "Our differences?" The D.A. laughed. "I hate your fucking guts, Frank."

  "Because I called you a failed politician? Because of Bradley Todd? Because of the senator?"

  "Because of Liz."

  "Liz? What the hell does she have to do with anything?"

  "She picked you over me."

  "You knew her back then? When we were in law school?"

  He nodded.

  "You asked her out?"

  Another nod.

  "She turned you down?"

  Another nod. As if he were still shocked by Liz's rejection. Frank almost laughed out loud. Talk about violating the natural order of men and women. Even as a young law student, Dick Dorkin had been a two at best in the male rankings, one being the guy in Sling Blade; he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of snagging a date with a ten like Elizabeth Barton, UT campus beauty queen. But there was no accounting for the male ego.

  "That's how this lifelong grudge started, back in law school? Because my ex-wife rejected you?"

  "Ex?"

  "She divorced me and married a billionaire oilman." Frank snorted. "Hell, Dick, I did you a favor. You should be thanking me. You would've gone broke supporting her."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I did."

  The D.A. regarded Frank across the wide expanse of wood. After a moment, he sighed.

  "All right, Frank. But find him a lawyer fast, or the judge is going to appoint a PD. The arraignment's Tuesday morning at nine."

  "I'll be there."

  Frank stood and walked to the door.

  "And Frank—"

  He turned back.

  "—try to show up sober."

  Chapter 20

  Camera crews accosted every student-athlete entering the Beauford H. Jester Center-West dormitory on the University of Texas campus north of downtown Austin.

  "Do you know William Tucker?"

  "You think he killed the girl?"

  "How did he treat girls on campus?"

  Frank, Dwayne, Chuck, and Chico didn't look like students or athletes, so they were allowed to pass without being stopped and questioned. They went inside and took an elevator to the fifth floor; they found William's room. A Hispanic worker wearing a uniform screwed new door hinges into the doorjamb.

  "Looks like the arrest warrant was executed with a boot," Dwayne said.

  William's door was not sealed off with yellow crime-scene tape but someone apparently thought he was a criminal: RAPIST and KILLER had been scrawled across the door like graffiti.

  "So much for being a campus hero," Chico said.

  "Damn, we didn't have coed dorms when I was at SMU," Chuck said.

  Fit girls wearing skin-tight Spandex short-shorts and leggings bounced past the four middle-aged men and down the corridor. Chuck, Chico, and Dwayne stared at their departing backsides, but firm female bottoms could not distract Frank's mind from his son. The worker allowed them entry after Frank identified himself and Chico had translated his English into the worker's Spanish. They stepped inside the room; the worker shut the door behind them. Frank had been in his son's bedroom at home hundreds of times a year for eighteen years; now he felt as if he were entering a stranger's home. He found the wall switch and flipped on the lights; they were greeted by a huge color blowup of William Tucker on the opposite wall. It was an action shot of number twelve throwing a pass during a game. He was literally bigger than life. More action photos of his son adorned the other walls.

  "Boy likes to look at himself, don't he?" Dwayne said.

  "What are we looking for?" Chico said.

  "Cell phone," Frank said. "And evidence."

  "Of what?"

  "Innocence."

  They spread out to search the room. Chico took the desk, Chuck the dresser, and Dwayne the closet. The police had already conducted a cursory search; contents of drawers and boxes had been tossed and left in disarray. But the crime had been committed two years before and not in this room, so they had left it as they found it. And they already had all the evidence necessary to convict William Tucker: his blood from the victim's body. Frank had learned that cops stopped searching when they had their man. Or thought they did.

  "Wow," Chuck said.

  He held up a tiny black thong in one hand and a tiny red one in the other.

  "He's got a bunch of these. Wonder why?"

  "They're like notches on a gunslinger's six-shooter," Chico said. "Laptop."

  "They put notches on laptops?"

  "Man, you had one too many concussions. I found his laptop."

  "Ohh."

  "The cops didn't take his laptop?" Frank asked.

  "Apparently not."

  Chuck held up a football. "Frank, can I have this?"

  "You want his football?"

  "He signed it."

  "You want a football signed by my son?"

  "We could sell it on eBay," Chico said. "Make some serious money."

  "Really?"

  "You bet. A football signed by a famous athlete and now he's accused of murder … sorry." He hesitated. "I've sold lots of stuff on eBay, and I didn't even own most of it. That ball, it's worth its weight in gold."

  Frank heard voices speaking in Spanish outside—the worker and a female—and the door opened on a middle-aged Hispanic woman dressed like a maid, as if the dorm were a high-end hotel. She froze at the sight of the four men rummaging through the drawers and closet.

  "It's okay," Frank said. "I'm William Tucker's father."

  Her expression remained unchanged. Chico stepped over and spoke to her in Spanish. She answered.

  "What'd she say?"

  "Said she cleans his room. They got cleaning and laundry service. The athletes."

  "Ask her if she knows anything about William."

  Chico again spoke to her in Spanish. He frowned.


  "What?"

  "Uh, she said she don't like him."

  "Something of a consensus is building," Dwayne said.

  "Why not?" Frank asked.

  Chico spoke to her in Spanish, and she spoke back. Then she left and the worker shut the door.

  "Says he's an animal, he's a slob, and he treats her like his personal maid. Says she's gonna come back later."

  "Anyone want a beer?" Dwayne said. "Or a Red Bull?"

  He had squatted down and opened the small refrigerator lodged under the desk. It was filled with cans of Coors and Red Bull. He popped the top on a Coors.

  "Don't mind if I do," Chuck said. "Beer."

  "Ditto," Chico said.

  "Might help my headache," Frank said.

  Dwayne tossed cans of Coors to the defense team. They resumed the search. Except Chuck, who plopped down into William's recliner that fronted a flat screen on the wall and pointed a remote at the screen as if this were any other Sunday afternoon to be spent watching pro football. The television flashed to life.

  "Man, he's got the premium subscription, every sports channel in the country."

  Chuck clicked through the NFL games, pausing to watch a bit of each game.

  "Cowboys versus the Giants … Romo's thrown two interceptions in the first half … Cowboys got a billion-dollar stadium and a hundred-dollar quarterback. But when William's playing quarterback for them, they're gonna—"

  Dwayne threw a beer can at Chuck.

  "What?" He realized his error. "Oh. Sorry."

  "Cell phone," Chico said.

  "The cops left his phone, too?" Dwayne said. "Man, when I executed a search warrant, I took everything that wasn't nailed down, just in case."

  "Check out the phone," Frank said.

  Chico did not need an invitation. He was already tapping on buttons and running his fingers down the screen.

  "His photos look like a Playboy magazine. Lots of naked girls. Sexting."

  "Always wanted to try that," Chuck said.

  "Please don't," Dwayne said.

  "Chico, look through his contact list," Frank said.

  "Who am I looking for?"

  "My ex-wife."

  "Got a speed dial for 'Mom.' "

  "That would be her."

  Chico handed the phone to Frank. He pushed the call button and waited for it to ring through. But it went to voicemail. He didn't leave a message. Instead he checked the contact list again and found a number for "Home." After three rings, a familiar voice came across.

  "Joiner residence."

  "Lupe?"

  "Mr. Tucker? Oh, my God, I thought you were dead."

  "Just drunk. Lupe, can you get Liz?"

  "Mrs. Tucker … I mean, Mrs. Joiner, she's in Poland."

  "Poland? Why?"

  "With Mr. Joiner. A business trip."

  "Do you have a number? I need to talk to her."

  "About William? I saw it on TV."

  "Yes. About William."

  "Let me find their hotel number."

  The line went silent, so Frank turned his attention back to the search of his son's room. Dwayne was experienced in such matters; he was conducting a thorough search.

  "You find any drugs?" Frank asked.

  "Nope."

  "Alcohol? Other than the beer?"

  "Nope."

  "Performance enhancers?"

  "Nope. You thinking 'roid rage?"

  "Always a possibility with an athlete. If Lance was dirty, anyone might be."

  "His shelf looks like a health food store, but just vitamins and protein bars and protein mix, stuff like that. No PEDs and no condoms."

  Lupe came back on the line and gave him the number for the Mamaison Hotel Le Regina in Warsaw where Frank's ex-wife and her replacement husband were staying. Frank thanked Lupe then disconnected her and dialed the overseas number. He figured his son would soon be rich enough to pay the charge … or he would be in prison and the carrier would have to eat the charge. While waiting for the call to go through, he admonished himself for allowing that thought entry into his mind. The hotel clerk answered in Polish.

  "Do you speak English?" Frank asked.

  "Yes, sir, I do."

  "Elizabeth Tucker's … Elizabeth Joiner's room, please."

  "One moment. Yes, here it is. I will connect you."

  His wife answered after a few rings.

  "Hello."

  "It's me, Liz."

  "Frank? What … why?"

  "You haven't seen the news?"

  "What news?"

  She had not heard about William. The Polish people apparently did not care about American football players who had been accused of rape and murder. Frank gave her the bad news.

  "My God. His blood was on her? Frank, you don't think …?"

  "No."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "First thing is to get him out of jail. He needs money for bail."

  He did not need to add, "And I'm broke."

  "How much?" she asked.

  "Five million. And a million more for a lawyer."

  "You're a lawyer."

  "A lawyer whose license isn't suspended."

  Six years before, Frank Tucker could have secured the bail money and saved his son himself. Now he was asking his ex-wife to ask her new husband for six million dollars to save his son. Their son. Frank had never been Liz's Prince Charming; he had been her provider. He was to give her all the things she wanted in life. When he could no longer provide her material needs, she found someone else who could. He had been angry at first—twenty-four years of providing faithfully then she had dumped him after only two years of being a drunk—but now he actually felt good about her decision. Her billionaire husband could afford their son's bail and legal fees.

  "Lawyers charge a million dollars?"

  "Justice doesn't come cheap. It's going to be a high-profile trial. A media circus. Only a few lawyers in the country are up to that sort of trial. And proving his innocence will take a lot of money."

  "I thought the prosecutor had to prove his guilt?"

  "Most people think that. Until they're in the system. Then they learn the truth. Can you get Dale to wire the money A-S-A-P? It's Sunday here. What time is it there?"

  "Seven-thirty."

  "Is Dale there?"

  "He's sleeping."

  "Exciting life."

  "It was, for six months."

  "Banks are closed. Can he wire the money tomorrow?"

  She did not speak.

  "Liz? You still there?"

  "I'm here. Frank … we don't have that much money."

  "Dale's a billionaire."

  "Not anymore."

  "What happened?"

  "Gas prices plunged. From eleven dollars per whatever to less than two."

  Dale Joiner was in the business of drilling for natural gas, specifically shale gas through fracking, as hydraulic fracturing had become known. Texas was the biggest fracking state in America, and Dale one of the biggest frackers in Texas.

  "He lost a billion dollars?"

  "Two. He still owns the gas, but it's not worth as much now. It's like a stock market crash. He's trying to hang on until prices rebound."

  "You could put up your house. It's got to be worth more than six million."

  "Fifteen. But Dale already took out a home equity loan and used the money to keep his company afloat, pay his employees and bills."

  "What are you doing in Poland?"

  "Dale's trying to get a contract with the government to frack here. It'll save him."

  "Not in time to save William."

  "Can't you represent him?"

  "Not with a suspended license."

  After a few more minutes of meaningless talk—"Yes, I'm still drinking" … "No, I'm not remarried"—Frank disconnected. There was no five million dollars for bail. Unless the judge reduced his bail at the arraignment, William would remain in jail until the verdict. And there was no million dollars for a top-notch criminal defense
lawyer. Who would represent his son? His son's father had once been the best criminal defense attorney in the state, maybe in the nation, but he had decided to become a drunk instead. His son had not needed his father in too many years; now, when he finally needed his father, his father could not give him what he needed most: a defense to a murder charge.

  "Look."

  Chuck gestured at the television screen—at the image of Travis County District Attorney Dick Dorkin standing before a clump of microphones in the plaza outside the Justice Center. The press conference. Chuck increased the volume.

  "Almost two years ago to the day," the D.A. said, "Dee Dee Dunston, an eighteen-year-old freshman cheerleader at Texas Tech University, came to Austin to cheer at the UT-Tech football game. She never returned to Lubbock. Dee Dee was brutally raped and strangled to death that night. Her body was discovered behind the Dizzy Rooster on Sixth Street where she had been seen that night. Blood traces were recovered from her body. Investigators ran DNA tests on the blood and then a search in the national DNA database, but no matches came up … until a month ago. The match was a well-known college athlete. As is my policy in cold cases, I ordered a retest. The results confirmed the match. I took the case to the grand jury. An indictment for rape and capital murder against one William Tucker was handed up Saturday morning. A warrant for his arrest was issued that afternoon. Mr. Tucker was arrested last night in his dorm room without incident. He is being held in the Travis County Jail on a five-million-dollar bail. Arraignment will be at nine A.M. Tuesday before Judge Harold Rooney. Questions?"

  The reporters shouted questions.

  "Did William confess?"

  "Not yet."

  "Is he claiming innocence?"

  "At this time."

  "Are you certain William Tucker raped and killed this girl?"

  "We are certain that the DNA results are accurate and that William Tucker's blood was on the victim's body. Given that no one else's DNA was recovered from her body, we are confident that William Tucker is the killer."

  "Are you going to seek the death penalty?"

  "Yes."

  The four men sat in silence in the accused's dorm room on the University of Texas campus as the two words sunk in: death penalty.

  "Son of a bitch didn't tell me that," Frank said.

  "I could hack into his bank account, clean him out," Chico said.

  "Can we get a drink?" Dwayne asked. "A real drink?"