Chapter 21
"Daddy, the death penalty? It's all over the news down here."
"Becky, he's innocent. He's not going to be convicted or sentenced to death."
"You were sure Bradley Todd was innocent."
"William's your brother."
"He's not the same brother. He changed. When he became a star."
Frank ended the call to his daughter. He stood at the upper falls at McKinney Falls State Park in southeast Austin along Onion Creek. The creek is an outflow of the Colorado River; the Colorado runs east out of Austin, the Onion southeast. The water flows over limestone formations that create an upper and lower falls, below which sit small pools. The park is a popular summer destination when the temperature hits a hundred degrees, but not so much in October. Campsites run $20 per night; their beer and whiskey ran twice that. The last time he had tried a case in Austin, Frank had stayed at the five-star Driskill Hotel in downtown in a $750-a-night suite with a king-sized bed. This time he had a sleeping bag on the ground. He tossed a stick into the pool; Rusty raced to the water and dove in. The dog needed to run after a day in the car.
"Burgers are ready," Chuck said.
Ever since he had won the Weber grill in a hotdog eating contest on the beach a few years back, Chuck had become something of a grill master. He watched cooking shows about grilling; he read books about barbecuing. He knew more about basting and barbecue sauce than any man alive, or so he maintained. He flipped the burgers with the spatula in his right hand and the William Tucker-autographed football in his left hand. They had stopped at the Whole Foods in downtown and stocked up on supplies and beer before heading out to the park. They had packed their own camping gear and Jim Beam up from the beach. Chico and Dwayne sat at the picnic table. Frank joined them and handed William's cell phone to Chico. On the table was a box holding the spoils of their search of William's room. Chico fiddled with William's cell phone; Dwayne thumbed through the homicide file the D.A. had surrendered and jotted notes on his cop pad with a Sharpie. He smoked a cigar and wore reading glasses. Frank drank his Coors. They had taken the beer and protein bars from William's room. Chuck slapped hamburgers on paper plates in front of them. Burgers, potato chips, beer, and bourbon for dessert.
"Five million bail," Frank said. "If the judge won't lower it, he's going to sit in jail until trial. Couple of months in there, he won't come out the same boy."
"Might not be a bad thing," Dwayne said. "He ain't exactly Miss Congeniality."
"He could come out worse."
"We could break him out," Chico said. "Hightail it down to Panama, live like kings."
He seemed serious.
"Are you serious?" Chuck asked.
"Sure. Course, we gotta make our move while he's still in county lockup, before they convict him and ship him down to the state pen in Huntsville. County jails, they're like Swiss cheese."
"We should've got some Swiss cheese to put on our burgers," Chuck said.
"No county jail could hold me," Chico said.
He had escaped six county jails in the course of his career. Consequently, Chico Duran fancied himself another Cool Hand Luke, although he didn't look like Paul Newman. More like Cheech Marin with a ponytail.
"I think we should work within the criminal justice system for now," Frank said.
"System is broke, Frank, and you know it. You say your boy is innocent—how many innocent people are sitting in prison today? You gonna let him spend the rest of his life in prison or take the needle for a crime he didn't commit? Because the judge and the D.A. want to get reelected?"
Frank did not know what he would do if William were convicted. What does a father do if the system wrongfully convicts his son? Does he say, sorry, son, the system didn't work in your case, so you'll just have to die in prison. It hadn't worked for scores of other defendants in Texas; fifty black men had been released in the last decade when DNA tests proved their innocence, some after serving twenty or more years. But what if DNA proved his son guilty?
"I think we can win inside the system."
Chico shrugged. "You're Anglo. You gotta believe."
"So what did we find in William's room?" Frank asked.
"Laptop and phone," Chico said. "I'm seeing if his text messages go back two years."
"Still don't figure that," Dwayne said. "Cops not taking the good stuff."
"Not all the good stuff," Chuck said.
He reached into the box and held up a tiny black undergarment.
"You took a thong?"
"Three."
"Why?"
"That's kind of personal, Frank. Oh, I found this, too."
Chuck again reached into the box then held out a small, framed photograph. Frank took it and looked at the image of himself and his son. It was after a middle-school game at the Academy when William was only twelve. When he was still just a boy dreaming of being a man. The Cowboys quarterback. A star. He had not dreamed of being an accused rapist and murderer.
"He's innocent," Frank said. "You guys don't know him. I do. It's not in him to hurt someone."
"Frank," Dwayne said, "just playing the devil's advocate here, but you believed that Todd boy was innocent, too. You were wrong."
"I'm not wrong about William."
"His blood on the victim, that ain't good, Frank. Ain't good at all."
"Look, if you guys want to go back to the beach, it's okay."
"Do we look like we're going back to the beach?" Dwayne said. "But if we're gonna defend your son, we got to be honest with each other. Say what we think. So we don't miss nothing." He tapped the homicide file with his finger. " 'Cause the prosecution won't."
"Well, I don't know if your boy raped and killed that girl," Chico said, "but I sure wouldn't want him coming around my girls."
Chico guarded his teenage daughters' virginity like the Secret Service guarded the president. Which was not easy since they lived with their mother in Corpus Christi.
"What'd you find?"
"Texts back and forth with his buddies, talking about coeds that put out, rating them on a one-to-ten scale, and not in terms you'd want your daughter mentioned." Chico shook his head. "Good thing we got his phone, Frank, might not be good for that asshole D.A. to have these messages. Jury wouldn't like him much."
"The D.A.?"
"Your son."
"Like I said, boy ain't gonna win Miss Congeniality, that's for sure," Dwayne said. He exhaled cigar smoke then turned to Frank. "So what's our next move, counselor?"
Frank pointed at the file in front of Dwayne.
"William gave me his timeline for that day. Now we take that file and reconstruct the victim's last day of life. See if they intersect."
"How much you want to bet?"
His son sat in jail, charged with raping and murdering an eighteen-year-old girl named Dee Dee Dunston. Frank ate half his burger and drank his beer and then went straight to dessert. He had vowed to stay off the hard stuff, but his head was pounding with a headache. So he downed a shot of bourbon; it wasn't that different from taking Advil to relieve the pain. But just one. Shot. Or maybe two, so he'd sleep that night. He needed to sleep to work the next day. To think. But no more than three shots, that was his absolute limit.
Just as the light of day was fading into the dark of night, the worst day of Frank Tucker's life would soon fade into the fog of Jim Beam.
William had been moved to a solitary cell. The upside was, he wouldn't have to fight a brother each day; the downside was, there was barely enough floor space for him to exercise. But he had tried: five hundred pushups, five hundred sit-ups, one hundred jump squats, and one hundred lunges. Twice. But he felt unsatisfied. He needed iron plates. Hundred-pound weights. Barbells and dumbbells. He needed to feel the pump of the blood through his body. He needed to push his muscles to the max. He needed a real workout. He needed to prepare for Saturday's big game.
"Hey, man, you wanna talk?"
The cramped space contained a cot and a toilet. It was
late; he lay on the cot with his eyes closed. He strained to recall the girl, but her face drew a blank. As did that entire day. And night. Normally he could remember every play of every game, but not that game. Not that night. Not that girl. There had been so many girls and so many nights lost forever to alcohol and concussions. Sometimes it seemed as if he had no memories of college.
"Worst thing about solitary, no one to talk to. I like to talk."
William was a naturally confident player. But he had to admit: this unexpected turn of events in his game situation—rape … murder … DNA … prison—had jolted his confidence in a way that throwing five interceptions could not. It was as if he could feel the momentum of his life shifting. For almost twenty-three years, the momentum had carried him forward, faster and faster. Now he suddenly felt adrift.
"You the white boy?"
The solitary cellblock sat silent, except for the whispered voice from the cell next door. William sighed and whispered back.
"Yeah. I'm the white boy."
"Football player?"
"You don't know who I am?"
"We don't get no Twitter in here."
"Yeah, I'm the football player."
"Heard you cold-cocked Coco Pop."
"Who the hell's Coco Pop?"
"The homey you cold-cocked."
"Is that his given name?"
"That the name we give him, 'cause he always eating them Coco Pops cereal. Too much sugar for me. I like that Shredded Wheat and cold milk, two percent. Skim taste like water. Course, you don't come here for the food."
"I'm not supposed to be here."
"Me neither. But that asshole homey ratted me out."
"Coco Pop?"
"No, man. Eugene. He took a plea, say I killed that cop."
"But you didn't?"
"No, I did. But Eugene ain't supposed to rat me out, so I ain't supposed to be here."
"I didn't kill her."
"Who?"
"That girl."
"What girl?"
"Cheerleader."
"Aw, man, a cheerleader. What she do, fuck around on you? Them cheerleaders, they like that."
"No, she wasn't … I mean, I don't know. I didn't know her. They've got the wrong guy. I'm innocent."
"That sound good. Keep saying it, just like that. Sound sincere."
"I didn't kill her."
"Shit, I'm starting to believe you my ownself. You good, homeboy, real good. I was good too, crying and telling everyone I was innocent, that I didn't kill that cop. Got me a new trial. Course, I got convicted again. Fuckin' jury."
"But you killed him?"
"Damn straight. Fuckin' punk-ass undercover cop gonna bust my ass? I don't think so. I shot that motherfucker right between his eyes with my Glock nine. Boom! He dead. But that jury, they wouldn't believe me no how, gangbanger from the 'hood all tatted up and looking bad. But you a white boy, they might buy your bullshit. You might beat it, walk out that courtroom a free man. It could happen."
"You really think so?"
"Nah."
The gangbanger next door laughed.
Chapter 22
Dee Dee Dunston woke at 6:30 A.M. on the morning of Saturday, November 12, 2011. She was eighteen years old and a freshman cheerleader at Texas Tech University in Lubbock in West Texas. But that morning she woke in Room 310 at the Omni Hotel in Austin, Texas. The Tech football team, cheerleaders, band, and fans had traveled the three hundred seventy-five miles from Lubbock to Austin for a game against the Texas Longhorns that day at noon. Dee Dee Dunston teemed with excitement. She had never been to Austin. She did not know that she would never leave Austin.
She would be dead in eighteen hours.
Dee Dee jumped out of bed and into the shower before her roommate woke. Cissy was a sophomore and liked to sleep late; she was a city girl from Fort Worth. Dee Dee was a country girl from Sweetwater. She had grown up on a ranch where animals and humans woke at dawn. She wore boots and jeans and cowboy hats. She rode horses and branded cows and castrated calves. She was a cowboy; anyone who called her a "cowgirl" got a punch in the nose, and she could punch. She didn't wear makeup until college. She never knew she was a pretty girl; neither did the other cowboys.
But they knew now.
She blew her short blonde hair dry then dressed in her cheerleader outfit: a red top that came just below her breasts and a short red skirt that rode just below her navel, revealing her lean torso, and black Spandex shorts underneath. White bow in her hair. She was a member of the coed squad, thirty boys and girls. The coed squad performed at football games, but they also competed in collegiate cheer tournaments. The days of cheerleaders offering bouncing breasts and fluffy pompoms were long gone; cheerleading today was physical and demanding, more gymnastics than cheerleading. Back in high school, she had played softball and volleyball and trained in gymnastics, which led her into competitive cheering. She had won a spot on the Tech squad at the tryouts the previous May. Tumbling, stunts, basket toss, game day spirit and motion techniques, and the interview. It was like winning the Miss America pageant, only harder. Her abs were ripped, her legs muscular, her arms lean. Cheerleading today was not for soft-bodied girls. It was for athletes.
Dee Dee Dunston was an athlete.
"What time is it?"
She had come out of the bathroom to find Cissy stirring.
"Seven-thirty. I'm going down for breakfast."
Sweetwater's population was ten thousand; Lubbock's was two hundred forty thousand; Austin's was a million. Dee Dee had never been to the big city. She felt as if she had spent the entire time in town gazing about in awe with her mouth gaped open. The tall buildings, the homeless people panhandling for handouts, the colorful tattooed people with piercings all over their bodies, and the cross-dressers parading about. It was like going to the circus, except this show wasn't under a big tent. It was everywhere in Austin.
And now she felt her mouth drop open again as they walked across the football field at the UT stadium. The Mustang Bowl, the Sweetwater High School stadium, seated six thousand; the Texas Tech stadium sixty thousand; the UT stadium one hundred thousand. The stands rose high into the blue sky, and there was a huge video screen in the south end zone where they would show instant replays.
"Big," Cissy said.
"Amazing," Dee Dee said.
"He is."
"I'm talking about the stadium."
"I'm talking about him."
"Who?"
Cissy nodded in the direction of the Longhorn team warming up on the field. Dee Dee looked that way.
"William Tucker."
He wore his white uniform pants but only a tight sleeveless orange shirt. His body was muscular, his long hair blonde, his smile big and bright when he looked over at them. His voice was strong and manly when he called out.
"The Dizzy Rooster on Sixth Street. Tonight. Be there."
Cissy and the other girls giggled. Dee Dee did not. She stood as if her sneakers were embedded in the grass field. Cissy tugged at her arm. Dee Dee finally moved, but not before she had made a decision.
She would be there. That night. At the Dizzy Rooster.
The Dizzy Rooster offered live music seven days a week. It was loud, it was crowded, it was filled with neon beer signs, and it was fun. The female bartenders wore red and pink tutus and corsets and stockings with garter belts, which explained all the guys at the long wooden bar, that and the two girls dancing on the bar. Dee Dee stood at the bar with Cissy and four other Tech cheerleaders. They were drinking beers. The legal drinking age in Texas was twenty-one, but like most underage college students, Dee Dee possessed two driver's licenses: the real one she gave to cops when they stopped her for speeding the highway between Sweetwater and Lubbock and the fake one she gave to bouncers at bars. The fake one showed her age as twenty-one.
She finished her beer and ordered another; she felt a hand on her arm. She whirled around ready to tell another Tech player to drop dead and came face to face with him. She stared
up at his face. The face all of America had seen so many times on television. The face that had been all around campus the past week as the excitement over the big game with Texas grew each day. The face of—
William Tucker.
"She fought him," Dwayne said.
It was Monday afternoon. They had retraced Dee Dee Dunston's every step that day based upon the homicide report from two years before: Omni Hotel … UT stadium for the game … back to the hotel for dinner … partying on Sixth Street … the Dizzy Rooster bar. Frank and the others now stood at the crime scene behind the bar where Dee Dee's short life had ended.
"Detectives back then, they were pros," Dwayne said. "Tracked her minute by minute that day. To this bar. She was last seen inside the bar at approximately midnight. She came out here through the back door. Of her own volition."
"What's that mean?" Chuck asked.
"Means he didn't drag her. She came out here of her own free will. Only one reason she'd come out here with the killer. Sex. Consensual sex turned rough and then violent. It happens."
The alley behind the bar was bleak and bare; it was not a place where a young girl's life should end. Where any life should end.
"Time of death was between midnight and two A.M.," Dwayne said. "Cause of death was strangulation. Cleaning crew found her the next morning, about six. Cops collected all the evidence there was to collect, couldn't match the DNA. Put out her photos around Austin and on the Tech campus, asked for leads. None came. Became a cold case."
Dwayne squatted; he puffed on his cigar and pondered the crime scene like a Sioux hunter tracking his prey. He was a homicide cop again, a pro from the mean streets of Houston. He held out the color crime scene photos one by one, matching each up with the reality of the crime scene. Frank looked over Dwayne's shoulder at the final photo—Dee Dee Dunston in an awkward sitting position in a corner where this building met the adjoining one, as if she had slid down the brick wall, her face bloody and her blonde hair messy, her red cheerleader outfit out of kilter, her legs splayed, the bright white sneakers with the little red pompoms entwined in the laces incongruous with the rest of her body, her blue eyes wide open. Staring at her lifeless image, Frank Tucker was certain of one thing.
The Case Against William Page 16