The Case Against William

by Gimenez, Mark

  My son did not do this to her.

  "Whoever did this to her," Dwayne said, "he was big and strong. 'Cause she didn't go down easy. She fought him, hard. She punched, she kicked … she didn't want to die."

  An image flashed through Frank's mind of Dee Dee fighting for her life in this small space, trapped in this corner, slapping her fists against her attacker's thick arms while his big hands grasped her neck and strangled her. Fighting but losing. They all stared at Dee Dee's death photo. Chico made the sign of the cross.

  "Can we get a drink?" Chuck said. "Seriously, I need a drink."

  "I need a protein shake," William said to the guard. "So I need someone to go to my dorm and get my supplements and whey protein. And I've got to get in a real workout today. I've got a game Saturday."

  The fat-ass guard pushed the food tray through the slot in the bars. From the looks of him, he hadn't even driven past a gym in two decades.

  "Oh, okay. Let me call down to the fitness center, make you an appointment."

  "Thanks."

  The guard laughed.

  "What?" William said.

  "Boy, you some kind of bullshit prima donna, ain't you? This ain't no fucking spa, stud. You in that cell twenty-three hours each day. You get one hour outside on the concrete inside the fences with the electric wires up top. Ain't no working out in here. There's just working off the time."

  "You know who I am? I'm William Tucker."

  "And you think that makes you special?"

  "Yeah. I do."

  "Your mama tell you that? You a special boy? Well, let me tell you something, William Tucker—ain't no special in here."

  The guard chuckled and walked off. William heard him mumbling.

  " 'I want to workout,' he says. Hell, I want a fuckin' raise."

  The gangbanger next door giggled.

  "White people are funny."

  Chapter 23

  There was a time when black cops could not be homicide detectives in the South. But times had changed. In Houston and in Austin. Herman Jones was black. He was the detective in charge of the Dee Dee Dunston murder case, two years ago and today. He refused to give Dwayne Gentry the time of day until Dwayne flashed his Houston police department badge.

  "You on the job?"

  "Early retirement."

  "Drinking?"

  "That obvious?"

  Detective Jones nodded. "You got that look. And the breath."

  They had soldiered up on the drive over.

  "I'll have both too in ten years," the detective said. "Part of the job description."

  "Amen."

  Detective Herman Jones appeared to be mid-forties, maybe ex-military like Dwayne. He looked Dwayne over then sighed.

  "Come on back."

  Herman led Dwayne into a large room filled with desks where the homicide detectives worked. Herman sat behind his desk; Dwayne sat in the chair to the side. The guys had dropped Dwayne at the Austin Police Department in downtown before they drove to the UT stadium to meet William's coach. Dwayne hoped Herman would treat him like a colleague instead of an adversary. Like a brother in arms.

  "Dee Dee was a party girl," Herman said. "Partied with the wrong guy that night. Bad deal."

  "We retraced her steps this morning. You did a good job."

  "Thanks."

  "Did William Tucker's name ever come up back then?"

  "Nope. Still can't believe it. But I handled the Bradley Todd case, still can't believe that."

  "Neither can his dad."

  "Heard he was in to see his boy. He was a great lawyer. I sat through the Todd trial. The first girl. He made the D.A. look like a fool."

  "The D.A. hasn't forgotten."

  "Nope. He's got a hard-on for the dad. Heard he started drinking after Bradley killed the second girl."

  "Yep."

  "Hard thing to live with. Even for a lawyer. But, hell, Bradley's girlfriend had me convinced he was innocent. He shouldn't blame himself."

  "It's what good men do."

  "I guess. What do you want to know?"

  "The homicide file tells me you're a pro, Herman. So why didn't you take William's phone and laptop when you executed the search warrant on his dorm room?"

  "No comment."

  "Come on, man, don't 'no comment' me. I would never have left the prime suspect's phone and laptop."

  Detective Herman Jones sighed.

  "Sorry, Dwayne. Gag order."

  "From the judge?"

  "The D.A. Like I said, he ain't exactly buddies with the boy's dad. He taking his boy to trial?"

  "Yep."

  "Gonna be another O.J."

  "You can't help me, Herman?"

  Herman regarded Dwayne, obviously wondering if he were seeing his own future.

  "Tell the dad, the D.A.'s playing to win. And he's got the ethics of a pit bull."

  "No dogs in the locker room," Coach Bruce said.

  He meant Rusty.

  "He's a trained police dog," Frank said.

  "He'd better be potty-trained. He craps on this carpet, I'm in a heap of shit. So to speak."

  Frank diverted the coach's attention from Rusty.

  "William said you're his closest friend," Frank said.

  Coach Bruce nodded. "It's that way, quarterback coach and quarterback. We spend a lot of time together, especially during the season. He's a dedicated athlete, Mr. Tucker. Never stops training, always working to get better. That's why he's the best there is. Best there ever was. Would've won the Heisman his sophomore year, except for that game … and now this." He seemed solemn. "We've had players in trouble with the law, all the big football schools do, but the death penalty? Shit, that wouldn't be good for the program."

  "Or him."

  Coach Bruce Palmer looked to be about forty; he was lean and fit, as if he had once played and still could. He wore a burnt orange Longhorn sweat suit and sneakers and a UT cap.

  "What's your opinion of my son?"

  "He's a great quarterback."

  "As a man."

  "He's a star."

  "What's that mean?"

  "Means it's different for him. For every star."

  "In what way?"

  "In every way. They don't have the typical college experience. First day they walk on this campus, they're celebrities. Other students treat them like gods. And if they happen to be the best college football player in America, like William, it's a crazy life. Hard for him to have close friends, he never knew if his friends had an agenda. You know, does this girl like him or the attention she gets being his girlfriend? And there's a lot of attention living in William's world. Believe me, I know that for a fact. We've all been living in William's world the last four years."

  "So a girl would date him to move up in the world?"

  He shrugged. "It happens. Remember last year, the BCS Championship Game, they showed the Alabama quarterback's girlfriend in the stands on national TV. Good looking gal. Next thing you know, she's got a gig reporting at the Super Bowl. That's what can happen to the star's girlfriend, kind of like winning American Idol except she doesn't have to sing."

  Coach Bruce was giving Frank and the guys a tour of the athletic facilities at the stadium—the one-hundred-thousand-seat stadium, the twenty-thousand-square-foot weight room, and now the lavish locker room that offered gaming stations.

  "We didn't have anything like this when I played," Chuck said.

  "Or when I played," Coach Bruce said. "But we make more money than any other football program in America, and we spend more. Best of the best. Winning the national championship back in oh-five changed everything. The money just poured in after that. Hundred fifty million we made last year, from TV revenue, merchandising, ticket sales, luxury suites and premium seating … we've even got our own cable TV channel, the 'Longhorn Network.' And we don't have to pay taxes."

  "It's not considered business income unrelated to education?" Frank asked.

  "Nope."

  "Why not?"

  "P
olitics. Every state has a UT—a big public university that wants to be number one in football. That takes money. A lot of money. If we had to pay taxes on our business income like everyone else, we couldn't offer all this to top recruits. So Congress exempted athletic income from taxes."

  "I exempted myself," Chico said. "Haven't paid a dime in taxes in years."

  Coach Bruce's expression said he wasn't sure if Chico was joking. He wasn't. He lived his life off the books.

  "This was William's locker … is his locker," Coach Bruce said.

  Since Dwayne wasn't there, Chico, having the most personal experience in the criminal justice system, played cop and frisked the locker. He came up empty-handed. The space was filled only with football cleats, uniforms, protein powder, protein bars, protein drinks, vitamins, supplements, and footballs. Coach Bruce picked up a football and gripped it as if to pass. His emotions got the best of him.

  "He was the best I've ever coached."

  "He didn't die," Frank said. "He was arrested for a crime he didn't commit. He'll play again."

  That perked Coach Bruce up.

  "This season?"

  "Maybe not."

  His face fell. "Damn. We don't have a prayer without William."

  They turned away from William's locker, but Coach Bruce quickly turned back.

  "Put that ball back."

  Chuck had taken one of the footballs from William's locker.

  "Dang."

  He put the ball back. Coach Bruce gave Frank a look. He shrugged.

  "We're not related."

  "Can you ask him to stop?"

  Coach Bruce gestured at Chico, who was now playing at one of the game stations. It was like taking the kids on a road trip. Fortunately, the inside tour ended, and they returned outside to the stands. The stadium was a monument to football. Rusty bounded down the stands and leapt onto the grass. He crapped.

  "Great," Coach Bruce said.

  "Fertilizer," Frank said.

  The coach's eyes drifted off Rusty and around the stadium.

  "What William could do on that field … unbelievable."

  "You've been here all four years with William?"

  Coach Bruce nodded.

  "So you were at that game two years ago?"

  Another nod. "I saw you on the sideline. Bad day for you. And William. Really upset him, threw him off his game."

  "I know." Frank sighed. "So after the game, you took him to the hospital?"

  "The docs gave him an MRI."

  "They diagnosed a concussion?"

  "Yep."

  "Did he remember anything from the game?"

  "Nothing. Thought he was Troy Aikman."

  "Roger Staubach's my favorite Cowboy quarterback," Chuck said.

  "Are you serious?" Chico said. "Don Meredith, he was the man."

  "Well, he was the best on Monday Night Football, sure, but Staubach won two Super Bowls."

  "True, but …"

  Coach Bruce looked from them to Frank with a confused expression. Frank could only shrug.

  "And then you took him back to his dorm?"

  Coach Bruce nodded. "I got him dinner first. Told him to stay in and sleep. Never knew he didn't until he got arrested Saturday night, read the story in the Sunday paper. That was a shock."

  "He said his buddies came by, took him out. Cowboy and Red."

  "Red graduated last year."

  "Where would we find Cowboy?"

  Coach Bruce checked his watch.

  "Dining hall."

  Ty Walker, aka "Cowboy," was a cowboy from Amarillo. A big cowboy. He wore a T-shirt, Wrangler jeans, and cowboy boots. He looked as if he had just ridden in from the range. He was handsome in a rugged way. They found him eating a steak in the athletic dining hall. He sat alone at a round table. Spread on the table in front of him was the Austin paper with images of William Tucker and Dee Dee Dunston. They sat down without an invitation.

  "What kind of sauce they put on that steak?" Chuck said.

  Cowboy glanced up from the paper and gave Chuck a look.

  "Steak sauce."

  "Ahh."

  "Who the hell are you guys?" Cowboy asked. "You don't look like cops or reporters."

  "I was a cop," Dwayne said.

  They had picked him up after their stadium tour.

  "I'm Frank Tucker, William's dad. These are my friends."

  "Did he do it?"

  "You have to ask?"

  "These days, you never know."

  "You don't seem surprised that he got arrested."

  Cowboy shrugged. "Part of the game. Players get cut, get hurt, get arrested … you just suit up the next game and play. That's just the way it is now. Problem is, the backup quarterback sucks."

  "Are you and William close friends?"

  Cowboy cut a piece of steak and stabbed it with his fork. He stuffed it in his mouth then answered Frank's question.

  "Close? We drank and chased girls together—well, I chased. He didn't have to. But I don't know that he has any close friends."

  "Why not?"

  "Because we're just players—he's a star. Like when Garth was still singing—there was Garth and there was everyone else."

  Cowboy assaulted the steak with a serrated knife.

  "So how would you describe your relationship with William?"

  "I'm just part of his entourage."

  "Anyone else on the team he hung out with?"

  "Nah."

  Cowboy waved his fork at the dining hall. Other tables were occupied by big boys but seemed segregated by race. All white or all black.

  "Most of the players are black now. We don't hang out together much."

  "Racism?" Dwayne said.

  "Music. We don't like rap, they don't like country."

  "What about Latino music?" Chico asked.

  "Mexicans don't play our kind of football."

  "So you eat alone?"

  "This was our table, me and William. Left the other chairs reserved for the girl athletes."

  "Did you chase girls with William after that game?"

  "We chase girls after every game."

  "At the Dizzy Rooster?"

  "Good place for girls."

  "Did you take William there that night?"

  "Maybe. Too many games and too many bars to remember."

  "Do you remember taking him home that night?"

  Cowboy shook his head. "Too many nights. He doesn't remember?"

  "He got a concussion that game."

  "Oh, yeah. He got his bell rung good." Cowboy shrugged. "It happens. Football's a collision sport."

  Frank pointed at Dee Dee Dunston's photo in the newspaper.

  "You ever see William with that girl?"

  Cowboy stared at the photo then shrugged. "Shit, I don't know. All their faces blur together after a while. And that was too long ago."

  "Only two years."

  "That's a lifetime of girls."

  Chapter 24

  "The State of Texas versus William Tucker. Arraignment."

  The media now knew who Frank Tucker was. So the defense team had to fight their way through the gauntlet of cameras and reporters on the plaza outside the Justice Center. The murder trial of William Tucker, Heisman Trophy winner, promised to be the biggest judicial media circus since the murder trial of O.J. Simpson, Heisman Trophy winner, back in 1995. O.J.'s trial had been racially charged—he was black; the victims and the cops were white—with the N-word tossed about by one of the detectives. His defense counsel played the race card; the prosecutors played inept. O.J. was acquitted. William Tucker could depend on neither the race card nor inept prosecutors: he was white, the victim was white, and the prosecutors were skilled and savvy. They would not make mistakes. And their boss needed a win to assure his reelection.

  "All rise," the bailiff said.

  Judge Harold Rooney entered the courtroom through a door behind the bench. Frank stood at the defense table; the guys sat in the spectator section like bored retirees. The D.A.
and three assistant district attorneys who looked like ex-Navy Seals stood at the prosecution table. No one in the spectator pews rose. Courtroom decorum had gone the way of business attire. The judge arranged himself at the bench, shuffled through papers, and without looking up said, "Make your appearances, gentlemen."

  "Travis County District Attorney Dick Dorkin, for the state."

  "Frank Tucker, for the defendant."

  Now the judge looked up—at Frank. He stared a long uncomfortable moment—Frank had suffered such stares prior to his relocation to the beach, when old colleagues in Houston encountered him in public—and then motioned the lawyers up to the bench. The prosecution team wore dark suits and dark ties and short hair; Frank wore jeans, a Hawaiian print shirt, and scraggly hair. The judge regarded Frank over his reading glasses then turned the microphone away and leaned forward. This conversation would be off the record.

  "You look like hell, Frank."

  With images of Dee Dee Dunston, deceased, fresh in their minds, they had drunk whiskey late into the night at the campsite.

  "Nice to see you too, Harold."

  "Frank, I'm real sorry about your son. I hope he's innocent."

  "He is."

  "Is your law license still suspended?"

  "It is."

  "So you are appearing today in what capacity?"

  "Father."

  Harold sighed and regarded Frank as one does an old friend who's fighting cancer. You remember him as he once was—young and strong and unbroken—not as he is now—old and weak and broken in mind, body, and spirit.

  "Even hung over, you're probably the best criminal defense lawyer alive, but as far as this court is concerned, you're not a lawyer. I can't let you represent your son."

  "Harold, I'm broke. I don't have the money to hire a lawyer for William. And my ex-wife's husband is broke, too. He's in Poland trying to save himself. He can't save my son. I can." He pointed a finger in the D.A.'s face. "And this son of a bitch didn't tell me he was seeking the death penalty."

  The D.A. smirked. "Surprise."

  "Fuck you, Dick. He's my son."

  "Gentlemen, this is a courtroom." Back to Frank: "Can he borrow the money?"

  "A million bucks? He's a college kid."

  "Who'll go number one in the NFL draft in a few months."

  "Hard to play quarterback on death row," the D.A. said.