The Case Against William

by Gimenez, Mark

  Frank again pointed a finger at the D.A. "Harold, I'm gonna punch him."

  "Please don't."

  Harold exhaled and looked to the back of courtroom; he gestured someone forward. Frank and the D.A. turned to see a young woman, mid-thirties perhaps, wearing a suit and low heels, walk up the center aisle. She had shoulder-length curly black hair that bounced and muscular legs. She sported the gait of a runner, as if she might break into a sprint at any moment. When she walked past the row on which the guys were sitting, Chuck leaned out from his aisle seat, obviously checking out her backside, but he leaned too far and fell onto the floor. The D.A. chuckled.

  "The Three Stooges."

  The woman continued through the gate and up to the bench. For a lawyer, she was a gorgeous woman. The D.A.'s eyes searched her body like a cop patting down a suspect for contraband.

  "Frank," Harold said, "this is Billie Jean Crawford. She's a public defender. I'm appointing her to represent your son."

  She regarded Frank as one does a movie star past his prime—way past—and offered more pity than admiration. She stuck a hand out to Frank.

  "Mr. Tucker, it's an honor to meet you. We studied your cases in our trial advocacy course."

  "He's a living, drinking legend," the D.A. said.

  "I'm gonna punch him, Harold," Frank said.

  Harold turned to the D.A. "Dick, don't be a—"

  His eyes cut to Ms. Crawford and thought better of it. She still held her hand out to Frank.

  "Harold, you're appointing a PD to defend my son when the state is seeking the death penalty? He's entitled to an experienced death penalty counsel."

  "That would be you, Frank. I believe the Bradley Todd case was a death penalty case, and as I recall, you won." He paused and shook his head at the memory. "Wish you hadn't. For both our sakes. And for the second girl." He leaned even closer to Frank, almost as if to give him a buddy hug over the bench. "It wasn't your fault, Frank. You did your job."

  Frank fought his emotions.

  "Let me do my job now, Harold. Please."

  "I'm trying to, Frank. But I'm a judge, so I feel that I should follow the law whenever possible. I'm appointing Ms. Crawford to officially represent your son."

  "Harold—"

  "But—I'll allow you to participate in the trial as her assistant."

  "Her assistant?"

  "Best I can do, Frank. Take it or leave it."

  That was the judge's deal: Frank could defend his son at trial, but only if the judge could cover his ass with the appeals court by appointing a public defender with a current law license. Frank looked Billie Jean Crawford over; her eyes were amber and her hand remained extended to Frank. He grasped her hand.

  "I'll take it."

  "Let's do this."

  Harold returned to his role as Judge Rooney and counsel to their respective tables. Frank whispered to Ms. Crawford.

  "First murder trial?"

  "First trial."

  Before Frank could respond, a side door opened and his son appeared. William wore the green-and-white striped jumpsuit and shackles on his hands and feet. He waddled over, flanked by two armed deputies, and stood next to Frank.

  "Mr. Dorkin," the judge said.

  The D.A. read the indictment. It was painful to hear that a grand jury of twelve citizens had voted to indict your son for the rape and murder of a young woman. William leaned down to Frank and whispered.

  "Did they get this shit straightened out?"

  As if he hadn't just heard the charges of rape and murder against one William Tucker.

  "Am I getting out of here today? I've been in here three nights. They don't even have a gym. I've got to work out, get prepped for the game."

  "Not now," Frank whispered.

  "Did Mom send money?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Dale's broke."

  "Broke? How?"

  "We'll talk after the arraignment."

  William nodded past Frank to Ms. Crawford. "Who's she?"

  "Your lawyer."

  "William Tucker, how do you plead to the charges against you?" the judge said.

  "Not guilty," Frank whispered to his son.

  "Not guilty," his son said.

  Frank turned to Ms. Crawford. "Ask for a trial setting within the speedy trial statute."

  "Why?"

  "Just do it."

  She spoke up. "Your Honor, defense requests a setting within the speedy trial statute."

  The judge regarded her over his reading glasses then cut his eyes to Frank. He knew Frank Tucker's standard trial strategy: push the prosecution to trial. Fast.

  "You sure about that?"

  "Are we?" Ms. Crawford whispered to Frank.

  "Yes."

  "Yes, Your Honor. We're sure."

  "All right. Trial is set for Monday, December ninth. Six weeks. Is that too soon?"

  "Is it?" Ms. Crawford whispered.

  "No," Frank whispered back.

  "No," she said to the court.

  "Now ask for a reduction in bail," Frank whispered.

  She did.

  "Denied."

  Frank decided to test out his new role.

  "Your Honor, as Ms. Crawford's assistant, I would ask that my … that the defendant be treated like any other defendant without regard to his celebrity status and the media attention. This is a circumstantial evidence case. The defendant has never been accused of a violent crime. The defendant is neither a danger to the community nor a flight risk. We are more than agreeable to appropriate bail conditions such as GPS monitoring. Thus, I would argue that five million dollars is unreasonable bail under the Supreme Court's ruling in Stack v. Boyle."

  The D.A. jumped in. "Your Honor, the defendant's DNA—his blood—was recovered from the victim's body. The perpetrator brutally raped her and strangled her with his bare hands. He looked into her eyes as he killed her. I think that makes the defendant a danger to the community."

  "I have to agree," the judge said. "Taking into account the nature of the offense, to-wit, a violent forcible rape and manual strangulation of the victim, and the circumstances of the offense, to-wit, behind a crowded bar in downtown Austin on a Saturday night, which evidences a perpetrator unrestrained by any fear of capture, the defendant does in fact present a danger to the community. Therefore, bail is revoked."

  "Revoked?" Frank said. "Your Honor, the crime occurred two years ago. If the defendant were a risk to the community, he certainly hasn't demonstrated any violent tendencies during the last two years."

  "He was arrested a month ago for resisting arrest," the D.A. said.

  "It was a public intoxication charge," Ms. Crawford said. "How many college kids are arrested for public intoxication on Sixth Street every Saturday night?"

  "The police report says the defendant became belligerent, that the officer was in fear of the defendant," the D.A. said.

  "The defendant's blood on the victim establishes that he had close personal contact with her that night," the judge said. "Explain that, Mr. Tucker."

  "I can't," Frank said.

  "When you can, I'll reconsider bail. Until then, the defendant shall remain in the Travis County Jail pending trial."

  William had stood silent throughout the arguments, almost oblivious to the fact that they were arguing over his personal freedom. But now he understood. He exploded.

  "But I've got a big game Saturday! Kansas State!"

  The judge regarded William Tucker almost as if saddened by the sight.

  "You've played your last college game, son."

  "What? I've got to play! If I don't play, I won't win another Heisman Trophy! Or the national championship!"

  "Mr. Tucker, you should not concern yourself with winning trophies and championships. You should concern yourself with staying off death row."

  "Death row? What the hell are you talking about?"

  The judge glanced at Frank—he had not yet told William—then back at Frank's son.

&n
bsp; "Mr. Tucker, the state is seeking the death penalty."

  "The death penalty?"

  The judge banged his gavel. Court was adjourned. The deputies grabbed William's arms and pulled him away. He looked back at Frank with an expression of shock.

  "Take him to the interview room."

  The deputies gave Frank a "we don't work for you" look; but they would take him across the plaza to the jail and deposit him in the interview room. Frank told Ms. Crawford to meet him in the interview room then followed the judge into his chambers. The judge knew what was on Frank's mind. He shut the door behind them and removed his black robe.

  "Why, Harold? Is this because of Bradley Todd? Because I made you look like a fool?"

  "No, Frank. That happens. That's the chance we take—a lawyer when you take a case, a judge when I make a decision—that we're wrong about the human being standing in front of us. We try our best to see into his soul, but we can't. We're like surgeons—you're going to lose some patients on the table. We're going to be wrong about some clients and defendants. We were both wrong about Bradley Todd. But I don't blame you."

  "Then what's this about?"

  "Your son."

  Harold sat in his chair and regarded Frank not as a judge but as a friend.

  "You know what I see when I look at your son? A twenty-two-year-old boy who thinks he's entitled, that he's above the rules, that he's more special than the rest of the world, that he can do whatever the hell he pleases just because he's the best damn football player in the country. This isn't the first time he's run afoul of the law, Frank. All minor incidents, sure, and I know the resisting arrest charge was bullshit. But this isn't. This is serious, Frank. He might be innocent … but he might be guilty. Right now, I don't know. So he stays in jail until I do know. And even if he is innocent, a little jail therapy could be just what he needs. Six weeks till trial. He spends those six weeks in jail, maybe he'll have time to think about his life. Maybe he'll realize he isn't special, just lucky. Maybe he'll come out a man. A better man."

  The judge exhaled.

  "I'm doing your son a favor, Frank."

  The judge saw William Tucker as the man he was today—a twenty-two-year-old prima donna athlete who thought the world revolved around him; but Frank saw him as the twelve-year-old boy who thought his father was the best dad in the whole world. A son never changes in his father's eyes. And the son was as scared as a twelve-year-old boy right now.

  "The death penalty?"

  "The D.A.'s trying to pressure you to take a plea deal."

  "I'm innocent! I've never seen her before in my life! I didn't rape her! I didn't kill her! Why don't they believe me?"

  He was as convincing as Bradley Todd had been. He put his face in his hands on the other side of the Plexiglas. When he looked up again, the first signs of defeat appeared on his face. Jail could do that to a man. Especially a young man.

  "You got to get me out of here, Frank. If I don't play Saturday, I can kiss the Heisman goodbye. And the national championship. How can the judge keep me in here when I've still got three games left in the season? Why can't we deal with this during the off-season? Does he know how many Longhorn alumni he's gonna piss off? It's been eight years since UT won a national championship."

  "Son, your season's over."

  "So I'm not getting out?"

  "Not unless we can explain why your blood was on the victim."

  "I don't know how my blood got on her. But I'm not a murderer."

  "The voters think you are."

  "Why?"

  "Because the police arrested you, the D.A. charged you, and the grand jury indicted you."

  "What happened to innocent until proven guilty?"

  "It was never the reality. It just sounds good. The D.A. and the judge are both up for reelection. You don't get reelected by letting accused rapists and murderers back on the street."

  They sat on opposite sides of the Plexiglas partition with phones to their ears. Ms. Crawford sat next to Frank; she could not hear William's voice. The guys sat outside; only the lawyers were allowed in that day.

  "Did they move you to solitary?"

  His son nodded. "Dale's broke?"

  Frank recounted what Liz had told him.

  "Your wife left you for a fracker?" Ms. Crawford said.

  Frank frowned at her and put a finger to his lips. "Shh."

  "How am I going to hire a lawyer?"

  Frank gestured to himself and Ms. Crawford. "We work for free."

  The prospect of two free lawyers did not seem to perk up his son's spirits.

  "A drunk ex-lawyer and a public defender who's never tried a case? That's all that stands between me and the death penalty?"

  "I've tried a hundred cases. I used to be a good lawyer. I can be again."

  William stood but still held the phone to his ear.

  "But can you stay sober?"

  "I can. For you, son, I can. I will. I promise."

  Frank stood and again placed his palm against the glass. His son stared at Frank's hand then hung up the phone and walked out of the interview room.

  Travis County District Attorney Dick Dorkin stood at his first-floor window fronting the plaza and the jail on the far side. He watched the great Frank Tucker exit the jail and walk across the plaza with the public defender.

  Not so great now, are you, Frank?

  Frank Tucker had always had the perfect life. The perfect wife. The perfect family. The perfect career. And Dick Dorkin's life had always been less than perfect. No wife, no family, a public service career. He had been Frank's backup for thirty-three years, since their first day of law school. Frank was the star of the class, a fact that became evident early on. Their classmates gravitated to him, not to Dick. Frank had graduated number one and then had gone on to a storied career as a defense attorney—defending the innocent.

  Until Bradley Todd.

  He had defended the guilty, and the guilt had destroyed Frank Tucker's perfect life. His wife had left him, his career had vanished, and his son had abandoned him. He was a broken-down beach bum. A drunk. A lawyer without a license to practice law. A loser. Now it was Dick Dorkin's life that seemed perfect. He was the righteous prosecutor fighting for justice. He got the good press now. And he wanted this conviction bad.

  A death warrant for William Tucker was his ticket to the Governor's Mansion.

  Chapter 25

  "Teach me, Mr. Tucker."

  "Frank."

  "Teach me, Frank."

  "You've never tried a case?"

  "I've never had a case. I just got my law license."

  "I've tried a hundred cases, but I lost my law license."

  "I've got what you need, Frank, and you've got what I need."

  "I need a drink."

  He stood and got a drink. A Shiner Bock beer. Like an appetizer before the main course. But he had promised his son. William needed a sober lawyer. So there would be no whiskey for Frank. He would go cold turkey on Wild Turkey. And Jack Daniels. And Jim Beam. And all his other buddies. He would wean himself off whiskey with beer; he wasn't sure what he'd use to wean himself off beer. Something equally addictive—ice cream, maybe. They all sat at the picnic table. Chico fiddled with William's cell phone. Dwayne flipped the pages of the homicide file and Chuck the signed football into the air. Ms. Crawford typed notes on her iPad with the candy apple red cover, same as the paint job on her convertible Mustang.

  "We read the transcript of your closing arguments in the senator's trial," Ms. Crawford said. "Brilliant. You got the jury to blame the prosecutor instead of the defendant, made the D.A. look like a fool. He's not the type to hold a grudge, is he?"

  "I'm afraid he is."

  "Well, that explains his courtroom demeanor."

  "No, that's just because he's an asshole. The grudge stuff will come later."

  Ms. Crawford had come out to their campsite to plan their defense strategy. Frank drank his beer and regarded his co-counsel. She was an extremely attractive
woman; the others had already noticed. They eyed her as if she were a fifth of bourbon on a liquor store shelf. The good stuff. She had a pretty face and a throaty voice, like that actress, the one who used to be married to the Die Hard guy. She had removed her jacket and wore a sleeveless white blouse. Her arms were muscular for a woman.

  "You work out?" Chuck asked her.

  "Every day. At the Y by the lake, then I run five miles around the lake."

  "What do you wear?"

  She frowned at his question.

  "Forgive Chuck, Ms. Crawford—"

  "Billie Jean."

  "—emotionally, he's still in high school. So, Billie Jean, how did you find your way to the public defenders' office?"

  "Law firms don't hire forty-year-old associates."

  She didn't look forty years old.

  "This is my second career," she said.

  "What was your first?"

  "Stripper."

  "I like her already," Chuck said.

  "Some girls call themselves exotic dancers, but there's nothing exotic about taking your clothes off and putting your privates in strange men's faces."

  "Always seems exotic to me," Chuck said. "You ever do the olive oil thing?"

  "I've never heard of the olive oil thing."

  Chuck grunted as if surprised. "All the strippers in Mexico know about it."

  She stared at Chuck for a beat then shook her head as if her brain were an Etch-A-Sketch and she was trying to shake the image clean from her mind. It took a moment for her to regain her train of thought.

  "Anyway, I'm a single mom. I have a daughter, she's in college now. I married a bum when I was young and stupid. He was my Prince Charming, tall and handsome, a minor league baseball player on his way to the majors."

  "Did he make it?"

  She shook her head. "He was a minor-league player all his life. Turned out, he was a minor-league man, too. Played a doubleheader while I gave birth. First thing he said to me when he got to the hospital was, 'Shit. I went oh-for-eight.' He left us right after she was born."

  "Where is he now?"

  "California, last I heard."

  "Doing what?"

  "Screwing up someone else's life, I'm sure. Some other stupid woman looking for her Prince Charming. Why do we do that?"