"Ask my ex-wife."
"Anyway, I went back to school, got a degree in criminal justice, working nights. Then law school."
"You put yourself through college and law school on tips from stripping?"
"I was a very good stripper."
"Now I'm in love," Chuck said.
"My stage name was Candy because I always wore a candy apple red G-string."
"You're killing me," Chuck said.
"Hence, the candy apple red convertible," Frank said.
"Reminds me of where I've been … and where I don't want to be again."
She must have seen something in Frank's eyes, but it wasn't what she thought.
"I wasn't a prostitute, so don't judge me."
"Billie Jean, we're all drunks who've screwed up our lives royally. Do we look like the types to judge?"
"Frank, I want you to teach me."
"How to be a prostitute?"
She smiled. She had a nice smile.
"How to be a lawyer. I'm a fast learner. I want to be a good lawyer. You're the best. Or you were."
Frank finished off the beer then stood and walked over to the cooler and popped the top on another can. He wanted a shot of whiskey. He addressed the defense team.
"The clock's ticking on my son's life. We're all that's standing between him and death row six weeks from now. Good news is, he's innocent. Bad news is, we've got no money to defend him and it's his word against his own DNA. That story ends on death row. We've got to find the truth."
"Give him a polygraph," Dwayne said.
Frank had never made Bradley Todd take a polygraph. He had wished so many times since that he had. Should he make his son take a polygraph? A father did not need proof that his son was innocent.
"Where? In his cell? And even if the D.A. allowed it, he'd know we gave him one. If he passes, they know we'll tell them, but they won't dismiss the charges because they've got his blood. If he fails and we don't tell them, they'll know they've got the right guy."
"At least we'd know."
"We already know. He's innocent."
"Frank, you ain't buying his amnesia defense, are you?"
"I got no short-term memory 'cause of my concussions," Chuck said.
"They got his blood off the girl," Dwayne said. "That's kind of hard to explain away. You've got to at least consider the possibility that he did it."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"He's my son."
"Frank, I understand but—"
"No. You don't understand. You can't understand. None of you can."
"Why not?"
"None of you have a son."
Frank took a deep breath and a long swallow of the beer. Dwayne inhaled on his cigar and then exhaled smoke circles.
"You're right," Dwayne said. "You're his father, and we're your friends. We're here to help you help him."
"Thanks. Okay, Chuck, you're the football guy, so I need you to go to Lubbock and talk to the other players and coaches. You can relate to them."
"You want me to go to Lubbock by myself?"
His expression seemed pained.
"You're forty-nine, Chuck. You can do it."
"But, Frank, I'm a little worried … you know, the memory thing. And I don't think so good these days."
Chuck's numerous concussions in college caused him to worry that he had suffered brain damage, as many ex-football players were discovering they had suffered. Repetitive concussions have been linked to memory loss, impaired thought processes, early-onset dementia, and irreparable brain damage.
"Six NFL players committed suicide the last two years," Chuck said. "And now McMahon—"
Jim McMahon, the Super Bowl winning star quarterback of the Chicago Bears back in the eighties.
"—and Bradshaw—"
Terry Bradshaw, who won four Super Bowls as the Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback in the seventies and eighties.
"—they're both suffering memory lapses. Man, I don't want to get lost in Lubbock."
"Chuck, you smoke those cancer sticks like a chimney," Chico said. "You should be worried about getting cancer, not getting lost."
"At least with cancer I'd just die. Better than wandering the beach not knowing how to get home."
"Sorry, Chuck," Frank said. He knew better than to ask Chuck to go out of town alone. "Dwayne, you go with him. Track down all the witnesses named in the file—cheerleaders, players, coaches. Recheck their stories, see if the detectives missed anything. Better that way, you can look after each other."
"Two drunks watching each other? There's a recipe for disaster."
"Or fun," Chuck said.
They fist-bumped.
"Problem is, my truck's in Rockport," Dwayne said.
"Take mine," Chico said.
"How will you guys get back home?" Chuck asked.
"I'll drive them," Billie Jean said. "I'm on the team, too."
"Uh, Frank," Dwayne said, "traveling to Lubbock, staying in a hotel, that costs. I'm tapped out till my next pension check. We need money to fund this investigation—hell, to pay for gas to Lubbock."
Frank glanced at the members of the defense team: Dwayne Gentry, an ex-cop who supplemented his police pension working as a part-time security guard at a mini-storage facility … Chuck Miller, an ex-coach who refereed peewee football games, but only the ones run by organizations that didn't require criminal background checks … Chico Duran, an ex-con who fraudulently received federal disability benefits and delivered pizzas on weekends … Billie Jean Crawford, an ex-stripper turned public defender. His eyes rested on her. Her eyes narrowed, then she shook her head.
"Don't even think about it. I'm not stripping again."
Their moneymaking opportunities were limited. But defending a client against a capital murder charge carrying the death penalty required money. Frank saw no options … until Chuck flipped the signed football into the air again.
"Sell the ball," Frank said.
Chuck caught the ball and frowned at Frank.
"Do we have to? I've gotten attached to it."
"Get unattached. Chico, put that ball on eBay. Pronto."
Dwayne smiled. "An expense-account trip, even if it is to Lubbock."
"No bars."
Now he frowned. "Well, that takes a lot of the fun out of a free trip."
"No, I mean there are no bars in Lubbock. It's dry."
"My God."
As if Frank had just said the world would end the next day. Chico made the sign of the cross.
"Billie Jean," Frank said, "draft a subpoena. Copies of all DNA tests, all physical evidence reports, autopsy results, the game film, anything else they've got."
"You want a copy of the game film?"
"I want Chuck to review the tape, see if it caught the girl on the sideline. Maybe someone talked to her during the game."
"I'll break it down," Chuck said.
"I don't care about the offensive and defensive schemes, just the cheerleaders."
"That's what I meant."
"I've never written a subpoena," Billie Jean said.
"Look in the form books. You draft it, I'll review it."
"Okay, I'll email it to you."
"No email."
"For security, so the D.A. can't intercept our communications?"
"Uh, no. I don't have email."
"Why not?"
"I don't have Internet connection."
"Why not?"
"I live in a shack on the beach."
"Oh. Okay, I'll fax it."
"No fax."
"Mail?"
"Not that I know of."
"I'll drive it down."
"Chico, you go through his laptop and phone."
His eyes remained locked on William's phone like a kid playing a video game. "On it."
"And no drinking, guys."
That brought Chico's eyes up; they all eyed Frank a long moment then broke into laughter.
"That's a good one, Frank," Dwayne said.
"Anyone know the area code for Lubbock?" Chico said.
Billie Jean typed on her iPad.
"You've got three-G?" Chico said.
"Four."
"Damn."
"Eight-oh-six," she said.
"I was afraid of that."
"Why?" Frank said.
Chico pressed buttons on the phone then put it to his ear and listened.
"Shit."
"What?"
He pressed buttons again and engaged the speakerphone. He held the phone out. They could hear the call ring through and then a perky voice answering.
"Hi, this is Dee Dee. I'm out having fun so leave a message and I'll call you back. Bye."
The message beeped. Chico disconnected. Frank could barely speak the words.
"Her number is on William's phone?"
"He lied, Frank," Chico said. "He knew her."
"Play it again."
He did. William knew the victim. He had lied to his father. Just as Bradley Todd had lied to his lawyer. Frank needed a drink. A real drink.
"It's been two years," Billie Jean said. "Why is her phone still working?"
"Because parents, they never let go," Dwayne said. "Seen it all the time. Her room at home, bet it looks exactly like the day she left for college." He puffed on the cigar. "Her folks probably kept her phone on their family plan. It don't cost much."
"Why would they do that?"
"To hear her voice."
"Hey … William Tucker."
The whispered voice of the gangbanger next door came through the cell bars.
"Fuckin' death penalty, huh? Shit, that sucks."
"This can't be happening to me."
William felt as if he had taken a blow to the head. His thinking was foggy, his thoughts lost in the fog of fear. The death penalty.
"Sure it can. Happen to me."
"You were on death row?"
"Five years, till I got me a new trial. Now I'm going back. Back home."
"What's it like?"
"Boring. Goddamn, the boredom just eats at you, almost make you wanna kill yourself, save them the trouble. But you don't, man, 'cause you wanna live. You never know how much you wanna live till someone say you gotta die. That's why they strap you down, 'cause folks wanna live. Brothers on both side of me, they took that walk to the death chamber. Talked big shit, saying, 'Hell, I'm gonna spit in the man's eye.' But when the day come, they crying for they mama, scared to stop living. Least it ain't like the old days, sitting in that electric chair. You imagine that? They wire your ass up and hit the voltage, say your eyes pop outta your skull, that's why they put a hood over your head. Shit. That scary. Now you just go to sleep. Fuckin' forever. But don't you worry none, William, all the mandatory appeals they do, take ten years minimum. You gonna live a long time on death row. Being bored. Eating bad food. Waiting."
William heard the gangbanger sigh.
"Man, if I just hadn't of gotten all these tatts, I might've got off. Them jury people, they see a black dude with tatts all over his arms and neck, they scared. That a good thing on the streets, see, but it ain't so good in a courtroom. You got any tatts?"
"No."
"You play football but don't got no tatts?"
"I'm afraid of needles."
The gangbanger next door laughed. "That funny."
"Why is that funny?"
"D.A. want to sentence you to death, but you afraid of needles. That ain't no defense."
He laughed again, but William was confused. His foggy mind could not comprehend the joke.
"What?"
"You get the death penalty, they don't electrocute you no more, William Tucker. They stick a needle in you and shoot the poison into your veins. That's how they kill you now, with a fuckin' needle. And, hell, we all afraid of that needle."
Chapter 26
"Hi, this is Dee Dee. I'm out having fun, so leave a message and I'll call you back. Bye."
Frank played Dee Dee's voice message for William on the interview room phone. Billie Jean had driven Frank downtown to the jail the next morning in her candy apple red Mustang with the top down. It had wide tires and a 420-horsepower V-8 engine. She liked to go fast, which did not help his hangover. She now sat next to Frank, but she could only hear Frank's side of the conversation.
"That's on my phone?" William said.
"It is. You said you didn't know her."
"I don't."
"Then why's her number on your phone?"
"You think I'm guilty, don't you?"
"No."
"What'd he say?" Billie Jean said.
Frank held up a finger to her.
"Her phone number doesn't mean I raped and killed her!"
"It means you knew her. When did you meet her?"
"I don't know."
"It had to be that same night. She went to school in Lubbock."
"I guess."
"How can you not remember her?"
William gestured at his cell phone. "A, I had a concussion. I don't remember that night. And B, I bet I've got five hundred girls' numbers on that phone, maybe a thousand. But I don't know them."
"How can you not know them if you put their numbers in your phone?"
"I didn't."
"What?" Billie Jean said.
Frank turned to her. "He said he didn't put her number into his phone."
"Then who did?"
Back to William: "Then who did?"
"She did."
"She did?"
"Look, Frank, here's how it works when you're a star athlete in America."
As if there were a book setting out the rules.
"Anytime I leave my dorm and go out in public—to a bar, a restaurant … hell, to the post office—girls, they throw themselves at me. They're groupies. I'm like a celebrity on campus, anywhere in Austin. Even out of town. When we travel, girls hang out in our hotel lobby, hoping to get picked up. Coaches always remind the team to be careful with these girls. When we played in the Alamo Bowl last year, this girl went up to a room with two players, they had sex, then she claimed rape. Girls are just part of the job description."
Billie Jean tugged on Frank's T-shirt sleeve.
"He says groupies swarm him in public."
She gave a knowing nod. "Same with my ex, and he was only in the minor leagues. The allure of celebrity."
Back to William: "Okay, I understand that. But her number was in your phone. Explain that."
"So these girls, they grab my phone and input their numbers and they say, 'Text me sometime. Anytime.' " His son shrugged. "They're my subs."
"Your subs?"
"You know, if I need a girl, because it's not working out with the girl I'm with or I'm just bored watching sports on TV, I can text one of those numbers, and a girl will show up at my dorm room in ten minutes. I can call in a sub."
"For sex?"
"Why else would I text a girl?"
"What'd he say?" Billie Jean said.
"They're subs."
"The girls? Subs for what?"
"Sex."
Frank studied his twenty-two-year-old son. His view of girls had taken root when he was sixteen. When the notion that he was special had taken root in his mind. When he began looking upon other people not as fellow human beings but as members of his entourage. Boys existed to mow his lawn and wash his cars; girls existed to provide sex. Frank had tried back then to explain to his son that his view was wrong, but why would his son believe his father when the world was telling him that his view was right? When boys were happy to serve him and girls were happy to have sex with him?
"But you never texted or called her?"
"No. I swear."
"But that means you met her if she put her number into your phone, even if you can't remember meeting her."
"I've met hundreds, thousands of girls. I don't remember them either."
"You must have met her that night."
"I can't remember that night."
If the doctors had kept hi
m in the hospital overnight for observation, William Tucker would not be in jail today.
"You've got to believe me. I didn't rape her, and I didn't kill her."
"I believe you."
"Because you think I'm innocent?"
"Because you're my son."
William's massive body seemed to grow smaller.
"This isn't good, is it? My blood on her, her number in my phone. I'm not going to win this game, am I? They'll convict me, won't they? They'll give me the death penalty."
"I won't let that happen."
What else could he say? Truth was, in Texas it was possible. Probable. Likely even. Three hundred inmates sat on death row in Texas. Some were guilty.
"You won't let that happen? You're a fucking drunk, but you'll save me from the death penalty. Really?" His son regarded him with disdain. "You look like shit, Frank."
Frank felt like shit. Dee Dee's number on his son's phone had thrown him off the wagon before he was even officially on the wagon. He had drunk whiskey until he had passed out the night before.
"Couldn't stay sober for twenty-four hours, could you?"
He could not. Frank stood and started to put his palm against the glass again, but his son had already walked out of the room.
"I've got to be honest, Frank," Billie Jean said. "I'm having a hard time liking your son. I mean, subs? Really?"
Chapter 27
Rusty's bark felt as if someone were committing a home invasion on Frank's head. But not because he was hung over. Because he hadn't had hard liquor in thirty hours, his longest stretch in six years.
"Shut up."
Rusty shut up. For a few minutes. Then he barked again. Frank threw the pillow at the beast. Sobriety put him in a foul mood.
Billie Jean had driven him back to the beach the day before. He couldn't stay at the campsite indefinitely, even at $20 per night. He had to get back home to counsel other lawyers. He had to earn his income, such as it was. He had to get sober. Frank ran half a mile down the beach then puked. He spit bile and gazed at the Gulf. Could he really stay sober for his son? After six years of never being sober? It didn't seem possible. Nor did running the five miles down the beach to the rock jetty. But he would do it. Somehow. For his son.
"Let's go."
He ran down the beach with Rusty.
Frank bathed in the sea then dressed in the bungalow. He fixed his protein drink—whey protein, yogurt, blueberries, strawberries, banana, almond milk—and grabbed the vodka bottle out of habit. He stared at the clear liquid—the alcohol that would clear his head, improve his mood, make him feel alive—then replaced it on the kitchen shelf. He blended the concoction and drank from the pitcher. He almost spit it out.
The Case Against William Page 19