"People drink this shit?"
He took a nap before the first lawyer arrived. They walked the beach. Frank listened and counseled and earned $50. Times three lawyers. He deposited the cash in the defense fund, aka, a cigar box.
Then he took another nap.
Rusty barked him awake for their tee time. But he did not play a round of golf that day. Golf did not encourage sobriety; it was the kind of game that demanded alcohol afterward. To stay sane, if not sober.
So Frank ate one of the protein bars they had taken from William's dorm room and worked out instead. Pushups on the porch. Eleven. Then he rolled over onto his back and did thirteen sit-ups. Which made him nauseous. He struggled to his feet and did twenty-five jumping jacks. Which made him dizzy. He grabbed hold of the crossbeam on the porch and did seven pull-ups. Which made him throw up.
Should've waited on the protein bar.
He sat in his chair on the porch and turned on the radio. The oldies channel. Buddy Holly was singing "That'll Be the Day."
Buddy Holly was born in Lubbock, Texas, in 1936. Not much has happened there since. With a population of two hundred forty thousand, Lubbock is the big city for West Texas. Ranchers and farmers travel to Lubbock for doctors and lawyers and the stock show and rodeo; their sons and daughter travel to Lubbock for higher education. They study in the College of Architecture, the College of Media and Communication, the College of Agricultural Sciences and Natural Resources, and, until 1993 when the name was changed, the College of Home Economics.
Thirty thousand students attend Texas Tech University in Lubbock.
They all show up for the football games. A, there's nothing else to do in Lubbock on a Saturday afternoon; and B, the Red Raiders football team is damn fun to watch. The team invented the NASCAR offense: a full-speed, nonstop, no-huddle, run-and-gun, pass-happy, all-out offensive attack. On any given day, the Red Raiders could beat any team in America. They usually didn't, but opposing coaches always worried they might when journeying to Lubbock. Dwayne Gentry and Chuck Miller were worried too as they entered town. But not because of the football team.
Because the whole damn place was dry.
"You can't buy alcohol anywhere in the city?" Chuck said. "That's un-American."
"We're in the Bible Belt, buddy."
"But we're sinners."
"True enough."
"And I really want to sin today."
"I know you do."
Dee Dee Dunston was a sinner, too. They couldn't find alcohol in Lubbock, but they found Cissy Dupre. She had just finished her cheer practice when they approached her on the Tech campus. The investigating officers had interviewed her two years before.
"Cissy Dupre?"
She stopped and gave them a once-over.
"Yes."
"We'd like to talk to you about Dee Dee Dunston."
"No."
She started to walk away, but Dwayne flashed his badge. He carried the badge in case he got pulled over when drinking; once the cop saw he had been on the job, he usually cut Dwayne some slack.
"Official police business, Cissy."
It wasn't, but the badge had the intended effect: she stopped.
"I've never seen a policeman smoking a cigar on the job."
"You've never been to Houston."
"I already talked to the police."
"Two years ago?"
"Two weeks ago."
"Detective Jones?"
"I think so."
"Black cop?"
"Yeah."
"Well, we just have a few follow-up questions."
She sighed. "What do you want to know?"
"I want to know if it's true you can't buy a drink in Lubbock?" Chuck said.
"You can now. They voted the county wet a few years back."
"Oh, praise the Lord."
Cissy frowned. "That's what you wanted to know?"
"No," Dwayne said. "We want to know what happened to Dee Dee?"
She shook her head and looked as if she might cry.
"I guess William Tucker killed her."
"No. Before that night."
"Oh."
Now a few tears came.
"You ever see that show 'Girls Gone Wild'?" she said.
"Oh, I love that show," Chuck said. "I've got all the seasons on DVDs."
Like a kid who had all the Barney episodes.
"Well, that was Dee Dee—girl gone wild. She was this country girl from Sweetwater, but she got here and just went ape."
"How so?" Dwayne said.
"Sex. I mean, everybody gets a little wild, first semester at college, away from your parents, all the boys, the parties, the alcohol. But not like her. She was as sweet as sugar, but she loved sex. I mean, loved it. She was like a sex athlete."
"She was what you would call promiscuous?"
"She was what I'd call a nympho."
"With anyone in particular?"
"Athletes. Star athletes."
"Did you tell the investigators this back then?"
She shook her head. "I didn't want to hurt her family. I met them. They were really nice people. They went to church. But I told that black detective two weeks ago."
"You and Dee Dee roomed together that weekend in Austin?"
She nodded.
"After the game, you went out?"
"A bunch of us cheerleaders did."
"To the Dizzy Rooster?"
Another nod.
"Did you see William Tucker there?"
"He came in after we had been there a while. When he walked into the bar, there was a lot of commotion, people taking cell phone photos of him, that sort of thing—it was like Channing Tatum had walked in."
"Who?"
"Movie star."
"Oh."
"But he saw us—we were still wearing our cheerleader outfits—"
"Why?"
"So the UT players would see us. He walked right up to us. Dee Dee latched onto him, so I flirted with some other UT players."
"So you personally witnessed William Tucker meet Dee Dee that night at the Dizzy Rooster?"
"I personally witnessed them groping each other like horny high schoolers."
"Right there in the bar?"
"Right there at the bar."
"Did they stay at the bar all night?"
"No. When I looked for her again, they were heading to the back."
"Back where?"
"Back of the bar. I figured they were going somewhere to hook up."
"Hook up? Meaning, to have sex."
"Yes."
"Did you see them again?"
"Him. Later I hear this noise, I turn around and he's puking at the bar."
"William threw up in the bar?"
"Yeah."
"But Dee Dee wasn't there?"
"No."
"What time was this?"
"I didn't check my watch. You lose track of time when you're drunk."
"Were you drunk?"
"We all were."
"Dee Dee too?"
"Sure."
"Did you tell the police she had met William?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Why?"
"You didn't think the fact that she had hooked up with William Tucker might've been important to their investigation into her death?"
"No. When they came to my room the next morning, said Dee Dee was dead and had been raped, it never occurred to me that William Tucker might have raped and killed her."
"Why not?"
She offered a shrug. "He's a huge star athlete. He didn't have to rape her."
"Ain't no sex in prison. Not the kind you want, anyway."
The gangbanger next door. William lay on his cot in the dark. The cellblock was quiet. Two words pounded in his brain: death penalty. And two lawyers stood between him and death row: a drunk and an ex-stripper. She was an unproven rookie. He was a past-his-prime star who had lost the skills he once had, who had let himself go, who could no longer compete. Who threw his c
areer away for the bottle, just as so many star athletes had thrown their careers away for drugs. Did he want Frank Tucker quarterbacking his team? With his life on the line? No. He did not. But he didn't have the money to go into the free-agent market and buy a better lawyer. Which meant he didn't have a prayer. Just as his team didn't have a prayer against Kansas State the next day. They would lose. He would lose. The team would go home. He would go to prison. To death row.
"Was she pretty?"
"Who?"
"That girl you killed?"
"I didn't kill her."
"Okay. Was that girl you didn't kill pretty?"
"I don't remember her."
"That don't work, William."
"What?"
"Saying you don't remember nothing. Jury say, he gotta remember something."
"I had a concussion."
"For real?"
"I played a game that day. Strong safety clocked me, helmet to helmet. My coach said I thought I was Troy Aikman playing for the Cowboys against the Giants."
"I always like Troy. Romo, he drive me fuckin' nuts, but Troy, he a player. I remember that game, he got a concussion, linebacker hammered his helmet into Troy's jaw, almost bit his tongue off, bleeding all out his mouth, still throwed the winning touchdown. You do that?"
"No. I throwed … I threw up."
"Ain't you supposed to go to the hospital?"
"I did. They released me."
"And you went straight for the pussy?" The gangbanger laughed. "Man, you must got that high testosterone, too. Shit, you'd be a good brother, fit right in. We the same way. We like the pussy. But that all over now, William Tucker. For both of us."
The gangbanger sighed.
"Ain't no pussy in prison."
Chapter 28
Frank woke the next morning in wet clothes and a wet bed. He had sweated through the night. Consequently, he had not slept well. And one thought occupied his mind: whiskey. He craved a drink. Just one.
But he fought the urge.
He went to the bathroom, changed into dry clothes, drank some water, put his sunglasses on, and walked outside. He ran. Almost a mile before throwing up. He was still bent over with his hands on his knees when Rusty barked. He had noticed something down the beach. Frank stood straight and focused on the object in the distance.
"What the …?"
A horse ridden by a woman galloped toward them. Frank tried to shake the image from his head. Hallucinations were one of many possible alcohol withdrawal symptoms. Hell, he had suffered the shakes and the sweats, why not hallucinations? The horse and the woman came closer. She appeared to be naked. Well, at least he had interesting hallucinations. He and Rusty stood frozen as the horse and woman galloped past them. She was in fact naked.
"Morning," she said.
Frank grunted. At least he wasn't hallucinating.
He bathed, drank his protein shake, napped, counseled a lawyer, napped again, and worked out. Fifteen pushups, ten pull-ups, twenty sit-ups, and thirty jumping jacks. He ate another protein bar. And he thought about his son's blood. And Dee Dee Dunston.
"How's the detox coming?"
Billie Jean called that afternoon.
"I'm fighting it."
"Any ideas on the blood?"
"No. But I can't think clearly right now."
"It'll get better once you've cleansed your brain of the alcohol."
"I hope so."
She fell silent. But she had something to say.
"What?"
"Frank, if William can't remember meeting Dee Dee that night—and he did, her number's on his phone—what else about that night can't he remember?"
"He can't remember because of the concussion, but the concussion didn't make him violent."
"I was just thinking out loud. You don't have to be grumpy."
She hung up. Frank turned the TV on to watch the UT game. He did feel kind of grumpy. But hell, he was a drunk trying to sober up. That'd make anyone grumpy.
"Adams takes the snap … looking for a receiver … throws across the middle … intercepted!"
"Shit!" William said.
In exchange for his autograph on a jersey, the fat-ass guard had loaned William his small radio so he could listen to the Texas-Kansas State game. Third quarter and the Longhorns were losing thirty-five to nothing. There goes the national championship … unless he could get out this week and play Saturday. They could still go 11-1. That might be good enough for a shot at the title, if Alabama loses to Auburn. There was still a chance for the championship. And the Heisman.
On the radio: "He breaks open … touchdown!"
Forty-two to nothing. UT's backup quarterback had thrown more completions to the K-State D-backs than to the Longhorn receivers. He was only a freshman, and this was his first game action. With William at quarterback, the team couldn't recruit top quarterback prospects—they knew they'd sit the bench until he graduated. No one expected him to be sitting in jail.
"Man, they jumping his throws 'cause he's staring at his receivers. He need to look 'em off."
The gangbanger next door. As if he played.
"You ever play?"
"Hell, yeah, I play."
"What position?"
"Q-B."
"Really? Where?"
"Houston Yates."
"They're good."
"Damn straight we was. I was. Run a four-four forty, throwed six touchdown passes in one game. I had skills."
"You get any offers?"
"From colleges?"
"Yeah."
"Nah."
"Bad transcript?"
"Bad rap sheet."
"In high school?"
"Man, I been in the life since I was born. Time I got to high school, they knowed me real good down at the po-lice station. Never got that diploma. I'd like to have that now, tape it to my cell wall, look at it. Know I done something make my mama proud."
Chapter 29
"You haven't had a drink in twelve days?"
"Not even a beer."
By his twelfth day of sobriety, Frank ran two miles before he threw up. He pushed up (twenty-five times), pulled up (fifteen), sat up (twenty-five), and jumped jacks (fifty). His strength and stamina were coming back; his mind was working better; he felt alive again. But he still fought the cravings. Every minute. Of every day.
"I'm proud of you, Daddy."
Frank fought his emotions. Men who aren't fathers think dads want their children to make them proud. Not true. A dad is always proud of his children. What he really wants is his children to be proud of him. But how could Frank's children be proud of him when he wasn't proud of himself? He had killed a girl. He was as much to blame as Bradley Todd.
"You look good. Have you lost weight?"
"Ten pounds."
His daughter threw the tennis ball far down the beach. Rusty raced to fetch it. It was the first Sunday in November, only five weeks until the trial, and the defense team had gathered at the beach bungalow to prepare his son's case for trial. And to play poker. On the porch around the table sat Dwayne, Chuck, and Chico trying to take Billie Jean's sand dollars; but she had learned more than stripping in her prior life. She was also a card shark.
"I'm writing a novel," Becky said.
She had returned home from Wellesley and completed her degree in English and creative writing at Texas State University in San Marcos thirty miles south of Austin. She studied under Denis Johnson and Tim O'Brien, two National Book Award winning authors teaching at a public college in Texas.
"What's it called?"
"The Autobiography of Rebecca."
"What's it about?"
"A dysfunctional family. The father is a famous criminal defense lawyer in Houston, but he becomes a drunken beach bum after he wins an acquittal for a star college athlete charged with rape and murder only to learn that he was in fact guilty and then he kills again. The mother is a former beauty queen turned social climber who divorces him and marries a billionaire oilman only to see him lose
everything when the gas market collapses. The son is a star football player who's always gotten all the family's attention and now finds himself accused of rape and murder. And the father finds himself faced with the same case again—but this time it's his own son who claims innocence."
"So it's fiction?"
"Of course."
"And who is Rebecca?"
"The daughter who never got any attention. Who was the perfect child who helped keep the peace between the mother and father. Who's still trying to figure out where she fits in the family."
Frank reached over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her close.
"Right here."
She wiped tears from her face.
"You were the perfect first child. You raised yourself. It seemed that you didn't need much attention."
"I did."
"I'm sorry. I tried to be a good dad, to both of you. There was just so much I didn't know. But I love you, Becky. I've always loved you."
"As much as William?"
"Yes. He just seemed to require so much attention, like he sucked all the air from the room."
"He's bigger than life."
"Not anymore. Life reached up and pulled him down into the muck where the rest of us live."
"I wish it hadn't."
"I know, honey."
They walked on the sand and inhaled the sea. They thought of William, her brother and his son, and now alleged rapist and murderer.
"The Autobiography of Rebecca … I like that. So does the story have a happy ending?"
"I don't know yet."
They returned to the bungalow to find a fifth player at the poker table on the porch: Ted, with his shoes and socks off and his trouser legs rolled up. They stood on the sand as Ted tossed sand dollars into the pile in the center. They all put their cards down; the four men threw their hands up. Billie Jean scooped the pile of sand dollars to her side. Dwayne stood and trudged down to the sand.
"She cleaned me out. I gotta dig up some more money."
"She's a good poker player," Frank said.
"Is she a good lawyer?" Becky asked.
"She will be."
The Case Against William Page 20