Frank and Billie Jean sat outside on a bench in the plaza between the Justice Center and the jail. All the evidence said his son was guilty, but Frank knew he was innocent. He knew it. He just had to prove it. The burden was no longer on the state to prove the defendant guilty; it was on the defendant to prove himself innocent. The American criminal justice system had long been predicated on a simple belief: "It's better to let a hundred guilty people go free than to convict one innocent person." But not anymore. Now the prevailing philosophy was, "It's better to convict a hundred innocent people than to let one guilty person go free." Crime had changed America. Americans. They feared criminals, and they wanted to be safe. So they elected district attorneys and judges who put people in prison, and they criticized juries that didn't. But they didn't know that one day all that might stand between them and a prison cell is a district attorney or judge who put justice ahead of reelection or twelve citizens doing their legal duty and requiring the prosecutor to prove their guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. But they never think it will happen to them. Or to their sons or daughters.
Until it does.
"What if they're wrong? What if one of your clients is in fact innocent? What if you let an innocent person go to prison? That would haunt you forever."
"Like getting a guilty person off only to see him kill again?"
"Like that."
Chapter 31
Dwayne inhaled on his cigar, Chuck his cigarette, and Chico his joint. They exhaled in unison. Their emissions blended together and created an odd manly-sweet-toxic aroma. Fortunately, the sea breeze blew it away. It was two days later, a Sunday, and they had gathered on the back porch of Frank's bungalow because they had nothing better to do—it wasn't as if they were going to take up yoga that day—and they knew Frank had alcoholic beverages stashed away even if he were not partaking at the moment. Chico drank a beer, Dwayne a Jim Beam with a shot of Coca-Cola, and Chuck his Gatorade-and-vodka sports drink. Frank was running the beach with the dog.
"I'm thinking about frying a turkey for Thanksgiving," Chuck said.
Dwayne frowned. "A fried turkey?"
"Yeah, I've been reading about it. You drop the whole bird into a pot of peanut oil, fry it up."
"Why you figure on frying a bird?"
"I can't grill a turkey. Won't fit on the Weber."
Dwayne grunted. "Well, I like just about anything that's fried, long as beer goes with it."
"Well, of course beer goes with fried turkey. Beer goes with all your food groups."
Chico sucked on his joint, held it for a five count, and then exhaled.
"So what do you think, Dwayne?" he said. "You're the ex-cop."
"About fried turkey?"
"About the Federal Reserve's decision to keep interest rates low. The hell you think—William Tucker."
"I ain't buying his amnesia-by-concussion defense. He remembers. He just don't want to remember. 'Cause he did it. He killed that girl."
"Ditto."
"Yeah, me, too," Chuck said. He exhaled cigarette smoke. "All these star football players, they think the rules don't apply to them, find out the hard way they do. That Giants receiver, Plaxico Burress, he wins the MVP of the Super Bowl then carries a loaded handgun into a New York bar. Has it in the waistband of his sweatpants, like the elastic is gonna hold up a big ol' Glock nine millimeter. The gun falls down, hits the floor, and discharges—he shoots himself in the foot."
"Literally," Dwayne said.
"Lucky he didn't shoot his dick off," Chico said.
"Spent two years in prison for criminal possession of a firearm," Chuck said.
"He should've spent two more for criminal stupidity," Dwayne said.
"Who's he playing for now?" Chico said. "Philadelphia?"
"Pittsburgh," Chuck said.
He kept up with those things.
"And O.J.," Chuck said.
Orenthal James Simpson, aka, O.J., Heisman Trophy winner and NFL Hall of Fame halfback, was tried and acquitted in 1995 of murdering his ex-wife and another man but was tried and convicted in 2008 for armed robbery and kidnapping and sent to prison for nine-to-thirty-three years.
"He's just bad," Dwayne said. "A criminal who could play football."
"He was good."
"Real good."
"And Nate Newton, he played on the Cowboys Super Bowl teams, retired, and took up drug dealing."
"Dumb."
"And Michael Vick, that dogfighting deal."
Vick was a star NFL quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons who ran an illegal dogfighting ring on the side. He pleaded guilty and spent two years in prison. Upon his release, he returned to the NFL to play for the Philadelphia Eagles. Star athletes always get second chances. And third chances.
"Dumber."
"And that Patriots player, Hernandez, they indicted him for murder. I saw an interview just the other day, he said he was a role model for Hispanics."
"Only if they live in Nuevo Laredo."
"More dumber."
"And now William Tucker."
"Most dumber."
"Might cause a man to drink," Chico said. "Or start drinking again."
"That's gonna be hard on Frank," Chuck said.
"Harder on his boy, when they punch that needle into his arm," Dwayne said. "Too many lies, too much DNA. Says he never met her, but her roommate witnessed them meeting at that bar that night. Her phone number in his phone, but he says he didn't input her number, says she did it. On his phone. You ever put your number in someone else's phone?"
"Nope."
"Me neither. Her photo on his phone, but he says she took it herself. You ever take your own photo?"
"Nope."
"Me neither. Says he got back to his dorm around midnight, but the surveillance tape shows him entering the dorm at one-thirty-eight, right in line with the time of death. Boy's lied every step of the way. But DNA don't lie. He had direct physical contact with the girl, that's the only way his blood got on her. No other explanation."
"Makes you wonder why we're trying to save the boy," Chico said.
"We're not saving William Tucker," Dwayne said. "We're saving Frank Tucker."
"Frank seems convinced his boy is innocent," Chuck said.
"Three things in life are certain: death, taxes, and a father's love for his son. What dad can accept that his son's a cold-blooded killer? Seen it many times in Houston, we got the killer dead to rights, but his daddy's saying, 'My boy wouldn't hurt no one. He's a good boy.' And I'd say, 'Well, sir, your good boy stuck a gun to a convenience store clerk and pulled the trigger 'cause he wanted a pack of cigarettes.' Fathers, they just can't believe they raised a killer."
Was he a murderer? And a rapist? Was he innocent? Or was he guilty? That night had forever been wiped from his mind. The helmet-to-helmet hit had banged his brain against the inside of his skull, causing a traumatic brain bruising and putting him in a cloudy dreamlike state for days. He didn't tell the coaches or the doctors because he didn't want to be benched the next game; you don't win the Heisman Trophy sitting on the bench. You've got to play. And in football, you play hurt. Bad knee, bad shoulder, bad brain—you still play.
But you don't remember.
Hell, he had thrown touchdown passes he couldn't remember and won games he couldn't remember. He had played entire games on autopilot. On instinct. His bell had been rung, but his instincts had played on. He couldn't remember those games, and he couldn't remember that night. Not the Dizzy Rooster, not the girl, not anything. If he couldn't remember being there or meeting her—which he obviously was and did—what else could he not remember?
"William Tucker, you awake?"
The whispered voice of the gangbanger next door. William was awake. He was always awake. He couldn't sleep. Or eat. Or think. He couldn't put a complete sentence together in his head. Or even a phrase. Only two words registered in his mind: death penalty.
"What did I do to deserve this?"
"Ain't no deservin', William. There's jus
t destiny."
"This isn't my destiny."
"Yeah, it is. You just ain't accepted it yet. Took me a while, too, had to spend a lot of time thinking 'bout it. One thing about prison, you got lots of time to think. You ever think about dying?"
"I do now."
"Me, too. How old are you?"
"I'll be twenty-three in two weeks. How old are you?"
"Twenty-five. I ain't gonna see twenty-six. Second time around, ain't no appeals, no stays of execution. Man, they got that needle ready for me. Course, my name been on that needle since the day I was born. That always been my destiny."
Chapter 32
Twenty-six days without alcohol in his system. Frank Tucker had undergone a complete physical detoxification. But not a mental one. He still wanted to drink. Desperately. He stopped and puked after three and a half miles.
"You okay?"
He nodded and waved Billie Jean on. They were running the beach. Well, she was running; he was jogging. Rusty barked at Billie Jean racing down the sand.
"Yep, that girl can run. Go ahead, I'll catch up."
The dog ran after the girl.
"Have you lost weight?"
"Yeah. Can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't think. Except about the death penalty."
"Dad will save you."
"How? He can't save himself."
"He stopped drinking. For you."
"He'll start again. For himself."
Becky Tucker sat on the visitor's side of the glass partition and held the phone to her ear; her little brother sat on the other side with a phone to his ear. He was an inmate in the county jail accused of rape and murder. They had once been so close, brother and sister. Now he seemed so distant. So different.
"What motivates you, William?"
He groaned. "Don't start that creative writing bullshit with me, Becky. I'm not a character in your book."
"Of course you are. You're the protagonist."
"Really? Am I the action-hero?"
"You're the tragic hero."
"That doesn't sound good."
"The protagonist is blessed with all the athletic talent required to become a star football player in America and to live a life few people can even dream of—"
"Are you writing my life story?"
"No. I'm writing mine. Anyway, he loses it all because of his fatal flaw."
"Which is?"
"He doesn't understand the difference between being special and being lucky."
"Bullshit, Becky. I understand the difference."
"Which is?"
"I'm special. All the fans who get to watch me play are lucky."
He seemed serious.
"Oh, and he's got an ego bigger than Montana."
"Try winning a football game with low self-esteem. The game's all about the quarterback, Becky. It's all on me. I have to make the decisions on the field that mean winning or losing. I have to make the correct reads and the perfect passes. I have to scramble when the protection breaks down. I have to make it happen out there. I have to lead the team to victory. It's all about me."
"And he likes himself a lot, as evidenced by his repetitive use of 'I' and 'me' and 'my' and 'mine.' "
"Can I sue you if you say something bad about me?"
"A good character has to be bigger than life but brought down to life because of his flaws. That's why you're such a great character, William."
"Because I'm so much bigger than life?"
"Because you have so many flaws."
"Funny."
"The truth. But you're still my little … very big brother, and I still love you."
"No one else does. Nobody comes to see me."
"Not your coaches?"
"No."
"Teammates?"
"No."
"Girls?"
"Hell, no."
"So who else comes to see you?"
"Frank."
"Frank? You don't call him 'Dad'?"
"Dads don't show up drunk at your game."
"But they show up when you're in jail. What does that tell you?"
Her little-big brother pondered that a moment then said, "I didn't pay a lot of attention in my English Lit class, but doesn't the tragic hero always die at the end?"
He could kill these little punks.
Dwayne Gentry stomped on the accelerator and steered after the perps. He had the vehicle running all out, lights flashing, racing over the pavement; but these boys were runners, even packing the backpacks stuffed with the stolen contraband. They were making for the line where his jurisdiction ended; once across they were home free. So he decided to cut them off at the pass. He veered hard to his left and took a side alley; the vehicle scraped the exterior walls of the structures, but Dwayne had trashed his share of official vehicles in his career. He cleared the alley and cut the wheel hard to the right, too hard, and—
"Oh, shit!"
—the vehicle's right two tires left the ground. He leaned his big body to the right, and the vehicle came back to earth and bounced hard—which cost him valuable seconds. He punched the gas and headed directly to their escape route. One more corner—he veered left—and he'd be right on them—
"Damn!"
He slammed on the brakes and skidded to stop. The perps flung the backpacks over the perimeter fence then scurried up and over like squirrels up a tree. They dropped to the other side. Outside his jurisdiction. They grabbed the backpacks and ran a safe distance then turned back. Dwayne could no longer point a gun, so he pointed his cigar.
"I know who you are! You punks better stay the hell out of my mini-storage park!"
The teenage boys held up middle fingers.
"Hey, fuck you, Dwayne!"
Boys got no home training. Dwayne Gentry plopped down onto the vinyl seat of the golf cart with the little yellow flashing light and watched the perps running off with the contraband. Now he would have to explain to the boss how they managed to break into another storage unit in broad daylight. He checked his watch. Straight-up noon. Oh, lunchtime. Maybe pizza.
Chico Duran held his cell phone with his left hand, texted with his right hand, and drove with his knees. Sure, it was a bit dangerous for his fellow drivers and pedestrians, but he was not worried: he had no insurance. Or assets. His net worth consisted entirely of his next tip and his next disability payment. Which didn't technically belong to Chico Duran.
He screeched the 4x4 with the portable neon sign atop that read "Pizza Man" to a stop in front of a big house in the nice part of Rockport. Where rich folks in Houston had bought weekend homes on the canals cut into the shore to allow boat access to the bay. Big-ass homes. He got out and grabbed the heat pack with the pizza boxes inside. Two extra large pepperonis. The twenty-two inch monsters, extra cheese, extra pepperoni, comes to $28.50 plus a $5.00 delivery charge. Plus a tip.
He walked up the sidewalk and rang the doorbell. A teenage girl wearing a T-shirt, a short blue jean skirt, and an iPhone answered.
"Pizza's here," she said into the phone.
"Thirty-three fifty," he said.
"You're a bad boy."
"I am?"
She frowned at Chico and gestured at her phone.
"You want me to do what? Ooh, you really are a bad boy."
Like she liked him being a bad boy.
"Right now? I gotta pay the pizza man. Well, okay." To Chico, she said, "Just a sec."
She held the phone out as if she was giving it to him, but she wasn't. She put a real sexy look on her face then clicked a button on the phone. She took her own photo. The look disappeared, and she checked the phone. She frowned and turned the screen to Chico.
"You think this is a sexy pic?"
It was.
"Yeah. That's sexy."
"It's for my boyfriend."
The bad boy.
"Pizza's getting cold."
She turned back to the house and screamed, "Jacy, bring money for the pizza!"
Girl's got some lungs.
Then she bent over
a little and stuck the phone up her short skirt. Chico heard the same click and saw a flash of light under her skirt. The girl took a picture of her privates. Damn. She was sexting. She stood straight and looked at the phone's screen. She frowned again.
"Uh, you want me to check out that pic, too?" Chico said.
Without looking up, she said, "As if."
Must mean no.
"Pizza's getting cold."
"Jacy!"
"What?"
Another teenage girl appeared in the doorway. She gave Chico two twenties and grabbed the pizza. The sexter slammed the door in his face. Six-fifty tip, not bad.
Chuck Miller blew his whistle and halted the game.
"We got a facemask on White. Ten yards. Touchdown is called back."
"You're full of shit!" a parent from the sideline yelled.
Peewee football. Kindergartners in pads and cleats trying to make their daddies proud. Hell, the pads were bigger than the boys, and the boys could barely keep from peeing in their pants, but their parents went apeshit over every call he made. He stepped off ten yards against the White team. Chuck wore a black-and-white striped referee's shirt and a black cap. And sunglasses to hide his bloodshot eyes. A player tugged on his shirtsleeve.
"Georgie's bleeding."
"What?"
"He's bleeding. Georgie."
Chuck followed the player to the White huddle. Another player was holding his arm and staring at his elbow. Blood seeped out of a cut. Chuck blew his whistle again.
"Bodily fluid timeout," he called out to the coaches. One time he had to call a bodily fluid timeout when a kid crapped his uniform. It happens. Chuck grabbed his sports bottle he carried in a waist pack and sucked on the pop-top. He loved orange-flavored Gatorade, especially when he mixed in a little vodka. Okay, a lot of vodka. He swiped his sleeve across his mouth and said to the bleeder, "You gotta go to the sideline and get that cut bandaged."
The boy waddled over to the sideline where his mommy greeted him in full-blown hysterics, as if he had suffered a punctured artery and blood was spurting out. Hell, it was just a little cut. As he watched the mother tending to the boy, a thought tried to take shape in Chuck's mind but try though he did, he could not connect the dots in order to fashion a complete sentence. He felt the familiar beginning of a panic attack coming on—oh, shit, it's the brain damage—but a sudden realization calmed him just before he dropped to the turf and curled up in the fetal position: it wasn't the brain damage preventing a complete thought; it was the vodka. A sense of relief washed over him. I'm just drunk! He took another long swig of his sports drink.
The Case Against William Page 22