The Case Against William

by Gimenez, Mark

  "Any ideas on the blood?" Billie Jean asked. "Only three weeks till trial."

  Frank had found her waiting for him at the point of the jetty. With man's best friend. Running the five miles from the bungalow to the jetty was his goal. When he could do that, he would be back. He would again be the man he used to be. But would he ever be the lawyer he used to be? That was the question. They were walking the beach back to the bungalow.

  "No."

  "His blood, her phone number and photo, the surveillance tape, the fact that they met that night, Cissy Dupre testifying that they groped … it doesn't look good, Frank."

  "There's an answer out there somewhere, we've just got to find it."

  "How can I help? I don't feel I'm doing enough."

  "You will. Before this trial is over, you'll play a big role. Everyone on the team will."

  The tide was out, and the beach filled with an assortment of sea matter and dead fish. He tossed a stick for Rusty, and the dog raced ahead. It was nice to have someone to walk with who could talk.

  "So why'd you come down?"

  "I like the beach. I like being on the beach with you. And I like you, Frank."

  Frank felt awkward. A beautiful woman saying, "I like you," had not been on his day planner for that Sunday.

  "I'm not sure what to say."

  "Well, you could say, 'I like you, too, Billie Jean.' If you do."

  "I like you, too, Billie Jean. But it won't work. Us."

  "Why not?"

  "You're a ten."

  "I'm a four."

  "Not your dress size. Your ranking."

  "My ranking? You mean, like one to ten in beauty?"

  "Yeah. You're a ten, and I'm a five. At best."

  "I'm less than a ten, and you're more than a five. Maybe a six. Six and a half."

  She smiled. By the time Frank had explained his human food chain theory, how men and women date according to their respective positions on the wealth and beauty ranking, she was not smiling.

  "You're not serious?"

  "I am."

  "So you've developed this goofy little theory about love and life—were you drinking when you came up with this?—because your ex-wife was too stuck up and stupid to see what a good man she had, and now you're going to push me away because of this bullshit theory, to use the West Texas vernacular."

  "Does George Clooney date girls who are fives?"

  "No."

  "Does Amy Adams date guys who are fives?"

  "No."

  "Ergo."

  "Ergo what?" She shook her head. "I can't believe you're telling me I'm too good looking for you. What if I make myself look like a three?"

  "Not possible."

  "You've never seen me in the morning."

  "True."

  "Your theory's stupid, Frank. Now shut up and hold my hand."

  He held her hand. It felt good. They strolled hand in hand down the sand and watched the seagulls searching the sea for their breakfast.

  "I always wanted to live on a beach."

  "Why?"

  "I grew up in Dalhart."

  "That would do it."

  "Did you always want to live on the beach?"

  "Yes. But by choice, not by whiskey."

  "Sometimes the best choices are the ones made for us."

  "Try being a drunk."

  The beach seemed brighter sober.

  "How's he holding up? William."

  "He's not. Facing a death sentence, sitting in that cell … he's panicking."

  "That's understandable."

  "We're coming up Sunday, for his birthday."

  "Can I come?"

  "Well, I guess so. We're holding hands."

  "You're a good father, Frank."

  "I was, until I started drinking. But I never had to strip to pay the bills. Does your daughter appreciate what you did for her?"

  "I think so."

  "Is she like you?"

  "She's better."

  "I'd like to meet her."

  "You will."

  They walked in silence and breathed in the sea air.

  "Frank, I hope William appreciates you."

  He shook his head. "Doesn't work that way. I didn't appreciate my father until I became a father. But it was too late to tell him—he had already died. That's how things work with fathers and sons. You don't appreciate your old man until you are an old man."

  "William Tucker, you ever meet you daddy?"

  The gangbanger next door.

  "Uh … yeah."

  "I never did. Seen him one time, think it was him anyway. Last I heard, he in prison up north somewhere. Chicago, maybe. Crack dealing. Your daddy in prison?"

  "No. He's in the bottle."

  "Alcoholic?"

  "Yeah."

  "My mama, she a wino. Love that grape juice. My daddy a crack head. Ain't exactly what you call 'Leave It to Beaver.' "

  The gangbanger next door laughed, but not as if it were funny.

  Chapter 33

  Frank Tucker woke with a clear head and without a headache or aches and pains. Not too many, anyway. He felt good for a fifty-five-year-old man. He looked down at his dog sleeping on the floor.

  "Let's do it, Rusty."

  He strapped on his running shoes—he could only run so far barefooted—and his sunglasses. He stepped onto the porch and stretched. Thirty-two days without a drink. Thirty-two days of running and working out. Thirty-two days of puking. Thirty-two days of stopping before the jetty.

  But not that day.

  He jumped down to the sand and ran. A nice easy pace at first; he wasn't trying to win a race, just finish it. A five-mile marathon. The morning air felt good in his lungs, and the morning beach felt different to his eyes. As if he had never really seen the beach all this time. As if he had lived his life in a haze of whiskey and vodka and beer. But he saw it now, this beach he lived on and this life he still had. He had felt dead for so many years. Now he felt alive again.

  His son needed him. A woman liked him.

  The first mile passed easily. The second mile almost as easily. The third mile not so easily. His body was weakening, but his mind was not. His mind remained strong. Sobriety had brought strength. To his body, but even more to his mind. He could think again. He would need to be strong, mentally and physically to save his son. A murder trial is a grueling endeavor. Some trials last six weeks, some six months. If your body fails, your mind will follow. And an innocent person might go to prison.

  The pain came in the fourth mile. His legs hurt. He sucked oxygen hard. His body begged to quit, but his mind refused. He would not quit on himself. Or on his son.

  Rusty barked. He saw the jetty first. Now Frank could see it, like a mirage in the distance. Less than a mile to go. Weeks of running and working out … pushups, pull-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks … one hundred of each … twice a day.

  Half a mile and he spit bile.

  A quarter of a mile and he couldn't breathe.

  Two hundred yards and he sucked hard for air.

  One hundred and he felt faint.

  Fifty and he couldn't feel his feet.

  Frank's feet left the sand and hit the surface of the concrete that had been poured between the rocks of the jetty. He did not slow his pace. He pushed himself harder. He ran down the center of the narrow jetty all the way to the point. He stopped. Rusty barked. The waves hit the rocks and splashed over them. Frank felt like Rocky Balboa. He threw his arms into the air. He was the man he used to be. Now he wanted to be the lawyer he used to be. He needed to be that lawyer again.

  To save his son's life.

  Chapter 34

  William Tucker turned twenty-three that Sunday. So instead of running the five miles to the jetty that morning, Frank had driven to Austin. He was worried about his son. William had called him regularly since his incarceration; but the calls had stopped that week. Frank had called the jail but had not been put through. He left messages, but William had not returned them. With each call, William'
s emotional state seemed to be spiraling downward. Faster. His last call he had said it was his destiny to die in prison.

  "I can break him out of here," Chico said.

  Dwayne, Chuck, and Chico had come along. Billie Jean and Becky had been waiting for them in the plaza. The open space was free of media; apparently, testosterone and stupidity had joined together to produce a bad result for a pro basketball player, so the sports cable channels had decamped Austin for Chicago. Becky brought a birthday cake she had made herself. Frank promised to save a big piece for the desk sergeant, so he allowed them to take the cake into the interview room. Frank put the cake on the table in front of the glass partition and lit the candles. His son would celebrate his birthday in jail.

  "Now don't look shocked at his appearance," Becky said. "He doesn't eat or sleep, so he's lost weight. He looks like hell."

  "He's in hell," Chico said.

  They stood before the cake like a choir. The door on the inmate side opened, and a guard stepped in. Frank started singing loudly enough that William might hear on his side of the glass; the others joined in.

  "Happy birthday to you,

  "Happy birthday to you …"

  Frank felt as if he were singing to his twelve-year-old son again. The birthday boy bounded into the interview room with a bounce in his shackled step and a big smile on his face. Their voices fell from their surprise. And confusion.

  "Happy birthday dear William,

  "Happy birthday to you."

  William waved at everyone like a kid at his surprise birthday party then grabbed the phone on his side. Frank picked up on his side.

  "Hey, you remembered my birthday. Becky bake that cake?"

  "She did."

  "Tell her thanks."

  Frank did. Back into the phone: "Happy birthday, son. Uh, what's going on, William?"

  "I feel great. Worked out today—pushups, sit-ups, jump squats. Gotta get in shape. I'm going to play pro football next year."

  "How?"

  His smile got bigger.

  "You're not going to believe it."

  "What?"

  "I got a movie deal."

  "A movie deal?"

  "He got a movie deal?" Becky said.

  Frank nodded at her.

  "For my life story," William said into the phone.

  "From jail? How?"

  "Okay, so my college career is over, right, like the judge said? The season will be over before the trial. And, hell, they've lost every game without me. Shit, they lost to Baylor. Anyway, I'm not worried about losing my amateur status. So I hired an agent."

  "An agent? Who?"

  "He got an agent?" Dwayne said.

  Frank nodded at him.

  "Warren Ziff," William said. "He's a real asshole, reps half the starting quarterbacks in the NFL."

  "How'd he find you in jail?"

  "Everyone in America knows I'm in jail. ESPN runs daily updates."

  "You get cable in there?"

  "No. Warren told me. Agents have been calling me since my freshman year, trying to sign me up. A lot this year, until I got arrested. Warren came to the jail last week."

  "And then?"

  "He sold my life story to Hollywood for a million bucks."

  "A million dollars?"

  "He got a million dollars?" Chuck said.

  Frank nodded again.

  "Do we get paid now?"

  Back to William: "And he's shopping a book deal. I'm gonna hire Becky to write it. Frank, I'm saved. Warren hooked me up with a big-time lawyer. He says he can get me out of here. It's too late for the Heisman, but not for the NFL draft. I've got time to get in top shape again, blow the pro coaches away at the combine. I can still go number one."

  "You hired another lawyer?"

  "He hired another lawyer?" Billie Jean said.

  Frank nodded at her. Into the phone: "Who?"

  William pointed past Frank.

  "Him."

  Frank turned to see Scotty Raines standing there. Raines was mid-forties and high profile in Austin, the second-best criminal defense lawyer in Texas, until Frank became a drunk. Now Scotty was the best. He wore a crisp button-down shirt, sharply creased slacks, and shiny shoes, apparently his Sunday casual attire. Frank wore a T-shirt, jeans, and deck shoes. No socks. Scotty looked him up and down with a bemused smile.

  "Frank."

  "You're representing my son?"

  "I am." Scotty checked his watch. A Rolex. "And I need to confer with him before I see the D.A. Privately."

  Frank glanced back at his son; he offered the same big smile. Frank turned back to the others.

  "Becky, guys, why don't y'all step outside while—"

  "Uh, Frank," Scotty said. "Sorry. Attorney-client privilege. If you sit in, the privilege is waived, you know that."

  "I'm a lawyer, too, Scotty."

  "Not anymore. At least not a licensed lawyer." Scotty gestured at Billie Jean. "And I don't need an ex-stripper on the defense team."

  "I need a drink," Frank said.

  "You need a son worth giving a shit about," Dwayne said.

  "I changed my mind," Chico said. "I don't want to break him out."

  The six of them and the birthday cake sat on a bench in the plaza.

  "He fired you?" Becky said. "His own father?"

  "He fired me, too," Billie Jean said. "And I work for free."

  "So you guys are off the case?" Becky said.

  "We are."

  "I told you he changed, Daddy. He became a star. He doesn't give a shit about anyone except himself now. We're all just his fucking entourage!"

  She never cursed. She wiped her eyes.

  "No, he's doing the smart thing. Scotty Raines is a top defense attorney with a big firm. They're connected."

  "To whom?" Billie Jean said.

  "The D.A. And all the judges."

  "How?"

  "Money. Campaign contributions. That's how the system works in Texas. Lawyers give judges campaign contributions, and judges repay the favor."

  "And they send us to jail," Chico said.

  "So?" Billie Jean said.

  "So Scotty can get his bail reduced, maybe to PR. He can get him out of jail."

  "But can he get him acquitted?"

  Frank Tucker had fallen so low that even his own son didn't want his counsel. He desperately wanted a drink.

  "What are we going to do now?" Billie Jean asked.

  "Go home."

  And dive into a whiskey bottle.

  Scotty Raines exited the Justice Center and waved as he walked across the plaza. Billie Jean gave him the finger.

  "Who wants cake?" Frank said.

  Chuck raised a hand, but Becky grabbed the cake, walked over to a trash bin, and threw it in.

  "Damn," Chuck said. "I like cake."

  "I'll be back," Dwayne said.

  Dwayne picked up the defense team's briefcase and walked back inside the Justice Center.

  Dwayne told the desk sergeant he needed to see William Tucker. He went into the interview room and waited. When the guards brought William back in, Dwayne put the phone to his ear. William did the same.

  "What do you want?" William said.

  Dwayne opened the briefcase and tossed newspapers and magazines bearing the image of William Tucker onto the table in front of the glass partition. He read the bylines.

  " 'Another OJ' … 'All-American Psycho' … 'Number One in the Death Row Draft' … They all think you're guilty. Hell, I think you're guilty. Only one person in this world believes in you, stud, and that's your old man. He thinks you're innocent. I hope for his sake you are. If you weren't Frank's son, I'd be happy to see you rot in prison. Or take the needle. One less spoiled egotistical jock who thinks the world revolves around him. Where's the world now, stud? Where are all your fans now? Your coaches and teammates? Those college coeds? Who's standing with you now? Your father. He's the best man and lawyer I've ever known, drunk or sober. He's a good man got run over by that dump truck called life.
Now you dump on him? If that's the way sons treat their dads, I'm fucking glad I didn't have a son. You might be innocent of murder, but you're guilty of being one sorry-ass prick of a son. You understand that everyone comes in contact with you can't stand you? Hell, I don't even know you and I can't stand you. You don't have a fucking clue."

  "But it's my life. Scotty Raines can save my life."

  "He might get you off, stud, but your life ain't worth saving."

  Only thirty-two men in the world are special enough to be starting quarterbacks in the National Football League. More people are qualified to be president of the United States of America—to lead the Free World than to lead a pro football team. Fact is, being president is a hell of a lot easier job. Try giving a State of the Union speech while a three-hundred-pound son of a bitch is trying to face plant you into the floor of the U.S. Congress. That's the workplace of an NFL quarterback. A small five-square-foot pocket formed by his large offensive linemen fighting off the equally large defensive lineman, with a blitzing linebacker or D-back thrown in for good measure. In that small space on a football field, during a three-second window, the quarterback must read the defense, choose the open receiver, and make a strong, accurate throw, while ignoring the massive arms and legs and bodies flailing all around him and trying to face plant him in the turf. An NFL quarterback must possess the physical skills to throw the football thirty yards downfield into an opening the size of a can of soup with precise timing so that ball and receiver arrive simultaneously at the same spot on the field and the mental temperament to take the blame when the receiver screws up. He must have the confidence to throw five interceptions in the first half and then a touchdown pass in the last seconds to win the game. He must be physically tough enough to take the beating and mentally tough enough to take the beating. He must be a very special sort of athlete. Which meant Dwayne was wrong.

  William Tucker was special.

  William Tucker's life was worth saving. Because he was a special athlete, which is to say, a special human being. He had proved it in high school, he had proved it in college, and he would prove it in the NFL. Next season, he would be one of those thirty-two starting quarterbacks.