The Case Against William

by Gimenez, Mark

  "A movie deal? For a million dollars? Who the fuck are you?"

  The gangbanger next door.

  "I'm William Tucker."

  "Who the fuck's William Tucker?"

  "The best football player in America."

  "No shit? What the fuck you doing in here?"

  "I'm getting out, that's what I'm doing. I won't be here tomorrow night."

  I am William Tucker. And I am special.

  Chapter 35

  "All rise!"

  Judge Harold Rooney entered his courtroom, sat behind his bench, and put on his reading glasses. The first entry on that day's docket sheet read The State of Texas v. William Tucker, Motion for Reinstatement and Reduction of Bail. He glanced over at the district attorney at the prosecution table and then at the defendant at the defense table with his lawyer.

  Scotty Raines.

  "I see a new face. Mr. Raines."

  Scotty stood. "Your Honor, I've been retained by William Tucker to represent him in this case."

  "I see. And what about his prior counsel? Ms. Campbell and Mr. Tucker?"

  "He no longer needs their services."

  Harold turned to the defendant. "Is that correct, Mr. Tucker? You no longer need Ms. Crawford? Or your father?"

  The boy smiled. "No, sir. I don't need them."

  Harold grunted. The boy didn't need his father.

  "All right, Mr. Raines, you're now counsel of record. You are aware that this is a death penalty case?"

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  "You have submitted a motion to reinstate and reduce bail to ten thousand dollars."

  "That's correct, Your Honor."

  "Mr. Dorkin, your response."

  "State has no objection, Your Honor."

  Harold sighed and thumbed through the document before him. The motion cited all the cases and made all the arguments for the defendant's release—a canned motion. Harold had seen the same one a thousand times. But the most compelling argument favoring the defendant was not written in the motion: Scotty Raines' law firm had contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars to the district attorney's political campaigns—and to Harold's. You don't write those things down. And now Scotty expected to be repaid. To collect a favor. Dick Dorkin owed him and had paid his debt off. Harold owed him, and Scotty now expected the debt to be paid in full.

  Scotty Raines's law firm had bought the district attorney, just as the firm had bought Judge Harold Rooney. In Texas, district attorneys and judges were politicians elected in partisan elections. Democrat or Republican. Conservative or liberal. It wasn't about justice or injustice, it was about getting reelected. Democracy and justice were often distant relatives. Because elections cost money. But citizens did not contribute to judges' campaigns because ninety-nine-point-nine percent would never see the inside of a courtroom. Lawyers would. They did. Courtrooms were their playing fields and judges the referees. It was good to have the law and the facts on your side, but it was better to have the judge. Lawyers have a vested interest in which judges they face each day, and they want the judges they face to be indebted to them. Some years back, the Texas supreme court proposed a judicial rule that would have allowed either party to disqualify a judge if the other party or lawyer had contributed $5,000 or more to his last campaign. Lawyers in Texas voted down the proposal overwhelmingly. Therein lies the truth: as Scotty Raines himself often quipped (to much laughter) at bar meetings, "Texas has the best judges money can buy."

  So Scotty stood there with a smug look on his face, knowing that he had bought this judge and this judge would give him what he wanted: freedom for his client.

  Or would he?

  Harold Rooney had sat on the bench in Travis County for sixteen years now. He had won four elections. He had collected hundreds of thousands of dollars in campaign contributions from lawyers. He had paid them all back.

  But he had never saved a life.

  The typical criminal defendants who came before him—gangbangers, drug dealers, sex offenders, child abusers—their lives were beyond saving. The only lives he could save were their future victims. And they were not represented by the Scotty Raineses of the bar. They were represented by public defenders who could not afford to contribute to his campaigns. So he locked their clients up for as long as the law allowed and then some. He was a judge but he couldn't save their lives.

  Just as he couldn't save his own son's life. He had called in his own favors, back when he was practicing with a large firm that made generous campaign contributions to judges, and gotten his own son released on PR on a drug charge. His son had promptly overdosed on heroin. Died. Twenty years old. If he had only left his son in jail, practiced a little tough love instead of hard lawyering, his son might be alive today. Harold had never forgiven himself. A father can't forgive that kind of mistake.

  Now he saw the same mistake being played out again, in his own courtroom this time. A connected lawyer calling in favors.

  William Tucker's life might be saved. Could be saved. If he were innocent; and in his gut, Harold thought he was. Of course, he had thought the same about Bradley Todd. And he had been wrong. Dead wrong.

  But if he were innocent. If he came out of this trial a changed man. If this experience taught him the value of life—his life and other people's lives. If he learned that he was not special, just lucky. Lucky to have been born in America where pro athletes make $20 million a year. Lucky to have been blessed with unusual size, strength, and speed and remarkable athletic ability. Lucky to have been given the chance to succeed as an athlete.

  Lucky to have Frank Tucker as his father.

  Five weeks behind bars, William Tucker had learned nothing. So Judge Harold Rooney would try again to save the boy's life.

  "Motion denied."

  Chapter 36

  Frank woke with a fierce hangover. He had drunk whiskey until he had passed out the night before. A lot of whiskey. It was so easy to fall off the wagon. One shot, and the warmth of the whiskey inside his body just eased the fall. It was like coming home for Christmas, except it was only Thanksgiving.

  Frank did not run that morning. He did not work out. He did not bathe in the Gulf. He went straight to his protein shake, with two shots of vodka. He was off the case and off the wagon. He was back to his old life. Back to drinking hard liquor. Back to being a worthless beach bum of a lawyer.

  His son no longer needed him.

  Becky stepped out onto the back porch of the bungalow.

  "Anyone want coffee?" she asked.

  "Coffee?" Chuck said, as if she had said broccoli. "Caffeine's bad for your health."

  "And whiskey and cigarettes aren't?"

  "You have to make choices in life, Becky."

  She had driven down from Houston to spend Thanksgiving on the beach with her father. And his friends. Dwayne, Chico, and Chuck—she liked them. They were great characters in her book—so many flaws. Tragic flaws. Like her father. But she didn't want Frank Tucker to be a tragic hero. Just her hero.

  "Ecuador," Dwayne said.

  The others groaned.

  "Ecuador?" Becky said.

  "Everything's cheap, and they got beautiful beaches."

  "And girls?" Chuck said.

  "Oh, yeah."

  "I'm in."

  Becky sat down with her cup of coffee, opened her laptop, pulled up her manuscript, and typed fast. Her book was racing to the end now. But how would it end?

  Billie Jean pulled up in her candy apple red Mustang at noon. The top was down, and the sun was out. She got out and scanned the beach. She spotted Becky and Frank walking far down the sand and tossing sticks for Rusty. About fifty feet from the bungalow sat a deep fryer, apparently placed there so as not to endanger the bungalow and its inhabitants. Chuck was up to something for Thanksgiving dinner. Strung from the fryer to the bungalow was a long orange extension cord. Billie Jean was pretty sure that didn't meet code. Just as she was pretty sure that she would find Dwayne and Chico sitting on the back porch and smoking tobacco a
nd marijuana, respectively. Billie Jean Campbell was forty years old, and she now found herself in a place she thought she would never be in her life. Actually, two places: Rockport, Texas, and in love.

  She was in love with an older man. A broken-down lawyer. Life had kicked her to the ground before; she knew how it felt. She had bared her body to survive. But survive she had. She had pushed herself up off the ground, and then she had kicked life in the balls. That's the kind of girl she was. Which is to say, not the kind of girl most men would find appealing. But Frank did. Find her appealing. She thought. She hoped.

  But if his son went to prison, Frank would do the time with him. He would never be free of guilt. Never free to love and live. With himself or with her. She wanted to help him. And his son. Because she was the son's court-appointed lawyer. And because she was in love with his father.

  "You got that turkey fried yet?" Dwayne said. "I'm hungry."

  They were all lounging on the back porch. Chuck checked his watch.

  "Should be done."

  Chuck stood, stepped down to the sand, and headed to the fryer. He had assured Frank that he knew what he was doing; he had seen a turkey fried on cable. Frank had his doubts, but he figured Chuck couldn't hurt himself too badly.

  BOOM!

  The force of the explosion knocked Chuck back and down to the sand.

  "Shit!" Dwayne shouted.

  Frank jumped up and off the porch in time to see the fried turkey fly through the air and land in the surf.

  "And they say turkeys can't fly," Chico said.

  "You okay, Chuck?" Frank asked.

  Chuck rubbed his face free of sand. "Yeah. Might've got the peanut oil too hot. Should've stuck to Crisco."

  Becky laughed loudly. Then she typed fast.

  "You can't make this stuff up," she said.

  Frank shook his head. "You're in the book, Chuck."

  The defense fund had a balance of $325 so they decided to celebrate Thanksgiving with fried shrimp and cold beer in town. Billie Jean volunteered to be the designated driver. Dwayne, being the biggest of the bunch, sat in the passenger bucket seat up front. The four others squeezed into the back seat. Becky was almost in Frank's lap, as if she were still his little girl.

  "Mom and Dale are in Romania now," she said.

  "Chico, blow that smoke the other way," Dwayne said. "I'm starting to feel young."

  "That's why they call it medicinal, my friend. And it's cheaper than an antidepressant prescription."

  "You depressed?" Chuck asked.

  "Spending Thanksgiving with you guys instead of my girls, playing poker with sand dollars, my wife married to another man—"

  His wife had left him for another man while he was incarcerated, but he still loved her.

  "—hell, yes, I'm depressed."

  He sucked hard on the joint. It was night, and they were playing poker on the back porch. Becky had left for Houston and Billie Jean for Austin. But Frank could summon up no interest in playing poker with sand dollars. He was hard into the bottle these days, so his emotions had sunk to the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. He pushed his sand dollars to the pile and tossed his cards on the table.

  "You're not going to try to bluff me?" Dwayne said.

  Frank stood and walked through the sand to the surf. He stared out to sea. He had climbed out of the gutter to save his son. He had put the bottle down. He had a purpose in life. He felt needed again. A man needs to be needed. At least by his family.

  But his son didn't need him.

  He sat on the beach where the tide kissed the dry sand. And he cried. He cried for himself, and he cried for his son.

  "Man, this turkey good. I like dark meat."

  The gangbanger next door laughed. William did not. He did not laugh, and he did not eat. Motion denied.

  "Thought you say you leaving me, William Tucker?"

  "My lawyer said he could get me out of here. He didn't."

  "They lie. Take your money, don't do shit. And they call us criminals."

  Chapter 37

  The next morning, William Tucker shuffled in shackles into a private interview room to find his lawyer and agent awaiting him. He sat down across the table from them.

  "Why do you get a private room?" William asked.

  "I've got pull around here," Scotty said.

  "Not enough to get me out of here."

  His lawyer shrugged like a receiver who had dropped a touchdown pass.

  "Some judges just won't stay bought. What can I say?"

  "I'm gonna die in here."

  "No, you're not, William. I can guarantee that."

  William felt his spirits perk up. "How?"

  "I made a deal."

  "A deal? What kind of deal?"

  "A plea deal."

  "Plea?"

  "You plead guilty to negligent manslaughter, you get two to five years. With good time, you're out in two years max."

  "You want me to plead guilty?"

  "You'll only be twenty-five, plenty of years to play ball."

  "I'll be an ex-con."

  Warren the agent shrugged. "So is Michael Vick. And he's making thirteen million. There's life after prison, William, if you're a star athlete."

  "Vick abused dogs. I'll be a convicted killer."

  "Not premeditated or intentional. See, what we'll do is, put you out there doing community service with kids in schools, telling them not to drink, that if this could happen to you, it can happen to them. The public loves redemption. I can market that."

  "Market a killer?" William turned to Scotty. "I thought you were going to defend me?"

  "That's what I'm doing."

  "By telling the world I killed her?"

  "Not intentionally. You were both drunk, you had sex with her, it turned rough, got out of hand."

  "But I wasn't drunk, I didn't have sex with her, and I didn't kill her."

  "Look, William, your blood was on her body. Her photo and phone number were in your cell phone. The surveillance video from your dorm shows you got back in at one-thirty-eight, which is after the time of death. You were seen together that night at the Dizzy Rooster acting like two horny teenagers. Her roommate saw you and her heading to the back of the bar. Her body was discovered in the alley out back. You go to trial with that evidence against you, you're on death row. I guarantee it."

  "You told the D.A. I'd take a plea—now he thinks I did it."

  "He thought that before I said anything, William. Like when your DNA matched the blood found on the girl."

  "If he's got a slam dunk, why would the D.A. agree to this plea deal?"

  Scotty smiled. "We dug up dirt on the girl. She was basically screwing her way through the Texas Tech athletic department. Her folks are begging the D.A. to take the deal so their daughter isn't smeared at trial."

  "By who?"

  "Me."

  "You would do that?"

  "That's what lawyers do, William. You put the victim on trial, show her death wasn't such a loss to society—unless you're a college kid who likes to fuck cheerleaders."

  "My dad never did that."

  "Fuck cheerleaders?"

  "Smear victims."

  "Well, he's a drunk, remember?"

  "What about the judge? Why's he agreeing to this deal?"

  "He hasn't yet. But he will. Because he owes me. Campaign contributions. Judges get reelected on contributions from lawyers, same as politicians get reelected on contributions from special interests. The judge wants to stay on the bench, and the D.A. wants to be governor. I'm connected, William, that's why I got this great deal for you."

  "Great? Confessing to a crime I didn't commit? I'm innocent."

  His lawyer and agent exchanged a glance.

  "You don't believe me, do you?"

  "Doesn't matter what I believe, William."

  "It matters to me. Tell me."

  "Honestly? No. I don't believe you."

  "You think I'm guilty, but you're still representing me?"

  His
lawyer laughed as if William had told a joke.

  "If I didn't represent guilty clients, I'd have no clients."

  "My dad only represented innocent clients."

  "Not all of his clients were innocent, were they?"

  "He believes me."

  "The jury won't. They won't buy your amnesia-by-concussion defense. They will sentence you to death, William. I can also guarantee you that."

  William Tucker wanted to be twelve years old again and throwing the ball in the backyard with his dad. He wanted his dad to protect him. To defend him. To save him. But his dad couldn't save himself. How could he save William?

  "My own lawyer doesn't believe me."

  "They like that. They lie, so they figure everyone lies."

  "Did you lie to your lawyer?"

  "Hell, yeah. But I'm black. They never believe us anyways. My mama only person in the whole world believe I'm innocent."

  "But you're not."

  "Still, I want my mama think I am. So you copping a plea?"

  "I don't know. Scotty Raines said I won't get the death penalty if I plead."

  "Uh-huh, I see how it is. White boy got hisself a big-name lawyer, think he gonna plead out and escape that needle, is that it? Don't bet on it, boy."

  William Tucker lay crying on his cot in his cell in the solitary cellblock. His only friend in the world was the gangbanger next door.

  "What do you mean?"

  "What I mean is, the judge, he don't have to take the deal. See, William, your lawyer, he made a deal with the D.A., not with the judge. The D.A. can't change his mind, but the judge, he can do whatever he wanna do. 'Cause you can't make no deal with a judge. The judge, he decide what the deal gonna be. He might okay the deal, he might make his own deal. 'Cause once you plead guilty, he own you. He might say, 'You done confessed to killing that home girl. Now the Bible say an eye for an eye, so you gotta die. You gotta take the needle. You gotta face the Lord's wrath.' Them crazy-ass judges in Texas, they say shit like that. They Bible-beaters. We takin' bets on you, homeboy. Five to two, you goin' to death row. It's your destiny, boy. Your name's on that needle, too, William Tucker."