The Case Against William

by Gimenez, Mark

  Chapter 38

  It was the next day, and Frank and Rusty were watching the UT football game on the old television. Frank was drinking his protein-and-vodka shake, and the Longhorns were losing to TCU. They had lost every game since William's arrest. The first half ended, and they went to the studio in New York. The byline below the announcer read: Breaking News.

  "We have breaking news from Austin," the announcer said. "Confidential sources at the Travis County Justice Center tell us that William Tucker will plead guilty to manslaughter—which is just a legal term for killing—in the death of the Texas Tech cheerleader two years ago. He will plead in open court on the ninth of December, nine days from today."

  The other announcer shook his head.

  "They all claim innocence, but they're all guilty."

  Becky called Frank within the hour. She had heard on the radio that her brother would plead guilty. She was crying.

  "Daddy, he can't be guilty."

  "He's not."

  "Then why is he going to plead guilty?"

  "Because he's scared."

  "But he didn't do it?"

  "No, honey. Your brother is not a killer. Or a rapist."

  "If he pleads guilty, everyone will think he is."

  "I know."

  "Daddy, you can't let him plead. I don't want his story to end like that."

  Chapter 39

  Billie Jean arrived at the beach bungalow early Sunday morning. She had called the day before to let him know she was coming, but she had come early. So Frank was still bathing in the sea when she parked on the road above. Which left him in a bit of a dilemma: he could make a run for the house or he could hope she had a sense of humor. The water was cold in late November.

  But she chose door number three. Once she had appraised the situation, she had wisely decided to take a walk down the beach with Rusty. When she returned, Frank was dressed and ready to leave. They were driving back to Austin to see his son. To beg William Tucker not to plead out.

  "You drive," Billie Jean said. "I just drove three hours down."

  Frank got behind the wheel of the red Mustang. The seats were black leather buckets with a six-speed stick shift. He felt as if he were back in high school watching Steve McQueen in Bullitt at the drive-in movie theater with Mary Katherine Parker, his sweetheart. It didn't seem like thirty-seven years. Last he had heard, Mary Katherine had seven children.

  Frank had the Mustang cruising the highway, the top down and a beautiful woman sitting next to him. He liked Billie Jean Crawford next to him. But he was fifty-five and a drunk; she was forty and not a drunk. She was a ten; he was a five. He glanced at her; her hair blew back in the breeze, and the sun on her face made her glow. She looked so much younger than he felt. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror—the beach cap, the sunglasses, the wrinkle lines; the sun on his face highlighted his weathered skin. An old man with a younger woman.

  "I feel like I'm in a Viagra commercial," he said.

  The younger woman laughed. "You're not that old."

  She reached to the back seat and retrieved a CD case.

  "I've got Imagine Dragons, One Direction, Lorde …"

  "You got any Marshall Tucker?"

  "Who?"

  "Bachman-Turner Overdrive?"

  "Who?"

  "Golden Earrings?"

  She stared at him.

  "How old are you?"

  "Fifty-five."

  "Shit, you are old." She laughed again. "But not too old."

  "I feel too old."

  She frowned. "Do you need Viagra?"

  "I honestly don't know."

  "It's been that long?"

  "And then some."

  "When I was stripping, old guys would sit alone at the stage. They weren't creeps—the young guys, they were the creeps. The old guys, they were just lonely. Like my dad after my mom died, only he didn't go to strip joints. At least I don't think so. Anyway, the old guys, they never tried to touch me. They tipped me just so I'd smile at them—is that sad or what, tipping a stripper for a smile? They weren't hoping for intercourse, just interaction. I always wondered how they got there, to that point in life, sitting alone and watching a woman strip. I don't want you to end up there, Frank."

  "I won't. I can't afford to tip strippers."

  "You shouldn't be alone, Frank."

  "Not many women banging on my door these days."

  "Do you still think about having a woman in your life?"

  "Not anymore. When a man marries the wrong woman—a woman who doesn't love him—he can never recover."

  "Why not?"

  "Because when you have kids, their lives become more important than yours."

  "I married the wrong man, but I recovered."

  "But you got your girl. Men don't get the kids. So a man who loves his kids, he sacrifices his love life to love them. To be with them."

  "You stayed with your wife to be with your children?"

  Frank nodded.

  "I didn't know men did that."

  "I did."

  "Your children are grown now, Frank. You don't have to sacrifice anymore."

  "I'm too old for love."

  "You're fifty-five, Frank. You're not dead yet."

  "I feel dead."

  "Maybe you just need a jumpstart. You know, Frank, I haven't had sex in so long I can't remember what it's like. But I still think about it. I still want it. Do you still want sex, Frank?"

  "No."

  "You want to go the rest of your life without sex?"

  "No."

  "I don't understand."

  "I don't want sex. I do want to make love. Once before I die, I want to have sex with a woman I love and who loves me. That's what I want."

  He felt her staring at him from the passenger's seat.

  "Maybe I can help with that," she said.

  "I'm too old for you, Billie Jean."

  "If I was thirty and wanted children, maybe. But we've both had our children. They're grown. The rest of our lives belong to us, Frank. We decide how to live our lives. And with whom. I don't want a young man. I want a man who's old enough for life to have kicked all the bullshit out of him. Who's wise enough to appreciate life and old enough to appreciate love. And me. I'm a good woman, Frank, and I need a good man."

  "Most women your age are still waiting for Prince Charming to come along and sweep them off their feet and make their lives perfect."

  "I'm not that teenager anymore, in love with a fictional character. I'm not looking for Prince Charming, and I especially don't want a man who thinks he is Prince Charming. I want a real man. A really good man. That would be you."

  "You're a beautiful woman, Billie Jean. Is a good man good enough for you?"

  "He is. You are. I've got what you need, Frank, and you've got what I need."

  "What's that?"

  "Love."

  "Billie Jean—"

  "I'm banging on your door, Frank."

  "You're my only son. I love you. I would trade places with you if I could. I would stand trial for you, I would go to prison for you, I'd take that needle for you. I would do that for you. But I can't. Son, once you stand up in open court and tell the world that you killed Dee Dee Dunston—"

  "I have to do that?"

  "Yes. You do. Pleading guilty means just that—standing up in court and confessing guilt. You have to say, 'Yes, I killed Dee Dee Dunston.' And once you say those words, William, your life will never be the same. You will always be a confessed killer. You can never recover from that. No one will believe that you pleaded guilty to avoid the death penalty."

  "You said so yourself, prisons are full of innocent people. I don't want to be one of them."

  "You're innocent, William. I know that. I believe you. Fight. Don't quit."

  "But Scotty says I'll be out in two years at the most. I'll be free."

  "Son, if you confess to killing Dee Dee, you'll never be free. You will always be in that prison."

  "But Scotty belie
ves—"

  "Does he believe you're innocent?"

  "No."

  "I do."

  "Why?"

  "Because you're my son. Because you're part of me. Because I raised you from the day you were born. Because I know you don't have it in you to hurt someone."

  "But my agent says I can still play ball when I get out."

  "William, this isn't about playing football."

  "That's my life."

  "No. Proving your innocence is your life."

  "How? How do I prove I'm innocent? All the evidence says I'm guilty. Hell, I can't even remember that day. Maybe I am guilty."

  "No, you're not. You could never hurt someone. You're big and you're strong, but your heart is soft and gentle. That hasn't changed, William."

  "I don't know."

  "William, please believe in justice. Believe in yourself. Believe in me."

  "Have you been drinking again?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because you fired me."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I can stop again. Just don't plead."

  His son slumped in his chair. His jaws clenched. He was fighting his emotions. He lost. And then Frank lost. He wanted to embrace his son. Hold him. Make things right. He wanted to wrap his arms around his boy again. William put his massive palm against the glass on his side. Frank matched his hand to his son's.

  "Save me, Dad."

  Billie Jean wiped her eyes. Maybe there was hope for William Tucker after all.

  "We're back on the case," his father said.

  "Not until he fires Scotty Raines."

  "He will. We've just got to find the killer before next Monday."

  "Not much time."

  They exited the jail and drove to her townhouse in north Austin. They ate dinner and drank iced tea. After dinner they sat on her back balcony with the lights of the downtown skyline sparkling in the distance and the three-hundred-foot tall UT clock tower bathed in orange light. They talked about their children and their mistaken marriages, the choices they had made in life and the choices they wished they had made. Billie Jean got up for a tea refill but stopped. She bent down and kissed Frank.

  "Open the door, Frank."

  Come to find out, he didn't need Viagra.

  Chapter 40

  "We're missing something," Frank said.

  He had gone to bed the night before craving a drink and had woken that morning craving a drink. He drank coffee instead. A lot of coffee.

  "What?"

  "I don't know. But it's like the photo on the phone—it's right there in front of us, in plain sight. We're just not seeing it."

  Billie Jean had driven Frank back to Rockport and stayed over. They spent the day going over their trial strategy.

  "We can explain her phone number and photo to the jury—"

  "If the jurors aren't old-timers," Billie Jean said.

  "So in jury selection, we go for the youngest in the pool."

  "I've never picked a jury."

  "I have. You look in their eyes. If they look back, you take them. If they look away, you don't."

  "Why?"

  "Because they've already made up their minds. They think he's guilty."

  "What about the surveillance tape? He got in late enough to have killed her."

  "Hundreds of men were on Sixth Street that night. Any of them could have seen Dee Dee in her cheerleader outfit."

  "But none of their blood was on her body."

  "How the hell did you let this happen, Dwayne?"

  Dwayne Gentry, former top homicide cop on the Houston Police Department and renowned interrogator of bad guys, stood in the small wooden shack that served as the operations headquarters for the mini-storage facility and suffered interrogation at the hands of Bob, the proprietor. They were studying the surveillance camera tape the day the three punks broke into a unit. On the screen, the camera caught the punks climbing over the perimeter fence, crowbarring storage unit number 124, and stuffing their backpacks with stolen contraband.

  "Those little pricks were brazen, to try that in the middle of the day."

  "Try? They did it." Bob shook his head. "You left for lunch, didn't you? They had you under surveillance, saw you leave, and then made their move. Isn't that what happened, Dwayne?"

  "No, it ain't what happened. I was here the whole morning."

  Bob pointed at the screen. "They breached the perimeter fence at twelve-thirty-five P.M., made entry into the subject unit at twelve-forty-five P.M., and escaped back over the fence at one P.M. The video don't lie, Dwayne."

  "Yeah, it does. When they took off with the contraband, it was straight-up noon. I checked my watch."

  Bob frowned. "But the tape says one."

  "The tape's wrong. It was an hour earlier."

  "An hour earlier?" Bob snorted like a feral hog. "Aw, shit, I know what happened. Robbie didn't turn the clock back on the camera when we came off daylight savings time. Spring forward, fall back. The little dope."

  Robbie was Bob's son. He was a little dope.

  "Okay, they breached at eleven-thirty-five. You were still on site. Not your fault, Dwayne. What I need to do, see, is electrify the fence, maybe two-twenty volts. Those little fuckers try to breach my fence again, they'll be in for a little shock."

  Bob thought that was funny.

  Chico Duran laughed. "I shit you not, man, she took a picture of her privates and texted it to her boyfriend. He probably put it on his Facebook page, now half the world's seen her pussy."

  Keith, the nineteen-year-old delivery boy with tattoos and piercings all over his body, shrugged. "I do that all the time."

  "Post photos of girls' privates on your Facebook page?"

  "Get photos of girls' privates."

  "They sext you?"

  "Yep."

  "Who?"

  "Every girl I know."

  "Why?"

  "It's social media, man. You take self-photos and share yourself with the world."

  "Why?"

  "Why not?"

  Chico shook his head. "By the time I was your age, I was already conning people out of their credit card numbers. Kids today, you're spoiled, got no ambition, bunch of narcissistic little bastards spending your time taking photos of yourself, as if anyone gives a shit."

  Chuck Miller blew his whistle.

  "Offsides on black. Five yards."

  "Shithead!" a parent screamed.

  Chuck picked up the ball and stepped off five yards. He was about to blow the whistle to restart the game when one of the players said, "He's bleeding again."

  "Who?"

  "Georgie."

  "Shit, he might be one of them bleeders."

  "You're not supposed to say 'shit' at peewee games. We're little kids."

  "Your fucking parents do."

  "Just our fucking dads."

  Chuck called a bodily fluids timeout and sent Georgie to the sideline. He took a good long swallow of his Gatorade-and-vodka sports drink. That same thought—blood—tried to take form in his brain again, but he still could not put the thought into a complete sentence, or even a recognizable phrase.

  There was something about the blood.

  "Harold went ethical on you, Scotty. It happens."

  "Not very often."

  "Nope. But Harold's always had an ethical streak in him."

  Dick Dorkin downed his drink. He and Scotty Raines were having drinks at the Capitol Club, the favorite watering hole for state politicos and judges and the lawyers who financed their careers.

  "So is the boy taking the plea bargain or not?"

  "He'll take it. Frank came in yesterday and got him all fired up to fight the charges, but I brought him back down to earth with my 'come to Jesus' speech. He'll plead."

  "Come to Jesus?"

  "If he doesn't plead, he's gonna come to Jesus."

  Dick laughed. "Still, I'm not sure I wouldn't be happier if he didn't plead. I wanted that death sentence so bad I could smell his flesh
burning."

  "A few drinks and you wax nostalgic, Dick. What do you want more—revenge on Frank Tucker or the Governor's Mansion?"

  "It's a closer call than you might think."

  "Jesus, Dick, this isn't personal. This is business."

  "Maybe to you. But me, I'd like to stare at Frank Tucker while they empty that syringe into his boy's arm."

  William Tucker's six-foot-five-inch, two-hundred-thirty-five-pound body lay curled up on the cold concrete floor of his cell. He wanted to die. He wanted to close his eyes and die. The tears poured out of his eyes and the snot out of his nose. His massive body shook uncontrollably. He was big, strong, and fast, but he never felt so small, so weak, and so slow in his life. He always knew where life was taking him; now he felt lost.

  "Help me, God."

  "Ain't no God in here," the gangbanger next door said in his soft whisper. "You in hell now, William Tucker."

  If he went to trial and lost, he'd get the death penalty. If he pleaded out, he would always be a convicted killer.

  "Please, God. Save me."

  The gangbanger sighed. "Man, you got it bad, William. Think God gonna come down here and pluck your white ass outta this jail, 'cause you His special child, like your mama told you since the day you popped out between her legs. Think He gonna come down here and save you. Shit, man, God ain't got no time for that."

  William cried harder.

  "Mm, mm, mm. Big boy crying now. Wishing this ain't his destiny. Wishing God had gave him a better life, hadn't put him on this path from birth. I said them same prayers, I wished the same thing. All my life, I wish I had a better life. Some folks, they born into heaven. Us, we was born into hell."

  William swiped snot from his face and said, "I estranged myself from my father."

  "Uh-huh, my daddy a stranger to me, too. I always wonder, what if my mama had of married my daddy, made us a regular family like that Bill Cosby show on TV. Wonder if I would be in this cell today, if that happened? Maybe me and my daddy, we'd of throwed a football in the backyard and talked about being a man 'stead of a criminal. Maybe we'd of had a real home, sit around a table and eat food with my family, and everyone ain't saying 'fuck this' and 'fuck that' instead we be sayin' grace before eating instead of 'pass the fuckin' steak sauce,' you know what I mean? You know I ain't never done that in my whole life, eat food with my family, say grace at the dinner table. My homies in the gang, they was my family. We want something to eat, we go to fuckin' McD's, get a Big Mac and fries, the double order, drink malt liquor when I was eight years old. You ever wonder what that kind of childhood be like, to have Bill Cosby be your daddy?"