"Asshole!"
"Me?" Frank said.
"That driver."
The car in front of Billie Jean abruptly cut in front of the car on the left, and the asshole on her right was texting again, so she turned the wheel hard and cut in front of him. He looked up and hit his horn, but his car cost ten times what hers cost, so he could do nothing except stick his middle finger in the air. She returned the favor and drove onto the shoulder of the highway.
"Frank, I'm off the highway."
"You've got to get that video to the court."
"The traffic is blocked in all directions. It's thirty-five blocks south and twelve blocks west on Eleventh. That's over three miles."
"I'll call the court, try to stall the hearing."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Run."
They went inside and found Dwayne handcuffed.
"Hey, he's a cop," Chuck said. "Well, an ex-cop."
"Who are you?"
"An ex-coach."
The cop turned to Frank.
"And you?"
"Ex-lawyer."
Now to Chico.
"Ex-con."
"Any of you guys know my ex-wife?" The cop laughed. "You guys look like the sequel to Red."
"I love that show," Chuck said. "Can you believe Mary-Louise Parker is forty-eight?"
"You're shittin' me?"
"Nope."
"I gotta watch that movie again."
"Watch this movie," Chico said.
He played the video for the cop.
"Son of a bitch! Bo Cantrell."
At 8:32, Frank called the judge. His court coordinator answered.
"He's innocent. We have a videotaped confession. The killer shot himself."
"Tell his lawyer."
"I am his lawyer."
"Scotty Raines is his lawyer. Call him."
"What's his number?"
Scotty Raines was standing outside the courtroom with Warren the agent.
"You represent a lot of athletes in trouble with the law?"
"That's redundant."
"What is?"
"To represent athletes means to represent athletes in trouble with the law."
Warren's cell phone pinged. He checked his text message.
"Shit, one of my clients, Hernandez, the Patriots tight end, he got indicted for murder up in Boston. Well, hell, there goes the contract extension."
"He need a lawyer?"
Scotty's cell phone rang. He checked the number and shook his head.
"Frank Tucker."
He rejected the call.
Her running watch read: 8:38. Billie Jean reached up under her skirt and pulled her pantyhose down; fortunately, she also wore panties. The big rig driver next to her apparently had gotten an eyeful; he hit his air horn to show his appreciation. She gave him the finger without looking his way. She unzipped her gym bag and removed her running socks and shoes and put them on. Three-plus miles to the court. She averaged eight-minute miles. Seven-point-five miles per hour. It was now 8:43. She had seventeen minutes to run over three miles. In a skirt. She put the phone in her purse and slung the purse over her shoulder. She grabbed the iPad, got out of the car, and shut the door. No sense in locking it; it was a convertible. She looked south and took a deep breath. She ran.
Chapter 53
At 8:45, the two deputies returned to the holding cell.
"Man, you ain't stopped crying yet?"
The deputy shook his head then turned to other deputy.
"We still got fifteen minutes. That's enough time for a donut."
They left William Tucker alone again.
Interstate 35 veered east just north of downtown, so Billie Jean decided to cut the angle. She ran southwest, a direct route to downtown. She crossed the access road and cut between the stalled traffic at Airport Boulevard. She took a shortcut through the Hancock Center parking lot and hit Red River Street. She cut through the nine-hole Hancock Golf Course—"Shit!—and almost got hit by a golf ball. Golfers yelled at her. She gave them a finger. It was 8:47.
Becky Tucker entered the courtroom and sat in a pew near the back. Her father had taken her into courtrooms before, but this time was different. Her brother would soon confess to a crime he did not commit. She needed to be there for him. So she had driven to Austin that morning.
Billie Jean understood now. This was her role in the case. She could run. And run she would. To save William Tucker. And Frank Tucker. Her client and his father.
At 8:50, Frank called Billie Jean. When she answered, he said, "Where are you?"
"Crossing Thirty-eighth Street."
"Run faster."
She ran faster. She ran through the neighborhoods north of the university then entered the campus at the law school. She cut over to San Jacinto and ran south past the football stadium where William Tucker had achieved stardom.
The deputies returned at 8:55.
"Time to face justice, stud."
They unlocked William's shackles and led him out of the cell and down a short hall to the door leading into the courtroom. William wanted to wipe his eyes but couldn't reach up with the shackles. One deputy noticed.
"Will you wipe my eyes?"
He laughed. "When the judge sentences your ass to death row, you're gonna need to wipe your butt."
"Death row? But my lawyer made a deal."
"You don't know Judge Rooney."
The deputy pushed open the door, and they entered the courtroom. Camera lights flashed. The place was packed with television cameras and photographers. It looked more like a sporting event than a courtroom. The deputies walked William over to the defense table where Scotty Raines was waiting.
"Did my dad call?"
Scotty shook his head. "Nope."
William sat down. He felt alone. Abandoned. Now he knew how his dad felt. When William had abandoned him.
Billie Jean dodged oncoming traffic to cross Martin Luther King Boulevard. Her phone rang. She answered.
"Where are you?"
"Just north of the Capitol."
"You've got two minutes."
Frank disconnected. He faced the guys.
"She's not going to make it in time. What can we do to stop the plea?
"Call in a bomb scare," Chico said.
"A bomb scare? At the courthouse?"
"Yeah. I did it one time from my cell. Sentencing day, I asked to call my lawyer. Instead I called the courthouse, said there was a bomb. They evacuated the place. Course, it only delayed the sentencing for one day, and the judge tacked on another year for that stunt."
Frank shrugged. "It's worth a try."
He dialed the court and waited for the call to ring through. He disconnected.
"Unbelievable."
"What?"
"I got a recording."
"What's the world coming to?" Chico said. "You can't even get a real person to call in a bomb scare. Call back and leave a message."
Judge Harold Rooney prided himself on his promptness. He ran his courtroom by the book and the clock. So at precisely 9:00 A.M., he entered the courtroom.
"All rise," the bailiff said.
Harold stepped up to the bench and sat in his chair. He opened the case file sitting on the desktop. The State of Texas v. William Tucker. He sighed. He had actually thought the boy might be innocent. But he wasn't. He was guilty. Just as Bradley Todd had been guilty. He thumbed through the gruesome crime scene photos of a young girl whose life had been cut short. By William Tucker.
Dee Dee Dunston deserved justice.
"Mr. District Attorney, are you ready to prosecute this case?"
Of course, Harold was well aware that the D.A. and Scotty Raines had made a deal. Dick Dorkin stood.
"Your Honor, the state and the defendant have agreed to a plea bargain which we now present for the court's approval."
He stepped to the bench and handed a document to Harold. He already knew the particulars. William Tucker would plead guilty to negligent manslau
ghter in exchange for a sentence of two to five years. Out in one. No rape charge so no lifetime sex offender status. His face wouldn't be on the state's sex offender registry. In one year, William Tucker would again live a normal life. But Dee Dee Dunston would never live her life. That didn't seem like justice to Harold Rooney.
"I understand that the defendant has decided to change his plea of not guilty to a plea of guilty, is that correct, Mr. Raines?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Mr. Tucker, in order for this court to accept your guilty plea, I am required to ask you a series of questions to allow the court to make an independent determination of your guilt and that you are entering a guilty plea voluntarily and not under any duress or promises of leniency. You do understand that while you may have made an agreement as to sentencing with the district attorney, such agreement is not binding on this court. Sentencing is within the sole discretion of this court …"
Becky's phone vibrated. She pulled it out of her pocket and checked the ID: Dad. She went outside the courtroom and answered.
"Dad?"
"You're at the courthouse, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I knew you'd be there for your brother."
"Where are you?"
"Omaha."
He explained what had happened that morning. She cried. Her brother was innocent. And Billie Jean was on her way with proof.
"Where is she? The judge is already talking to William."
"Becky, you've got to stop the hearing. You can't let William plead guilty."
"How?"
"Make a commotion in the courtroom."
"But, Dad, I'm scared to—"
"It'll make a great scene in the book."
At 9:06, Billie Jean cut through the grounds at the State Capitol. She ran around the east side and south on the Great Walk past the Confederate War monuments. She exited the grounds through the front gates and turned west on the Eleventh Street sidewalk. Only four more blocks. She darted across Eleventh at the Governor's Mansion.
"—and this court may enter any sentence permitted by the statute, up to and including the death penalty. This court is not bound by agreements, only by the law. By justice. Do you understand, Mr. Tucker?"
William nodded.
"Please speak up, Mr. Tucker, so the court reporter can transcribe your answer."
"Yes, sir."
Harold couldn't believe that Frank Tucker's son had actually killed the girl. He felt sure there had to be some other explanation for his blood being on the girl. But there was only one explanation: he had killed her. Raped her and strangled her. Harold Rooney could not save Dee Dee Dunston's life, and he could not save William Tucker's life. Just as he could not save his own son's life. Apparently saving lives was not his role in life. His role was to get reelected.
"Mr. Tucker, the Supreme Court ruled that a court may not accept a guilty plea from a defendant who claims innocence. Therefore, this court must elicit your testimony under oath as to the acts that constitute the crimes charged against you and this court must confirm that you are making a knowing and intelligent waiver of your constitutional rights. William Tucker, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
"Yes, sir."
"William Tucker, do you understand that by pleading guilty, you are giving up your right to trial by jury?"
Scotty Raines nudged the boy.
"Yes, sir."
"William Tucker, do you understand that you are giving up your right to cross-examine your accusers?"
Another nudge.
"Yes, sir."
"William Tucker, do you understand that you are giving up your privilege against self-incrimination?"
No nudge necessary now.
"Yes, sir."
"William Tucker, did anyone coerce you into making this plea?"
"No, sir."
"William Tucker, are you entering your plea today voluntarily and of your own free will and not under any duress?"
"Yes, sir."
"William Tucker, on or about midnight on November twelfth, two thousand eleven, and continuing into the early morning hours of November thirteenth, two thousand eleven, did you forcibly rape and strangle Dee Dee Dunston until she was dead?"
Billie Jean ran past the old Travis County Courthouse and entered the plaza between the jail and the Justice Center. It was 9:11.
"Shit."
The plaza was packed with the media. Cameras and reporters waiting for William Tucker's guilty plea. Protesters shouting "Justice for Dee Dee!" and "Abolish football!" and "Abortion for all!" took advantage of the opportunity to be on television. They blocked her path.
"Move! Get out of my way!"
They didn't move. They didn't get out of her way. She fought her way through.
Three stories above her, tears rolled down William Tucker's face. He turned to his lawyer; Scotty Raines nodded at him, as if trying to pull the words from him. The D.A. nodded. He glanced back at his agent; Warren nodded. Reporters and cameramen and deputies—everyone nodded. Everyone wanted William Tucker to confess to a crime he did not commit. Only one man in the world wanted him to say no: his father.
"William Tucker," the judge said, "are you going to answer my question? Did you rape and kill Dee Dee Dunston?"
Becky Tucker had returned to the courtroom. Billie Jean still hadn't arrived. She would not make it in time. So Becky took a deep breath and stood. She shouted.
"No! He did not!"
Her brother turned to her. Everyone turned to her.
"Don't do it, William!"
The judge banged his gavel. "Young lady, take your seat. You're out of order."
She glared at the judge. The dialogue came to her.
"No! You're out of order!"
That prompted the guards into action. They headed her way. She pointed at the D.A.
"He's out of order!"
And then at Scotty Raines.
"And he's out of order! My brother didn't rape or kill anyone!"
The guards grabbed her and lifted her off her feet and carried her out of the pew and to the doors. She grabbed hold of the doorjamb. The scene was almost over. Only time for a few more lines of dialogue.
"William, believe in yourself! Believe in the truth! Believe in our father!"
The guards forced her fingers free and pulled her out of the courtroom. But she heard her brother's words.
"Becky … I'm sorry."
Chapter 54
Billie Jean pushed her way to the front doors. The guard stopped her but then recognized her and let her pass. She ran to the metal detectors. She tossed her purse at the guard manning the detectors and ran through with the iPad.
"Don't you want your stuff?" the guard yelled from behind.
She ran to the stairs. Judge Rooney's courtroom was on the third floor.
"Mr. Tucker, please answer the question. Did you rape and kill Dee Dee Dunston?"
At that moment, William Tucker finally understood the justice system. Not the system in which he was a defendant standing in a court of law surrounded by lawyers—a defense lawyer who played with people's lives as if he were a football coach drawing up plays on a chalkboard, a district attorney concerned not about justice but ambition and jealousy, and a judge who had to show the voters he was tough on crime in order to win reelection—and spectators who viewed a criminal trial as a reality show and reporters who loved scandal and cameras that captured the moment for cable news. In that system he was innocent but about to plead guilty. There was no understanding that system.
He understood the other justice system, the one called life. That justice system had accused, tried, and convicted William Tucker. Because he was guilty as sin. He was an arrogant, egotistical, self-centered star jock. A jerk. A lousy human being. A lousy teammate, friend, brother, and son. Especially son. Life had given William Tucker what the gangbanger next door had wanted most in life: a father. Not a biological father, but a real father. A great father. A fa
ther who had always been there for him. A father who stood by him when the world had turned against William Tucker. A father who loved him more than life itself. But he had treated his father like a fan wanting an autographed football. He didn't have time for his own father.
Now life had come down hard on William Tucker. Life had rendered its verdict, and it was harsh. He had to be punished—how can life be just if the guilty are not punished? He was a bad son. He was guilty as sin, and he had to pay for his sins. He understood life now, so he accepted his punishment. It was his destiny. He stood tall and faced the judge.
"Yes, Your Honor, I am—"
"Innocent!"
William whirled around to see Billie Jean burst through the courtroom doors holding an iPad high.
Epilogue
It was Christmas Day on the beach. Lights were strung on the bungalow, and Dwayne, Chico, and Chuck wore red Santa caps. Dwayne smoked a cigar, Chico a joint, and Chuck a turkey. They played poker and drank eggnog. And Jack Daniels Tennessee Honey.
"Belize," Dwayne said.
Chuck and Chico groaned. But they were happy. William Tucker had signed footballs for each of them. Chuck carried his with him always; Chico put his on eBay and made $10,000. But somehow it seemed less exciting when it was a lawful transaction.
Billie Jean Crawford, her daughter, Bobbie Jo, and Becky Tucker played with Rusty on the beach. Billie Jean had finally found her Prince Charming, a broken-down, recovering-drunk, beach-bum lawyer who didn't think he was a Prince Charming. Life had stomped all the bullshit out of him, and he was a better man for it. A good man. All the man she needed.
Becky Tucker flung the Frisbee down the beach for Rusty. She had finished her novel. It wasn't a tragedy after all. She gazed out to sea at the hero of her story.
Frank Tucker stood in knee-deep water in the Gulf of Mexico. He stared at the newspaper photo of Sarah Barnes, the photo he had carried with him always and the image that had haunted him for six years.
"I'm so sorry, Sarah. I pray you're in heaven. But I have to let you go now. I hope you can find a way to forgive me."
He laid the photo on the water and watched the tide carry Sarah out to sea. He wiped tears from his face then cast his line. Only two kinds of men find their way to Rockport, Texas: fishermen and losers. As the sun set beyond the Gulf of Mexico, Frank Tucker stood in the surf and fished. With his family on the beach and his son next to him. His son stood six feet five inches tall and weighed two hundred thirty-five pounds, but to his father he would always be that twelve-year-old boy who thought his dad was—
The Case Against William Page 29