by Mark Gimenez
"Beer and chewing tobacco ain't free," Aubrey said with a smile. "I'm the coach … and I'm not officially here."
"Head coach of the Goats?"
Aubrey nodded. "Ten years now."
"You're starting practice early."
"We can't hold organized practices till August one, but the boys can work out on their own and I can sit up here and cuss at them. Hell, fact is, we never stop practicing. Only two sports seasons in Texas, Beck—football season and football off-season."
"Boys here don't play soccer now?"
Aubrey spat. "Only the Mexicans."
"Luke played up in Chicago, all the boys did. No interest down here?"
"No scholarships down here, except for girls. That Title 9 forced the colleges to equalize scholarships on gender, so they had to cut scholarships for all the boys' sports to keep football and basketball. Black boys from the cities get the basketball scholarships. If you're a white boy and you want a full scholarship in Texas, you don't play soccer. You play football." He gestured at the field. "And every white boy out there wants a scholarship, just like we did. It's their ticket out."
"No black players on the team?"
"No black kids in the school. Hell, even the Katrina kids wouldn't stay, went down to Houston. Sauerkraut and bratwurst, that's a big-time culture shock after crawfish étouffée." Aubrey's attention was drawn to the field; he yelled out, "Catch the damn ball!" He spat. "You staying out at the old place?"
Beck nodded. "J.B.'s putting us up."
"You and him back on the same page?"
"Working at it."
"Wish my dad was still alive so we could work at it. Me and him, we fussed every chance we could. Now I'd give anything just to have a chance to fuss with him again."
"I didn't know he died."
Aubrey nodded. "Thirteen years ago. Now they're both gone, mom and dad." He spat. "Anyway, you went up to Notre Dame, I went over to Southwest Texas, got a degree in education so I could coach. When Otto died—"
"Coach Otto?"
"Yep, heart attack right out there on the field. Boys busted a play, Otto went into one of his tirades, cussin' up a storm in German … keeled over dead as a doornail. But hell, you can't eat kielbasa and eggs every morning like Otto did and live to be eighty. I was his offensive coordinator, so the school board made me head coach. We're favored to win state this year."
"Your boys are big, Aubrey."
"That's the game now, Beck. Bigger, stronger, faster. Boys start pumping iron when they're ten these days, gotta bulk up to move up. Pro offensive lines, they average three-thirty. Colleges, three hundred. Mine averages two-seventy. And it ain't just linemen. My quarterback is six-five, two-thirty-five."
Beck watched the big kid rifle another pass downfield.
"Runs a four-five forty in full pads," Aubrey said, "and can throw a football through a brick wall. Number one prospect in the nation. Before he committed to UT, every coach in the country came here to watch him play. He's the real deal. Two years of college, he'll jump to the pros."
"German boy?"
Aubrey shook his head. "He's from Austin. Name's Slade McQuade."
"Slade? What kind of parents name their son Slade?"
"His kind of parents. It's a football name. People name their boys Colt, Chase, Shane, Slade—movie star names that'll sound cool when they're playing on national TV."
"But that's not going to happen for most of these boys."
Aubrey spat. There was a brown puddle on the gray concrete on his far side.
"It's gonna happen for every one of these boys, Beck. November nine, we play Kerrville right here, the Nike High School Football Game of the Week. On national TV."
"High school football on national TV?"
"Yep. High school ball is big-time now, Beck. Schools spend whatever it takes to win. And colleges only recruit the best players, so the dads spend whatever it takes to make their boys the best. Slade's dad—name's Quentin McQuade—says he's spent a half-million bucks on private trainers and coaches."
"That's a lot of money."
"He's got a lot. Real-estate developer. Come rolling in here five years ago from Austin, bought the old Hoermann place."
"That was a big spread."
"Almost three thousand acres. Heard he paid twenty million, cash. Built himself a mansion, now he's developing the ranch, a high-falutin' gated golf community."
"Gated? Who's he trying to keep out?"
Aubrey spat. "Goats, I guess. They say he spent ten million on the golf course, figures on selling two hundred homes out there, one million and up. We're in a goddamn drought, ain't enough water for the people and livestock as it is, much less to feed a fancy golf course"—he spat—"but Quentin's money cut a wide swath through city hall so he gets what he wants. He ain't someone you cross."
"What brought him out here?"
"He wanted a pro offense for Slade. Shopped high schools around the state, picked us."
"He moved here for your offense?"
"Yep. We spread five out, shotgun, no huddle, throw fifty times a game. Call it the NASCAR offense 'cause we never slow down. Averaged four hundred yards passing per game last year. Figuring on five hundred this year with Slade pulling the trigger." Aubrey abruptly yelled out to the field: "Catch the damn ball!" Back to Beck: "If they'll catch the damn ball."
Beck watched Slade throw a few more passes. "He's got an arm."
"He's got a publicist."
"What?"
"Quentin hired the boy a publicist. When he announced he was gonna play college ball at UT, he held a press conference over in Austin. A hundred media people showed up, a thousand students, cheerleaders, coaches … ESPN ran it live. You'd think he found the cure for cancer."
Aubrey grimaced and glanced at Beck.
"Sorry." He spat. "Anyways, I got sports writers come here from all over the country. My secretary, that's all she does now, schedule Slade's interviews. He's gonna be on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Other kids, they ask him for autographs, want photos with him, like he's Tom Cruise or something. It's crazy."
Aubrey spat then cupped his mouth and yelled out toward the field: "Slade!" He got the boy's attention, waved him over, and said, "They've already got him in a Gatorade commercial."
The boy jogged across the field and the running track and in one movement grabbed the bleacher railing and vaulted himself up and over. He ran up the stands two rows at a stride.
Beck stood to meet Slade McQuade.
Beck was six-two, but the boy towered over him. Slade outweighed him by fifty pounds, but his body mass seemed twice Beck's. His shoulders were wide and his arms thick with knotty muscles; his veins stood out like blue ropes running down his arms. His chest was broad and looked like a rock sculpture, and his torso angled sharply down to a narrow waist. Slade didn't have a six-pack; he had a twelve-pack. His skin was tanned and shimmering in oily sweat and seemed to be stretched to the breaking point by the muscles underneath. His shorts strained against muscular thighs.
Beck felt small.
Slade's entire body appeared to be chiseled from stone, including his angular face. Acne was his only flaw. Looking at Slade McQuade was like looking at a statue of a Greek god—except a Greek god didn't wear mirrored sports sunglasses and a black doo-rag or have long black hair hanging to his shoulders or diamond stud earrings stuck in each ear lobe or barbed-wire tattoos wrapped around each bulging bicep.
Beck realized he was staring.
Aubrey spat and said, "Slade, meet Beck Hardin." Aubrey pointed to the face of the press box above them where Beck's number 8 jersey hung encased in plexiglass; the school had retired his jersey after his senior season. "That's his jersey."
"They'll have to move it over for mine in a few months," Slade said. He stuck a hand out. "Beck."
Not "Mr. Hardin."
"I'm looking forward to seeing you play, Slade."
"You and the whole State of Texas—for the Longhorns next year."
"Le
t's win state this year first, Slade," Aubrey said.
"That's a done deal, Coach."
"Still gotta play the games."
"Well, good luck this season, Slade," Beck said.
Slade smiled. "Beck, I'd rather be big, strong, and fast than lucky."
Aubrey spat. "Get 'em running sprints, Slade."
Slade jogged down the bleachers, vaulted the railing again, and ran out to the field. Beck sat down and leaned back; he and Aubrey crossed their arms like two old men; they stared at the field.
"Nice kid."
Aubrey chuckled. "Yep, he's a real peach. That's what you gotta put up with these days, Beck, buncha prima-goddamn-donna boys." He spat. "Slade's already got a slogan."
"A slogan?"
Aubrey nodded. "You know, like Nike's 'Just Do It'? His is, 'Number Twelve on the Field and Number One in Your Heart.' Quentin copyrighted it or registered it or whatever you do with a slogan so no one can steal it."
"Trademarked."
Aubrey spat. "That's an idea, Beck. Maybe Quentin could use a big-time Chicago lawyer like yourself to further Slade's career."
"I'd rather pick grapes at J.B.'s winery."
"See, that's the thing, Beck, you always had options. Me, I only know coaching, so I gotta put up with Slade."
"Bench him."
Aubrey laughed. "You mean quit coaching? 'Cause if I benched Slade, that's what I'd be doing. Been twenty-five years since this town had a state championship, Beck, and people here, they want it bad. And Slade's the ticket." He spat. "Easier to find another head coach than another quarterback like him."
"Maybe he'll flunk out."
"Of what? P.E.? He's a fifth-year senior. Turns nineteen September three, so he's still eligible and he's taking one P.E. class to stay eligible."
"He's two months from nineteen?"
"Yep. Quentin held him back in kindergarten and again in seventh grade so he'd have two extra years to get bigger. He did. Lots of dads do that now. Soon as the season's over, he's enrolling at UT."
"In the middle of his senior year?"
He spat. "All the big football factories get their quarterback recruits enrolled for the spring semester, so they'll be there for spring training. Get a jump on next season."
"What about being a kid—senior class trip, prom?"
"Don't mean squat when you're on the fast track to the NFL."
"Doesn't sound like much fun."
"It ain't supposed to be. Slade goes first in the draft, he'll get sixty million with a ten-million signing bonus. How'd you like to be twenty-one with ten million bucks in your pocket? Football ain't about having fun. It's about making money."
Beck shook his head. "High school football is more complicated these days."
"You don't know the half of it." Aubrey stared out at the field where the boys were now running sprints the length of the field; Slade was out in front by twenty yards. Aubrey spat. "But if we do win state, I might quit anyway. Figure I might could trade up for a college job, maybe ride Slade to an assistant spot with UT. Better pay, might be able to get Randi back."
"Randi Barnes?"
Beck and Mary Jo and Aubrey and Randi had double-dated all through high school. Randi was two years younger.
Aubrey nodded. "We dated till she graduated, got married that summer. But you know Randi, she always wanted more. Left me a few years back, moved to Austin. Ain't seen her since."
"Do y'all have kids?"
Aubrey recoiled almost as if Beck had hit him.
"J.B. didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
Aubrey's eyes dropped and he stared down, as if searching for an answer in the brown puddle of tobacco juice. He spat.
"We had a girl. She died … four years, six months, five days ago today. On New Year's Eve. She was only sixteen."
"Jesus, Aubrey, I'm sorry."
Aubrey's jaw muscles flexed like he was chewing on the past. He spat.
"She was murdered, Beck."
"Murdered? By whom?"
"Don't know. He gave her cocaine, she OD'd."
"How do you know he gave it to her?"
"She didn't do drugs, Beck. She was a good girl."
"No, I mean, how do you know she was with a guy?"
"They got his DNA."
"From what?"
Aubrey looked like he might cry. "Semen."
"Was she raped?"
"Same difference, drugging her like that. She couldn't have known what she was doing or she wouldn't have done it. But it don't matter—she was sixteen and that ain't legal." Aubrey stiffened up. "We got his DNA, Beck, we just don't got him. And we've only got five months and twenty-six days to get him. I keep a calendar."
"What do you mean?"
"I mark off each day since she died—"
"No. The 'five months and twenty-six days'?"
"Oh. Five-year statute of limitations on statutory rape. Runs out midnight New Year's Eve."
"Aubrey, I'm not a criminal lawyer, but if he gave cocaine to a minor and she died, that's got to be murder, or at least manslaughter. And there's no statute of limitations on murder or manslaughter."
Aubrey was shaking his head. "That's the problem—gotta prove he gave it to her. He'll just deny it and who's to say otherwise? D.A. says no way he could get a conviction on murder or manslaughter."
He spat.
"But he can't deny the DNA. If he was three years older than her, ain't no defense to stat rape, even if she let him. He's going to prison—if we find him in time. D.A. says if he's not indicted by midnight on New Year's Eve, he's a free man forever." Aubrey stared out at the field, then said in a quiet voice, "He dumped her in a ditch, Beck. Out 290 East by the city limits sign."
"The white cross."
Aubrey nodded.
"So what's happening with the case? Are the police still looking for this guy?"
Aubrey shook his head. "Sheriff—she was on the county side of the line—he says there's nothing left to do. They got DNA from every male in the county fifteen and over. No matches."
"Stutz ordered that?"
"Nope. Sheriff asked. Everyone came forward on their own, even the Mexicans, at least the legals. Dads brought their boys in. No one wanted to be a suspect."
"That wouldn't have happened in Chicago."
"Small town, Beck. Everyone would know who refused."
"So this guy was an outsider? Or an illegal?"
"Mexicans know better than to come around German girls. He was an outsider, I'm sure of it."
Aubrey stared at his players for a time. Then he spat and turned to Beck.
"You do me a favor, Beck, for old times?"
"What kind of favor?"
"Look into her case. Smart lawyer like yourself, you might see something the sheriff didn't."
"Aubrey, I'm a civil trial lawyer. I'm not even that right now. I don't know what I could do."
"You can do anything you want to do when you're the judge. Word around town is, you're gonna run."
"Word around town?" Then Beck remembered. "J.B. was in town this morning."
"I heard about it over at the Java Ranch. Coffee shop on Main. Got the whole town talking."
"I haven't decided yet."
"Well, now, that creates a bit of a problem."
"Why's that?"
" 'Cause I told everyone I'm backing you."
"Aubrey, every lawyer in town is going to file."
"Every lawyer in town didn't win the state championship."
Aubrey gazed into the sky. Beck looked up: a red-tailed hawk was circling in the distance like a kite on a string.
"You're her only hope, Beck."
"Her hope for what?"
"Justice."
There was that word. Beck Hardin knew all about justice. At Notre Dame, Beck the law student had asked about justice; an old professor had said, "Justice? Mr. Hardin, justice is God's domain. Our domain is the law. A good lawyer never confuses the two." So Beck the lawyer had not expected justice
. But Beck the man had, only to learn that there was no justice in this life, not for his wife or his mother … or for Aubrey's daughter. But he saw the same hope in Aubrey's eyes that he had seen in Annie's eyes and in the eyes of the other patients in the chemo room when he had taken her in for treatments, the desperate hope that there was still justice to be had in life. The same desperate hope he now saw in his own eyes each morning when he shaved.
"Aubrey, even if I won, by the time I took office, there'd only be three months left before the statute runs."
"How much do you charge, as a lawyer?"
"Eight hundred an hour."
He spat. "I can hire you for six hours and … twenty-two minutes."
"Aubrey, you're not paying me."
"The sheriff's holding back on me, Beck, not telling me everything he knows. He might talk to you."
"Why would he withhold information?"
"I don't know. You're my lawyer—ask him."
Aubrey reached to his other side and grabbed a cane. He struggled to his feet. Surgical scars ran down both sides of his right leg, which was noticeably thinner than his left leg.
"You are my lawyer, aren't you, Beck?"
Beck exhaled and pulled his eyes off the scars. He looked up at his old friend and nodded.
"Yeah, Aubrey, I'm your lawyer."
"Thanks, Beck. I'll pay you, least until you're the judge."
"I don't want your money, Aubrey."
Beck stood, and they shook hands again. Aubrey nodded down at Luke.
"He your only kid?"
"I've got a girl, Meggie. She's five."
"And you don't have a clue about raising girls?"
"No."
"I didn't either. Mine died in a ditch—and I don't know why." Aubrey wiped his eyes. "Find out what happened to my girl, Beck, so yours don't end up in a ditch, too."
Beck stepped down the bleachers. He and Luke turned to walk away, but Beck stopped and turned back. He called up to Aubrey.
"What was her name, your daughter?"
Aubrey spat then called down to him.
"Heidi."
FIVE
Drive north out of town on Ranch Road 965 and the landscape turns from white to pink—from limestone to granite—as you climb onto the Llano Uplift, an underground granite mass seventy miles wide. Granite outcroppings dot the rugged terrain, granite bluffs rise from low creeks, and granite boulders lie scattered across the land like God had smote his kitchen countertop into a million little pieces. And the biggest piece of granite in these parts is the Rock.