The Case Against William (33 page)

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."

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."

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."

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."