The Case Against William (39 page)

"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.

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 manslaughter 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."

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.