The Case Against William (25 page)

Not
so great now, are you, Frank?

Frank
Tucker had always had the perfect life. The perfect wife. The perfect
family. The perfect career. And Dick Dorkin's life had always been less than
perfect. No wife, no family, a public service career. He had been Frank's
backup for thirty-three years, since their first day of law school. Frank was
the star of the class, a fact that became evident early on. Their classmates
gravitated to him, not to Dick. Frank had graduated number one and then had
gone on to a storied career as a defense attorney—defending the innocent.

Until
Bradley Todd.

He
had defended the guilty, and the guilt had destroyed Frank Tucker's perfect
life. His wife had left him, his career had vanished, and his son had
abandoned him. He was a broken-down beach bum. A drunk. A lawyer without a
license to practice law. A loser. Now it was Dick Dorkin's life that seemed
perfect. He was the righteous prosecutor fighting for justice. He got the
good press now. And he wanted this conviction bad.

A
death warrant for William Tucker was his ticket to the Governor's Mansion.

"Teach
me, Mr. Tucker."

"Frank."

"Teach
me, Frank."

"You've
never tried a case?"

"I've
never
had
a case. I just got my law license."

"I've
tried a hundred cases, but I lost my law license."

"I've
got what you need, Frank, and you've got what I need."

"I
need a drink."

He
stood and got a drink. A Shiner Bock beer. Like an appetizer before the main
course. But he had promised his son. William needed a sober lawyer. So there
would be no whiskey for Frank. He would go cold turkey on Wild Turkey. And
Jack Daniels. And Jim Beam. And all his other buddies. He would wean himself
off whiskey with beer; he wasn't sure what he'd use to wean himself off beer.
Something equally addictive—ice cream, maybe. They all sat at the picnic
table. Chico fiddled with William's cell phone. Dwayne flipped the pages of
the homicide file and Chuck the signed football into the air. Ms. Crawford
typed notes on her iPad with the candy apple red cover, same as the paint job
on her convertible Mustang.

"We
read the transcript of your closing arguments in the senator's trial," Ms.
Crawford said. "Brilliant. You got the jury to blame the prosecutor
instead of the defendant, made the D.A. look like a fool. He's not the type to
hold a grudge, is he?"

"I'm
afraid he is."

"Well,
that explains his courtroom demeanor."

"No,
that's just because he's an asshole. The grudge stuff will come later."

Ms.
Crawford had come out to their campsite to plan their defense strategy. Frank
drank his beer and regarded his co-counsel. She was an extremely attractive
woman; the others had already noticed. They eyed her as if she were a fifth of
bourbon on a liquor store shelf. The good stuff. She had a pretty face and a
throaty voice, like that actress, the one who used to be married to the
Die
Hard
guy. She had removed her jacket and wore a sleeveless white blouse.
Her arms were muscular for a woman.

"You
work out?" Chuck asked her.

"Every
day. At the Y by the lake, then I run five miles around the lake."

"What
do you wear?"

She
frowned at his question.

"Forgive
Chuck, Ms. Crawford—"

"Billie
Jean."

"—emotionally,
he's still in high school. So, Billie Jean, how did you find your way to the public
defenders' office?"

"Law
firms don't hire forty-year-old associates."

She
didn't look forty years old.

"This
is my second career," she said.

"What
was your first?"

"Stripper."

"I
like her already," Chuck said.

"Some
girls call themselves exotic dancers, but there's nothing exotic about taking
your clothes off and putting your privates in strange men's faces."

"Always
seems exotic to me," Chuck said. "You ever do the olive oil
thing?"

"I've
never
heard
of the olive oil thing."

Chuck
grunted as if surprised. "All the strippers in Mexico know about
it."

She
stared at Chuck for a beat then shook her head as if her brain were an
Etch-A-Sketch and she was trying to shake the image clean from her mind. It
took a moment for her to regain her train of thought.

"Anyway,
I'm a single mom. I have a daughter, she's in college now. I married a bum
when I was young and stupid. He was my Prince Charming, tall and handsome, a
minor league baseball player on his way to the majors."

"Did
he make it?"

She
shook her head. "He was a minor-league player all his life. Turned out,
he was a minor-league man, too. Played a doubleheader while I gave birth.
First thing he said to me when he got to the hospital was, 'Shit. I went
oh-for-eight.' He left us right after she was born."

"Where
is he now?"

"California,
last I heard."

"Doing
what?"

"Screwing
up someone else's life, I'm sure. Some other stupid woman looking for her
Prince Charming. Why do we do that?"

"Ask
my ex-wife."

"Anyway,
I went back to school, got a degree in criminal justice, working nights. Then
law school."

"You
put yourself through college and law school on tips from stripping?"

"I
was a very good stripper."

"Now
I'm in love," Chuck said.

"My
stage name was Candy because I always wore a candy apple red G-string."

"You're
killing me," Chuck said.

"Hence,
the candy apple red convertible," Frank said.

"Reminds
me of where I've been … and where I don't want to be again."

She
must have seen something in Frank's eyes, but it wasn't what she thought.

"I
wasn't a prostitute, so don't judge me."

"Billie Jean,
we're all drunks who've screwed up our lives royally. Do we look like the
types to judge?"

"Frank,
I want you to teach me."

"How
to be a prostitute?"

She
smiled. She had a nice smile.

"How
to be a lawyer. I'm a fast learner. I want to be a good lawyer. You're the
best. Or you were."

Frank
finished off the beer then stood and walked over to the cooler and popped the
top on another can. He wanted a shot of whiskey. He addressed the defense
team.

"The
clock's ticking on my son's life. We're all that's standing between him and
death row six weeks from now. Good news is, he's innocent. Bad news is, we've
got no money to defend him and it's his word against his own DNA. That
story ends on death row. We've got to find the truth."

"Give
him a polygraph," Dwayne said.

Frank
had never made Bradley Todd take a polygraph. He had wished so many times
since that he had. Should he make his son take a polygraph? A father did not
need proof that his son was innocent.

"Where?
In his cell? And even if the D.A. allowed it, he'd know we gave him one. If
he passes, they know we'll tell them, but they won't dismiss the charges
because they've got his blood. If he fails and we don't tell them, they'll
know they've got the right guy."

"At
least we'd know."

"We
already know. He's innocent."

"Frank,
you ain't buying his amnesia defense, are you?"

"I
got no short-term memory 'cause of my concussions," Chuck said.

"They
got his blood off the girl," Dwayne said. "That's kind of hard to
explain away. You've got to at least consider the possibility that he did
it."

"I
can't."

"Why
not?"

"He's
my son."

"Frank,
I understand but—"

"No.
You don't understand. You can't understand. None of you can."

"Why
not?"

"None
of you have a son."

Frank
took a deep breath and a long swallow of the beer. Dwayne inhaled on his cigar
and then exhaled smoke circles.

"You're
right," Dwayne said. "You're his father, and we're your friends.
We're here to help you help him."

"Thanks.
Okay, Chuck, you're the football guy, so I need you to go to Lubbock and talk
to the other players and coaches. You can relate to them."

"You
want me to go to Lubbock by myself?"

His
expression seemed pained.

"You're
forty-nine, Chuck. You can do it."

"But,
Frank, I'm a little worried … you know, the memory thing. And I don't
think so good these days."

Chuck's
numerous concussions in college caused him to worry that he had suffered brain
damage, as many ex-football players were discovering they had suffered.
Repetitive concussions have been linked to memory loss, impaired thought
processes, early-onset dementia, and irreparable brain damage.

"Six
NFL players committed suicide the last two years," Chuck said. "And
now McMahon—"

Jim
McMahon, the Super Bowl winning star quarterback of the Chicago Bears back in
the eighties.

"—and
Bradshaw—"

Terry
Bradshaw, who won four Super Bowls as the Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback in
the seventies and eighties.

"—they're
both suffering memory lapses. Man, I don't want to get lost in Lubbock."

"Chuck,
you smoke those cancer sticks like a chimney," Chico said. "You
should be worried about getting cancer, not getting lost."

"At
least with cancer I'd just die. Better than wandering the beach not knowing
how to get home."

"Sorry,
Chuck," Frank said. He knew better than to ask Chuck to go out of town
alone. "Dwayne, you go with him. Track down all the witnesses named in
the file—cheerleaders, players, coaches. Recheck their stories, see if the detectives
missed anything. Better that way, you can look after each other."

"Two
drunks watching each other? There's a recipe for disaster."

"Or
fun," Chuck said.

They
fist-bumped.

"Problem
is, my truck's in Rockport," Dwayne said.

"Take
mine," Chico said.

"How
will you guys get back home?" Chuck asked.

"I'll
drive them," Billie Jean said. "I'm on the team, too."

"Uh,
Frank," Dwayne said, "traveling to Lubbock, staying in a hotel, that
costs. I'm tapped out till my next pension check. We need money to
fund this investigation—hell, to pay for gas to Lubbock."

Frank
glanced at the members of the defense team: Dwayne Gentry, an ex-cop who
supplemented his police pension working as a part-time security guard at a
mini-storage facility … Chuck Miller, an ex-coach who refereed peewee
football games, but only the ones run by organizations that didn't require
criminal background checks … Chico Duran, an ex-con who fraudulently
received federal disability benefits and delivered pizzas on weekends … Billie Jean
Crawford, an ex-stripper turned public defender. His eyes rested on her. Her
eyes narrowed, then she shook her head.

"Don't
even think about it. I'm not stripping again."

Their
moneymaking opportunities were limited. But defending a client against a
capital murder charge carrying the death penalty required money. Frank saw no
options … until Chuck flipped the signed football into the air again.

"Sell
the ball," Frank said.

Chuck
caught the ball and frowned at Frank.

"Do
we have to? I've gotten attached to it."

"Get
unattached. Chico, put that ball on eBay. Pronto."

Dwayne
smiled. "An expense-account trip, even if it is to Lubbock."

"No
bars."

Now
he frowned. "Well, that takes a lot of the fun out of a free trip."

"No,
I mean there are no bars in Lubbock. It's dry."

"My
God."

As
if Frank had just said the world would end the next day. Chico made the sign
of the cross.

"Billie
Jean," Frank said, "draft a subpoena. Copies of all DNA tests,
all physical evidence reports, autopsy results, the game film, anything else
they've got."

"You
want a copy of the game film?"

"I
want Chuck to review the tape, see if it caught the girl on the sideline. Maybe
someone talked to her during the game."

"I'll
break it down," Chuck said.

"I
don't care about the offensive and defensive schemes, just the
cheerleaders."

"That's
what I meant."

"I've
never written a subpoena," Billie Jean said.

"Look
in the form books. You draft it, I'll review it."

"Okay,
I'll email it to you."

"No
email."

"For
security, so the D.A. can't intercept our communications?"

"Uh,
no. I don't have email."

"Why
not?"

"I
don't have Internet connection."

"Why
not?"

"I
live in a shack on the beach."

"Oh.
Okay, I'll fax it."

"No
fax."

"Mail?"

"Not
that I know of."

"I'll
drive it down."

"Chico,
you go through his laptop and phone."

His
eyes remained locked on William's phone like a kid playing a video game. "On
it."

"And
no drinking, guys."

That
brought Chico's eyes up; they all eyed Frank a long moment then broke into
laughter.

"That's
a good one, Frank," Dwayne said.

"Anyone
know the area code for Lubbock?" Chico said.

Billie Jean
typed on her iPad.

"You've
got three-G?" Chico said.

"Four."

"Damn."

"Eight-oh-six,"
she said.

"I
was afraid of that."

"Why?"
Frank said.

Chico
pressed buttons on the phone then put it to his ear and listened.

"Shit."

"What?"

He
pressed buttons again and engaged the speakerphone. He held the phone out.
They could hear the call ring through and then a perky voice answering.

"Hi,
this is Dee Dee. I'm out having fun so leave a message and I'll call you
back. Bye."