The Case Against William (26 page)

The
message beeped. Chico disconnected. Frank could barely speak the words.

"Her
number is on William's phone?"

"He
lied, Frank," Chico said. "He knew her."

"Play
it again."

He
did. William knew the victim. He had lied to his father. Just as Bradley
Todd had lied to his lawyer. Frank needed a drink. A real drink.

"It's
been two years," Billie Jean said. "Why is her phone still
working?"

"Because
parents, they never let go," Dwayne said. "Seen it all the time.
Her room at home, bet it looks exactly like the day she left for
college." He puffed on the cigar. "Her folks probably kept her
phone on their family plan. It don't cost much."

"Why
would they do that?"

"To
hear her voice."

"Hey
… William Tucker."

The
whispered voice of the gangbanger next door came through the cell bars.

"Fuckin'
death penalty, huh? Shit, that sucks."

"This
can't be happening to me."

William
felt as if he had taken a blow to the head. His thinking was foggy, his
thoughts lost in the fog of fear. The death penalty.

"Sure
it can. Happen to me."

"You
were on death row?"

"Five
years, till I got me a new trial. Now I'm going back. Back home."

"What's
it like?"

"Boring.
Goddamn, the boredom just eats at you, almost make you wanna kill yourself,
save them the trouble. But you don't, man, 'cause you wanna live. You never
know how much you wanna live till someone say you gotta die. That's why they
strap you down, 'cause folks wanna live. Brothers on both side of me, they
took that walk to the death chamber. Talked big shit, saying, 'Hell, I'm gonna
spit in the man's eye.' But when the day come, they crying for they mama, scared
to stop living. Least it ain't like the old days, sitting in that electric
chair. You imagine that? They wire your ass up and hit the voltage, say your
eyes pop outta your skull, that's why they put a hood over your head.
Shit
.
That scary. Now you just go to sleep. Fuckin' forever. But don't you worry
none, William, all the mandatory appeals they do, take ten years minimum. You
gonna live a long time on death row. Being bored. Eating bad food.
Waiting."

William
heard the gangbanger sigh.

"Man,
if I just hadn't of gotten all these tatts, I might've got off. Them jury
people, they see a black dude with tatts all over his arms and neck, they
scared. That a good thing on the streets, see, but it ain't so good in a
courtroom. You got any tatts?"

"No."

"You
play football but don't got no tatts?"

"I'm
afraid of needles."

The
gangbanger next door laughed. "That funny."

"Why
is that funny?"

"D.A.
want to sentence you to death, but you afraid of needles. That ain't no
defense."

He
laughed again, but William was confused. His foggy mind could not comprehend
the joke.

"What?"

"You
get the death penalty, they don't electrocute you no more, William Tucker.
They stick a needle in you and shoot the poison into your veins. That's how
they kill you now, with a fuckin' needle. And, hell, we all afraid of that
needle."

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

Frank
played Dee Dee's voice message for William on the interview room phone. Billie Jean
had driven Frank downtown to the jail the next morning in her candy apple red
Mustang with the top down. It had wide tires and a 420-horsepower V-8 engine.
She liked to go fast, which did not help his hangover. She now sat next to
Frank, but she could only hear Frank's side of the conversation.

"That's
on my phone?" William said.

"It is. You said you didn't know her."

"I
don't."

"Then
why's her number on your phone?"

"You
think I'm guilty, don't you?"

"No."

"What'd
he say?" Billie Jean said.

Frank
held up a finger to her.

"Her
phone number doesn't mean I raped and killed her!"

"It
means you knew her. When did you meet her?"

"I
don't know."

"It
had to be that same night. She went to school in Lubbock."

"I
guess."

"How
can you not remember her?"

William
gestured at his cell phone. "A, I had a concussion. I don't remember
that night. And B, I bet I've got five hundred girls' numbers on that phone,
maybe a thousand. But I don't know them."

"How
can you not know them if you put their numbers in your phone?"

"I
didn't."

"What?"
Billie Jean said.

Frank
turned to her. "He said he didn't put her number into his phone."

"Then
who did?"

Back
to William: "Then who did?"

"She
did."

"She
did?"

"Look,
Frank, here's how it works when you're a star athlete in America."

As
if there were a book setting out the rules.

"Anytime
I leave my dorm and go out in public—to a bar, a restaurant … hell, to the
post office—girls, they throw themselves at me. They're groupies. I'm like a
celebrity on campus, anywhere in Austin. Even out of town. When we travel,
girls hang out in our hotel lobby, hoping to get picked up. Coaches always
remind the team to be careful with these girls. When we played in the Alamo
Bowl last year, this girl went up to a room with two players, they had sex,
then she claimed rape. Girls are just part of the job description."

Billie Jean
tugged on Frank's T-shirt sleeve.

"He
says groupies swarm him in public."

She
gave a knowing nod. "Same with my ex, and he was only in the minor
leagues. The allure of celebrity."

Back
to William: "Okay, I understand that. But her number was in your phone.
Explain that."

"So
these girls, they grab my phone and input their numbers and they say, 'Text me
sometime. Anytime.' " His son shrugged. "They're my subs."

"Your
subs
?"

"You know, if I need a girl, because it's not working out with
the girl I'm with or I'm just bored watching sports on TV, I can text one of
those numbers, and a girl will show up at my dorm room in ten minutes. I can
call in a sub."

"For
sex?"

"Why else would I text a girl?"

"What'd
he say?" Billie Jean said.

"They're
subs."

"The
girls? Subs for what?"

"Sex."

Frank
studied his twenty-two-year-old son. His view of girls had taken root when he
was sixteen. When the notion that he was special had taken root in his mind.
When he began looking upon other people not as fellow human beings but as
members of his entourage. Boys existed to mow his lawn and wash his cars; girls
existed to provide sex. Frank had tried back then to explain to his son that
his view was wrong, but why would his son believe his father when the world was
telling him that his view was right? When boys were happy to serve him and
girls were happy to have sex with him?

"But
you never texted or called her?"

"No.
I swear."

"But
that means you met her if she put her number into your phone, even if you can't
remember meeting her."

"I've
met hundreds, thousands of girls. I don't remember them either."

"You
must have met her that night."

"I can't remember that night."

If
the doctors had kept him in the hospital overnight for observation, William
Tucker would not be in jail today.

"You've
got to believe me. I didn't rape her, and I didn't kill her."

"I
believe you."

"Because
you think I'm innocent?"

"Because
you're my son."

William's
massive body seemed to grow smaller.

"This
isn't good, is it? My blood on her, her number in my phone. I'm not going to
win this game, am I? They'll convict me, won't they? They'll give me the
death penalty."

"I
won't let that happen."

What
else could he say? Truth was, in Texas it was possible. Probable. Likely
even. Three hundred inmates sat on death row in Texas. Some were guilty.

"You
won't let that happen? You're a fucking drunk, but you'll save me from the
death penalty. Really?" His son regarded him with disdain. "You
look like shit, Frank."

Frank
felt like shit. Dee Dee's number on his son's phone had thrown him off the
wagon before he was even officially on the wagon. He had drunk whiskey until
he had passed out the night before.

"Couldn't
stay sober for twenty-four hours, could you?"

He
could not. Frank stood and started to put his palm against the glass again,
but his son had already walked out of the room.

"I've
got to be honest, Frank," Billie Jean said. "I'm having a hard time liking
your son. I mean,
subs
? Really?"

Rusty's
bark felt as if someone were committing a home invasion on Frank's head. But
not because he was hung over. Because he hadn't had hard liquor in thirty
hours, his longest stretch in six years.

"Shut
up."

Rusty
shut up. For a few minutes. Then he barked again. Frank threw the pillow at
the beast. Sobriety put him in a foul mood.

Billie Jean had driven him back to the beach the day
before. He couldn't stay at the campsite indefinitely, even at $20 per night.
He had to get back home to counsel other lawyers. He had to earn his income,
such as it was. He had to get sober. Frank ran half a mile down the beach
then puked. He spit bile and gazed at the Gulf. Could he really stay sober
for his son? After six years of never being sober? It didn't seem possible.
Nor did running the five miles down the beach to the rock jetty. But he would
do it. Somehow. For his son.

"Let's
go."

He
ran down the beach with Rusty.

Frank
bathed in the sea then dressed in the bungalow. He fixed his protein
drink—whey protein, yogurt, blueberries, strawberries, banana, almond milk—and
grabbed the vodka bottle out of habit. He stared at the clear liquid—the
alcohol that would clear his head, improve his mood, make him feel alive—then
replaced it on the kitchen shelf. He blended the concoction and drank from the
pitcher. He almost spit it out.

"People
drink this shit?"

He
took a nap before the first lawyer arrived. They walked the beach. Frank
listened and counseled and earned $50. Times three lawyers. He deposited the cash
in the defense fund, aka, a cigar box.

Then
he took another nap.

Rusty
barked him awake for their tee time. But he did not play a round of golf that
day. Golf did not encourage sobriety; it was the kind of game that demanded
alcohol afterward. To stay sane, if not sober.

So
Frank ate one of the protein bars they had taken from William's dorm room and
worked out instead. Pushups on the porch. Eleven. Then he rolled over onto
his back and did thirteen sit-ups. Which made him nauseous. He struggled to
his feet and did twenty-five jumping jacks. Which made him dizzy. He grabbed
hold of the crossbeam on the porch and did seven pull-ups. Which made him
throw up.

Should've
waited on the protein bar.

He
sat in his chair on the porch and turned on the radio. The oldies channel.
Buddy Holly was singing "That'll Be the Day."

Buddy
Holly was born in Lubbock, Texas, in 1936. Not much has happened there since.
With a population of two hundred forty thousand, Lubbock is the big city for
West Texas. Ranchers and farmers travel to Lubbock for doctors and lawyers and
the stock show and rodeo; their sons and daughter travel to Lubbock for higher
education. They study in the College of Architecture, the College of Media and
Communication, the College of Agricultural Sciences and Natural Resources, and,
until 1993 when the name was changed, the College of Home Economics.

Thirty
thousand students attend Texas Tech University in Lubbock.

They
all show up for the football games. A, there's nothing else to do in Lubbock
on a Saturday afternoon; and B, the Red Raiders football team is damn fun to
watch. The team invented the NASCAR offense: a full-speed, nonstop,
no-huddle, run-and-gun, pass-happy, all-out offensive attack. On any given
day, the Red Raiders could beat any team in America. They usually didn't, but
opposing coaches always worried they might when journeying to Lubbock. Dwayne
Gentry and Chuck Miller were worried too as they entered town. But not because
of the football team.

Because
the whole damn place was dry.

"You
can't buy alcohol anywhere in the city?" Chuck said. "That's
un-American."

"We're
in the Bible Belt, buddy."

"But
we're sinners."

"True
enough."

"And
I really want to sin today."

"I
know you do."

Dee
Dee Dunston was a sinner, too. They couldn't find alcohol in Lubbock, but they
found Cissy Dupre. She had just finished her cheer practice when they
approached her on the Tech campus. The investigating officers had interviewed
her two years before.

"Cissy
Dupre?"

She
stopped and gave them a once-over.

"Yes."

"We'd
like to talk to you about Dee Dee Dunston."

"No."

She
started to walk away, but Dwayne flashed his badge. He carried the badge in
case he got pulled over when drinking; once the cop saw he had been on the job,
he usually cut Dwayne some slack.

"Official
police business, Cissy."

It
wasn't, but the badge had the intended effect: she stopped.

"I've
never seen a policeman smoking a cigar on the job."

"You've
never been to Houston."

"I
already talked to the police."

"Two
years ago?"

"Two
weeks ago."

"Detective
Jones?"