The Case Against William Page 11

  "So?"

  "So he says your dad's in default. That the bank might have to foreclose. Maybe evict your family. You know what they do when they evict deadbeats who don't pay their mortgage? They send a bunch of goons to your house, break down the front door, and throw all your possessions into the front yard. It's a real sight to see. Wonder what that's gonna feel like? All because your dad's a fucking drunk."

  The weight room had fallen silent. The working-class white boys hated rich-boy Ronnie; he too had come to public school to develop his football skills, but that decision had turned out to be a bad bet. They would not come to Ronnie's defense. The black boys just wanted a fight. They played street ball and thrived on taunting opponents. They waited for William to make his move. He pushed himself up from the bench and walked over to Ronnie. Without saying a word, William punched the bigger boy in the face so hard that his knees buckled and his two-hundred-sixty-pound body collapsed to the floor.

  "Wonder what that feels like, Ronnie?"

  Becky Tucker sat on her bed in her dorm room at Wellesley College outside Boston. She had just watched her brother on national TV. It seemed unreal. He was only eighteen and still in high school. She was twenty and a junior in college. She had made straight As her first two years and the first semester of her third year. It was almost Christmas break. Admin had sent her an email that morning. Tuition for her spring semester had not yet been paid. She called her dad. After a dozen rings, he picked up. He sounded groggy. She knew why.

  "Daddy, are you awake?"

  It was noon Texas time.

  "Uh, yeah, honey, I'm awake. Sort of."

  She explained the tuition situation.

  "Oh, uh … well …"

  "Daddy, I don't need to go to Wellesley. I can pack up my stuff and ship it home. I can finish college at UT or A&M, a public college, someplace closer to home, to save money."

  "I don't know … maybe …"

  His voice drifted off. She heard his snoring.

  "Daddy!"

  She started crying.

  "It wasn't your fault, Daddy."

  William walked in through the back door and found his father sleeping on the couch in the den. He still wore his bathrobe. He hadn't showered or shaved. The phone, an empty whiskey bottle, and Rusty lay on the floor next to the couch.

  His dad was a fucking drunk.

  Becky had escaped to Boston; he would escape to Austin. William would graduate early from high school so he could enroll at UT for the spring semester. UT, like all the big football powerhouses, enrolled its top recruits for the spring semester so they could get acclimated to college life—of course, it wasn't as if they were seventeen-year-old newbies; most had been held back one or two years, so they were nineteen or older—and participate in spring training. Learn the system. Work out in Austin over the summer. Be ready to start in the fall. William Tucker's journey to the NFL began in three weeks.

  His life at home ended in three weeks.

  Which was good. Mom and Dad fought constantly now; or rather, Mom constantly yelled at Dad now. He didn't go to the office anymore. He had no office; his firm had fired him. Mom was panicked that she'd lose the house. Be foreclosed on. Get evicted. William would go to UT, but where would she go? Becky had already gotten out. William wanted out. UT was his way out. Football. The only thing he could depend on his entire life. Football was always there for him. His dad stirred awake. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his bathrobe and struggled to sit up. He saw William standing there.

  "Hey, William."

  His dad held up a hand as if to high-five. William did not take a step in his father's direction.

  "You missed the signing."

  "Oh, shit. Was that today?"

  "Yeah. It was today."

  "Sorry."

  The doorbell rang. William walked to the front of the house and answered the door. A man stood on the porch; he held a folded-up document. He looked up at William.

  "Frank Tucker?"

  "That's my dad."

  "Is he home?"

  "Yeah."

  "May I see him?"

  William shrugged. "Why not?"

  William led the man into the den. He pointed at his dad.

  "That's him."

  The man stepped closer.

  "Frank Tucker?"

  "Yeah."

  The man tossed the document to William's dad. It hit his leg and fell to the floor.

  "You've been served."

  The man turned and walked out. William heard the front door shut. He stepped over and picked up the document. He unfolded it and read the heading: "Petition for Divorce."

  "What is it?" his dad asked.

  "Mom's leaving you."

  William dropped the document in his father's lap. He started to walk out but turned back.

  "You didn't kill that girl, Dad. Bradley Todd did. He was guilty, and the jury put him on death row. You were innocent, but you put yourself on death row."

  William wiped away the tears that now came.

  "We were innocent, too, Dad."

  Chapter 16

  William rifled the ball to D-Quan on a Train route. Fifty yards downfield, the ball dropped into his favorite receiver's hands; D-Quan never broke stride. Coach Bruce tossed William another football; he dropped back three steps, set his feet, and rifled a pass to Cuz on an out pattern. Perfect. Another ball. Another perfect pass to Outlaw on a crossing route. And another perfect pass to Cowboy on a curl.

  William Tucker was as close to perfect as a quarterback could be.

  It was ten-thirty on a November Saturday morning in Austin, Texas. The sun was shining on the stadium and on William Tucker. The team was warming up—jogging, stretching, throwing, catching, kicking, punting. The band was tuning up. The cheerleaders were jumping up. The fans were arriving in burnt orange shirts and caps and jerseys. It was college football game day in America. It was glorious. The Longhorns would play a home game against Texas Tech at noon on national television. Cameras occupied various strategic points around the stadium to capture every bit of action on the field and off. They always cut to the stands between plays to catch gorgeous young coeds bouncing up and down; middle-aged men watching from home loved bouncing breasts, and bouncing breasts brought higher ratings. The coeds knew that the best chance of getting on national TV was to wear revealing clothes.

  And bounce.

  The Texas Tech cheerleaders bounced past William. They glanced his way. He wore the tight uniform pants but only a snug sweat-wicking sleeveless T-shirt that clung to his muscular body. His long blond hair blew in the breeze. He was a star. And the girls loved the stars. They just couldn't help themselves. They grew up wanting to be Cinderella at the ball, plucked out of obscurity by Prince Charming and given the perfect life. And today, a big, tall, handsome, and rich star athlete was as good as it gets when it came to Prince Charmings. Consequently, William Tucker did not have to seek out girls. They sought him out. He called out to the cheerleaders.

  "The Dizzy Rooster on Sixth Street. Tonight. Be there."

  They giggled. He watched them across the field to the visiting side. He had had sex with most of the UT cheerleaders, so he was now working his way through the opponents' cheer squads. He was twenty years old, a sophomore, and on top of his world.

  "Focus, William," Coach Bruce said.

  He was the quarterback coach, which is to say, William's personal mentor, confidant, sports psychologist, best friend, and coach. They spent every practice together, working on the game plan and plays, techniques, audibles, and passes. He called and texted William several times each day outside of practice. He would always ask a football question, but he was just checking up on his star quarterback. Trying to keep him out of trouble. Which usually began with girls and ended in a bar on Sixth Street.

  William just smiled and threw the ball downfield. The ball seemed to travel through the air with even greater velocity. He was pumped. The adrenaline, the testosterone, the girls, the game. God, it was gr
eat to be young. Talented. Handsome. Bigger. Stronger. Faster. When he had first stepped on this field last year, he was already the best college quarterback in the nation. He had been a finalist for the Heisman Trophy last year; he was the frontrunner this year. The team was undefeated after seven games—after seven perfect games from William Tucker. But he couldn't have a single bad game. One bad game, and he could kiss the Heisman goodbye; one loss, and the team would drop out of contention for the national championship. But he didn't have bad games. He had great games and even greater games.

  It was good to be William Tucker.

  "William."

  "Yeah?"

  Coach Bruce nodded past him toward the home sideline. William turned and looked that way. At his father. Who was stumbling drunk. He tripped over some equipment and fell to the turf.

  "Shit."

  William flipped the football to Coach Bruce then ran over to his father. His father held up a hand as if to high-five, but instead William lifted him up as if he were a bag of feathers. He was only fifty-three, but he looked like an old man.

  "Hey, William."

  His words came out slurred. He embraced William; he smelled the whiskey on his father's breath, like other dads reek of aftershave.

  "Dad, please, I'm getting ready for the game."

  "Just wanted to say good luck."

  More slurred words. He had gone deeper into the bottle after the divorce. After Mom left him. After he lost everything. All because of a dead girl. All because he blamed himself. The jury had sentenced Bradley Todd to death. But Frank Tucker had sentenced himself to a worse fate: life without forgiveness. One of the equipment guys walked by. William grabbed his arm.

  "Bennie, take my dad up to a skybox, get him some coffee, something to eat."

  Bennie nodded.

  "Dad, go with Bennie. He'll take care of you."

  "Okay. See you after the game, son."

  Bennie took his dad's arm and led him away, like a nurse helping an old person. William watched his father stagger away then turned back to the field. All action had stopped. Every player and coach stared at William Tucker a long awkward moment then abruptly turned away. As if from a train wreck.

  His dad was a drunk.

  Joe Namath was arguably the greatest quarterback to ever play the game. He was certainly the most celebrated. He was the first superstar celebrity athlete, back in the sixties, when he played for the New York Jets. "Broadway Joe," as the press had dubbed him, was young, talented, and handsome. He threw passes on the field, and women threw themselves at him off the field. He was a man's man and a ladies' man. He had it all. Including numerous knee injuries. He played in pain most of his career. He turned to alcohol to ease the pain. By the time he retired, he was an alcoholic. Joe hit rock bottom in 2003 when he showed up drunk at a Jet's game honoring him and during a sideline interview with a female reporter, he begged her for a kiss. On national TV. All of America cringed for Joe.

  Just as all of William's teammates now cringed for him.

  He jogged back over to Coach Bruce and the receivers. Coach Bruce tossed a ball to William. He yelled, "Hut!" D-Quan ran downfield and broke to the sideline on a fourteen-yard-out. William took three steps back, set his feet, and fired the ball.

  It sailed ten feet over D-Quan's head.

  William threw five interceptions that game. He fumbled twice. The Longhorns were losing 28-21 with 2:03 left in the game. William dropped back to pass, but the middle of the field opened up, so he ran. Fast. Ten yards. Twenty. Thirty. A touchdown would tie the game. They could still win in overtime. They could remain undefeated. They could remain in the hunt for the national championship. He could remain the frontrunner for the Heisman. He could see the end zone.

  He did not see the strong safety.

  The strong safety was running full speed—twenty-two miles per hour—when he launched his two-hundred-twenty-pound body helmet first at William's head. His helmet impacted William's helmet from the side with the force of a freight train. William's brain slammed against the left side of his skull then ricocheted back and hit the right side of his skull, causing William to suffer traumatic brain trauma. Bruising of his brain. A concussion. William didn't remember anything after that. His head was spinning, and his ears were ringing. He was lying flat on his back on the turf. Through the fog he could make out blurry figures standing over him.

  "William. William. You okay?"

  "Dad?"

  "Oh, shit. Let's get him up and to the bench."

  They pulled him up. Someone held William's right arm over his shoulders; someone else held William's left arm over his shoulders. They led him to the sideline. The crowd groaned. They put him on the bench. Someone got in his face.

  "William, it's Coach Bruce."

  "I can play."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah."

  "Where are we?"

  "Dallas."

  "What team do you play for?"

  "Cowboys."

  "What team are we playing?"

  "Giants."

  "What's your name?"

  "Troy."

  William bent over and threw up. He heard a different voice above him.

  "Can he go?"

  "No," Coach Bruce said. "Probably has a concussion. He thinks he's playing for the Cowboys against the Giants."

  "Does he think he's Roger Staubach?"

  "No. He thinks he's Troy Aikman."

  "Good. If he thought he was Romo, I'd take him out. Send him back in."

  William went back into the game and fumbled on the next play.

  Frank Tucker had sobered up by the time he walked into the emergency room at the hospital in downtown Austin. He stood just outside the open door to his son's room. William lay propped up in the bed; a white bandage was wrapped around his left elbow. A coach and a nurse stood next to the bed. No one noticed Frank. Their eyes were locked on a television perched on the wall; it was tuned to a sports channel. Two analysts sat behind a desk in the "college football game day control room" in New York City; they were conducting a post-mortem on the UT-Tech game in Austin, Texas.

  "It was a humiliating defeat for Texas today," one analyst said. "An embarrassing game for William Tucker. The Longhorns lost any chance at a national championship, and William Tucker lost any chance at a Heisman Trophy. The Longhorns' season ended today with the worst game William Tucker has played in his entire life. Three fumbles and five interceptions. There's not a lot of love for William Tucker in Austin today. God, he had a terrible game."

  "Hard to focus on football when his dad shows up stinking drunk for his game."

  A video clip ran showing Frank before the game, stumbling over equipment and falling down … William running over and helping him up … the equipment guy escorting Frank from the field.

  "How embarrassing is that? With a dad like that, you don't need opponents."

  William's eyes fell from the television and found Frank. The coach and the nurse looked his way, glanced at each other, and walked out past him without making eye contact or uttering a word. Frank stepped into the room. His son seemed utterly defeated. What does a father say in such a moment?

  "Next game will be better, son."

  Not that. His son glared at him.

  "You destroyed yourself, Mom, Becky … and now you're trying to destroy me. You're not going to take me down with you, Dad. Go away. And stay away. I don't ever want to see you again."

  His son wiped tears from his face.

  "I'm a winner, Dad. You're a fucking loser."

  THE PRESENT

  Chapter 17

  Two types of men find their way to Rockport, Texas: fishermen and losers. Frank Tucker did not fish. He drank. Whiskey. Vodka. Beer. Pretty much anything with alcohol content. Every day. All day. And night. Until he fell asleep.

  Only then did he find peace from the past.

  Frank opened his eyes then averted them from the morning sun shining through the open windows. The present beckoned; he was not yet
conscious enough for the past to torment him … for her face to haunt him … to hear her pleading … as Bradley Todd raped her … and her screams … as he stabbed her … forty-seven times … her cries as she lay dying … her last gasps of life. No, he still had precious time not to think of Sarah Barnes. He wiped drool from his mouth and shivered against the sea breeze. He had slept in his clothes again, shorts and a T-shirt. Rusty had taken the blanket. Again.

  The dog barked.

  Frank's head pounded like the surf against the seawall. Only there was no seawall on this isolated stretch of sand fronting the Gulf of Mexico. Rockport was a small fishing town on the Texas coast, about halfway between Galveston and Brownsville but a long way from River Oaks. A long fall. He had started falling and hadn't stopped until he landed in that sand. Face first. Drunk. He had passed out on the beach almost two years ago and had never left.

  Or stopped drinking.

  You do that when your life falls apart. When everything you worked for the last thirty years is suddenly gone from your life. When your wife leaves you for another man, a richer, sober man. When your children no longer answer their phones when they see your name on the caller ID. When the state bar association suspends your license to practice law because you showed up for trial drunk. Three times. When a man invests everything he has—everything he is and everything he ever will be—into his family, and then his family is abruptly ripped from his life like his wallet being snatched by a thief on the street, he is left adrift in a harsh world. He becomes a castaway.

  And he drinks.

  The local motto was Rockport: A drinking town with a fishing problem.

  Frank sucked in the salt air. He was running the beach with Rusty. He still wore the same clothes. They were both barefooted. He had once run five miles every day, either on a treadmill at his downtown club or around River Oaks on weekends; but now one mile proved too much for his body. Being fifty-five years old and a drunk will do that to a man.

  He stopped short and threw up.

  He spit the last of the bile then stood and stretched to the sun. His morning detox. He stepped into the surf, unzipped his shorts, and peed. In front of God and everyone, except there was no one else in sight. Only a few seagulls witnessed his act of public indecency, and they wouldn't talk. He and Rusty walked the last four miles to the rock jetty that jutted out into the sea and then the two hundred paces to the point. The waves hit the rocks and splashed man and dog. He stared out at the endless sea.