The Case Against William Read online

  "I feel blessed. But it's not about me. It's about my coaches, my teammates, and our fans. They deserve all the credit. And the Good Lord."

  He looked up and pointed his index fingers to the sky, as if to thank God. As if God had made that throw. As if God could give a shit about a football game, particularly a college game.

  "He gave us this great victory."

  Straight out of Interviews 101. It was corny, it was dumb, and it was a lie, but it's what the fans wanted to hear, it's what the networks wanted the stars to say after the game, and most importantly, it's the image sponsors wanted their athletes to project when endorsing their products, like tearing up during the national anthem before the game when the cameras were on you. Wholesome. Clean-cut. God bless America. On the field, it's all about winning; off the field, it's all about image. So William Tucker sealed the deal with his country-boy (even though he had grown up in Houston) "aw shucks" smile for all of America then turned away and threw his arms around the student body—or at least the bodies of the two cheerleaders; but he heard the reporter's final words to the game announcer up in the booth and her national audience across the U.S. of A.

  "You know, Kenny, I've met and interviewed a lot of star college football players over the last five seasons. To be quite honest, all too many are the kind of prima donna, I'm-entitled-to-everything, I've-got-the-world-on-a-leash kind of athletes we hate. Who we secretly hope fail. Who all too often end up in trouble with the law because they think they're above the law. William Tucker is not that kind of athlete. Not only is William Tucker the best college football player in America today, he is also one of the finest young men in collegiate sports today. He's a role model for boys all across America. He's the kind of young man every father hopes his daughter brings home. He's almost too good to be true."

  "Get dressed and get out."

  "William, I'm sorry, I'm just not comfortable having sex this fast."

  "Get out." He grabbed his cell phone and started scrolling through the photos. "I can have a sub here in five minutes."

  "We could date a while, get to know each other, then maybe—"

  He laughed. "Date? I don't think so. Come on, hit the road, honey."

  "Will you call me?"

  He laughed again. "What world are you living in? I'm William Tucker."

  The team had arrived back in Austin at nine, and he was in bed with one of the buxom cheerleaders by ten. It was that easy. If you were William Tucker.

  "Okay. I'll do it."

  He tossed the phone onto the recliner.

  "Roll over."

  "Aren't you going to put on a condom?"

  "You got AIDS?"

  "No."

  "Then I don't need a condom."

  "But I'm not on the pill. What if I get pregnant?"

  "You never heard of abortions?"

  Dumb cheerleaders. He climbed on top of what's-her-name and started to push into her when someone banged hard on his dorm door.

  "William Tucker!"

  "Go away. I'm busy."

  "Police! Open the door!"

  "Go—away!"

  "If you don't open the door, we're gonna break it down!"

  "If you don't go away, I'm gonna—"

  The door broke off its hinges and crashed into the room. Four cops in uniforms stood in the doorway. Two pointed guns at William. He stood naked and regarded the cops as if they were water boys.

  "You know who the hell I am?"

  "William Tucker, you're under arrest."

  "For what?"

  "Rape—"

  He pointed at what's-her-name scrambling to cover her naked body.

  "She's eighteen. I checked her school ID."

  "—and murder."

  Handcuffs held his thick arms tight behind his back. He had been arrested before—three times—and each time he had been quickly released once they had discovered who the hell he was. The handcuffs had come off, he had signed a few autographs and taken a few photos with star-struck cops, and he was out the door and on his merry way.

  That's how life worked for William Tucker.

  He fully expected this arrest would be no different. But when the cops opened the back door of the police cruiser and pulled him out, it was different. Cameras flashed and loud voices shouted at him. He squinted against the bright lights and saw that a media gauntlet had formed on the sidewalk leading into the Travis County Jail in downtown Austin. Nothing the media liked more than capturing a star athlete being hauled into jail in the middle of the night. His prior arrests had been for public intoxication, DUI, and solicitation; in Austin, such offenses merited only a brief and humorous mention in the sports pages. Just athletes being athletes.

  But rape and murder—this arrest would be front-page news and the lead story on every cable and network newscast. William Tucker, another felon in a football helmet. His first instinct was to duck his head from the lights and turn away from the loud voices; but he recalled all the other star athletes he had seen on television walking the media gauntlet after being arrested—the "perp walk," as it had become known. They had hidden their faces and looked like disgraced athletes. Like guilty criminals. His media consultant had even used those video clips as training tools; she had repeated over and over that when—not if—he found himself in that situation—even though guilty, a status she had assumed—he was not to hide his face. He was to hold his head high. He was to look directly into the cameras. His face was to show the shock and his voice to express the righteous indignation—the outrage—of an innocent man being wrongfully accused by the American criminal justice system. Prepping for the perp walk was now basic media training for American athletes. And so, like an athlete who falls back on his natural ability in a pressure-packed game situation, William Tucker fell back on his media training as the two cops grasped his arms and escorted him on the perp walk.

  "William, did you rape her?" a reporter shouted. "Did you kill her?"

  He pulled the cops to an abrupt stop and stared directly into the bright lights of the cameras. He tried to infuse his strong masculine voice with just the right amount of outrage and righteous indignation.

  "No. I didn't rape anyone. I didn't kill anyone. They arrested the wrong man. I'm innocent."

  His media consultant would be proud. She had said he was a natural in front of the cameras, said he would make a fortune in endorsements. The cops yanked his arms hard and pulled him inside the jail. The doors shut out the bright lights and loud voices. It was suddenly quiet. Faces peeked up at him and a few cell phones clicked photos as the cops led him down a corridor and into an interview room then pushed him down into a chair in front of a table. The younger cop cuffed William's left ankle to a steel ring embedded in the concrete floor then removed the cuffs from his hands. William rubbed his wrists to restart the blood flow.

  "Get me a Gatorade," he said to the younger cop. "Orange."

  The cop gave him a look then shook his head and left the room. Like most star athletes, he viewed the police more as personal bodyguards than peace officers sworn to uphold the law. Their job was to serve and protect him, not uphold the law against him.

  "What's his problem?" he said to the older cop.

  "You beat Oklahoma this afternoon and get arrested for rape and murder the same night," the older cop said. "That's a fast fall, stud. By the way, that was a hell of a throw. Say, would you autograph a football for my son? You're his hero."

  "Drop dead. You know how much a football signed by William Tucker is worth?"

  "I promise not to put it on eBay."

  "Like I haven't heard that before."

  The cop wasn't pleased. He slammed a landline phone down on the table in front of William.

  "You got one phone call, William Tucker."

  William stared at the phone. It had never gone this far before. He had never been cuffed to the floor ring or given one phone call. By now he should be taking photos with grinning cops. He felt the first twinge of nervousness. He decided that the game si
tuation required a different play. So he smiled, as if he were endorsing sneakers.

  "All right, I'll sign some autographs and take some photos, okay? Then I need to get back to the dorm and sleep, get some rest, see the trainer tomorrow. Knee's acting up. We got another big game Saturday. I could probably get you some tickets."

  The cop did not smile back. His nametag read "Sgt. Murphy." He had gray hair and a big belly. He sat on the edge of the table and crossed his arms. He regarded William. His face turned fatherly, and he sighed as if William had just wrecked the family station wagon.

  "Son, this ain't no joke. The star card ain't gonna get you out of jail this time. You're not charged with being drunk and rowdy on Sixth Street. You're charged with rape and murder."

  The smile left William's face.

  "I didn't rape or murder anyone. This is a big mistake."

  "I don't think so, stud. They found your DNA on the victim."

  "What DNA? What victim?"

  "Texas Tech cheerleader. You raped and murdered her two years ago here in Austin, same day you played a game against Tech. With that DNA evidence, you could spend the rest of your life in prison."

  "Prison?"

  Something was terribly wrong.

  "I can't go to prison—I've got a game Saturday. I've got to win the Heisman Trophy and the national championship. I've got to go number one in the pro draft, play for the Cowboys, win the Super Bowl. I'm William Tucker, star quarterback."

  "Not anymore. From now on, you're William Tucker, accused killer."

  At that moment, reality hit William with the force of a blitzing linebacker: this arrest was different. The cops weren't grinning. They weren't joking. They weren't bringing him Gatorade and treating him special. They weren't begging for photographs with him. All of which meant one thing: he was in serious trouble. Rape. Murder. DNA. Prison. That twinge of nervousness had escalated into a full-body anxiety attack. His respiration ramped; sweat beads popped on his forehead. He didn't know what to do. What play to call. Who to call. His media consultant? His quarterback coach? His mom? He leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, closed his eyes, and covered his face with his massive hands. For the first time in his life, William felt small.

  "Oh, shit."

  When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the phone. He looked up at the cop. Even his voice sounded small.

  "Who should I call?"

  "Your lawyer."

  "I don't have a lawyer."

  The cop sighed. "Most college kids, they're hauled in here for public intoxication. Girls, they call their mamas. Boys, they call their daddies." He scratched his chin and grunted. "Rape and murder, better call your dad."

  "My dad?"

  William shook his head then again hid his face in his hands.

  "My dad's a fucking loser."

  TEN YEARS BEFORE

  Chapter 1

  "You're the best dad in the whole world."

  Could a twelve-year-old boy understand what those words meant to a man? No. He could not. Only another man could. Another father.

  "And you're the best son in the whole world," Frank Tucker said.

  That's the way it is for a father. Your son is part of you, but you thank God that he got only the good part of you and not the bad part of you. Not the nose or the ears or the acne. Because you don't look at your son and think, I want him to be me. You look at him and think, I want him to be better than me. That's a father's dream for his son.

  Frank tossed the football back to his son. William was in sixth grade, but he was big for his age. He was tall and strong with broad shoulders and big bones. If he grew into his hands and feet—which already seemed man-sized—he'd be six-three, maybe six-four. He could already throw a football from the other side of the playscape to this side of the big oak tree. Thirty-five yards. Frank had paced off the distance. Rusty, their golden retriever, barked at William; he wanted in the game. William took an imaginary snap from center then bounced to his right to evade Rusty as if the dog were a blitzing linebacker, set his feet, and fired the ball back. A perfect spiral. With velocity. The leather stung Frank's hands.

  "I'm going to be the Dallas Cowboys' quarterback," William said. "I'm going to be a star."

  That was a boy's dream for himself. Every twelve-year-old boy dreams those kinds of dreams. Frank had dreamt of being a pro golfer, another Jack Nicklaus, but he couldn't make a putt to save his life—or win a match. So he had gone to law school. Plan B, as they say. He wondered if William Tucker would need a Plan B.

  He threw the ball back to his son.

  William caught the ball, rolled to his left, quickly set his feet, and rifled the ball to his dad as if he were running an out route. He had the coolest dad in his school. The other dads, they were rich businessmen and doctors and even lawyers like his dad, but they weren't famous criminal defense lawyers like his dad. Of course, he didn't help bad guys who hurt nice people. He only helped good guys the police thought were bad, but they weren't really bad. He proved they were really innocent. He said his clients were mostly white-collar defendants, although William never understood what the color of their shirt collars had to do with whether they're guilty or innocent.

  "I want to be famous like you," William said.

  Dad threw the ball back.

  "I'm not famous."

  "You're always in the paper."

  "Because my clients are famous."

  William rolled right then threw a fade left.

  "Like the senator?"

  "Yes. Like her."

  His dad was in some big trial up in Austin. He had come home for the weekend.

  "Why do famous people call you?"

  "Because they're in trouble."

  "Why?"

  "Because they made mistakes. Or because the prosecutor thinks they made mistakes."

  "But they're not bad people?"

  "No. My clients are innocent."

  "What if they're guilty?"

  "Then they're not my clients."

  "What if they're rich and can pay you a lot of money?"

  "They're still not my clients."

  "Are we rich?"

  "We're comfortable."

  He sometimes said things like that instead of yes or no. That's how lawyers answer questions.

  "We live in a big house in River Oaks," William said.

  "It's not big for River Oaks."

  Dad wore white collars, too, but he wasn't a criminal. He was wearing a white shirt and a colorful tie and his suit pants and smooth leather shoes and trying not to step in Rusty's poop that William was supposed to have already picked up. Dad had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up. He had just driven in from Austin and pulled the Expedition into the garage and saw William out back, so he had just started tossing the ball, not even changing into play clothes first. He was like that. Suits and stuff didn't matter to him, even when he sweated like now. He was pretty old, forty-five, but he didn't look that old, like the other boys' dads did, pale guys with pudgy bodies and bald heads. He looked manly, like an athlete. He worked out at his law firm's gym. He said he stayed in shape to keep up with his son. They ran the streets of River Oaks on weekends and played golf together at the club. And Dad still had his hair. Other moms looked at him when he came up to the school to have lunch with William or to attend William's games. William felt proud that Frank Tucker was his dad.

  "Dinner's ready!"

  Becky called from the back door. William jogged over to his dad and held up an open hand; Dad slapped his hand. A high-five. Dad said William had high-fived since was a baby. Now it was their personal bonding thing, like Dad always kissed Becky on her forehead. William was way too old for his dad to kiss him. They walked around the pool and into the house. Rusty followed them in. They lived in a big two-story house in a nice part of Houston called River Oaks. Most people would probably call it a mansion, but most of his classmates had bigger homes. Mom wanted a bigger house. Dad made a lot of money; he said Mom spent a lot of money. Sometimes Wil
liam saw in his face that he wanted to say more to Mom, but he didn't.

  "Just keeping the peace, William," he always said.

  Frank walked through the back door and into the kitchen to his wife and daughter and the aroma of Lupe's enchiladas. He had been away for five days, but his wife did not rush to him from the other side of the kitchen. She did not embrace him. She did not kiss him. She seldom looked at him anymore. She had always preferred that people look at her. Elizabeth was still the blonde beauty queen at the University of Texas.

  "I missed you, Daddy."

  His daughter gave him a big hug. He squeezed her then kissed her forehead. She smelled fresh and fourteen; unlike William, who had taken to showering every other day or so, Becky bathed daily. She wore her cheerleader uniform. The varsity football team played that night.

  "How was your week, honey?"

  "We lost both games."

  Becky was an eighth-grader at the same private school William attended. She played on the volleyball team and cheered for the other teams. She was blonde and blue-eyed like her mother but taller, almost as tall as Frank. She was a pretty girl, but not a beauty queen like her mother; she had gotten too much of Frank for that. But she was athletic. And smart. Mature for her age. She seemed to be raising herself; all he had to do was pay her tuition and feed her. He always said that she had been born thirty years old.

  "Sorry I missed them."

  He seldom did.

  "Don't be. We're terrible. Daddy, can we go to the beach tomorrow?"

  They had a beach house in Galveston just forty-five miles south of Houston. It was just a bungalow that sat right on the beach on the West End where there was no seawall. The next hurricane would wipe the small structure off its stilts, but Frank had gotten it at a good price: a client had paid him in kind, with a deed instead of cash. He and the kids and Rusty loved the beach; not so much Liz. The sea air made for too many bad hair days. Frank Tucker belonged on a beach. One day he would live on a beach, maybe when the kids were grown.