Frank Tucker didn't start drinking because his client had raped and murdered Rachel Truitt, the first girl. That's a risk every lawyer takes when he takes a case, that the client might be lying. He was convinced that Bradley Todd was telling the truth. That he was innocent. That he was not a rapist and a murderer. He was wrong. But Bradley had already raped and murdered Rachel when Frank agreed to represent him. So he suffered no moral guilt over her death. Rachel Truitt's death had not occurred on his watch.
But the second girl's death had.
Sarah Barnes had died because he had won an acquittal for Bradley Todd in the first case. His client had been guilty of brutally raping and murdering an eighteen-year-old coed, but Frank Tucker had "gotten him off," as the newspapers referred to Bradley's acquittal after he was arrested for the second murder. So Bradley Todd wasn't on death row where he belonged, but on the streets, free to rape and murder another young coed. And he had. Sarah was twenty-one. She was sister to Ben and Carla. Daughter to Gary and Cindy. She was a cute Christian girl. A dead girl.
Her face haunted Frank Tucker.
He had found himself in the press again, but it wasn't favorable press. Travis County District Attorney Dick Dorkin finally had his revenge. He had been quoted in the Austin paper: "Frank Tucker once called me a failed politician. Perhaps I am. But at least I don't have that girl's blood on my hands. At least my conscience is clear. At least I can look myself in the mirror each morning and know I'm not responsible for Sarah Barnes's death. I tried to put Bradley Todd on death row for raping and murdering Rachel Truitt. But his billionaire father could afford to hire Frank Tucker and pay him a million dollars to get his son off. And Frank Tucker did just that. He set Bradley Todd free to kill again. And kill he did. Frank Tucker got the verdict he wanted for Bradley Todd two years ago. I hope he can live with his own verdict of himself today."
He could not.
He stared at Sarah's photo from the two-year-old story in the paper. He carried it with him always. He looked at her face daily. He downed another shot of whiskey straight up. Four shots would usually blur her image from his mind. He would pass out on the fifth shot.
William sat in a chair behind a table set up on the artificial turf inside the indoor practice arena. The head coach stood to one side, his mother to the other. His father was supposed to be there, but it was probably just as well that he wasn't. If he were drinking, he might make a scene on national television. Arrayed on the table in front of William were five caps bearing college emblems: UT, A&M, ND, USC, and F. The five finalists competing for William Tucker.
I am a star.
William was eighteen and a senior; he hadn't mowed the grass or washed his own car or gone a week without sex in two years. He had led his team to a third straight undefeated record—he loved winning—and a third-straight Class 5A state football championship. He stood six feet five inches tall and weighed two hundred twenty pounds with seven percent body fat. He had a forty-eight inch chest and a thirty-two inch waist. He benched three-fifty and squatted four-fifty. He ran a 4.4 forty. He wore a size seventeen shoe. He was a beast, a freak of nature, and the number one college prospect in the nation. And the nation was waiting for him to decide where he would play his college football. He would make that decision today and then graduate from high school next week, before the Christmas break. In January, he would enroll in college for the spring semester. For spring football practice.
"Two minutes," the television producer said.
The world was mired in the Great Recession, but football-loving America—which is to say, most of America—took a timeout from their economic misery to watch ESPN that day. It was national signing day, the first day high school seniors could sign binding letters of intent to play Division I-A football on full scholarships at the colleges of their choice. The expensive and time-consuming process that had begun when the boys were twelve—the scouts watching their middle school games and charting their progress and size through high school; the recruiting letters to thousands of boys beginning in their freshman year; the on-campus visits by hundreds of boys; the head coaches' home visits to a select few—it all came down to this day. Today the process either succeeded or failed. Each school's recruiting class would be graded by college football analysts on cable television: A to F. Who won, who lost. Who had convinced the best football players in America to become student-athletes at their school for the next four years, although there was little student left in the student-athletes of today and few stayed long enough to graduate. The best players left school after their sophomore or junior years. Money awaited in the NFL.
"One minute."
Aimed at him was the ESPN camera. He wasn't nervous. At eighteen, he had already given dozens of live TV interviews to local, state, and even national sports channels. Being the top high school football player in America, his signing would be carried live on national television. The sports cable channels ran twenty-four/seven; Americans were addicted to sports. But mostly to football. High school football, college football, pro football, fantasy football. Football had captured the nation's imagination. It was America's sport. Invented in America and played by Americans. On college campuses across the country, football in the fall brought alumni and money and perhaps the glory of a national championship to the school, much more than, say, a professor winning the Nobel Prize in physics; in the year after Johnny Manziel won the Heisman Trophy at Texas A&M, the school raised a record $740 million in donations. The signing of a star quarterback was far more important to a college's financial future than the signing of a star professor.
I am special.
Consequently, his choice held the nation's attention. Where would he go? Would he play quarterback for the Texas Longhorns, the Texas A&M Aggies, the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, the University of Southern California Trojans, or the Florida Gators? Each of the five schools had live feeds into its campus, similar to when the Olympic Committee announced the next host city. Coaches, students, players, and alumni gathered in front of their televisions. America awaited his decision. William Tucker's decision that day would determine which of those five schools would have a legitimate shot at the national collegiate football championship during the next four years. Which of those schools would reap a revenue bonanza from bowl games, TV contracts, ticket and skybox sales, and merchandising profits. Which of those schools would make or lose money on their athletic department. College football today was a big business worth billions.
"We're live."
The anchor from New York: "William Tucker, you're the star of this year's high school recruiting class. A special player indeed. You're going to be a hero to one of five colleges today."
On the five monitors set up in front of him, William could see live shots of the crowds of students, coaches, and alumni at each of the schools, like Catholics waiting for the naming of the next Pope. Except these campus crowds featured sexy cheerleaders holding posters that read WE WANT YOU, WILLIAM TUCKER and COME PLAY WITH US, WILLIAM TUCKER and THESE STUDENT BODIES LOVE YOU, WILLIAM TUCKER.
"William, where are you going to play college ball?"
There was a drum roll. Seriously, the show did a drum roll.
"Will it be Texas, A&M, Notre Dame, USC, or Florida?"
The campus crowds on the monitors fell silent. Students put their folded hands to their faces as if praying. Coaches clenched their fists as if to will a decision for their school. Athletic directors dreamed of BCS bowl game revenues. Alumni envisioned bowl wins over their archrivals.
"I'm taking my football talents to …"
William reached out and hovered his hand over each of the caps for a few seconds, just to generate some suspense for the viewers, then grabbed the UT cap and put it on.
". . . Austin, Texas. I will play for the Texas Longhorns."
The crowd on the UT campus jumped for joy. Students screamed. Coaches threw their arms into the air and hugged each other. William Tucker was coming to Austin.
The losing crowds collapsed in stunned disbelief. Coaches cursed, and coeds cried. Athletic directors and alumni looked as if they had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer. William Tucker would not be playing for their team.
I am William Tucker.
Elizabeth Tucker stood next to her son. NCAA rules required that a parent sign the letter of intent if the player were under twenty-one years of age. She would sign as William Tucker's guardian. Her son would be the star she had never been.
She signed the letter of intent then smiled for the television camera. At forty-six and after a few minor nips and tucks, she was still photogenic. She wasn't the UT beauty queen that she had been twenty-four years before, but she was still a beautiful middle-aged woman.
But was she beautiful enough?
Beautiful enough to compete in Houston for a wealthy middle-aged divorced or widowed man? A man with money? They were hot commodities in Houston. So many women forty and older had had their husbands dump them or die on them that the competition for a man with money was fierce. At forty-six, her pool of men with money started with the fifty year olds. A man with money her age could marry a teenager in Houston. And beautiful though she still was, she could not compete with a teenager. And even a fifty-year-old man with money could reach down twenty years for a bride. Perhaps she would have to make do with a fifty-five-year-old. Or settle for a sixty-year-old man. But settle she would, for a man with money. Because her husband had bankrupted the Tucker family. Two years before, he had started drinking and never stopped.
Because of a dead girl.
They would lose the house. The cars. The club. Becky's college. Lupe. Everything. Hurricane Ike had already destroyed her husband's beloved beach house. Now her husband had destroyed his family. Once word had spread through the legal community that the great Frank Tucker was a drunk, the referrals had stopped. Rich clients don't hire drunks to defend them in a court of law. Not when their freedom is on the line. Not even if the drunken lawyer is Frank Tucker. The firm held out hope that he would return to form, but after a year they had fired Frank. Now Elizabeth Tucker's life—the life she had worked so hard to build the last twenty-four years—would be ripped from her being as brutally as a purse-snatcher ripping her Gucci handbag from her grasp. It would all be gone.
She had filed for divorce that very day.
William took a deep breath then blew it out and pushed the barbell up. Three hundred fifty pounds. Once. Twice. Ten times. He replaced the barbell in the rack and sat up on the bench. He was pumping iron in the school's weight room, which rivaled any of the college weight rooms he had toured on his recruiting visits.
"So I tell the coach that my jersey number is twelve, you know, 'cause it was Joe Namath's number. And he says, 'Well, we have another player wearing twelve, but he's a senior, so you can have it next year.' I said, 'I've always worn twelve. It's my number.' And he says, 'William, I can't take his number away from him.' And I say, 'Sure you can, Coach. Just ask him if he'd rather wear number twelve or have me quarterbacking the team with a chance to win the national championship."
His teammates laughed. But not Ronnie. He had not received any Division I-A offers. Or Division I-B offers. Or even Division II offers. His football career was over. After ten years of playing football from peewee through varsity, after thousands of hours of training and weight-lifting and drills, after taking steroids the last two years to get bigger—he still only weighed two-sixty, tiny for an offensive lineman—Ronnie would be playing intramural flag football during his collegiate career. He would also attend UT just like William, but he would be watching the game from the stands.
He burned with jealousy of William Tucker.
"William," Ronnie said, "did you know my dad is president of the bank that holds the mortgage on your home?"
"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."