The desk sergeant sniffed the air like a bird dog on a hunt then eyed the four men as if they were suspects.
"Smells like a brewery. You boys been drinking?"
It was the next afternoon. They had piled into Chico's 4x4 SUV that morning and driven the two hundred miles to Austin. Four drunks in one car for three and a half hours. Who would still be sober?
"We're drunks, Sergeant," Frank said. "So, yeah, we've been drinking." He gestured at Chico. "Well, he's been smoking dope."
The sergeant regarded Chico over his reading glasses. Chico gave him a stoned grin.
"Little old for that sort of thing, don't you think, amigo? Just 'cause you got that ponytail, don't make you Willie."
The sergeant had amused himself. They had parked on Tenth Street in front of the old courthouse in downtown and walked through the plaza and a gauntlet of cameras with logos not of news networks but of cable sports channels; consequently, a carnival atmosphere prevailed on the plaza. They did not appear important in their beach attire, so their presence warranted no media attention. They now stood at the public reception desk inside the Travis County Jail; the sergeant stood on the other side. His nametag read "Sgt. Murphy." His red Irish face said he was no stranger to alcoholic beverages.
"Just the lawyer."
Frank turned to Dwayne (clamping an unlit cigar in his teeth), Chuck (holding a football), and Chico (eating Cheetos) and then back to the sergeant. He tried to keep a straight face when he said, "They're part of the defense team."
The sergeant could not keep a straight face.
"Defense team? They look like the Beach Boys on their fiftieth reunion tour."
He had amused himself again.
"Boys, they were good. Dead Man's Curve, I loved that song."
"That was Jan and Dean," Frank said, "not the Boys."
"Really?" The sergeant grunted. "Aw, hell, it's Sunday, no one's here. All right."
He waved them all back but gestured at Chuck's football and shook his head.
"He won't sign it. Asked him to sign a ball for my boy, promised I wouldn't put it on eBay—he told me to drop dead." Back to Frank: "Your son, he's a bit of a jerk, but he is a hell of a football player."
"White boy gonna play football for the Huntsville Inmates 'stead of the Dallas Cowboys. Gonna score license plates instead of touchdowns. Gonna get paid two dollars an hour instead of two hundred million. Gonna—"
"Kick your ass if you don't shut the fuck up."
The other guests of the Travis County Jail fell silent. The black dude with the big mouth looked as if someone had told him his father was white.
"What … what you say?"
"You're stupid. Are you deaf too?"
William stood in one corner of the large holding cell. The black dude sat in the opposite corner with his homeboys. He pushed himself up off the concrete floor and sauntered over with his pimp roll. He was lean and muscular, a street thug. William was bigger, stronger, and younger.
"What you say?"
"I said, I'm gonna kick your ass if you don't shut the fuck up."
"You a tough white boy, is that it?"
"Tough enough to kick your black ass, homey."
"Homey?"
The dude grinned. But not because he thought William's comment was funny. William had lived with black guys from the 'hood the last four years—like all major college football powerhouses, UT recruited black players from the inner cities of Houston and Dallas because they were the ticket to bowl game revenues—so he knew every move in the 'hood book. There were no rules on the street; there were only predators and prey. The dude's first move would be to fake the grin and then laugh—
He laughed.
—and then he would turn back to his bros and turn his palms up, as if saying, What am I supposed to do with this silly-ass white boy?—
He turned back to the other black inmates and turned his palms up.
—which move he hoped would lure William into a false sense of security, which security would be brutally violated when he suddenly whipped around and sucker punched the silly-ass white boy. Sure enough, the dude's right fist clenched behind him and his shoulders started rotating toward William and his fist came up and around and his head spun around and—
William drove his huge fist into the dude's chin so hard he heard the jaw cartilage crack just as he had heard so many knee cartilages crack on the football field. The dude was out before his body hit the floor. William stared at the dude's bros.
"Anyone else want to fuck with me?"
"William Tucker!" the jail guard shouted. "Your lawyer's here."
Sitting in the chair on the visitor's side of the Plexiglas partition in the interview room, Frank felt a distinct sense of deja vu. As if he had been there before. His brain fought through the fog of whiskey and found the memory. He had been there before. In this same cubicle. Facing Bradley Todd.
But it wasn't the same. Bradley Todd was not his son.
Frank hadn't spoken to or seen his son in two years, except on the old television. When the guard escorted an inmate wearing a green-and-white striped uniform into the interview room, Frank almost didn't recognize his son. At twenty, he had been a boy, albeit a big boy, lean and sinewy; at twenty-two he was an action-figure, with a massive chest, broad shoulders, and thick arms with veins that looked like blue cords. His bulky body stretched the uniform to the breaking point and filled the space in the cubicle on his side of the glass. He remained standing. Frank wanted desperately to embrace his son, but more than the one inch of glass separated father and son. William spoke, but Frank couldn't hear him. He picked up the phone on his side and pointed to the phone on his son's side. William put the phone to his face and spoke again.
"This is bullshit! I didn't kill anyone! I didn't rape anyone! These fucking idiots got the wrong guy! I'm innocent!"
Frank had come to the jail as a father even though he hadn't been much of a father to his son since he had started drinking six years before; and he likely wouldn't be his son's lawyer because his license was suspended. The father in him knew that his son could never have committed such violent acts against a girl; but the lawyer in him wanted to ask that question—"Did you do it?"—so he felt a sense of relief to hear his son say those two words: I'm innocent. Those words led in one direction—dismissal of the charges before trial or acquittal at trial—while I'm guilty would have led in another direction—a plea and prison.
"They act like they don't know who the hell I am! I can't believe they made me stay here overnight—they didn't even give me a private room!"
As if he were on a road trip with the team instead of in the county jail.
"Get me the fuck out of here!"
Not "Hi, Dad. Good to see you after two years." But perhaps that was expecting too much. His son was in jail charged with rape and murder. He was breathing hard. Blood spotted the knuckles on his right hand.
"What happened?"
"Fight. Back in the cellblock."
"You okay?"
"This time. Next time I'll have to fight five brothers."
William dropped the phone and paced the cubicle; he was hyped up on adrenaline and anger. Frank gave him time to calm. After a few minutes, William's respiration noticeably eased; he sat down hard in the chair on his side and blew out a big breath. The adrenaline resided, and his big body calmed. Frank leaned forward in his chair, but his son leaned back, as if trying to escape. But there was nowhere to go. He regarded Frank a long moment then picked up the phone.
"You look old."
"Being a drunk will do that."
"Do what?" Chuck said.
The guys stood behind Frank; they could only hear Frank's side of his conversation with William.
"Make you look old."
Chuck turned to Chico. "Do I look old?"
Chico shook his head. "Just ugly."
Frank's son now regarded Dwayne, Chuck, and Chico.
"Who are they?"
"Your defense team."
"Are they drunks, too?"
"They are."
"Get me out of here."
The Austin newspaper said his son was being held on a $5 million bail. His father was a broke drunk, but his mother's new husband was a sober billionaire.
"I'll try."
"They said I killed a girl. A Tech cheerleader. Two years ago."
The newspaper story said a Texas Tech cheerleader had been murdered after UT's game against Tech in Austin, the same game two years before when Frank had shown up drunk and embarrassed his son. His son had played the worst game of his career; then he had banished his father from his life.
"I'm innocent."
"I know," Frank the father said.
Over two hundred thousand males were behind bars in the state of Texas. Did their fathers know they were innocent, too? Bradley Todd's father had known his son was innocent. But he wasn't. Frank held the front page of the newspaper with the image of the dead girl up to the Plexiglas. Her name was Dee Dee Dunston.
"Did you know her?" Frank the lawyer asked.
His son leaned in and studied the image. He slowly shook his head.
"You don't recognize her?"
"No. I've never seen her before in my life. I swear."
"Did he know her?" Dwayne said.
"No. Says he's never seen her before." Back to the phone and William: "The newspaper said the police recovered your DNA from her body."
"How? I don't know her, I never met her, I didn't have sex with her. How could they get my DNA?"
From his saliva, sweat, semen, secretions, skin …
"Why was your DNA in the database?"
"A month ago, a bunch of us were partying over on Sixth Street, a cop got mouthy with us, we got mouthy with him. He said he was going to arrest us for public intoxication, I told him to fuck off. So he arrested me for resisting arrest. Hauled me down here. Soon as they found out who I was, I signed a few autographs, took a few photos, they let me go. But they did a cheek swab."
Anyone arrested in Texas for a serious crime—and resisting arrest qualified—will have his or her DNA collected and input into the national database.
"Why'd they have his DNA?" Dwayne said.
"Arrested. Public intoxication and resisting arrest."
Dwayne grunted. "That'll do it."
Back to William: "So they input your DNA, and the database matched it to an unsolved murder."
"That's what the cops said. "
"William, tell me everything you did that day."
His son shook his head. "I can't."
"Son, everything you tell me is confidential. I'm not just your father, I'm your lawyer. Sort of. And they're working for me, so the privilege applies to them as well."
"Are we getting paid?" Chuck asked.
"No," William said. "I mean, I can't remember what happened."
"Why not?"
"I don't remember anything from that day. Concussion. The whole day is gone."
"You don't remember anything?"
"No." He shrugged. "Every time I've had a concussion, that day, most of the next week, it's just a black hole."
"He had amnesia?" Chico asked.
"Concussion," Frank said.
"I had amnesia after my concussions," Chuck said. "Still got it."
"He's going with an amnesia defense?" Dwayne said. "That ain't gonna fly."
Back to his son: "How many concussions have you had?"
"Four or five. Six. Maybe seven."
"Seven concussions? And they still let you play?"
"I don't tell the coaches."
"Why not?"
"They won't let me play."
"Maybe you should stop playing."
"Maybe I should stop breathing. I'm a football player. That's who I am. What would I be if I stopped playing?"
"My son."
"That won't get me a hundred-million-dollar guaranteed contract."
It would not. Being Frank Tucker's son was not worth much in this world. Only slightly more than being Frank Tucker.
"What was your normal schedule for a game day?"
"That was a day game, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
Frank had been drunk, but he did not suffer a concussion. He remembered that game day.
"I usually get up around eight, eat breakfast in the athletes' dining hall, walk over to the stadium."
Frank had woken at ten that morning, hung over at the hotel. Not the five-star Driskill Hotel in downtown Austin, but a cheap hotel fronting the interstate not far from the UT stadium. He had passed out the night before and slept like a baby; the whiskey drowned out the traffic noise. He had his usual breakfast of vodka and orange juice—not too much orange juice—then a liquid brunch and an early liquid lunch. He was too drunk to drive, so he walked over to the stadium. His son had given him a sideline pass—the star quarterback could do that for his father—so Frank Tucker received VIP treatment just like Matthew McConaughey and other UT alumni who had achieved celebrity status. By the time he entered the stadium, Frank Tucker was stumbling drunk. But he still thought his son would be happy to see his dad on the sideline. When you're a drunk, you think things like that.
"Then what?"
"Pre-game stuff. The trainer tapes my ankles, I suit up but no pads, go out onto the field and warm up. Stretching, jogging, passing drills. That was the game you came to, wasn't it?"
It was.
Frank Tucker stumbled down the sideline past the TV cameras and reporters and celebrities and cheerleaders and into the team's equipment. He fell to the turf as if he had been tackled. The next thing he knew, his son was helping him up and placing him in the care of a guy named Bennie. He took Frank upstairs to a suite and got him a hamburger and coffee. A lot of coffee. Frank had sobered up by the fourth quarter when William suffered a brutal helmet-to-helmet hit. And a concussion.
"Worst game of my career. Five interceptions."
"You remember?"
"Read about it. Couldn't bear to watch the film. Cost me the Heisman."
"After the game, they took you to the hospital. You remember that?"
William shook his head. "Coach said they gave me a brain MRI, stitched up my elbow."
"What happened after I left?"
After his son had told him to leave and stay the hell out of his life. After he had said his father was a fucking loser. The truth hurts.
"Coach Bruce said he got me some dinner, took me back to the dorm, put me to bed."
"Did you stay there all night?"
"Must not have. Guess the guys decided I needed some fresh air."
"What guys?"
"Back then, would've been Cowboy and Red."
"They're your best friends?"
"They're the guys."
"Who's your best friend?"
He pondered a moment.
"Coach Bruce, I guess."
"You don't have a steady girlfriend?"
"You mean, like, someone I'd take home to meet my … sister?"
"Like that."
"No. Those girls don't groupie for athletes. And I don't have time for commitments in my life, except football. No distractions, focus on football. That's the ticket to the NFL."
"What about life?"
"Football is my life."
And perhaps it should be at twenty-two.
"Where did Cowboy and Red take you?"
"Sixth Street, I'm sure."
"Did you drink?"
"I'm sure."
"At the Dizzy Rooster?"
The victim's body had been discovered in the alley behind that bar.
His son shrugged. "We go there a lot. But I don't remember if we went there that night."
"Was he there?" Dwayne said.
"Doesn't remember."
"That ain't gonna fly."
Back to William. "You don't remember anything?"
"When you get a concussion, you're in a fog for days, like a dream you can't remember when you wake up."
"How can you go to a bar in that condition?"
"Hell, I've played entire games in that condition. Your body just goes on autopilot."
"Did you meet this girl?"
"I told you, I've never seen that girl before in my life."
"Did you meet other girls?"
He shrugged again. "I'm sure. I'm William Tucker. I always meet girls. Or they meet me."
Just as a matter of fact.
"Did you have sex with a girl that night?"
"I don't remember."
"Because of the concussion?"
"Because there's been too many girls on too many nights. Even without the concussion, I couldn't remember a girl from two years ago."
"You just go into a bar and pick up a girl and have sex?"
"Wow," Chuck said from behind.
"They pick me up."
"Do you always wear a condom?"
William shook his head. "I never wear a condom. No one does."
"He doesn't wear rubbers?" Chico said. "Man, that's loco."
"I don't wear condoms," Chuck said.
"Yeah, but you can't catch nothing from your hand."
"True."
"AIDS, STDs, pregnancy," Frank said to his son, "any of that mean anything?"
"Not really. But I went to bed early that night. The guys took me back to the dorm."
"You were back in your dorm? What time?"
The newspaper said the girl had been killed between midnight and two A.M.
"Around midnight."
"You remember that?"
"The guys told me."
"What time?" Dwayne asked.
"Midnight."
"Convenient. He don't remember nothing except he was in his dorm when the crime was committed."
"Get me out of here," his son said. "I've got a game Saturday."
Frank didn't have the heart to tell his son that his season was over.
"Your bond is five million. I'll try to get it reduced, but—"
"Call Mom. She's in Europe with Dale. He's a billionaire. Tell her I need money for bail and to hire a lawyer."
Frank Tucker used to be the lawyer every accused wanted to hire.
"You have her number?"
"It's on my cell phone. In my dorm room. Jester West, room five-twenty-one."
"The cops probably took your phone when they searched your room."
"They searched my room?"
"Standard police procedure. Is there anything you wouldn't want them to find?"
His son shrugged. "No."
Father and son regarded each other across six feet of Plexiglas-partitioned space. A father always sees the twelve-year-old boy who thought he was the best dad in the whole world; he never sees the twenty-two-year-old man who thinks his dad is a loser. A man can't handle that truth. Frank reached out and placed the palm of his right hand flat against the glass then waited for his son to match hands, a jailhouse high-five. And waited. His son stared at his father's hand then at his father. He stood.
"Frank, get me the fuck out of here."
"Frank?"
"What do you want me to call you—Dad?"
His son hung up the phone and turned his back on his dad. He walked out of the inmates' side of the interview room. The four men on the visitor's side remained quiet for a long awkward moment until the silence was broken by Dwayne's voice.
"Not the kind of kid you like right off, is he?"