"So, Frank, you get over that drinking thing?"
"No."
He had drunk his daily protein-and-vodka breakfast shake just to get the day going, beer on the drive up from the beach, and then a quick shot of whiskey before facing the Travis County District Attorney. The last time the two men had been in the same room, it was a courtroom upstairs in this same building when the not-guilty verdict had been read in Bradley Todd's first trial. Frank had won, but the district attorney had been right. He didn't figure his bitter, lifelong legal rival would fail to remind him of that fact. Hence, a shot before meeting the D.A.
Dick Dorkin sat behind a massive wood desk in his office on the first floor of the Blackwell-Thurman Criminal Justice Center at Eleventh and San Antonio Street; the office befit the most powerful politician in Travis County, Texas. He wore a suit and tie, but not because he had just come from church that Sunday. Frank occupied a visitor's chair across from him. The guys occupied the sofa along the wall behind Frank. After he had left his son at the jail, Frank had asked the desk sergeant for the homicide detective in charge of the case. But the sergeant informed him that the case had already been referred to the district attorney's office. The D.A. had already taken the case to the grand jury. And William Tucker had already been indicted for rape and capital murder.
"Well, at least you got a nice tan, lying on the beach."
Frank was not dressed in a suit and tie, but in jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was ragged and too long for a lawyer. His sunglasses hung on a cord around his neck. He wore no wedding ring. He did have a nice tan.
"I've dealt with these prima donna athletes before, Frank, too many times, as you well know. They think playing football or basketball means they don't have to play by any other rulebook. But there's no exemption for star athletes in the penal code. Your son's had some run-ins with the law before—public intoxication and resisting arrest, DUI, solicitation—"
"Solicitation?"
The D.A. shrugged. "Coeds moonlighting on Sixth Street."
"Coeds? Like at the Chicken Ranch?"
Back in the seventies, rumor had it that the infamous Chicken Ranch whorehouse in La Grange sixty miles southeast of Austin employed UT coeds; it made for a good Broadway musical, but no one actually believed the rumors. Apparently those rumors had come home to Sixth Street.
"—but he played the star card every time. Signed a few autographs, took some photos, and the cops released him. A Heisman Trophy will do that for being drunk and stupid, even resisting arrest. But not for rape and murder."
"I just came from the jail. William swears that he's never seen the victim, never met her, never had sex with her."
"Defendants lie, Frank. As you are well aware."
Frank knew Dick Dorkin would wield the Bradley Todd case like a sledgehammer.
"And that he was back in his dorm by midnight, before the time of death."
"Careful what you think you know, Frank."
As if he knew something.
"How'd you get his DNA if he didn't have sex with the victim?"
"We didn't get his semen. We got his blood."
"Blood? On her clothes?"
"On her skin. She fought him, hard enough to bring blood. Traces were found on her arms and thighs. DNA doesn't lie. People do. He's guilty, Frank."
"His blood doesn't prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt."
"Tell that to the jury. And then explain how his blood got onto her body. Only one way: direct physical contact. As in forcible rape. And then murder by strangulation."
The D.A. had come in on a Sunday for a news conference that afternoon; hence, the media throng in the plaza. The circus outside played out on a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. William Tucker's arrest for rape and murder constituted news. National news. Cases like this didn't come along often, so a politician couldn't afford to squander his moment in the spotlight. You never wanted to get between an ambitious politician and a news camera.
"No semen but he raped her?"
"Maybe he wore a condom."
"How many rapists wear condoms?"
"Ask your son."
"He said he doesn't use condoms."
"Oh. Okay. Then I'll dismiss the case."
"Wow, that was easy."
Chuck's voice from the sofa.
"He don't mean it," Dwayne said. "It's called sarcasm."
"Ohh."
The D.A. chuckled. "Where'd you find these guys, Frank? Alcoholics Anonymous?"
"We don't believe in that," Chico said.
"Being an alcoholic?"
"Being anonymous."
Which elicited another chuckle from the district attorney.
"Comedians." He frowned and pointed a finger at Chuck. "Why does he have a football?"
Frank could only offer a lame shrug before he asked, "No witnesses?"
"The only witness is dead."
"Did they recover his skin tissue under her fingernails?"
"Nope."
"Saliva?"
The D.A. shook his head.
"All you have is his blood?"
"All? That blood is more than enough to convict your son."
The D.A. stared at Frank as he processed that information. William's blood on the victim, but not his semen inside her.
"I'll consider a plea offer," the D.A. said. "Life in prison."
"He's innocent. We'll take it to a jury."
The D.A. picked up a remote and pointed it at the TV and the circus outside. The volume came on. A middle-aged woman in a crowd of middle-aged women was being interviewed.
"I watched every episode of the Casey Anthony trial."
"Episode?" the reporter said.
"But this show isn't going to be on TV, so we came down to the studio."
"Show? Studio? You do understand that this is a murder case?"
"Oh, yes. Those are the best shows."
The D.A. muted the volume and turned to Frank.
"There's your jury pool, Frank. You want to put your son's life in her hands?"
No. He did not.
"Can we get into his dorm room?"
"We?" The D.A gestured at the sofa behind Frank. "You and the Three Stooges going to investigate the case?"
"The defense team."
"That's funny," the D.A. said.
"What about the dorm, Dick?"
"Sure, why not? Knock yourself out. The detectives searched his room, and it's not a crime scene. And you're his father." He paused. "Are you his lawyer?"
"He's going to hire a lawyer."
The D.A. nodded almost as if he were embarrassed for Frank. But Frank knew he was not.
"Must be tough, even your own son doesn't want you to represent him."
"Will you agree to a reduction of his bail?"
"He's accused of a brutal rape and murder, and his DNA was on the victim. I couldn't reduce bail for my own son, if I had a son. And I'm up for reelection. My Republican opponent would crucify me. And what if he raped and killed another girl, like Bradley Todd?"
"Five million is unreasonable bail."
"Capital murder, he's lucky to get bail."
"I'll take it to the judge."
"You? You mean, William's lawyer? Well, good luck with that. Judge Rooney's got the case, and he's up for reelection, too. He can't let an accused rapist and murderer back on the street—he's got to show he's tough on crime, even in Austin."
Austin was the blue hole in the red Texas donut. But even liberals feared violent crime.
"And Harold won't forget that he let Bradley Todd out on bail because you were his lawyer and as we all knew, you only represented innocent people. You made him look like a fool, Frank."
"Then you'd better segregate my son from the other inmates or you won't have a defendant to try—he's already been in one fight—and your opponent will enjoy asking you why a suspect was killed in jail."
The D.A. pondered the political ramifications then nodded.
"All right. I'll call over to the jail, get him transferred to the solitary cellblock."
"I want the homicide file."
"I don't have to give you the file."
"The lawyer for the accused is entitled to every piece of exculpatory evidence the state possesses."
"True, but you're not his lawyer, Frank. You're not even a licensed lawyer at the moment."
"I'm his father."
At forty-five, Dick Dorkin had been a short, pudgy little prick. At fifty-five, he was a short, even pudgier little prick. But he held the fate of Frank's son's life in his hands. So Frank tried to mend fences.
"Look, Dick, I know we've had our differences, but—"
"Our differences?" The D.A. laughed. "I hate your fucking guts, Frank."
"Because I called you a failed politician? Because of Bradley Todd? Because of the senator?"
"Because of Liz."
"Liz? What the hell does she have to do with anything?"
"She picked you over me."
"You knew her back then? When we were in law school?"
He nodded.
"You asked her out?"
Another nod.
"She turned you down?"
Another nod. As if he were still shocked by Liz's rejection. Frank almost laughed out loud. Talk about violating the natural order of men and women. Even as a young law student, Dick Dorkin had been a two at best in the male rankings, one being the guy in Sling Blade; he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of snagging a date with a ten like Elizabeth Barton, UT campus beauty queen. But there was no accounting for the male ego.
"That's how this lifelong grudge started, back in law school? Because my ex-wife rejected you?"
"Ex?"
"She divorced me and married a billionaire oilman." Frank snorted. "Hell, Dick, I did you a favor. You should be thanking me. You would've gone broke supporting her."
"How do you know?"
"Because I did."
The D.A. regarded Frank across the wide expanse of wood. After a moment, he sighed.
"All right, Frank. But find him a lawyer fast, or the judge is going to appoint a PD. The arraignment's Tuesday morning at nine."
"I'll be there."
Frank stood and walked to the door.
"And Frank—"
He turned back.
"—try to show up sober."