"Teach me, Mr. Tucker."
"Frank."
"Teach me, Frank."
"You've never tried a case?"
"I've never had a case. I just got my law license."
"I've tried a hundred cases, but I lost my law license."
"I've got what you need, Frank, and you've got what I need."
"I need a drink."
He stood and got a drink. A Shiner Bock beer. Like an appetizer before the main course. But he had promised his son. William needed a sober lawyer. So there would be no whiskey for Frank. He would go cold turkey on Wild Turkey. And Jack Daniels. And Jim Beam. And all his other buddies. He would wean himself off whiskey with beer; he wasn't sure what he'd use to wean himself off beer. Something equally addictive—ice cream, maybe. They all sat at the picnic table. Chico fiddled with William's cell phone. Dwayne flipped the pages of the homicide file and Chuck the signed football into the air. Ms. Crawford typed notes on her iPad with the candy apple red cover, same as the paint job on her convertible Mustang.
"We read the transcript of your closing arguments in the senator's trial," Ms. Crawford said. "Brilliant. You got the jury to blame the prosecutor instead of the defendant, made the D.A. look like a fool. He's not the type to hold a grudge, is he?"
"I'm afraid he is."
"Well, that explains his courtroom demeanor."
"No, that's just because he's an asshole. The grudge stuff will come later."
Ms. Crawford had come out to their campsite to plan their defense strategy. Frank drank his beer and regarded his co-counsel. She was an extremely attractive woman; the others had already noticed. They eyed her as if she were a fifth of bourbon on a liquor store shelf. The good stuff. She had a pretty face and a throaty voice, like that actress, the one who used to be married to the Die Hard guy. She had removed her jacket and wore a sleeveless white blouse. Her arms were muscular for a woman.
"You work out?" Chuck asked her.
"Every day. At the Y by the lake, then I run five miles around the lake."
"What do you wear?"
She frowned at his question.
"Forgive Chuck, Ms. Crawford—"
"Billie Jean."
"—emotionally, he's still in high school. So, Billie Jean, how did you find your way to the public defenders' office?"
"Law firms don't hire forty-year-old associates."
She didn't look forty years old.
"This is my second career," she said.
"What was your first?"
"Stripper."
"I like her already," Chuck said.
"Some girls call themselves exotic dancers, but there's nothing exotic about taking your clothes off and putting your privates in strange men's faces."
"Always seems exotic to me," Chuck said. "You ever do the olive oil thing?"
"I've never heard of the olive oil thing."
Chuck grunted as if surprised. "All the strippers in Mexico know about it."
She stared at Chuck for a beat then shook her head as if her brain were an Etch-A-Sketch and she was trying to shake the image clean from her mind. It took a moment for her to regain her train of thought.
"Anyway, I'm a single mom. I have a daughter, she's in college now. I married a bum when I was young and stupid. He was my Prince Charming, tall and handsome, a minor league baseball player on his way to the majors."
"Did he make it?"
She shook her head. "He was a minor-league player all his life. Turned out, he was a minor-league man, too. Played a doubleheader while I gave birth. First thing he said to me when he got to the hospital was, 'Shit. I went oh-for-eight.' He left us right after she was born."
"Where is he now?"
"California, last I heard."
"Doing what?"
"Screwing up someone else's life, I'm sure. Some other stupid woman looking for her Prince Charming. Why do we do that?"
"Ask my ex-wife."
"Anyway, I went back to school, got a degree in criminal justice, working nights. Then law school."
"You put yourself through college and law school on tips from stripping?"
"I was a very good stripper."
"Now I'm in love," Chuck said.
"My stage name was Candy because I always wore a candy apple red G-string."
"You're killing me," Chuck said.
"Hence, the candy apple red convertible," Frank said.
"Reminds me of where I've been … and where I don't want to be again."
She must have seen something in Frank's eyes, but it wasn't what she thought.
"I wasn't a prostitute, so don't judge me."
"Billie Jean, we're all drunks who've screwed up our lives royally. Do we look like the types to judge?"
"Frank, I want you to teach me."
"How to be a prostitute?"
She smiled. She had a nice smile.
"How to be a lawyer. I'm a fast learner. I want to be a good lawyer. You're the best. Or you were."
Frank finished off the beer then stood and walked over to the cooler and popped the top on another can. He wanted a shot of whiskey. He addressed the defense team.
"The clock's ticking on my son's life. We're all that's standing between him and death row six weeks from now. Good news is, he's innocent. Bad news is, we've got no money to defend him and it's his word against his own DNA. That story ends on death row. We've got to find the truth."
"Give him a polygraph," Dwayne said.
Frank had never made Bradley Todd take a polygraph. He had wished so many times since that he had. Should he make his son take a polygraph? A father did not need proof that his son was innocent.
"Where? In his cell? And even if the D.A. allowed it, he'd know we gave him one. If he passes, they know we'll tell them, but they won't dismiss the charges because they've got his blood. If he fails and we don't tell them, they'll know they've got the right guy."
"At least we'd know."
"We already know. He's innocent."
"Frank, you ain't buying his amnesia defense, are you?"
"I got no short-term memory 'cause of my concussions," Chuck said.
"They got his blood off the girl," Dwayne said. "That's kind of hard to explain away. You've got to at least consider the possibility that he did it."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"He's my son."
"Frank, I understand but—"
"No. You don't understand. You can't understand. None of you can."
"Why not?"
"None of you have a son."
Frank took a deep breath and a long swallow of the beer. Dwayne inhaled on his cigar and then exhaled smoke circles.
"You're right," Dwayne said. "You're his father, and we're your friends. We're here to help you help him."
"Thanks. Okay, Chuck, you're the football guy, so I need you to go to Lubbock and talk to the other players and coaches. You can relate to them."
"You want me to go to Lubbock by myself?"
His expression seemed pained.
"You're forty-nine, Chuck. You can do it."
"But, Frank, I'm a little worried … you know, the memory thing. And I don't think so good these days."
Chuck's numerous concussions in college caused him to worry that he had suffered brain damage, as many ex-football players were discovering they had suffered. Repetitive concussions have been linked to memory loss, impaired thought processes, early-onset dementia, and irreparable brain damage.
"Six NFL players committed suicide the last two years," Chuck said. "And now McMahon—"
Jim McMahon, the Super Bowl winning star quarterback of the Chicago Bears back in the eighties.
"—and Bradshaw—"
Terry Bradshaw, who won four Super Bowls as the Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback in the seventies and eighties.
"—they're both suffering memory lapses. Man, I don't want to get lost in Lubbock."
"Chuck, you smoke those cancer sticks like a chimney," Chico said. "You should be worried about getting cancer, not getting lost."
"At least with cancer I'd just die. Better than wandering the beach not knowing how to get home."
"Sorry, Chuck," Frank said. He knew better than to ask Chuck to go out of town alone. "Dwayne, you go with him. Track down all the witnesses named in the file—cheerleaders, players, coaches. Recheck their stories, see if the detectives missed anything. Better that way, you can look after each other."
"Two drunks watching each other? There's a recipe for disaster."
"Or fun," Chuck said.
They fist-bumped.
"Problem is, my truck's in Rockport," Dwayne said.
"Take mine," Chico said.
"How will you guys get back home?" Chuck asked.
"I'll drive them," Billie Jean said. "I'm on the team, too."
"Uh, Frank," Dwayne said, "traveling to Lubbock, staying in a hotel, that costs. I'm tapped out till my next pension check. We need money to fund this investigation—hell, to pay for gas to Lubbock."
Frank glanced at the members of the defense team: Dwayne Gentry, an ex-cop who supplemented his police pension working as a part-time security guard at a mini-storage facility … Chuck Miller, an ex-coach who refereed peewee football games, but only the ones run by organizations that didn't require criminal background checks … Chico Duran, an ex-con who fraudulently received federal disability benefits and delivered pizzas on weekends … Billie Jean Crawford, an ex-stripper turned public defender. His eyes rested on her. Her eyes narrowed, then she shook her head.
"Don't even think about it. I'm not stripping again."
Their moneymaking opportunities were limited. But defending a client against a capital murder charge carrying the death penalty required money. Frank saw no options … until Chuck flipped the signed football into the air again.
"Sell the ball," Frank said.
Chuck caught the ball and frowned at Frank.
"Do we have to? I've gotten attached to it."
"Get unattached. Chico, put that ball on eBay. Pronto."
Dwayne smiled. "An expense-account trip, even if it is to Lubbock."
"No bars."
Now he frowned. "Well, that takes a lot of the fun out of a free trip."
"No, I mean there are no bars in Lubbock. It's dry."
"My God."
As if Frank had just said the world would end the next day. Chico made the sign of the cross.
"Billie Jean," Frank said, "draft a subpoena. Copies of all DNA tests, all physical evidence reports, autopsy results, the game film, anything else they've got."
"You want a copy of the game film?"
"I want Chuck to review the tape, see if it caught the girl on the sideline. Maybe someone talked to her during the game."
"I'll break it down," Chuck said.
"I don't care about the offensive and defensive schemes, just the cheerleaders."
"That's what I meant."
"I've never written a subpoena," Billie Jean said.
"Look in the form books. You draft it, I'll review it."
"Okay, I'll email it to you."
"No email."
"For security, so the D.A. can't intercept our communications?"
"Uh, no. I don't have email."
"Why not?"
"I don't have Internet connection."
"Why not?"
"I live in a shack on the beach."
"Oh. Okay, I'll fax it."
"No fax."
"Mail?"
"Not that I know of."
"I'll drive it down."
"Chico, you go through his laptop and phone."
His eyes remained locked on William's phone like a kid playing a video game. "On it."
"And no drinking, guys."
That brought Chico's eyes up; they all eyed Frank a long moment then broke into laughter.
"That's a good one, Frank," Dwayne said.
"Anyone know the area code for Lubbock?" Chico said.
Billie Jean typed on her iPad.
"You've got three-G?" Chico said.
"Four."
"Damn."
"Eight-oh-six," she said.
"I was afraid of that."
"Why?" Frank said.
Chico pressed buttons on the phone then put it to his ear and listened.
"Shit."
"What?"
He pressed buttons again and engaged the speakerphone. He held the phone out. They could hear the call ring through and then a perky voice answering.
"Hi, this is Dee Dee. I'm out having fun so leave a message and I'll call you back. Bye."
The message beeped. Chico disconnected. Frank could barely speak the words.
"Her number is on William's phone?"
"He lied, Frank," Chico said. "He knew her."
"Play it again."
He did. William knew the victim. He had lied to his father. Just as Bradley Todd had lied to his lawyer. Frank needed a drink. A real drink.
"It's been two years," Billie Jean said. "Why is her phone still working?"
"Because parents, they never let go," Dwayne said. "Seen it all the time. Her room at home, bet it looks exactly like the day she left for college." He puffed on the cigar. "Her folks probably kept her phone on their family plan. It don't cost much."
"Why would they do that?"
"To hear her voice."
"Hey … William Tucker."
The whispered voice of the gangbanger next door came through the cell bars.
"Fuckin' death penalty, huh? Shit, that sucks."
"This can't be happening to me."
William felt as if he had taken a blow to the head. His thinking was foggy, his thoughts lost in the fog of fear. The death penalty.
"Sure it can. Happen to me."
"You were on death row?"
"Five years, till I got me a new trial. Now I'm going back. Back home."
"What's it like?"
"Boring. Goddamn, the boredom just eats at you, almost make you wanna kill yourself, save them the trouble. But you don't, man, 'cause you wanna live. You never know how much you wanna live till someone say you gotta die. That's why they strap you down, 'cause folks wanna live. Brothers on both side of me, they took that walk to the death chamber. Talked big shit, saying, 'Hell, I'm gonna spit in the man's eye.' But when the day come, they crying for they mama, scared to stop living. Least it ain't like the old days, sitting in that electric chair. You imagine that? They wire your ass up and hit the voltage, say your eyes pop outta your skull, that's why they put a hood over your head. Shit. That scary. Now you just go to sleep. Fuckin' forever. But don't you worry none, William, all the mandatory appeals they do, take ten years minimum. You gonna live a long time on death row. Being bored. Eating bad food. Waiting."
William heard the gangbanger sigh.
"Man, if I just hadn't of gotten all these tatts, I might've got off. Them jury people, they see a black dude with tatts all over his arms and neck, they scared. That a good thing on the streets, see, but it ain't so good in a courtroom. You got any tatts?"
"No."
"You play football but don't got no tatts?"
"I'm afraid of needles."
The gangbanger next door laughed. "That funny."
"Why is that funny?"
"D.A. want to sentence you to death, but you afraid of needles. That ain't no defense."
He laughed again, but William was confused. His foggy mind could not comprehend the joke.
"What?"
"You get the death penalty, they don't electrocute you no more, William Tucker. They stick a needle in you and shoot the poison into your veins. That's how they kill you now, with a fuckin' needle. And, hell, we all afraid of that needle."