"Hi, this is Dee Dee. I'm out having fun, so leave a message and I'll call you back. Bye."
Frank played Dee Dee's voice message for William on the interview room phone. Billie Jean had driven Frank downtown to the jail the next morning in her candy apple red Mustang with the top down. It had wide tires and a 420-horsepower V-8 engine. She liked to go fast, which did not help his hangover. She now sat next to Frank, but she could only hear Frank's side of the conversation.
"That's on my phone?" William said.
"It is. You said you didn't know her."
"I don't."
"Then why's her number on your phone?"
"You think I'm guilty, don't you?"
"No."
"What'd he say?" Billie Jean said.
Frank held up a finger to her.
"Her phone number doesn't mean I raped and killed her!"
"It means you knew her. When did you meet her?"
"I don't know."
"It had to be that same night. She went to school in Lubbock."
"I guess."
"How can you not remember her?"
William gestured at his cell phone. "A, I had a concussion. I don't remember that night. And B, I bet I've got five hundred girls' numbers on that phone, maybe a thousand. But I don't know them."
"How can you not know them if you put their numbers in your phone?"
"I didn't."
"What?" Billie Jean said.
Frank turned to her. "He said he didn't put her number into his phone."
"Then who did?"
Back to William: "Then who did?"
"She did."
"She did?"
"Look, Frank, here's how it works when you're a star athlete in America."
As if there were a book setting out the rules.
"Anytime I leave my dorm and go out in public—to a bar, a restaurant … hell, to the post office—girls, they throw themselves at me. They're groupies. I'm like a celebrity on campus, anywhere in Austin. Even out of town. When we travel, girls hang out in our hotel lobby, hoping to get picked up. Coaches always remind the team to be careful with these girls. When we played in the Alamo Bowl last year, this girl went up to a room with two players, they had sex, then she claimed rape. Girls are just part of the job description."
Billie Jean tugged on Frank's T-shirt sleeve.
"He says groupies swarm him in public."
She gave a knowing nod. "Same with my ex, and he was only in the minor leagues. The allure of celebrity."
Back to William: "Okay, I understand that. But her number was in your phone. Explain that."
"So these girls, they grab my phone and input their numbers and they say, 'Text me sometime. Anytime.' " His son shrugged. "They're my subs."
"Your subs?"
"You know, if I need a girl, because it's not working out with the girl I'm with or I'm just bored watching sports on TV, I can text one of those numbers, and a girl will show up at my dorm room in ten minutes. I can call in a sub."
"For sex?"
"Why else would I text a girl?"
"What'd he say?" Billie Jean said.
"They're subs."
"The girls? Subs for what?"
"Sex."
Frank studied his twenty-two-year-old son. His view of girls had taken root when he was sixteen. When the notion that he was special had taken root in his mind. When he began looking upon other people not as fellow human beings but as members of his entourage. Boys existed to mow his lawn and wash his cars; girls existed to provide sex. Frank had tried back then to explain to his son that his view was wrong, but why would his son believe his father when the world was telling him that his view was right? When boys were happy to serve him and girls were happy to have sex with him?
"But you never texted or called her?"
"No. I swear."
"But that means you met her if she put her number into your phone, even if you can't remember meeting her."
"I've met hundreds, thousands of girls. I don't remember them either."
"You must have met her that night."
"I can't remember that night."
If the doctors had kept him in the hospital overnight for observation, William Tucker would not be in jail today.
"You've got to believe me. I didn't rape her, and I didn't kill her."
"I believe you."
"Because you think I'm innocent?"
"Because you're my son."
William's massive body seemed to grow smaller.
"This isn't good, is it? My blood on her, her number in my phone. I'm not going to win this game, am I? They'll convict me, won't they? They'll give me the death penalty."
"I won't let that happen."
What else could he say? Truth was, in Texas it was possible. Probable. Likely even. Three hundred inmates sat on death row in Texas. Some were guilty.
"You won't let that happen? You're a fucking drunk, but you'll save me from the death penalty. Really?" His son regarded him with disdain. "You look like shit, Frank."
Frank felt like shit. Dee Dee's number on his son's phone had thrown him off the wagon before he was even officially on the wagon. He had drunk whiskey until he had passed out the night before.
"Couldn't stay sober for twenty-four hours, could you?"
He could not. Frank stood and started to put his palm against the glass again, but his son had already walked out of the room.
"I've got to be honest, Frank," Billie Jean said. "I'm having a hard time liking your son. I mean, subs? Really?"