Dwayne inhaled on his cigar, Chuck his cigarette, and Chico his joint. They exhaled in unison. Their emissions blended together and created an odd manly-sweet-toxic aroma. Fortunately, the sea breeze blew it away. It was two days later, a Sunday, and they had gathered on the back porch of Frank's bungalow because they had nothing better to do—it wasn't as if they were going to take up yoga that day—and they knew Frank had alcoholic beverages stashed away even if he were not partaking at the moment. Chico drank a beer, Dwayne a Jim Beam with a shot of Coca-Cola, and Chuck his Gatorade-and-vodka sports drink. Frank was running the beach with the dog.
"I'm thinking about frying a turkey for Thanksgiving," Chuck said.
Dwayne frowned. "A fried turkey?"
"Yeah, I've been reading about it. You drop the whole bird into a pot of peanut oil, fry it up."
"Why you figure on frying a bird?"
"I can't grill a turkey. Won't fit on the Weber."
Dwayne grunted. "Well, I like just about anything that's fried, long as beer goes with it."
"Well, of course beer goes with fried turkey. Beer goes with all your food groups."
Chico sucked on his joint, held it for a five count, and then exhaled.
"So what do you think, Dwayne?" he said. "You're the ex-cop."
"About fried turkey?"
"About the Federal Reserve's decision to keep interest rates low. The hell you think—William Tucker."
"I ain't buying his amnesia-by-concussion defense. He remembers. He just don't want to remember. 'Cause he did it. He killed that girl."
"Ditto."
"Yeah, me, too," Chuck said. He exhaled cigarette smoke. "All these star football players, they think the rules don't apply to them, find out the hard way they do. That Giants receiver, Plaxico Burress, he wins the MVP of the Super Bowl then carries a loaded handgun into a New York bar. Has it in the waistband of his sweatpants, like the elastic is gonna hold up a big ol' Glock nine millimeter. The gun falls down, hits the floor, and discharges—he shoots himself in the foot."
"Literally," Dwayne said.
"Lucky he didn't shoot his dick off," Chico said.
"Spent two years in prison for criminal possession of a firearm," Chuck said.
"He should've spent two more for criminal stupidity," Dwayne said.
"Who's he playing for now?" Chico said. "Philadelphia?"
"Pittsburgh," Chuck said.
He kept up with those things.
"And O.J.," Chuck said.
Orenthal James Simpson, aka, O.J., Heisman Trophy winner and NFL Hall of Fame halfback, was tried and acquitted in 1995 of murdering his ex-wife and another man but was tried and convicted in 2008 for armed robbery and kidnapping and sent to prison for nine-to-thirty-three years.
"He's just bad," Dwayne said. "A criminal who could play football."
"He was good."
"Real good."
"And Nate Newton, he played on the Cowboys Super Bowl teams, retired, and took up drug dealing."
"Dumb."
"And Michael Vick, that dogfighting deal."
Vick was a star NFL quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons who ran an illegal dogfighting ring on the side. He pleaded guilty and spent two years in prison. Upon his release, he returned to the NFL to play for the Philadelphia Eagles. Star athletes always get second chances. And third chances.
"Dumber."
"And that Patriots player, Hernandez, they indicted him for murder. I saw an interview just the other day, he said he was a role model for Hispanics."
"Only if they live in Nuevo Laredo."
"More dumber."
"And now William Tucker."
"Most dumber."
"Might cause a man to drink," Chico said. "Or start drinking again."
"That's gonna be hard on Frank," Chuck said.
"Harder on his boy, when they punch that needle into his arm," Dwayne said. "Too many lies, too much DNA. Says he never met her, but her roommate witnessed them meeting at that bar that night. Her phone number in his phone, but he says he didn't input her number, says she did it. On his phone. You ever put your number in someone else's phone?"
"Nope."
"Me neither. Her photo on his phone, but he says she took it herself. You ever take your own photo?"
"Nope."
"Me neither. Says he got back to his dorm around midnight, but the surveillance tape shows him entering the dorm at one-thirty-eight, right in line with the time of death. Boy's lied every step of the way. But DNA don't lie. He had direct physical contact with the girl, that's the only way his blood got on her. No other explanation."
"Makes you wonder why we're trying to save the boy," Chico said.
"We're not saving William Tucker," Dwayne said. "We're saving Frank Tucker."
"Frank seems convinced his boy is innocent," Chuck said.
"Three things in life are certain: death, taxes, and a father's love for his son. What dad can accept that his son's a cold-blooded killer? Seen it many times in Houston, we got the killer dead to rights, but his daddy's saying, 'My boy wouldn't hurt no one. He's a good boy.' And I'd say, 'Well, sir, your good boy stuck a gun to a convenience store clerk and pulled the trigger 'cause he wanted a pack of cigarettes.' Fathers, they just can't believe they raised a killer."
Was he a murderer? And a rapist? Was he innocent? Or was he guilty? That night had forever been wiped from his mind. The helmet-to-helmet hit had banged his brain against the inside of his skull, causing a traumatic brain bruising and putting him in a cloudy dreamlike state for days. He didn't tell the coaches or the doctors because he didn't want to be benched the next game; you don't win the Heisman Trophy sitting on the bench. You've got to play. And in football, you play hurt. Bad knee, bad shoulder, bad brain—you still play.
But you don't remember.
Hell, he had thrown touchdown passes he couldn't remember and won games he couldn't remember. He had played entire games on autopilot. On instinct. His bell had been rung, but his instincts had played on. He couldn't remember those games, and he couldn't remember that night. Not the Dizzy Rooster, not the girl, not anything. If he couldn't remember being there or meeting her—which he obviously was and did—what else could he not remember?
"William Tucker, you awake?"
The whispered voice of the gangbanger next door. William was awake. He was always awake. He couldn't sleep. Or eat. Or think. He couldn't put a complete sentence together in his head. Or even a phrase. Only two words registered in his mind: death penalty.
"What did I do to deserve this?"
"Ain't no deservin', William. There's just destiny."
"This isn't my destiny."
"Yeah, it is. You just ain't accepted it yet. Took me a while, too, had to spend a lot of time thinking 'bout it. One thing about prison, you got lots of time to think. You ever think about dying?"
"I do now."
"Me, too. How old are you?"
"I'll be twenty-three in two weeks. How old are you?"
"Twenty-five. I ain't gonna see twenty-six. Second time around, ain't no appeals, no stays of execution. Man, they got that needle ready for me. Course, my name been on that needle since the day I was born. That always been my destiny."