William Tucker turned twenty-three that Sunday. So instead of running the five miles to the jetty that morning, Frank had driven to Austin. He was worried about his son. William had called him regularly since his incarceration; but the calls had stopped that week. Frank had called the jail but had not been put through. He left messages, but William had not returned them. With each call, William's emotional state seemed to be spiraling downward. Faster. His last call he had said it was his destiny to die in prison.
"I can break him out of here," Chico said.
Dwayne, Chuck, and Chico had come along. Billie Jean and Becky had been waiting for them in the plaza. The open space was free of media; apparently, testosterone and stupidity had joined together to produce a bad result for a pro basketball player, so the sports cable channels had decamped Austin for Chicago. Becky brought a birthday cake she had made herself. Frank promised to save a big piece for the desk sergeant, so he allowed them to take the cake into the interview room. Frank put the cake on the table in front of the glass partition and lit the candles. His son would celebrate his birthday in jail.
"Now don't look shocked at his appearance," Becky said. "He doesn't eat or sleep, so he's lost weight. He looks like hell."
"He's in hell," Chico said.
They stood before the cake like a choir. The door on the inmate side opened, and a guard stepped in. Frank started singing loudly enough that William might hear on his side of the glass; the others joined in.
"Happy birthday to you,
"Happy birthday to you …"
Frank felt as if he were singing to his twelve-year-old son again. The birthday boy bounded into the interview room with a bounce in his shackled step and a big smile on his face. Their voices fell from their surprise. And confusion.
"Happy birthday dear William,
"Happy birthday to you."
William waved at everyone like a kid at his surprise birthday party then grabbed the phone on his side. Frank picked up on his side.
"Hey, you remembered my birthday. Becky bake that cake?"
"She did."
"Tell her thanks."
Frank did. Back into the phone: "Happy birthday, son. Uh, what's going on, William?"
"I feel great. Worked out today—pushups, sit-ups, jump squats. Gotta get in shape. I'm going to play pro football next year."
"How?"
His smile got bigger.
"You're not going to believe it."
"What?"
"I got a movie deal."
"A movie deal?"
"He got a movie deal?" Becky said.
Frank nodded at her.
"For my life story," William said into the phone.
"From jail? How?"
"Okay, so my college career is over, right, like the judge said? The season will be over before the trial. And, hell, they've lost every game without me. Shit, they lost to Baylor. Anyway, I'm not worried about losing my amateur status. So I hired an agent."
"An agent? Who?"
"He got an agent?" Dwayne said.
Frank nodded at him.
"Warren Ziff," William said. "He's a real asshole, reps half the starting quarterbacks in the NFL."
"How'd he find you in jail?"
"Everyone in America knows I'm in jail. ESPN runs daily updates."
"You get cable in there?"
"No. Warren told me. Agents have been calling me since my freshman year, trying to sign me up. A lot this year, until I got arrested. Warren came to the jail last week."
"And then?"
"He sold my life story to Hollywood for a million bucks."
"A million dollars?"
"He got a million dollars?" Chuck said.
Frank nodded again.
"Do we get paid now?"
Back to William: "And he's shopping a book deal. I'm gonna hire Becky to write it. Frank, I'm saved. Warren hooked me up with a big-time lawyer. He says he can get me out of here. It's too late for the Heisman, but not for the NFL draft. I've got time to get in top shape again, blow the pro coaches away at the combine. I can still go number one."
"You hired another lawyer?"
"He hired another lawyer?" Billie Jean said.
Frank nodded at her. Into the phone: "Who?"
William pointed past Frank.
"Him."
Frank turned to see Scotty Raines standing there. Raines was mid-forties and high profile in Austin, the second-best criminal defense lawyer in Texas, until Frank became a drunk. Now Scotty was the best. He wore a crisp button-down shirt, sharply creased slacks, and shiny shoes, apparently his Sunday casual attire. Frank wore a T-shirt, jeans, and deck shoes. No socks. Scotty looked him up and down with a bemused smile.
"Frank."
"You're representing my son?"
"I am." Scotty checked his watch. A Rolex. "And I need to confer with him before I see the D.A. Privately."
Frank glanced back at his son; he offered the same big smile. Frank turned back to the others.
"Becky, guys, why don't y'all step outside while—"
"Uh, Frank," Scotty said. "Sorry. Attorney-client privilege. If you sit in, the privilege is waived, you know that."
"I'm a lawyer, too, Scotty."
"Not anymore. At least not a licensed lawyer." Scotty gestured at Billie Jean. "And I don't need an ex-stripper on the defense team."
"I need a drink," Frank said.
"You need a son worth giving a shit about," Dwayne said.
"I changed my mind," Chico said. "I don't want to break him out."
The six of them and the birthday cake sat on a bench in the plaza.
"He fired you?" Becky said. "His own father?"
"He fired me, too," Billie Jean said. "And I work for free."
"So you guys are off the case?" Becky said.
"We are."
"I told you he changed, Daddy. He became a star. He doesn't give a shit about anyone except himself now. We're all just his fucking entourage!"
She never cursed. She wiped her eyes.
"No, he's doing the smart thing. Scotty Raines is a top defense attorney with a big firm. They're connected."
"To whom?" Billie Jean said.
"The D.A. And all the judges."
"How?"
"Money. Campaign contributions. That's how the system works in Texas. Lawyers give judges campaign contributions, and judges repay the favor."
"And they send us to jail," Chico said.
"So?" Billie Jean said.
"So Scotty can get his bail reduced, maybe to PR. He can get him out of jail."
"But can he get him acquitted?"
Frank Tucker had fallen so low that even his own son didn't want his counsel. He desperately wanted a drink.
"What are we going to do now?" Billie Jean asked.
"Go home."
And dive into a whiskey bottle.
Scotty Raines exited the Justice Center and waved as he walked across the plaza. Billie Jean gave him the finger.
"Who wants cake?" Frank said.
Chuck raised a hand, but Becky grabbed the cake, walked over to a trash bin, and threw it in.
"Damn," Chuck said. "I like cake."
"I'll be back," Dwayne said.
Dwayne picked up the defense team's briefcase and walked back inside the Justice Center.
Dwayne told the desk sergeant he needed to see William Tucker. He went into the interview room and waited. When the guards brought William back in, Dwayne put the phone to his ear. William did the same.
"What do you want?" William said.
Dwayne opened the briefcase and tossed newspapers and magazines bearing the image of William Tucker onto the table in front of the glass partition. He read the bylines.
" 'Another OJ' … 'All-American Psycho' … 'Number One in the Death Row Draft' … They all think you're guilty. Hell, I think you're guilty. Only one person in this world believes in you, stud, and that's your old man. He thinks you're innocent. I hope for his sake you are. If you weren't Frank's son, I'd be happy to see you rot in prison. Or take the needle. One less spoiled egotistical jock who thinks the world revolves around him. Where's the world now, stud? Where are all your fans now? Your coaches and teammates? Those college coeds? Who's standing with you now? Your father. He's the best man and lawyer I've ever known, drunk or sober. He's a good man got run over by that dump truck called life. Now you dump on him? If that's the way sons treat their dads, I'm fucking glad I didn't have a son. You might be innocent of murder, but you're guilty of being one sorry-ass prick of a son. You understand that everyone comes in contact with you can't stand you? Hell, I don't even know you and I can't stand you. You don't have a fucking clue."
"But it's my life. Scotty Raines can save my life."
"He might get you off, stud, but your life ain't worth saving."
Only thirty-two men in the world are special enough to be starting quarterbacks in the National Football League. More people are qualified to be president of the United States of America—to lead the Free World than to lead a pro football team. Fact is, being president is a hell of a lot easier job. Try giving a State of the Union speech while a three-hundred-pound son of a bitch is trying to face plant you into the floor of the U.S. Congress. That's the workplace of an NFL quarterback. A small five-square-foot pocket formed by his large offensive linemen fighting off the equally large defensive lineman, with a blitzing linebacker or D-back thrown in for good measure. In that small space on a football field, during a three-second window, the quarterback must read the defense, choose the open receiver, and make a strong, accurate throw, while ignoring the massive arms and legs and bodies flailing all around him and trying to face plant him in the turf. An NFL quarterback must possess the physical skills to throw the football thirty yards downfield into an opening the size of a can of soup with precise timing so that ball and receiver arrive simultaneously at the same spot on the field and the mental temperament to take the blame when the receiver screws up. He must have the confidence to throw five interceptions in the first half and then a touchdown pass in the last seconds to win the game. He must be physically tough enough to take the beating and mentally tough enough to take the beating. He must be a very special sort of athlete. Which meant Dwayne was wrong.
William Tucker was special.
William Tucker's life was worth saving. Because he was a special athlete, which is to say, a special human being. He had proved it in high school, he had proved it in college, and he would prove it in the NFL. Next season, he would be one of those thirty-two starting quarterbacks.
"A movie deal? For a million dollars? Who the fuck are you?"
The gangbanger next door.
"I'm William Tucker."
"Who the fuck's William Tucker?"
"The best football player in America."
"No shit? What the fuck you doing in here?"
"I'm getting out, that's what I'm doing. I won't be here tomorrow night."
I am William Tucker. And I am special.