"Six days from today, my son is going to stand up in court and plead guilty to a crime he didn't commit … because he's afraid he'll get the death penalty. Once he does that, there's no going back. His life is over. We're not going to let that happen."
William Tucker would take the plea deal. Innocent people do that. More often than people would imagine because fighting a prosecutor possessed of unlimited resources dedicated to putting you in prison is daunting and expensive. Few people can afford to wage that fight. In 2002, Brian Banks, a seventeen-year-old star high school football player with a scholarship to the University of Southern California and dreams of an NFL career, was falsely accused of rape by a classmate; she claimed he had assaulted her on their high school campus. He was innocent, but his lawyer advised him to plead guilty. "You're a big black male," she said. "The jury will convict you." He faced a forty-year sentence. So he pleaded guilty and got five years. His accuser sued the high school and won a $1.5 million settlement. Four years after his release from prison, his accuser contacted him on Facebook and asked to meet. Brian videotaped their meeting; she admitted that she had lied in order to sue the school.
It happens.
Frank could not let it happen to his son.
It was ten that morning, and the defense team had gathered on the back porch. They drank strong coffee and brainstormed with those few brain cells they hadn't previously killed with alcohol.
"Now, look, I know you guys think William is guilty, but—"
"He's innocent," Dwayne said.
Frank studied the ex-cop smoking a big cigar.
"You changed your mind?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
"The surveillance tape at his dorm is wrong. It's time-stamped one-thirty-eight A.M., but it was really twelve-thirty-eight A.M. They didn't turn the clock back when daylight savings time ended the week before."
"How do you know?"
"I checked with the company that runs security for the dorms."
"They told you? Just like that?"
"They told Detective Gentry, Houston homicide. Frank, William got in at twelve-thirty-eight that night. Means he would've been hard pressed to kill her downtown at midnight, go back inside the bar and puke, then get back to his dorm—all in thirty-eight minutes. He's innocent."
"Ditto," Chico said.
Frank turned to Chico Duran. He was smoking a joint.
"You too? Why the change of heart?"
"Social media. Kids take self-photos of themselves, their body parts, to show the world. Don't ask me why, but they do it. If I ever catch my girls sexting, I'm gonna …"
He caught himself.
"Well, anyway, Dee Dee Dunston did it that night, with William's phone. He didn't take her photo. She did."
He showed Frank the image of Dee Dee on William's phone.
"See, her arm's extended. She took her own photo. He didn't lie. He's innocent, Frank."
"Dwayne, Chico … thanks, guys. But there's still the blood."
"I think I can help with that," Chuck said.
"How?"
Chuck sighed. "I should've put two and two together a long time ago—course, I usually come up with five—you know, Frank, I don't think so good these days 'cause of all my concussions and the whiskey sure as hell don't help to clear my mind and—"
"Chuck … focus. The blood."
"Oh, yeah. Well, anyway, this kid in my peewee games, name's Georgie—"
"Georgie?"
"They're five-year-old kids. They're all named Petey or Bobby or Jimmy or Georgie. Anyway, he's a bleeder. Every game, he bleeds. I mean, he falls to the turf, the little fucker bleeds. I gotta call a bodily fluid timeout, send him to the sideline, get him bandaged up so his blood don't get on another kid, and course his mama's hysterical … peewee football's a fuckin' zoo."
"What's this Georgie kid got to do with William?"
"Check out this play."
Chuck had been studying the game tape for the hundredth time. He turned the laptop so the others could watch the video.
"I've watched this video more times than I can count. And every time, I've been focusing on the sideline and not on the field."
"No shit, Sherlock," Dwayne said. "Dee Dee's on the sideline. She was a cheerleader, not a player. She ain't on the field."
"But William's blood is."
"What?" Frank said.
"Watch the game. It's ugly, William played awful."
"His dad showed up drunk, made a fool of himself before that game."
"Oh. Well that explains it."
Chuck clicked the mouse, and the video resumed playing. On the screen, William dropped back to pass then broke out of the pocket and ran; the three Tech linebackers converged on him. Chuck froze the frame and zoomed in.
"Okay. Look closely. All four players' arms are bare. Their jersey sleeves are cut up high, that's the fashion these days, to expose their biceps. And there's no visible blood on any of them."
He resumed the video. The Tech players gang-tackled William high and low and hard and drove him into the turf. William jumped up as if he didn't feel the brutal tackle. Chuck froze the frame.
"Look."
He clicked the mouse several times and zoomed in on William's left arm.
"His left elbow," Chuck said. "He's bleeding."
Blood ran down his arm.
"When I saw him in the hospital after the game," Frank said, "his left elbow was bandaged up. He said he got stitches."
"Nasty cut," Chuck said. "Probably took a facemask right on the bone, busted some of those capillaries, they'll bleed pretty good. One time I got cut on my forehead, face looked like I been shot."
"The video."
"Oh."
Chuck resumed the video. William hurried back to his team's side of the ball and called the next play from the line of scrimmage without huddling up. The game clock was ticking down, the pace of play was frantic, offensive and defensive players ran on and off the field, and the referees raced around to keep up.
"Why didn't the refs call a timeout so he could get bandaged?" Chico asked.
"They're supposed to, case he's got AIDS." Chuck shrugged. "I guess they didn't notice in all the confusion. This is late in the game, William's running a two-minute offense, trying to take the team down for a score to win. Things are moving fast. Few plays later, he gets his concussion."
On the screen, William again dropped back to pass then again ran. The same three Tech linebackers converged on him; just before they tackled William, Chuck froze the frame and zoomed in on the Tech players.
"Their arms are clean," he said.
He resumed the video. They tackled William then got to their feet. Chuck froze the frame again and zoomed in on one of the Tech players, number fifty-two.
"Now he's got blood on his arms."
Chuck ran the tape again. Number fifty-two ran and jumped into the air where he was met by number fifty-five; they did a body bump, shoulder to shoulder and arm to arm. He repeated the gesture with number fifty-one. Chuck paused the video and zoomed in on each player.
"Now all three have blood on their arms."
"William's blood?"
"No one else was bleeding before that tackle."
"Transference of trace evidence," Dwayne said. "It happens. And it doesn't take much blood for the crime scene guys to capture his DNA. That's why they call it trace evidence."
"That's good thinking, Chuck."
Frank stuck a fist out to Chuck; they fist-bumped.
"Thanks, Frank."
"I don't mean to ruin the party," Billie Jean said, "but wouldn't they have noticed the blood on their arms?"
"Shit," Chuck said, "when I played we got blood, spit, puke, piss, tobacco juice—hell, one time I got shit on me—not mine. That's football. It's a dirty game."
"Okay," Billie Jean said, "so your theory is, William's blood got transferred from William to number fifty-two, from fifty-two to fifty-five, and from fifty-five to fifty-one? And then from one of those players to Dee Dee Dunston?"
Chuck shrugged. "You got a better theory?"
"No. And actually it's not a bad theory. I remember one time, I was stripping, and this guy—young guy, one of the creeps—he reaches up with a twenty-dollar bill . . . they wouldn't just toss it on the stage, they had to slip in inside my G-string, that's when they'd always try to cop a feel. So I squat down a bit so he can reach it—my G-string—"
She demonstrated, sticking her right leg out and squatting.
"—and he slips the bill inside then his forearm slid down my leg, left his sweat—the creeps always sweated—all the way down my thigh. I could feel it and see it shiny and wet in the spotlight. I thought, yuk."
"That was your candy apple red G-string?" Chuck said.
"Are you sweating?"
"Uh, we're on the coast."
"It's December."
"Oh."
She shook her head clear.
"So this creep got his DNA on me just like that?"
"He did," Dwayne said. "And blood's easier to transfer than sweat 'cause it's sticky. And it dries on skin."
"But I showered after my shows—God, I scrubbed my skin raw to get the cooties off," Billie Jean said. "Wouldn't those players have showered after the game, washed the blood off."
Chuck shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. They're linebackers. Barely domesticated wild animals."
They stared at the frozen images of the three Tech players on the screen.
"That's it," Frank said. "That's how William's blood got on the dead girl."
"That means—"
"One of those Tech players killed Dee Dee Dunston."
"You guys are going to chase down those three players from two years ago?" Billie Jean said.
They stood at her car on the road. She would drive back to Austin; they would travel to Lubbock.
"It's our only hope. William's only hope."
"Be careful, Frank. If one of them killed Dee Dee, he'll kill again to stay out of prison."
"Truth is, my life doesn't matter all that much. My son's life matters a hell of a lot more."
"Your life matters to me, Frank."
"John Smith, Darrell Jackson, and Bo Cantrell," Chico said. "I searched for the rosters back then. Those are the players. Smith was a sophomore, Jackson and Cantrell were seniors."
"We've got to track those guys down," Frank said. "Fast. Where do we start?"
"Lubbock."
"That's a nine-hour drive," Dwayne said.
"No time to drive. We need to fly."
"Four plane tickets? We've run through all the money we got from selling the signed football."
"We need to sell something else on eBay."
"What?"
"Another ball."
"I've got a ball," Chuck said.
He tossed up his football.
"It's worthless without William's signature."
"Give me the ball," Chico says.
He tapped on William's laptop and retrieved the close-up photo of William's signature on the ball they had previously put on eBay. Then he held out an open hand to Dwayne like a surgeon to an OR nurse.
"Sharpie."
Dwayne slapped his Sharpie into Chico's hand. Chico studied the photo then signed the ball: "William Tucker." He held the ball out for their inspection. They compared the fake signature to the real one.
"That's good," Chuck said. "Real good."
"You forged my son's signature?"
"Frank, I forged dead people's signatures on Medicaid documents. This is a fucking football."
"And now we're going to sell a football with a fake signature on eBay? That's fraud."
Chico gave him a look. "I'm an ex-con, Frank. I can live with that."
Two hours later, they had sold the ball for $7,500. Apparently news that William Tucker would plead guilty to raping and killing a college coed made the ball more valuable. Only in America.