They called 911. Dwayne waited for the cops at Bo's house. Chico found the nearest Starbucks on the phone, and at seven-thirty Frank pulled the rental car into the parking lot of the coffee shop. They got out and ran inside. Chico fiddled with the phone.
"I'm in. I'm connected to the Net. What's her email address?"
"How should I know?" Frank said.
"You're sleeping with her."
"You know about that?"
"We're drunks, not blind. We need her email address."
"Hand me the phone."
He called Billie Jean's number.
Billie Jean Crawford sat in her candy apple red convertible Mustang on Interstate 35, the north-south thoroughfare that bisected Austin. She had been sitting right there for the last thirty minutes. Rush-hour traffic was always bumper-to-bumper, but seldom at a standstill. The radio said there was a multicar accident at Fifteenth Street. She was at Forty-sixth. She was driving to the courthouse to witness an American tragedy: an innocent man pleading guilty. Unless his father saved him. Her phone rang. She checked the caller ID: Frank. Last time he had called, he was flying to Omaha to find Bo Cantrell. She answered.
"Did you find Bo?"
"We did."
"Did he confess?"
"He did. Then he killed himself."
Frank filled her in on that morning's events.
"And Chico got it all on tape?"
"He did."
"We've got to get that tape to the court."
"We're in Omaha. You've got to get it to the court."
"Email the video to me, I'll watch it on my iPad."
"You can do that from your car?"
"Frank, you've got to get off that … yes, you can."
She gave Frank her email address.
"Have Chico email it. I'll call you back after I watch it."
Frank disconnected. She flipped the cover on the iPad and waited. Her heart pounded as if she had just run her five-mile loop around the lake.
William Tucker is innocent. And his father could prove it.
She was happy for William, perhaps happier for Frank. Now he could move forward with his life. Maybe with her.
The iPad pinged. An email had arrived. She opened the email and then the video file. She called Frank back.
Frank answered. "Did you get it?"
"Got it. Watching it now."
"Watch the traffic."
"We're at a dead stop. Accident up ahead."
She didn't speak for a few minutes, but Frank could hear Bo's voice and then a gunshot. Then he heard Billie Jean's voice.
"Ouch. That'll leave a mark."
"Billie Jean, get that video to the court."
Billie Jean disconnected and checked the clock on the dash. 8:07. She was sitting on I-35 at Forty-sixth Street. The court convened at nine on Eleventh Street. Not good. She pulled out her cell phone and called the jail. When the desk clerk answered, she identified herself and asked to speak to William.
"It's an emergency. I'm his lawyer."
"No can do," the clerk said.
"Why not?"
"A, according to our records, you're not his lawyer. Scotty Raines is. And B, they're transporting William Tucker to the Justice Center right now."
The desk clerk hung up without saying goodbye.
"And C, you're an asshole!" Billie Jean screamed at the phone.
William Tucker waddled down the long underground corridor leading from the jail to the Justice Center. His hands and feet were shackled in chains. Two deputies escorted him, one on either side grasping his arms. He could not stop the tears rolling down his face.
"Dead man walking," one deputy said.
They shared a laugh.
Travis County District Attorney Dick Dorkin gazed out the window of his first-floor office in the Justice Center. The media circus was setting up on the plaza outside. Soon all those cameras would be focused on him. Every cable sports channel in America, where the voters lived. He would take a big step that day to living in the Governor's Mansion.
He exited his office and walked to the elevator bank. He took an elevator to the third floor and walked down the corridor to Judge Rooney's courtroom. He entered as if he owned the place. He walked through the bar and shook hands with Scotty Raines standing there. The bailiff led them into the judge's chambers.
The numbers on the dash clock glowed red: 8:14. Billie Jean dialed the judge's office and got his court coordinator.
"This is Billie Jean Crawford. I need to talk to the judge."
"He's with the district attorney and Mr. Raines."
"Put me through."
The coordinator laughed. "You're a PD, and you want me to interrupt the judge? I don't think so."
"I'm instructing you to tell the judge not to let William Tucker plead."
"A, I don't work for you. B, you're not his lawyer. And C—"
"You're an idiot! William Tucker is innocent!"
"I thought he was pleading guilty today?"
"His father found the killer!"
"Where?"
"In Omaha."
"Omaha? What's he doing in Omaha?"
"What? How the hell do I know?"
"Did the police arrest him?"
"He's dead."
"Dead men can't testify."
"We have it on tape."
"Then his lawyer needs to bring that tape to the judge."
"That's what I'm trying to do!"
"You're not his lawyer."
She hung up on Billie Jean, and Billie Jean screamed.
"Everyone's an asshole!"
One deputy locked William's leg shackles to a floor ring in a holding cell outside the courtroom.
"Don't run off," he said.
The two deputies stepped to the door.
"It's only eight-twenty. Let's get a coffee."