It was a "he said, she said" case. She was dead. He was on the stand.
"Bradley, did you rape Rachel Truitt?" Frank asked his client.
"No, sir."
"Did you have sex with her?"
"Yes, sir."
Frank led his client through the details of the encounter with Rachel in the basketball arena locker room.
"After she left, did you ever see Rachel again?"
"No, sir."
"Did you strangle Rachel that night until she was dead?"
"No, sir."
The UT football team's winning the national championship at the Rose Bowl just two weeks before had faded from the front page of the Austin newspaper, replaced by The State of Texas v. Bradley Todd. Reporters and cameras camped out in the plaza fronting the Travis County Justice Center in downtown Austin. Spectators lined up early for available seats, as if the rape and murder trial were a reality show. Perhaps in America of 2006, it was. Frank had thought the Enron case had been a circus, and it had been; but the trial of a star athlete was a three-ring circus.
It was early January, and Frank again found himself trying a criminal case before Judge Harold Rooney and against Travis County District Attorney Dick Dorkin. The D.A. had not gotten over the senator's acquittal two years before. Pretrial hearings had been contentious. The D.A. was determined to convict Bradley Todd. To beat Frank Tucker. To win the Governor's Mansion.
Frank had requested the earliest possible trial setting in accordance with the speedy trial law and refused all continuances requested by the D.A. When the prosecutor has no evidence, you push him to trial. Force him to either dismiss the charges or prove them in court. Bradley Todd's life had been put on hold—he had been suspended from the basketball team and the school after feminists and faculty had staged campus protests; he was innocent until proven guilty everywhere except at a liberal arts university—and would remain on hold until the jury had rendered a verdict. Which would happen in a matter of days now.
"Mr. Dorkin," the judge said.
Travis County District Attorney Dick Dorkin stood and walked over to the witness.
"After you had sex with Rachel, where did you go?"
"To the men's locker room. I showered then went to Sarah's apartment."
"Sarah Barnes? Your fiancée?"
"Yes, sir."
"And where were you the rest of that night?"
"With Sarah, at her apartment."
"You didn't leave her apartment?"
"No, sir."
"Sarah is sitting outside this courtroom right now, waiting to testify after you, you know that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, Mr. Todd, you know that if Sarah lies to protect you, she would be guilty of perjury?"
"Yes, sir. But she won't. Lie for me. She doesn't need to lie. We were together all night."
"But if she did lie, and that was subsequently discovered, she could be charged and convicted. You know that?"
"Yes, sir."
The police had Bradley's semen from the victim but no other physical evidence linking him to her death. They had found no evidence that put his alibi in doubt. And Bradley's fiancée would testify to his whereabouts at the time of the murder, that he was with her at her apartment. Frank had interviewed her as well. He had no doubt that she was telling the truth. But the D.A. remained convinced that Bradley Todd was guilty. That he had gone to Sixth Street that night. That he had met up with Rachel Truitt at a bar. That rough sex had turned into violent death. But he had no evidence. No witnesses. No surveillance camera images of Bradley. Nothing. The D.A. could have dismissed the charges and waited to find the evidence he was so sure existed and indict Bradley again in a year or five years or ten years; there was no statute of limitations on murder. But a dismissal would look bad in the press and would be brought up in the debates among the candidates for governor. So the D.A. pressed forward with the case. His only hope for conviction was to break Bradley's fiancée on the stand.
Sarah Barnes was cute and Christian. She wore a cross on a chain around her neck and swore to "tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God" and meant it. She sat in the witness chair. Frank asked a few preliminary questions regarding her relationship with the defendant, and then he asked the only question that mattered.
"Sarah, was Bradley Todd with you at your apartment from six P.M. on the night of Saturday, October the eighth of last year through the following Sunday morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"No further questions."
The D.A. attacked.
"Ms. Barnes, did Bradley tell you that he had had sex with Rachel that same afternoon?"
"No, sir."
"So he lied to you?"
"He didn't tell me. But, yes, that's the same as a lie."
"He betrayed you."
"Yes."
"But you still love him?"
"Yes."
"Even though he lied to you and betrayed your love?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He's a good man. Or he'll be a good man when he becomes a man."
"He's six feet eight inches tall. He's not a man?"
"No. He's just a big boy who happens to be able to play a silly game called basketball. Which, for some reason I don't get, makes him very attractive to college girls. Look at him—does he look like Brad Pitt? No, he does not. But girls, they'll drop their shorts for him—for any of the players—any time. I feel sorry for them."
"The players?"
"The girls."
"For girls who've had sex with Bradley?"
"Yes. I pray for them."
"Why?"
"Because they need something. Something he can't give them."
"What's that?"
"Love."
"And you think he loves you?"
"I know he does. But he's just a twenty-year-old boy. I'm going to stick with him because when he grows up, he'll be a fine forty-year-old man. He'll be a fine father. And a fine doctor."
She turned to the jurors; her eyes did not waver.
"Bradley was home with me that night. All night. I swear to God."
The all-white jury acquitted Bradley Todd.
Truth of the matter, Bradley Todd was a wholesome, clean-cut white boy who said "yes, ma'am" and "no, sir." His alibi witness was a pretty white Christian girl. If Bradley had been a tattooed black gangbanger with dreads who said "yo" and " 'ho" and whose body was covered with tattoos and whose pants sagged below his butt and whose alibi witness was a drug-addicted hooker, they'd have sent his ass to prison in a heartbeat. Frank knew that. But he also knew that Bradley Todd was innocent.
William sat in his room watching pro football on TV. The playoffs. Not the Dallas Cowboys. They had missed the playoffs again. He imagined himself wearing the silver-and-white uniforms with the number twelve on his back and a star on his helmet and leading the Cowboys to the Super Bowl. They had won two Super Bowls when Roger Staubach was their quarterback back in the seventies and three Super Bowls in the early nineties when Troy Aikman was their quarterback, but they had never won a Super Bowl since William had been alive.
That was still his dream, to be the Dallas Cowboys quarterback. To be rich and famous. But he first had to play college football at a Division I-A school. Which meant he had to get a football scholarship. You don't walk on and start at quarterback on a D-I football team. Would D-I coaches come to the Academy to recruit William Tucker? Even if he was good? Really good? When his team was really bad?
His middle school team had gone 0-10. He hadn't really cared about losing, not at first, but by the end of the season, he was really tired. Of losing. Of being the best player on the field, every game, but losing every game. He hated losing. He figured he'd love winning, but he didn't know because he had never won a game. And the varsity team had lost every game, too, so it wasn't as if things would change next year. Or the year after that. Or ever. At the Academy, the athletic teams lost. It was just … expected.
But losing sucks.
Would he get a college scholarship playing for a losing team? A lousy team? If his varsity record was 0-40? He had thought about that a lot lately because he would be in ninth grade next year. High school. When boys become men. When they prove themselves on a football field. That they're good enough to play college ball. That they're winners. College coaches aren't paid to lose, so they don't recruit losers.
"Your room is a mess."
William's mother walked into his room. The place was pretty messy, and at first he thought she was going to tell him to clean up his room. She walked around shaking her head as if disgusted; she stopped and picked up the framed photograph of William and Dad from two years ago, the one Jerry the photography club had taken after a game. After another loss. She replaced the photo and sat down on the bed next to him.
"You have a checkup tomorrow. Lupe will take you after school."
"Does it involve shots?"
"William, you're too big to be afraid of needles."
"If I wasn't afraid of needles, I'd have tattoos like the pros."
"Then I guess it's a good thing you're afraid. But no shots tomorrow."
"You're not lying again, are you?"
Last checkup, she had said no shots, but there were shots.
"Would your mother lie to you?"
"Yes."
"Oh, your dad called. He won."
"Really? Bradley Todd was innocent?"
"Apparently."
"Wow. Dad's a great lawyer, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is. So do you want to be a lawyer like your dad when you grow up?"
William pointed at the TV.
"No. I want to be a pro quarterback."
"Has anyone from the Academy ever made it to the NFL?"
He laughed. "Are you kidding?"
"Well, then it's probably just a dream."
"You don't think I'm good enough?"
"I think you could be. If you did what that scout said you should do."
"What scout?"
"A college scout came to see one of your games this year. He talked to your father, gave him some advice."
"Like what?"
"That we should get you a personal trainer and a nutritionist, send you to quarterback schools … and you should transfer to a big public school so you can play at a higher level. Develop your skills."
"Public school? You said trailer trash goes to public schools."
"If he gets to go to public school, so do I!"
Becky stood in the doorway.
"My volleyball team sucks as badly as his football team."
"Are there professional volleyball teams?" his mother asked.
"No."
"Then you're not going to high school with the trailer trash. You're staying at the Academy."
"That's not fair! If he gets to go to school with the trailer trash, why can't I?"
"I have to leave my school?" William asked. "My friends? Ray?"
His team lost every game, but he loved his school. And his friends.
"No, honey, of course you don't have to. You can stay at the Academy."
"Good."
"Unless you want to be a star athlete."
Thing was, Mom wanted a star in the family. She had hoped to be a star, but she wasn't. Becky wasn't either; she wanted to be a writer. Dad was kind of a star, for a lawyer. But lawyers aren't stars like athletes. No one is.
"What does Dad think?"
"He thinks you should be a lawyer."