The Case Against William (10 page)

"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."

It's
a conflicted day for a father when your son can finally hit a golf ball farther
than you. On the one hand, you're proud that he can bomb the ball; on the
other hand, you realize that he is no longer your little boy. He's now a
little man. Or in William's case, a big little man. And you realize that
you're past your prime physically.

"Dad,
I want to be a pro quarterback."

Summers
in Houston were hot and humid, but winters were sunny and mild. You could play
golf in January. Frank bent over and teed his ball. A Titleist Pro-V-One. A
four-dollar golf ball. You didn't hit cheap X-outs at the River Oaks Country
Club. Frank had joined the club when he had made partner at the firm.

"Okay."

As
if he had said he wanted to be an astronaut.

"Mom
told me about the scout."

"She
did?"

"Yep."

Frank
had not.

"I
want to go to public school with the trailer trash."

He
had talked to his mother.

"But
you love your school. And your friends."

"I
love football more. Dad, I'm tired of losing. I want to be a winner. I want
to play big-time high school ball then go D-One. Then the NFL. That's my
dream."

"I
dreamed of being a pro golfer when I was your age."

"Were
you any good?"

"Not
good enough."

"But
I am. Good enough."

"You
know that?"

"Yeah,
Dad. I know that. I know I'm different from the other boys."

"How?"

"I'm
bigger, stronger, faster. Better."

"At
fourteen. You might not be at eighteen."

"I
will be. Once I grow into my hands and feet."

He
held an open hand out. Frank placed his hand against his son's, as if they
were high-fiving. William's hand was bigger than Frank's.

"I'm
as tall as you, and my feet are bigger than yours. I'll be big enough. I'm a
freak of nature, like all athletes."

"What
do you mean?"

"I
mean, normal people can't do what pro athletes do. LaDainian Tomlinson,
LeBron, A-Rod—they're freaks of nature. To be that big, that fast, that
strong, that good—it's not normal. I'm not normal."

He
wasn't.

"Dad,
I love you and I'm proud of you, being a great lawyer, saving innocent people
like Bradley Todd. But I don't want to be you. I want to be me. I want to
let the beast out."

"What
beast?"

"The
beast inside me."

"And
you do that on a football field?"

"I
do. It's who I am, Dad. When I'm on that field, I know that's where I
belong. Like I was born to play football."

"How
does that feel?"

"Perfect."

Frank
wondered if he had ever felt perfect. When the jury had rendered its verdict
of not guilty in
The State of Texas v. Bradley Todd
, he had felt
relieved, not perfect. There was nothing perfect about the American criminal
justice system, even when an innocent person was acquitted. Because there was
still an innocent victim. Rachel Truitt had been raped and murdered, and her
murderer remained on the loose. Bradley had his justice, but Rachel had not
had hers. Not yet.

"What
if you get hurt? What if a knee injury takes your speed?"

"I
can still throw with bad knees, like Joe Namath. But I won't get hurt."

"How
do you know?"

"I
just know."

Frank
hit a good drive. At forty-seven, he still had some distance off the tee. It
felt good. But not perfect. William teed a ball, stepped to the side, and
cranked a drive that blew past Frank's on the fly. A perfect drive. Frank
held out an open hand to his son; they high-fived. Sid and his son had stopped
their cart to watch.

"Better
make him give you strokes, Frank," Sid said with a laugh then drove off.

"Dad,
I don't want to be a lawyer."

"You
don't have to be a lawyer. But you need to be educated. The Academy is among
the finest college prep schools in the country, a straight shot to the Ivy
League."

"You
didn't go to the Ivy League."

"My
parents couldn't afford that for me. I can afford it for you. Harvard and
Yale have football teams."

"But
I don't want to play for Harvard or Yale. I want to play for the best. UT.
Notre Dame. Alabama. Dad, football is my destiny. That's where I belong. On
a football field. I'm not smart like Becky. She loves school, but school is
just a hobby for me. I'm a student of football, not math and science."

Frank
picked up his carry bag. They could ride in a cart, but a four-hour walk with
your son, that's what golf is all about. It's not a sport; it's a way to be
with your son without cell phones.

"What
if I say no?"

William
slung the strap of his bag over his broad shoulder and looked Frank in the
eye. His voice was soft. Almost sad.

"I'd
hate you. Not now. But later, when I'm older and looking back, wondering if I
could've lived my dream. I'd hate you, Dad, for not letting me try."

William
Tucker attended public school the next year.

It
was the fifth day of August, and across the state of Texas tens of thousands of
high school boys took to the football field for the first day of fall
practice. Only it wasn't fall. It was summer. And it was hot. In Odessa, it
was 112 degrees Fahrenheit. In Dallas, it was 105 degrees. In Houston, it was
only 99 degrees, but with 95 percent humidity the air felt like a steam sauna.

William
Tucker's body glistened in sweat, and practice hadn't even started yet. He
wore only shorts and cleats; pads came next week. He was sixteen and stood six
feet three inches tall and weighed one hundred ninety pounds with only ten
percent body fat. He worked out with his personal trainer five times a week.
He ate a strict diet designed by a sports nutritionist. He honed his skills at
quarterback school and his speed with an Olympic coach. He could bench press
two hundred fifty pounds ten times. Squat three hundred pounds fifteen times.
Run a 4.5-second forty. Throw a football seventy-five yards. He had a
forty-six inch chest and a thirty-inch waist. His body was muscular, his skin
bronze, and his hair blond and curly. The leather football he held seemed a
part of his body. He was a sophomore about to start his first year on varsity
and sitting in the bleachers at his high school's new stadium. Seating
capacity was twenty-five thousand. Parents camped out overnight at the admin
building when season tickets became available; they became available only when
a current season ticket holder forfeited his tickets—which never happened—or
died—which didn't happen often enough to suit those waiting in line. Mounted
atop the scoreboard in the north end zone was a huge high-definition video
screen that showed instant replays during games. The turf was the same grass
the pros played on. Behind the stadium stood the new indoor practice arena; it was
air-conditioned, but the coaches made the team practice outside so their bodies
could acclimate to the heat. That, or the coaches were just—

"Sadistic
bastards," Bobby said.

Bobby
Davis played center. He stood six-four and weighed two-ninety. He had a dozen
scholarship offers from D-I schools. He was a senior and used steroids.
Consequently, he stunk. William always stayed upwind of Bobby.

"They're
not happy unless someone passes out during practice," he said.
"Puking used to be enough, but we lost in regionals last year. Two-a-days
this summer are gonna be rough."

"Really?"

Bobby
laughed and shook his head.

"Private
school kids. You guys come over here to play big-time ball, but you're like a
bunch of altar boys going to a strip joint. So, William, you as good as they
say?"

"Yep."

"Hey,
don't be modest or nothing."

"You
asked."

"You
get nervous before a game?"

"Is
a shark nervous in water?"

Bobby
laughed. "If you play up to your ego, boy, you're gonna be
all-American."

"It's
not ego if you can do it."

Bobby
grunted. "You want some D-bol?"

Dianabol. Stanozolol. Nandrolone. Oxandrolone. Anabolic
steroids. High school athletes knew the names like preteen girls knew Britney
Spear's lyrics.

"I
don't need it."

"You
should've seen some of the quarterbacks at the summer football camp I went to
back in June. They're fucking animals. Hairy fucking animals." Bobby
laughed. "So I go in there weighing two-seventy. I'm almost nineteen
years old—"

"You're
almost nineteen?"

"My dad held me back so I'd have time to get bigger before
varsity."

"It
worked."

"Anyway,
this is a camp for elite players, guys like me holding D-One offers. I tell
the offensive line coach I'm gonna start as a freshman. He laughs, says, 'Not
at two-seventy you ain't.' Said I need to weigh in at three hundred to start
in D-One-A. I said, 'What do I do?' He said, 'Bulk up, Bobby.' "

"He
told you to use steroids?"

"No. But I knew what he meant. Everyone knows. They told
everyone the same thing, except those fucking fast-ass black receivers from the
'hood. Man, those guys could go pro straight out of high school."

"So
you put on twenty pounds with the juice?"

"Shit
works. You should try it."

"Like
I said, I don't need it."

They
watched the cheerleaders practicing their routines down the sideline.
Including Becky.

"Your
sister's kind of cute," Bobby said.

"Don't
go there."

He
laughed. William didn't.

"Hey,
sorry, man," Bobby said. "Didn't know you were so touchy about your
sister."

He
was. After a moment, he calmed.

"You
like this school?" William asked.

"I
like playing football at this school. Not so much going to school."

"What's
your GPA?"

"One-point-seven."

"That's
low."

"Not
for a football player."

"Do
you study?"

"Football.
Why waste my time on math and English when I'm going to college to play
football?"

"Are
your grades good enough to get into college?"

"There ain't any academic standards for athletes. If you can
play, you get in." He laughed. "College coaches today, they don't
worry about your academic transcript, just your criminal background
check."

Bobby
leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head as if all that he saw was
his.

"See,
William, the rest of the world's got rules. We don't. If you can play football—I
mean, really play—you're on a different level in life from everyone who can't
play football. You live above the rules."

A
cute cheerleader bounced past; she gave them a finger wave and a smile.