The Case Against William (5 page)

"We
want cozy."

William
heard. He turned to Frank, made a face, and mouthed, "Cozy?"

Frank
shrugged then held an open hand out to him. They high-fived.

Elizabeth
Tucker saw the envy in her friend's eyes. The same envy that had once resided
in her own eyes. She had grown up on the wrong side of Houston with nothing.
She hated being poor. She always looked at the society section of the
newspaper, at the parties and social events and the beautiful people, and
wondered what their lives must be like. To have something in life. When she
began driving, she would often cruise the streets of River Oaks in the old
family car. One day, she had always said. One day.

One
day had come.

She
had caught her husband's look when she said, "cozy." He didn't
understand her. She had grown up in a family of nobodies. She needed to be
somebody. He apparently did not. He was almost famous, like a B movie star,
but he seemed not to care. He had no desire to become an A-lister in Houston.
She burned with such desire.

To
be somebody.

But
he made the money she needed to be somebody. To live in River Oaks, on the
right side of Houston, in a house worthy of somebody. To make the society
section. To be envied by others.

William
focused on the football field. His buddies spent the games chasing each other
around the stadium, but he preferred to watch the games with his dad. Fact is,
he'd rather be with his dad than with his buddies. Watching the games, running
around River Oaks, playing golf at the club, having their man talks—they could
talk about anything, he and his dad. His dad understood him. He knew what was
inside him, in a way his mom and Becky could not. Of course, they were girls.
He and Dad were guys. Dad said girls didn't understand guys, and guys didn't
understand girls; that's why God gave guys cable TV with a hundred sports
channels.

William
groaned. The varsity quarterback threw another interception.

"He
missed the read."

William
didn't just watch the games; he studied the games. Analyzed the plays, the
alignments, the defenses, what worked and what didn't work. What he would do
when he played on the varsity in four years. This year's varsity fumbled and
stumbled their way to a losing 0-40 halftime score.

"When's
the last time we won a game, Frank?" the dad behind them asked.
"Back in ninety-seven?"

"Ninety-eight,"
his dad answered.

"That'll
change when William's our quarterback."

"They
ought to put William on varsity now," the dad sitting next to Frank said.
"He's already better than the senior quarterback."

"He'll
be playing for the Aggies in six years," another dad said.

"Like
hell," the first dad said. "He'll play for the Longhorns. Right, Frank?"

"Maybe
Harvard," Frank said.

They
both regarded him as they might a Chevrolet cruising down River Oaks Boulevard.

"
Harvard?
"
they said in unison.

It
was the next afternoon, and Frank was again sitting in the same stands at the
same football field. William's middle-school team was playing another private
school. The Academy's classes were small, so the sixth, seventh, and eighth
graders played together on one team against larger private school teams
comprised mostly of eighth graders. William's team was equally as bad as the
varsity, but he was good. Very good. Abnormally good. William Tucker was a
prodigy, like Mozart or Bobby Fischer. Except his gifts were physical in
nature. He was a natural athlete. He excelled at all the sports—basketball,
baseball, soccer, tennis, golf—but what he could do with a football—what he
could do on a football field—defied explanation. He was not a normal
twelve-year-old boy. He was bigger, stronger, and faster than the
fourteen-year-old boys. He had thrown three perfect passes for touchdowns, but
his receivers had dropped the balls. He had run for four touchdowns. And he
was now running for a fifth.

Frank
stood to watch his son.

William
had dropped back to pass. The defensive team had converged on him, and a sack
was imminent. But at the last second, he spun around and broke wide, leaving
the would-be tacklers grasping air. He hit the sideline and turned on the
speed. His feet were fast, his gait smooth and rhythmic. No one touched him.

Touchdown.

The
other dads whooped and hollered. There is something about football. Frank did
not know what it was because he was not afflicted with the football virus, odd
for a man in Texas. He had played in high school, as most boys do, but he had
never dreamed of a football career. He hadn't been big enough, strong enough,
or fast enough. His son was more than enough, but Frank did not live or die
his son's football. Most men, even men who were successful at the law or
medicine or business, want their sons to be like Frank's son. A man's desire
for his son to be a star football player transcends race, religion, and
socioeconomic status. Whether a poor uneducated black man in the Fourth Ward
or a rich educated white man in River Oaks, he wants his son to be the star
quarterback. He wants to bask in his son's glory. To watch him do football
feats he could never do. Success on a football field is different than success
in the courtroom or boardroom or operating room.

Football
is manly.

Consequently,
men stand in awe of football ability. You can work hard and become a competent
lawyer or doctor or businessman; such success is the stuff of hard work, not
the stuff of God-given genius. Football success also requires hard work; but
no matter how hard you work, if you're not big, strong, and fast you will fail
as a football player.

Hard
work won't make you six-five, two-thirty-five, and fast.

Frank
Tucker's life was not wrapped up in a leather ball. Or in his son's football
heroics. He did not need his son to resolve his father's football failures.
Or to make his father's dreams come true. But, like other men, he watched
great athletes and wondered what it felt like to hit a home run to win the
World Series or score a touchdown to win the Super Bowl or hit a four-iron
stiff to win the Open. Few humans will ever experience that feeling. And
those who will cannot explain it to those who won't. Consequently, Frank stood
among a dozen other fathers, and like them, he watched his twelve-year-old son
running down the field and wondered what it felt like to be William Tucker.

William
Tucker felt like that lion in the film they had watched in natural science
class. The lion had stalked an antelope then chased it across the African
savannah, pounced on it, bit into its neck, and then ripped it apart. It was
gross, sure, but it was exciting to see that lion let the beast out. Did the
lion think about what it was doing? No. It was just doing what came
naturally. He had watched the film and thought,
That's me. That's what I
do on a football field. What comes naturally
. On the field, he let the
beast out. And it felt good. Really. Really. Really. Good.

"Frank,
I've got another client for you."

The
game had ended, and Brian Anderson had walked up. He was an IPO lawyer in a
large Houston corporate firm. Three years before, when the dot-com bubble had
burst, the Feds had brought securities fraud cases against insiders who had
cashed out their stock before the crash. When the market goes up and investors
get rich on paper profits, everyone's happy and the economy hums along; when
the market goes down and investors' profits become losses, they are unhappy and
the economy stumbles. In order to distract the people, the government puts
people in prison. Brian referred his clients to Frank. They had been indicted
on technicalities in the securities laws, traps for the unwary or politically
unconnected. They were twenty-something whiz kids who had dreamt up the next
big thing; they became political sacrifices in a capitalist society like pagans
sacrificing lambs to the sun god. After a three-week trial, the jury acquitted
them.

"Who?"

"CEO.
Dumped his shares right before a bad quarterly report."

"That's
called insider trading."

"Not
if he was a member of Congress."

Congress
routinely exempted itself from the laws it imposes on the citizens, much as the
ruling parties in Russia and China do. Consequently, the five hundred
thirty-five members of Congress could freely and legally trade stocks on inside
information whereas the other three hundred million Americans could not. Frank
disagreed with the law, but it was still the law.

"Is
he guilty?"

Brian
shrugged. "He can pay."

"Sorry,
Brian."

Brian
turned his palms up and laughed. "My God, how do you make any money, not
representing guilty people?"

Criminal
defense lawyers must make their peace with one harsh fact of life: most of
their clients are guilty. They will devote their professional careers not to
defending the innocent but instead the guilty: rapists, murderers,
gangbangers, drug dealers, conmen, scammers, fraud artists, embezzlers,
thieves, cheats, and liars.

Frank
Tucker had never made his peace. He only defended the innocent. In Texas,
there was no shortage of clients, of innocent defendants wrongfully accused by
overzealous or misguided or politically ambitious prosecutors. Many such
defendants now resided in the state penitentiary. Unless they were defended by
Frank Tucker. He had never lost a case.

Of
course, he had no quarrel with the constitutional principles that even guilty
defendants were entitled to due process, a fair trial, and a competent lawyer.
But they weren't entitled to him. And his children's rights trumped their
constitutional rights: his children were entitled to a father they could be
proud of, and he didn't think defending a brutal rapist would make his children
proud. So he defended the innocent. For his children.

"Great
game, William."

"Thank
you, sir."

"Super
run, William."

"Thank
you, sir."

The
dads had congregated on the field behind the bench to greet the boys.
William's team had lost again. They were 0-6 this season. He shrugged it
off. Few boys at the Academy were athletes. Like Ray. He stood four feet ten
inches tall and weighed ninety pounds. His shoulder pads dwarfed him. His
uniform pants hung so low that his kneepads protected his ankles. He couldn't
run, block, or catch. Heck, he couldn't catch a football if it was made of
felt and he was covered in Velcro. But he was still William's best buddy. He
walked over and sat next to Ray on the bench. He was bent over with his elbows
on his knees and his chin in his hand. William tried to cheer him up.

"Good
game, Ray."

"My
dad's gonna be mad."

"Why?"

"He
wants me to be a football player."

William
tried not to laugh. "Seriously? What's he smoking?"

"On
the grill?"

"Uh
… no. Did he play?"

Ray
shook his head. "Does your dad want you to be a football player?"

"I
think he wants me to be a lawyer."

"But
you're so good, William."

He
shrugged. "I'm good at sports, but you're good at math. Man, you do math
stuff that I can't even dream of doing. I wish I was as smart as you."

Ray
was captain of the math club. More Academy students tried out for a spot in
the math club than on the football team. That's how bad it was at the Academy.

"You
do?"

"Sure."

"I
am pretty good at math."

"Everyone's
good at something, Ray."

"Being
the star of the math club isn't the same as being the star of the football
team. Dude, you're going to be a famous athlete one day."

"Math
people are famous."

"Name
one."

He
could not.

"But
math people do all kinds of neat stuff," William said. "My dad said
they invented the Internet."

"Al
Gore said he invented the Internet."

"Who's
Al Gore?"

"Algorithms,
maybe."

Ray
laughed as if it were the funniest joke he'd ever heard. William didn't have a
clue.

"Is
that a math club joke?"

"Yeah."

Ray
sat up straight. He seemed happier now.

"You
want to come over tomorrow, play video games?" William asked.

"Sure."

"Right
after the Cowboys game." William stood. "You okay?"

"Yeah.
Thanks, William."

William
held his arms out to the smaller boy.

"Reel
it in, buddy."

Ray
stood, and William gave him a buddy hug, like the pros do after a good play.
Ray walked off just as William's dad walked up and stuck out an open hand.
William slapped his hand against his dad's.

"Good
game, William," his dad said. "Sorry y'all lost."

"No
big deal. It's fun to play with my buddies."

They
watched Ray drag his helmet over to his dad.

"What's
that boy's name?"

"Ray."

"Is
he a nice boy?"

"Yeah.
He's a little nugget, but I like him."

Most
of the boys at the Academy were little nuggets. Others, like Jerry, the school
photography club, were Mc-nuggets. He hurried over with his big camera hanging
around his neck.

"William,
let me get a shot of you and your dad."

Dad
put his arm around William's shoulder pads, and they smiled for the camera.

"He
should've audibled into a hot route," William said.

"Who?"
his dad said.

"The
Cowboys quarterback. Watch the Sam's feet."

"Sam
who?"

"The
strong safety. In the NFL, they call him the Sam. Watch his feet, you can see
he's going to blitz."

"You
can?"

Last
Sunday they had thrown the football on the beach in Galveston, but this Sunday
they were watching football in the den of the River Oaks house. William sat in
front of the big-screen TV with the sports pages spread out on the floor. His
dad sat in his leather chair next to the lamp. Becky lay sprawled out on the
couch. William was watching the Cowboys play; his dad was working on his
closing argument; his sister was reading about wizards. Dad had to drive back
to Austin after the game. Closing arguments in the senator's trial were
tomorrow morning. The game went to commercial, so William went back to the
sports pages.