The Case Against William (9 page)

"I
need to talk to him," Frank said. "Alone."

"Why?"
Billy asked.

"The
attorney-client privilege doesn't apply if third parties are privy to our
conversation. You could be called to testify."

"But
I'm his coach."

"Sorry,
Billy. There's no legal privilege for basketball coaches."

"That
doesn't seem fair."

Frank
repeated his request to Bradley's parents.

"I'm
staying," the father said. "I want to hear what you have to say.
I'm paying you."

"If
I take his case. And I can't decide if I'm taking his case until I talk to
your son, Mr. Todd. Alone."

The
father stared at Frank, then surrendered.

"The
judge denied bail. Said he's a danger to the community. If you take the case,
can you get him out of here?"

"I
can."

"He's
innocent, Frank."

A
father's undying belief in his son. Mr. Todd walked out of the interview
room. His wife followed him. Scooter and Billy followed her. Frank sat
in the chair facing Bradley Todd. His expression was that of a deer caught in
headlights—and about to be run over. Being arrested will do that to an
American citizen. When the police show up and slap the cuffs on you, read you
the Miranda warning, and then haul you off to jail, fingerprint you, and take a
DNA
cheek swab, you are filled with the fear of God. The fear of losing your
freedom. The fear of prison. Bradley Todd was full of all those fears. Frank
picked up the phone on his side and gestured for Bradley to pick up the phone
on his side.

"Bradley,
my name is Frank Tucker. I'm a criminal defense lawyer. I usually represent
white-collar defendants, not defendants accused of rape and murder. So if I'm
going to represent you, you must tell me the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth. Do you understand?"

"Yes,
sir."

"Did
you rape and murder Rachel Truitt?"

Rachel
Truitt had been an eighteen-year-old freshman at the University of Texas at
Austin. She had been brutally raped and then strangled to death behind a bar
on Sixth Street.

"No,
sir, Mr. Tucker. I didn't rape her. I didn't kill her."

"The
police recovered your DNA from her body. Semen. You had sex with her?"

Bradley's
eyes dropped.

"Yes,
sir."

"The
same day she was murdered?"

"Yes,
sir."

"Where?"

"In the basketball arena, after the game."

"In
the arena? Where?"

"Girls'
locker room. It was vacant."

"I
thought you're engaged to another girl?"

"I
am. Sarah Barnes. She's a sophomore, too."

"But
you had sex with Rachel?"

"I
try to resist, but they come on so strong. I'm only twenty, Mr. Tucker. I
never had girls in high school. But in college, if you're a star athlete, it's
like being a movie star."

"You
didn't wear a condom?"

"No
one does."

"You've
never heard of AIDS? Sexually transmitted diseases?"

"We
don't worry about that stuff."

"You
could give something to your fiancée."

"I
won't."

"When
did you first meet her?"

"My
fiancée?"

"Rachel."

"Ten
minutes before we had sex. I didn't even know her name, till I read about her
in the paper."

"So,
what, she came up to you after the game, and ten minutes later you had sex with
her in the girls' locker room?"

"Yes,
sir. I noticed her during the game. She smiled at me then waited for me after
the game."

"Is
that a normal occurrence?"

"Oh,
yes, sir. And not just for me."

"What
time was that?"

"Maybe
five."

"Her
body was found that night at midnight. On Sixth Street. Where were you that
night?"

"With
my fiancée. At her apartment."

"And
she will so testify?"

"Yes,
sir."

"Will
you take a polygraph?"

"Yes,
sir, Mr. Tucker. Absolutely."

"You
took the case?"

District
Attorney Dick Dorkin sat in the judge's chambers next to Frank. Judge Harold
Rooney sat across his desk from them. It was that afternoon. Harold had come
in on a Saturday because Frank had asked; the D.A. had come in because he had
no family to spend his Saturdays with.

"He's
guilty, Frank, and you don't represent guilty clients," the D.A. said.
"Remember?"

"He's
innocent."

"How
do you know?"

"I
looked him in the eye and asked him if he raped and killed Rachel Truitt. He
said he did not."

"He's
lying."

"No
twenty-year-old boy can lie that well."

The
D.A. turned to the judge. "Harold, you can't let Todd out of jail. He's
guilty, and he's a danger to the community. This is a death penalty case, for
God's sake."

"Frank,"
the judge said, "I could set his bail at five million, but his dad could
pay that with a credit card."

"So
what's the point? That's why I'm asking for his release on PR."

"Personal
recognizance?" the D.A. said. "For an accused rapist and murderer?
Harold, you can't."

The
judge exhaled.

"Frank,
we all know your reputation. Your rule. I'm relying on you. Don't make me
look like a fool."

"You
won't, Harold."

"PR,"
the judge said.

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.