The Case Against William

Navarchus Press

By the same author

The Color of Law

The Abduction

The Perk

The Common Lawyer

Accused

The Governor's Wife

Con Law

Parts & Labor: The
Adventures of Max Dugan

(a novel for middle-grade children)

Copyright © 2014 by Mark Gimenez

Published by Navarchus Press, LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
organizations, places, and incidents either are the product
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without
the prior written permission of Navarchus Press, LLC. Published in the United States of America.

ISBN 978-0-9839875-7-4

Ebook conversion:
Fowler Digital Services
Formatted by: Ray Fowler

Cover image © Shutterstock

Cover design: Brian Halley at Book Creatives

To Cole

PROLOGUE
TEN YEARS BEFORE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
THE PRESENT
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PRAISE FOR MARK GIMENEZ'S BOOKS

"It's not whether you get knocked down; it's whether
you get up."

- Vince Lombardi

"Flex
Right, X Right, three-twenty-four Train, Z Colorado on two hard—"

"Wait!
What do I do?"

William
looked at D'Quandrick Simmons, number eighty-eight, on the far side of the
huddle staring back at his quarterback with wide eyes. D-Quan—his street
name—stood six feet four inches tall, weighed two hundred fifteen pounds with four
percent body fat, ran a 4.4-second forty-yard dash, and could go airborne to
catch any ball thrown in his general vicinity. But he wasn't so good with the
playbook. They were coming off a timeout, so William had time to explain the
play to D-Quan. He pointed at the other receivers.

"Cowboy,
he's lining up left and running a deep crossing route to freeze the free
safety. Cuz is going in motion right—I'm hoping he takes the strong safety
with him—then running a deep out. Outlaw's running a short out. You're slot
left. I'm trying to iso you on the corner deep, so you're running a Train,
hitch-and-go at fourteen—"

"Say
what
?"

William
sighed. Every player—except him—suffered brain farts, moments in games when
the pressure or the excitement or the exhaustion caused his brain to cease
functioning for all intents and purposes. He just played on adrenaline and
innate street skills. D-Quan was experiencing a brain fart. That, and he was
a few fries short of a Happy Meal. William had learned that at times like this
with D-Quan, it was best to keep it simple.

"Just
run down the fucking field and catch the ball."

D-Quan
pounded his chest twice with his fist then fashioned goal posts with his thumbs
and forefingers, his signature gesture.

"End
zone, baby."

They
were huddled up on their own thirty-six-yard line in the center of the field of
thick green turf in the bowl of the ninety-thousand-seat stadium. The tight
space inside the huddle reeked with the scent of sweat and testosterone oozing
from every pore on the eleven large male bodies. The five offensive lineman, white
guys weighing in at over three hundreds pounds each, stood bent over with their
hands on their knees, panting like wild beasts, spitting saliva balls, and
sucking oxygen, their massive bodies pushed to exhaustion from blocking equally
massive defensive linemen for three hours in the ninety-degree heat of
mid-October in Texas. Ty Walker, aka Cowboy, the tight end from Amarillo, spit
tobacco juice through his facemask; he had grown up bull riding in rodeos, so a
football game barely provided enough danger to get his blood pressure up.
Ernie, the halfback from Houston, was cool and black and headed to the NFL; he
just wanted to get out of his final college season with his knees intact. And
the three wide receivers—Maurice Washington, aka Cuz, Demetrius Jones, aka Outlaw,
and D-Quan—all tall and black and blazing fast with tattoos emblazoned down
their long sinewy arms and dreadlocks hanging out the back of their helmets,
stood with their hands on their hips and their 'hood expressions on their faces,
as if questioning whether their white-boy quarterback could come through one
more time.

He
could.

William
Tucker, number twelve, was the senior quarterback for the Texas Longhorns. He
was six-five, two-thirty-five, and fast; he could throw, and he could run. He
could have gone pro after his sophomore or junior years, but he wanted a
national championship trophy sitting between the Heisman Trophy he had won last
year as the top college football player in America and the one he would
certainly win this year, the first back-to-back Heisman winner in forty years.
They were undefeated, 8-0, and ranked number one in the nation. Oklahoma,
their opponent that day, was also undefeated and ranked number two. The winner
of this game—known as the Red River Rivalry and played in the Cotton Bowl in
Dallas each year during the State Fair of Texas—would be the odds-on favorite
to win the national championship. They were down four points with eight
seconds left in the game. So far that season, they had won five times on dramatic
fourth-quarter comebacks engineered by William Tucker. But his teammates still
didn't believe in his destiny.

He
did.

He
was born to play football. Specifically, quarterback. He had the height to
see over the defensive line, the hands to hold a pro-sized football as if it
were a peewee league ball, and the arm to hurl the ball far downfield, a
requirement in the pass-happy offensive schemes employed by the pros. And the
pros were chomping at the bit for William Tucker. He was the prototype NFL
quarterback: big enough to withstand the physical punishment pro quarterbacks
suffered at the hands of three-hundred-pound defensive linemen, strong enough
to stand in the pocket and make the throw, and fast enough to evade the rush
when his protection broke down and turn a negative play into a positive play.
He was big; he was strong; and he was fast. He was the best there ever was.
He was on the cover of the current edition of
Sports Illustrated
.

In
five months, he would go number one in the pro draft and sign a five-year,
$100-million guaranteed contract with Dallas. Word was, the Cowboys were
trading up to take him. William Tucker would be their franchise quarterback.
He would make Big D forget Meredith, Staubach, and Aikman (the fans had already
forgotten Romo). He was twenty-two-years-old; the dream that had first taken
shape in his mind ten years before—"I'm going to be the Cowboys quarterback,"
he had said, as all twelve-year-old boys in Texas say—would come true. But he
wanted a national championship to close out his college career, and Oklahoma
stood in the way. He had to motivate his teammates for one more big play. Playing
quarterback was part athlete, part motivational speaker, part religious leader;
he had to make them
believe
. He often felt like Moses—if Moses had
played quarterback at the University of Texas at Austin. He stepped to the
middle of the huddle and yelled over the crowd noise.

"Look
around, guys. This is why we play the game. This is why we play for the Texas
Longhorns. Ninety thousand fans in those stands. Millions more watching on
national TV. We win today, it's a straight shot to the national championship
game. We lose, we're done. I don't know about you boys, but I didn't come up to
Dallas to lose to a bunch of fucking Okies. And we're not going to lose. One
play. One touchdown. We win. Now suck it up and kick some Okie ass!"

He
stuck out a fist. The ten other players crowded close and placed their hands
on top of his fist.

"On
two hard. Ready—break!"

They
broke the huddle and hurried to the line of scrimmage. The offensive linemen
took their pass-blocking stances; a pass play was a given. William stayed back
in the shotgun formation, flanked by Ernie on his left. He looked at the weak-side
linebacker's feet—his left foot was forward; he was blitzing. William motioned
Ernie over to his right side. He then focused on the middle of the defense; he
stepped close to his center and slapped his wide butt.

"Fifty-five's
the Mike!"

His
offensive linemen had to account for the middle linebacker—the "Mike"
in football jargon—otherwise, the two-hundred-sixty-pound Mike would crash
through the line and be all over William before the play had time to develop.
Game over.

"Fifty-five's
the Mike!"

The
center called out the blocking scheme to each side of the line—"Scram!
Scram!"—and William bounced back to his position five yards behind the
center. Cuz was spread left, D-Quan in the slot outside Cowboy, and Outlaw
wide right. He scanned the defensive secondary. Who would cover D-Quan? He
yelled the signals.

"Omaha!"

That
meant they were going with the play he had called in the huddle.

"Set!"

Cuz
took a step back and came in motion across the offensive formation. The strong
safety paralleled him across the defensive formation. Which meant the
strong-side linebacker would follow Cowboy on the deep crossing route. The corner
stepped in closer to D-Quan, leaving the sideline open. He would cover
man-to-man with free safety help over the top. The free safety took a step
toward the sideline to protect deep, but Cowboy crossing in front of him would
distract him. At the speed the game was played today, one split-second of
distraction was all William needed.

"Green
eighteen, green eighteen! Forty-three! Hut,
hut
!"

The
center snapped the ball back to him. The receivers exploded off the line of
scrimmage like sprinters at the Olympics. The offensive linemen dug their
cleats into the turf, grunted like feral hogs, and held the defensive line's
surge to a standstill. The Mike dropped back into coverage. The weak-side
linebacker blitzed, but Ernie cut his legs out; he flipped head over heels. William
darted around them and drifted over to the right sideline as if he didn't know
what to do—as if he didn't know exactly what he was going to do. He was luring
the defensive backs to his side of the field and buying time for D-Quan working
on the far side.

His
favorite receiver wasn't going to graduate Phi Beta Kappa—in fact, he wasn't going
to graduate at all—but he could sure as hell play football.

William
didn't so much as glance D-Quan's way because the free safety was playing his
eyes to see where he was going with the ball, but he knew that D-Quan had just
hit the fourteen-yard marker, the point where all down-the-field pass plays
break … he was
hitching
—chopping his feet and turning his upper body
back to his quarterback with his hands raised as if expecting a pass—and
praying that the cornerback jumped the route to intercept—and then
going
—spinning
around and exploding down the sideline, hitting his max speed at the
twenty-four-yard marker, going vertical up the field like a fucking rocket ship
into space … and William knew D-Quan had left the corner in his wake when
the free safety turned his body hard, ducked his head, and broke into an
all-out sprint to cut D-Quan off at the fifty-four-yard marker—the goal line.
But he figured wrong. William wasn't going to throw to the fifty-four-yard
marker; he was throwing to the sixty-four-yard marker—to the pylon at the back
corner of the end zone.