Gideon - 04 - Illegal Motion

by Grif Stockley

  Sarah cocks her chin at me, a sure sign I have annoyed her.

  “What conceivable difference does that make?” she says.

  “These people are highly regarded in their fields.

  Dr. Beekman is white, but the multi disciplinary team he heads has at least two African-Americans on it.”

  “It sounds like awfully soft research.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a mathematical formula to be true,” Sarah shoots back.

  “I wanted to ask you something about Bear Creek, and I want you to think about this. Did you ever notice how light-skinned the leaders of the African-American community were before the civil rights movement caught on there?”

  “Are you ready?” our waiter says, demanding attention from my daughter. This is the kind of place I could walk in naked and nobody would notice me.

  I smile at the boy, who is hopelessly smitten.

  “We better order,” I say, thinking I’m going to need my strength if I’m to get through this meal. A little more grimly than I would like, Sarah nods and studies the menu while I order fried chicken, the-cheapest meat dish on the menu.

  Unaware of my shoestring budget for this case, she takes me at my word and tells the boy to bring her the club steak not the top of the line but no bargain either.

  As soon as he is gone, Sarah looks at me expectantly.

  “It never occurred to me to pay attention,” I confess, remembering the question.

  “What researchers have observed is that the white power structure habitually handpicked the whitest-looking African-Americans they could find for socalled leader ship positions. These blacks were imitation whites. The civil rights movement, of course, changed all that.”

  “It sounds like,” I point out, “blacks discriminate on the basis of color, too.”

  “As a reaction,” Sarah says stubbornly, “against whites choosing lighter-skinned Negroes to be their leaders.”

  Tax dollars are being paid to study the skin color of small-town Negroes? No wonder there’s a deficit. Before I can respond, we are interrupted by a classmate of Sarah’s who visits until our food comes, and fortunately our conversation about her job never regains the level of intensity it had when we first sat down. This version of my daughter will take some getting used to. I bring the conversation around to the condition of her Volkswagen, and whether it will make it home for Thanksgiving. It better. I’ve put nearly a thousand dollars into the damn thing in the last two months.

  Finally, as we get up to leave, she asks, “Now that you’ve talked to Dade Cunningham, do you think he’s guilty?”

  Poor Sarah. What an uncomfortable position I’ve put her in.

  “Well, I haven’t heard the girl’s side,” I say, picking up the check, “but after talking to Dade, I honestly don’t think he raped her.”

  She bites her lip. I know she doesn’t want me doing this case, but if it works out, she could benefit in ways neither of us dreamed possible. I wonder what she has heard. She probably knows more than I do at this stage of the case. I decide I’d like to meet this Beekman and tell Sarah I might drop by her office tomorrow. It won’t hurt the man to know Sarah has a father who will be checking up on her. Some of these profs, as far as women go, are probably major-league hitters. Sarah is showing all the signs. I’ve never heard her talk like this before. If Beek man is interested, it is easy to understand why. Half the crew of the Hilton practically follows us to the door.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” Sarah says, giving me a hug in the parking lot.

  “That was good.”

  Expensive, too, I don’t add. I still feel guilty about not being able to send her out of state, so it would be too cheap to complain about a meal. I watch her pull out ahead of me and marvel at how well she has turned out. I must have done something right, even if at the moment she sounds like one of those Southerners who finds out how good it feels to beat up on our benighted past. She is young and so self-righteous it makes me want to gag. Experience will knock some of that out of her, I hope.

  I look at my watch. Quarter to seven. Time to go see Carter. I turn left onto Dickson and head for the campus.

  Carter’s supposed to have as great a football mind as Lou Holtz or Jimmy Johnson. It doesn’t matter. He could have an IQ of 7. There’s only one bottom line, and that’s your won-lost record. A 5 and 0 record says it all for the time being. I just hope he isn’t as politically correct as my daughter, or we are in trouble.

  dale carter looks older than sixty. His face is lined like an ex-smoker’s, and his unruly hair, more gray than brown, is sparse. His gray sweats don’t hide his gut. This is a man who didn’t get his job on his looks.

  “Dade,” he says, without shaking his hand, “come on back to my office. Are you Page?” he asks me warily, as if he had taken a course on lawyers in school and flunked.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, offering my hand.

  “How are you, Coach?”

  He gives me the quickest handshake I’ve ever had, and I feel contempt radiating from all directions. It looks as if we will be going through the motions. Hell, why not?

  The state of Arkansas, even if it’s through the auspices of a pissant assistant prosecutor who’s had a bad family experience has put its credibility on the line by charging Dade Cunningham with rape. How can it help the foot ball program in the long run if he lets Dade play out the season? As we follow Carter like two schoolboys about to get a whipping, I think again how easily I am able to deceive myself into believing anything I want. The old saying, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” finally makes sense. For the last twenty-four hours I’ve been acting as if I were king of the rodeo, when the truth is I’m one of those clowns that tries to distract the bull when the king gets bucked off. I’ve got to figure out a way to get on this man’s good side, and it better be quick.

  I glance over at Dade, who looks scared. I don’t blame him. Carter opens the door to his office, and I recognize Jack Burke, the athletic director. Burke is relatively new to the program, and has stayed in the background since he got the job a couple of years ago. Older than his football coach, but not by much, he actually shakes my hand instead of jerking it away as if I had shocked him. He is dressed in a drab gray three-piece suit, as befits his status as an administrator. A former head coach himself at Mississippi State who was a star halfback at Fayetteville in the fifties, he had indifferent success and made his way back to Arkansas, where his only visible decision in the two years he has had the job was to hire Carter. Considered relatively weak after some of the former power brokers who have occupied his position. Burke doesn’t figure to be my problem. He put all his eggs in Carter’s basket, and now he’s got to live with his decision, rotten or not.

  Carter’s office has got to be unusual for a football coach. Instead of pictures of star athletes, he has photographs of urban landscapes that look as if they were taken from some fancy book on architecture. I recognize San Francisco, Chicago, New York, and Dallas. What is it supposed to mean? Perhaps in keeping with his cerebral image, he is trying to make the point that the real world is not the four or five years spent as a Razorback athlete. On his desk is a picture of a plain-looking woman his age his wife, I assume. She is no better-looking than her mate. More of the real world, I guess. Though there is a couch in Carter’s office, he indicates that we should sit across the desk from him, and Burke, now out of my line of sight, takes the couch. This will obviously be Carter’s show. Leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, he ignores me and says wearily, “Dade, I don’t think I have much choice but to take you off the team at least until your trial is over.”

  Dade looks over at me in shock. I say to Carter, “Coach, he hasn’t done anything to be punished for. I’m convinced this wasn’t rape. Dade didn’t force her to have sex. She wanted to. He shouldn’t be punished for that.” I tell him what I have heard about the assistant prosecutor.

  “This charge may end up getting dropped when the man who was elected to
do the job gets back from his vacation.”

  Carter stares at me as if I had suggested that he resign as head coach.

  “You don’t know that. What is your inter est in this anyway? Dade’s family doesn’t have any money. Is your representation tied to his future pro contract or what?”

  Dade shoots me a look of total confusion, and I say hastily, “Absolutely not. I happen to live down the street from his uncle, who’s a friend of mine, and he asked me to help out.” Carter is as shrewd as his reputation makes him out to be. I have stretched the facts a little, but basically what I have said is correct. I see no point in admit ting that I hope to represent Dade on down the line.

  Indifferent to whether he is insulting me. Carter asks Dade, “Is this right?”

  Dade nods.

  “My mama said Uncle James and he are neighbors. He’s got a daughter who’s a cheerleader for the jayvees—Sarah Page.”

  Carter shrugs.

  “People, including coaches, try to exploit these kids all the time,” he says.

  “It makes me sick.”

  I try to seize the tiny opening he has given me.

  “That’s what I think this is all about. It’s not just greedy lawyers who use athletes. This girl, who pretended to be a friend of Dade’s, knows how vulnerable athletes up here are to the charge of sexual misconduct. What I figure is that she got interested in him because he was a star and a real attractive young man. They were in class together and she got to know and like him. One thing led to another, and she went to bed with him. Later she got scared people would find out about it, and knowing how her parents would feel, she claimed she was raped. I don’t need to tell you there’s a lot of racial prejudice in this state, and I’d be willing to bet her parents, who I hear are very prominent in southern Arkansas, would have yanked her out of school if they found out their daughter was going to bed with a black male, even if it was Dade Cunningham. Dade, tell Coach Carter what you’ve told me,” I say, looking at my client. I can’t read Carter. For all I know, he may think I’m a total opportunist and Dade is guilty as hell. Without more time, I can’t prove him wrong on either count.

  “I didn’t force her. Coach,” Dade begins, his voice full of emotion. He suddenly tears up, surprising me. I don’t know about the coaches, but I am not used to seeing men the size of Dade Cunningham cry.

  “I didn’t even know she wanted to do it until she got over to Eddie’s house.”

  “Who’s Eddie, son?” Carter asks gently. For the first time since we’ve been in the room he is completely focused on his player. I look back over my shoulder and see Burke leaning forward, straining to hear.

  “Eddie Stiles he’s a student,” Dade explains, wiping his eyes.

  Damn. I wish I had this on tape and could show it to Dade if he goes to trial. No jury, even an all-white red neck one, could fail to be moved by the genuine emotion in Dade’s face and voice. He has to be telling the truth.

  As I listen to him again, I fear that by the time he goes to trial he will have told the story so many times the details will be too stale for him to summon the raw emotion he is displaying today.

  Carter is unable to restrain himself from interrupting with questions.

  “Dade, you know you wanted in her pants,” he responds after Dade says they decided to meet at Eddie’s to study together, “or you wouldn’t have gone off campus.”

  Instead of denying it, Dade stares at the floor. Carter doesn’t know how many lectures Dade has had on this subject from his parents.

  “I didn’t force her, Coach,” Dade says finally.

  Lust is not a crime, I want to yell at Carter, but he won’t appreciate my interrupting him. If he thinks I’m trying to manage this interview, it’ll make him more suspicious than he is already. Men and women can’t really be friends, the smirk on his face means, and everybody over the age of twelve knows it. No matter how liberated or sophisticated we pretend to be, sex is always lurking right beneath the surface, and you’d have to be an idiot or liar to pretend otherwise.

  Twenty minutes later Carter seems satisfied he has asked every question he has on his mind. He shifts his gaze to me.

  “If I were to leave Dade on the team,” he says, rubbing his forehead wearily, “I’m gonna get my ass fried. You know how reporters are. They’ll say I’m doing it just because I need Dade. The sons of bitches will have a field day. They’re so hypocritical they make me want to puke. They’ll lie, cheat, and steal to get a story all in the name of the socalled truth when all they’re doing ninety-nine percent of the time is repeating gossip and rumors and other people’s opinions. They can cheat on their taxes, their wives, their expense accounts, because they’re not public figures, but we live in a fishbowl up here. I can’t take a crap without some columnist saying something stinks in the athletic department. Regardless of what I do about Dade, my advice to you is be damn careful of what you say or do, because you’ll be reading some half-assed version of it for breakfast the next day.”

  Abruptly, Carter stands up, ending his brief tirade and our conversation. Jack Burke, his boss, hasn’t said a word.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Carter mumbles

  “I haven’t heard the girl’s story. I’ve just heard gossip and read the crap in the papers.”

  Now on my feet, I say, “I should be getting a copy of her statement from the prosecutor tomorrow. I’ll be glad to let you take a look at it after I get it.”

  “You better get it here fast,” Carter warns.

  “I get a lot of unsolicited advice and most of it is to do something quick to keep the heat off. There’re a lot of cover-your ass kind of people associated with a university.”

  “I’ll have it before noon,” I promise, praying I can de liver.

  “Dade’s arraignment is at nine tomorrow morning.

  Afterward, I should be able to talk to the assistant prosecutor who brought the charges and get a copy of the file.”

  “I suspect I’ll be right here,” Carter says wryly. He doesn’t offer his hand, which I take as a bad sign.

  Before we head for the door, I ask, “Have you heard anything about Dade’s status as a student? That’s not a problem, is it?”

  For the first time Jack Burke speaks.

  “That’s another part of the university’s business, not ours,” he explains.

  “Since the incident occurred off campus and the Fayetteville police are involved, the administration may choose not to deal with the arrest as a disciplinary matter;

  but it has the authority. I haven’t heard what’s happening about that.”

  I don’t believe him. He must mean that no decision has been made.

  “Let’s go, Dade,” I say, pretending not to be concerned; yet, I have the feeling Dade may have more to worry about than a criminal rape charge and Coach Carter’s decision.

  Dade nods but turns to Carter.

  “Coach, I want to keep playing!”

  Carter’s head bobs in a dismissive gesture.

  “I know, son.”

  I touch Dade’s arm and lead him out the door. Poor kid he doesn’t have a clue as to how this all fits together Hell, I don’t either. He may need three or four lawyers before this case is over. Unfortunately, he has just one, and I’ll be damned if I’m prepared to take on an entire university bureaucracy.

  Twenty minutes later I am alone in my room at the Ozark, sipping on a well-earned bourbon and Coke and trying to make sense of all that has gone on in the last twenty-four hours. Carter remains a mystery. He hates the media, but what coach or politician who has been around for a while doesn’t? I’ve been burned by them, too, remembering the day when a TV camera was shoved in my face after an attorney had committed suicide in my front yard. I nearly lost it. Hell, the rumor went on for weeks that I had killed him. The best thing I have going for me in this case is my client. I truly believe he is innocent.

  I haven’t been able to say that about many of the criminal defendants I have rep
resented.

  I watch the ten o’clock news on Channel 5 and hear my name mentioned. The local news anchor, a stunning looking young woman with long ebony hair and green eyes that are gorgeous even on my TV screen, says the university is investigating the matter and has “no comment” at this time. Ditto for Coach Carter. There is no mention of my visit with Dade. The news anchor says, “At least for tonight Dade Cunningham is back on campus.”

  I go to sleep, wondering if it will be his only night.

  The Washington County courthouse, built in 1904, is the color of gingerbread and bristles with steeples and multiple arches. Upon entering, I notice again the mural that bears the legend: our hope lies in heroic men. No mention of women. After a bad night’s sleep (I kept get ting up to go to the bathroom: the chilly October weather up here in the mountains has that effect on my bladder), I don’t feel particularly heroic, but Dade’s formal entry of a plea goes smoothly enough, and I get my first glimpse of Don Franklin, the circuit court judge, and Mike Cash, the assistant prosecutor who started all this mess.

  Franklin seems low key, a low-voltage kind of judge who prefers that lawyers keep the theatrics to a mini mum. In his late sixties, he treats Mike Cash with a kind of avuncular condescension, giving me some hope that at some later date when “Binkie” Cross, the prosecutor, re turns, this case can be made to go away. Seated almost too quietly beside me, Dade, dressed in a dark sports coat a size too small and slightly wrinkled khaki pants, looks terrified.

  “Nothing of importance will happen this mo ming I reassure him for the third time. Like a deer caught in the headlights of a car, he sits motionless with a wideeyed stare on his face. This is no street-smart kid beside me. I’d rather have him like this than the kind who comes off cocky and arrogant, sneering all the way to the electric chair.

  After the court enters Dade’s not-guilty plea, we get a January 7 trial date and are excused from the courtroom.

  I ask Cash when he’ll have time to talk, and he tells me to come to his office in half an hour. Cash is young and he dresses well. His gray suit is a worsted wool herringbone that fits him like a glove. It doesn’t hurt that he is my height minus about twenty pounds. He can’t be more than twenty-six or twenty-seven. Probably a real eager beaver.