by Scott Pratt
“Anything to it?” she said.
“Hard to tell. A bunch of anonymous sources and unconfirmed information.”
“Oh, you mean standard operating procedure for journalism these days.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Who knows?” I said. “It might be nothing or it might be a serious crime.”
“Sounds to me like people might be needing lawyers,” she said.
“I don’t do sex cases, Caroline. You know that.”
I hadn’t had a nightmare about my sister, Sarah, being raped by my sixteen-year-old uncle when we were very young since Caroline and I had talked about it in the car on the way home from Vanderbilt a few days earlier. The incident had had a profound impact on both Sarah and me, because I’d tried unsuccessfully to stop him and because Sarah had had to endure the terrible humiliation of the rape at such a young age. When I started practicing defense law, I vowed I would never defend a rapist.
“But you now practice law with your son, Jack Dillard, and a young woman named Charlie Story, who just happens to be his girlfriend and who I predict he will marry sometime within the next year. I know your reasons for not taking sex cases. Will your associates be barred from taking cases because you refuse to do so?”
“There may not even be a case, Caroline.”
“But if there is, will you keep Jack and Charlie from taking on a rape case because your sister was raped when she was a child? That doesn’t seem quite fair to me.”
“Wow, you must be feeling pretty good this morning. You’ve come out of the bedroom with both guns blazing. Has anyone even tried to hire us? If so, I’m unaware.”
“Just think about it,” Caroline said as she turned away. “Jack and Charlie share your law practice now. They also share your passion and your talent. But they don’t share your past, and they shouldn’t be burdened by it. If someone is accused of committing a rape in that house, needs a good lawyer, and wants to hire you, you should give some serious consideration to taking it on and letting them help you.”
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 28
The president of East Tennessee State University was as angry as he’d ever been in his life when his football coach walked through the door of his expansive, tastefully-appointed office at 8:00 a.m. the morning the story broke about the rape allegations against football players. Already in the room were the university’s general counsel, the director of community relations, and the athletic director.
The president, a forty-six-year-old named Dean Brady, had been employed by the university for five years. During his tenure, he’d worked hard to engage the university with the community, he’d worked hard to improve programs in the arts, in academics and in athletics. He’d spearheaded the movement to return football to the university after the program had been shut down for ten years. Brady, who had never played football, nonetheless believed the sport to be an important part of the student experience on a college campus and an absolute necessity if the university was to improve itself and thrive in the future.
Brady had taken a great deal of criticism for his stance on football, especially from faculty members and administrators on the academic side who believed the sport to be a burden on an already strained budget. There were also a majority of students who didn’t want the sport returned to campus and had made their feelings known through a vote. But in the end, it didn’t matter. The powers that controlled the purse strings—and the ability to assess students’ extra tuition to pay for the football program—ultimately prevailed and the sport returned. A veteran football coach named Mike Springer had been hired to build the program. During their first season, where they played on a local high school field because they didn’t have a stadium, they posted a predictable but abysmal record of 2-9. The following year, still playing at the high school, they improved to 5-6. This year was to be the true beginning. A new stadium had been built on campus. The players were experienced and the team had become stronger in every phase of the game. Springer had been quoted as saying he believed his team could win at least seven games.
There was a long silence after Coach Springer took his seat at the round table in the corner across the office from Brady’s desk. The president had a copy of the Johnson City newspaper spread out in front of him. He finally looked at Springer and said, “What in the hell are we going to do about this?”
“I don’t believe she was raped,” Coach Springer said. “I just don’t see my guys doing something like that.”
“Did you envision your guys hiring a stripper for a party?” Brady said. “Did you know anything about it?”
“Of course not,” Springer said.
“Have you talked to any of them yet?”
“I talked to the three captains who live in the house where the party was held. They all say nothing happened, and I believe them. The stripper idea started as a joke and then turned into a real thing, but again, I don’t believe for a second that a rape took place. I plan to talk to every player on the team. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“We need to respond to this as quickly as possible,” said Blakely Burton, the director of community relations for the university. She was a blonde former television news anchor who was now the university’s mouthpiece and drafted or approved nearly all official communications that went from the university to any news outlet. “There needs to be a statement from you, Dr. Brady. What we have to decide is whether we announce that we’re going to be proactive and what kind of action we plan to take or whether we plan to refrain from comment, rely on the laws that protect students’ privacy, and allow the police investigation to run its course. We can take appropriate action accordingly. That would be my recommendation. A statement that basically says nothing.”
“We have a problem besides just the police investigation,” the president said. “I spoke to the chief of police an hour ago. The young woman making the accusations is also a part-time student here, which means Title IX and all of its ramifications come into play.”
He looked across the table at George Darden, the school’s general counsel. Darden was in his late forties. His blond hair was thinning quickly and his eyes were a robin’s egg shade of blue. He was an avid runner who competed in marathons and was, therefore, slightly built. He’d graduated from Yale law school and was a seasoned lawyer and a tough negotiator. Brady trusted him completely.
“George,” the president said. “Why don’t you bring them up to speed?”
“It’s actually pretty tricky in this case,” Darden said. “I’m sure everyone in this room knows that Title IX is a federal civil rights statute passed in 1972 to protect women from sexual discrimination on college campuses across the country. The fact that the woman making these accusations is a student here, added to the fact that the house where those three captains live is owned by the university, may obligate us to conduct our own investigation into the incident and eventually hold a hearing to see whether the players should be expelled for their conduct. If she doesn’t file a formal complaint, however, then we may not be obligated. I’m just not sure. I know of no precedent where a stripper who was also a student at a university sued the university after being sexually assaulted by other students on property controlled by the university. They say there’s nothing new under the sun, but this might be. Right now, she’s gone to the authorities and they are apparently actively investigating this as a possible kidnapping and rape. If it happened, if she was really raped or sexually assaulted in any way, and the criminal justice system indicts them and tries them, we’re going to get sued and we’ll wind up paying through the nose. The girl will allege we didn’t protect her. She’ll probably sue us even if there is no criminal prosecution. So again, it goes back to you, Coach, as far as the institution is concerned. Did you or any of your assistant coaches know anything about this? Should you have known? If you didn’t know, then why not? The ultimate question will be: ‘Just what kind of program are you running?’”
“And I’ll be the scapegoat,” Coach S
pringer said.
“It might come down to that, but you might not be alone,” Darden said. He turned his attention to Raymond Winters, the university’s athletic director.
“Is there anything we should know, Raymond?”
Winters, who was nearing sixty and had been the director of athletics for fifteen years, raised his eyebrows.
“Like what?”
“Have there been Title IX accusations of sexual assault against athletes that you haven’t told us about? Anything swept under the rug? Because it’s becoming a thing right now for plaintiffs’ lawyers to go after universities because universities aren’t good at dealing with sexual assaults, especially when it comes to athletes. Baylor’s football program got crushed. The president, the athletic director, the head football coach and nearly the entire football staff were sent packing. They’ll pay out tens of millions before it’s over. The University of Tennessee just paid out three million to eight plaintiffs. It’s happening all over the country. If we get hammered with a big payout, the Board of Trustees will disband the football team again and it won’t be back.”
“We can’t hire lawyers for these guys, can we?” Coach Springer said.
“No. And if some alumni or booster tries to go around the rules and starts hiring lawyers, again, football will be gone.”
“I got a call from a police captain,” the coach said. “He wants to know whether all of my guys will voluntarily give DNA samples and come in for interviews. The three players that were in the house, Kevin Davidson, Dominic Vasso and Henry Treadway, already talked to them and gave them DNA samples. I told him I’d have to talk to you about it first, George. What do you think?”
“My first instinct is to tell them no,” Darden said. “I wouldn’t want to give them the opportunity to manipulate evidence the way that fool prosecutor did at Duke University ten years ago. Besides, they have the right to remain silent and that’s always a good policy when you might be a suspect in a crime. If the DA gets subpoenas from a judge for DNA samples from every player, we can fight it. If we lose, we lose, but at least we’ll look like we’re backing our players.”
“I disagree,” Dr. Brady said. “Blakely, you write up a release for the press and I’ll go over it,” President Brady said. “Make it as noncommittal as possible. Raymond, I want you back in here by noon to give me a report on Title IX cases and how they’ve been handled. Don’t write anything down. And Coach Springer, you go to your guys and tell them I said thanks a hell of a lot. With one act of stupidity, rape or no rape, they’ve tarnished the reputation of this university and have endangered everything we’ve worked so hard to build. I also want you to tell them to cooperate fully with the police. Interviews, DNA samples, whatever they need.”
“I just don’t think that’s in their best interests,” Darden said.
“I don’t give a damn about their best interest right now,” Brady said. “I care about this university and what it means to this community. If one or more of those guys is a rapist, then I want their scalps hanging from the upper deck of the football stadium. Everybody cooperates with the police. Let’s do anything and everything to get this out of the news and behind us as quickly as we possibly can. And George?”
“Yes, Dr. Brady?”
“Start checking into whether we can pay this woman off. I want to know how much it’ll take to make her go away.”
THURSDAY, AUGUST 29
Caroline turned out to be a prophet, because the call came in later that day. Gerome Davidson, an assistant city manager in Collierville, wanted to meet with me along with his wife, Regina, and his son, Kevin. The call came into the office in Jonesborough, where Charlie and Jack and I had updated things. We’d expanded into a rental space that had become vacant next door, so we now had offices for me, for Jack, and for Charlie. We also had a decent-sized conference room and small offices for our new legal secretary and a paralegal.
The secretary was a sharp, mid-thirties blonde named Beverly Snyder and the paralegal was a younger, equally-sharp brunette named Kelly Sims, both of whom had been hired by Jack and Charlie. I’d had a secretary years earlier, but Caroline had become my secretary when I decided to get out of practicing criminal defense law. That only lasted a couple of years. When I went back to criminal defense, Caroline handled the secretarial duties, but she didn’t much care for it and she no longer had the energy. We also had a new investigator, a former FBI agent who had retired after twenty years with the bureau and was hiring herself out as a private investigator on a case-by-case basis. Her name was Susan Stoneman, but everybody called her Stony. She’d worked two cases for us, and I’d found her work to be excellent and her rates reasonable.
So we’d hired the new people, had the new office set up, and had updated all of our computers and software. We were capable of being a regular legal defense juggernaut now, a real team with good people and the right technology. Because of all the changes, and especially because I had Jack and Charlie around all the time, I’d found myself revitalized when it came to practicing law. I was often lost when it came to using the tech stuff, but I was enjoying the practice of law for the first time in a long time.
Charlie was in court when the call came in from Gerome Davidson and I was at the jail talking to an appointed client named Rocky Rutledge who had been accused of murdering his brother-in-law, so Beverly initially turned the call over to Jack. Jack spoke with Mr. Davidson for quite some time and set up an appointment for the next day. Mr. Davidson, who had driven up from Collierville as soon as his son told him what was going on, wanted me there. He said he’d done some calling around and believed I would be the best person for the job, so Jack told him, without talking to me, that I’d be there. I was a bit annoyed at first, but after thinking about what Caroline had said and after listening to what Jack had to say, I agreed.
The three of them walked in at 11:00 a.m. sharp, right on time. Beverly buzzed me and told me they were there. By the time I walked out into the lobby, she’d offered them coffee or tea or water, which they all turned down. I greeted each of them separately.
Kevin was an impressive looking young man. He was about two inches shorter than me at six-feet-one, and he was lean and muscular. He had a firm handshake and he looked me directly in the eye when I took his hand. He had beautiful, perfect white teeth, short hair, high cheekbones and a long face. Everything about him said athlete, the way he looked, the way he moved. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit and tie over a white button-down shirt.
His parents were a handsome couple as well. Kevin was practically a clone of Gerome, while Regina was striking in a navy-blue business suit. She wore her hair short, and was as lean as the men in her life. She would later tell me that she ran track at Middle Tennessee State University, where she was a 400 and 800-meter specialist and where she had met her husband, who was a linebacker on the football team majoring in public administration.
I brought the three of them into my office and we made some small talk. Gerome and Regina had been married right out of college and Kevin came along the very next year. He was now twenty-one years old, which meant they’d been married for twenty-two. They also had two daughters, both of whom were in high school in Collierville. Kevin had been an all-state performer at Collierville. He’d drawn the attention of some Division I programs, but none of them wanted him to play quarterback. He was left-handed and said while his arm was plenty strong, he wasn’t consistently accurate. He could run, though, and he eventually wound up at East Mississippi Community College in a small town called Scooba, Mississippi. He played very little there, didn’t like the coach, and transferred to ETSU after being invited to visit. The Bucs were a Division I FCS school just putting a program back together. They didn’t even have a stadium in which to play during Kevin’s first two years but were scheduled to move into a brand-new stadium on campus his senior season. The team won two games Kevin’s first year, had won five games last year, and were hoping to win at least seven this year. The young man’s eyes lit
up when he talked about football; I could tell he loved it.
“And what kind of student are you?” I asked.
“Top of my class,” he said. “Majoring in criminal justice and minoring in history. I’ve already been accepted to law school at the University of Tennessee. I guess that could change, depending on what happens in this case.”
“I went to the University of Tennessee law school,” I said. “Good school, but I barely remember it. I was married, we were having and raising babies. I was so busy it’s just a blur.”
“I hope Kevin gets the opportunity to go there,” his father said. “He’s worked hard, and up until the other night, has made good decisions for the most part.”
“Right. Okay, let’s talk about the other night,” I said. “And Kevin, I’m just going to be honest with you. I don’t want to take this case. Someone close to me was raped when she was very young, and I know how devastating something like that can be. Usually, when criminal defense lawyers talk to clients, especially for the first time, they kind of dance around the facts of the case. The lawyer isn’t necessarily looking to find out if his client is innocent, because more than ninety percent of the time the client is guilty. So the lawyer looks for ways to attack the prosecution’s case by trying to find things the police may have done incorrectly. We look for constitutional violations, anything that can get our client out of the charge, or at the very least, put us in a better plea-bargaining position. But with you, I’m not going to do that. You’re going to have to convince me you’re innocent or I’m not going to take this case. I’m not going to represent a rapist, plain and simple. If you can’t convince me during this meeting that you didn’t commit this rape, you’ll have to find somebody else.”
“There was no rape,” Kevin said. “Nothing happened. You’re not going to kick me in the testicles, are you?”
“What? Why would you say that?”
“Because that’s what the cop did. I wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear so he kicked me in the testicles. I nearly passed out.”
