I stand up.
“Let’s go, Dade,” I say, trying to get out of here before my tongue gets the better of me. Cash is humiliated enough already. Anything I say will get back to Cross, and I don’t want to alienate him before I’ve had a chance to talk to him. Cash shrugs, knowing he can’t very well protest my lack of cooperation.
I find a phone and call Carter in his office and explain what has happened. He doesn’t seem as upset as I thought he would a sign, I’m afraid, that he has already made up his mind, or that somebody has already made it up for him.
“I’ll have a statement out about Dade’s status before practice this afternoon,” he says curtly.
My fears are confirmed.
“It still doesn’t change the facts. Dade’s innocent until proven guilty, and that’s the way the system ought to work on campus as well.”
Carter pauses as if this statement is so naive that he won’t dignify it by responding.
“I’ve got to get off,” he says abruptly and hangs up.
In the Blazer, driving back to the campus, I try to put the best gloss on things I can.
“I don’t think he’ll take away your scholarship until the case is tried. The worst he’ll probably do is suspend you from the team.”
Dade looks out the window on Dickson Street at the D-Lux. Best cheeseburgers in Fayetteville. I spent many pleasant hours drinking beer there my senior year. He says glumly, “I might as well transfer.”
He still hasn’t got it in his head that he may be transferring to the Arkansas State Penitentiary next semester.
Yet, it’s better that he not get depressed. He won’t be any help, and I will need all I can get before this case is over with.
“Don’t start getting your head down, Dade,” I warn him.
“If you start acting like you’re guilty, that’s what people will believe. I can’t have you acting all down-in the-mouth in public. Even if things don’t go our way at first, we’ve got to keep fighting. I think eventually you’re going to be cleared. If it takes a trial, so be it. Next year this time will just be a bad dream.”
His attractive face still somber, he asks, “Do you really believe that?”
I stop at the light at the intersection of Arkansas and Dickson at the edge of the campus. Hell no, I don’t. If he weren’t black, I might. How many blacks in Arkansas have ever won a rape trial involving a white woman?
None that I know of. The best thing we can do is to keep this case from going to trial. And while that’s possible, it seems like a long shot.
“Sure I do,” I lie glibly.
“It doesn’t really matter what Coach Carter does today. You and I are in this for the long haul.” If by some stroke of luck this case has a happy ending, I hope he remembers that. I let him out at the jock dorm after getting his promise to keep his mouth shut and to call me as soon as he hears from Carter.
I head back downtown to Barton Sanders’s office. This is the kind of case where insiders have a distinct advantage. I know there are attorneys up here who have represented athletes, and I need to pick their brains. I suspect, however, they have more to do today than spoon-feed me on how to help my client.
Barton can be counted on to be behind his desk on Mountain Street, just a block from the courthouse, and I am received without a wait. Extending his small, pudgy, ink-stained hand to me, he asks immediately, “Did you get hold of Carter?”
I sit down across from him, my eyes already glazing over at all the abstracts that surround him. How does he read this stuff day after day?
“We met last night,” I say, and bring him up to date. Barton listens wideeyed as a child. Clearly, this is what he would like to be doing in stead of getting filthy rich. At my request, he makes phone calls to three attorneys who have represented jocks in either disciplinary proceedings with the university or criminal cases. Typically, nobody is in his office. You can never find a lawyer when you need one, I think glumly. I should have gotten Barton to call one of these guys night before last, but my ego told me I didn’t need any help. I ought to call Roy Cunningham and punt this case. I don’t know what I am doing. Worse, I don’t know where to start.
Over lunch at a cafe two doors down from his office, I ask Barton, “Are there some more buttons I should be pushing?”
Our waitress is an elderly woman who takes our order and kids with Barton, an obvious regular. After she leaves, he says, “I think you’re stuck for the moment. I wouldn’t want to be Carter right now for love or money.
He’s got to dump his best player on the eve of the Tennessee game. What I’ve heard in the last twenty-four hours is that if he leaves Dade on the team, he’ll be crucified. Five years ago maybe he could have gotten away with it; now, it’s a different ball game. The talk is that the university got such a black eye after the ninety-one incident that it can’t afford to do nothing. And since Dade’s already been charged, that makes it ten times worse.”
I am eager to talk, but a client of Barton’s comes over, and invites himself to sit down and proceeds to discuss some land transaction near Beaver Lake for an entire hour. Barton looks at me apologetically, but he must be on this guy’s clock, because he pays his client the same rapt attention he gave me in his office. Finally we escape, with me somehow stuck with the check. I catch up with Barton on the street, thinking I am out of my league up here.
“I’m really sorry,” Barton says sincerely, his warm puppy eyes moist in the bright noontime glare.
“There’s a few million dollars involved on this deal, and I couldn’t blow him off.”
A few million. Is that all?
“He wasn’t worried about confidentiality,” I mutter, although I couldn’t understand a thing they were talking about. I’d still be trying to pass the real property course if Barton hadn’t tutored me. Of course, I helped get him through trial advocacy. Hardly tit for tat, given our incomes now; but if he thinks he owes me, I won’t discourage him.
“He probably thought you were an associate and were charging the firm,” Barton says, laughing, as we return to his office. While he picks up his messages, I marvel at all the wasted space. He is by himself, and yet he has a small office building all to himself. On the walls are photographs of the area including Beaver Lake, the President’s retreat for a couple of days his first summer in office, and numerous aerial shots of the Ozarks. Knowing Barton, I suspect he is trying to figure out a way to buy northwest Arkansas for himself and his clients and lease it to the rest of the state.
One of the pink slips is from a lawyer Barton called to help me, and from his desk he gets him on the speakerphone, explaining who I am and what is happening in Dade’s case. I have never heard of Bliss Young, but then, I doubt if he has heard of me.
After a few inane pleasantries, I blurt, “Is there any body I should be calling? What should I be doing now?”
Bliss Young snorts, “Helping Dade pack his bags probably. If he hadn’t been charged, his chances of playing might have been even, but his luck ran out when Mike Cash got hold of him. All you can do now is to prepare for trial. If Carter doesn’t throw him off the team, the university will.” I listen impatiently while Young in great de tail tells me a story about his representation of a student athlete before the university judiciary board.
“Now that’s a three-ring circus,” he says.
I draw my finger across my neck. Barton nods, but he can’t shut this guy up. He drones on for ten minutes non stop about the lack of due process. God, lawyers like to hear themselves talk. Finally, when he pauses to take a breath, I tell him I’ll take a rain check, but that I have an other appointment.
Pissed at being interrupted, he hangs up abruptly, and I apologize to Barton.
“I wasn’t trying to hack the guy off, but I’m looking for some way to deal with Carter.”
Barton nods sympathetically.
“I know you’re frustrated,” he says, “but I think there’s not much you can do now except wait for him to make a decision.” We are like housewives in a TV soap opera who can do nothing but wring their hands until the next commercial. He offers me a cup of coffee.
“What’s the prosecutor’s name? Cross?” I ask, deciding to move on to a more promising subject.
“Tell me about him” “Yeah, Binkie Cross. He must give a lot of money to the Razorback Club,” Barton says, his tone slightly aggrieved.
“He always gets better seats than I do.”
I stir my coffee, envying the paneling in Barton’s office.
He has enough wood in here for me to build a new house. Money and influence. Where you sit at Razorback games depends on the generosity of your contributions to a private organization whose books haven’t been open to the public and your friendships with Jack Burke and others who control it.
“Somehow, I’m not terribly surprised.”
“Even if I could put two words together in public without sounding like I had an IQ of 4,1 wouldn’t be the prosecutor for love or money,” Barton needlessly confesses.
“You’ve got all these groups up here-gays and lesbians, environmentalists, foreign students. They’ve always got a beef about something, and the media loves to stir ‘em up.
Binkie always looks stressed out at bar meetings. Lot of toes to avoid. I hear he may not run again.”
That’s the trouble with power. You exercise it, and people get pissed off.
“So, he’s not real crazy about his job, huh?” I say, encouraging him.
“Or Binkie,” Barton hoots from behind his desk, “thought he was gonna be a hero and just prosecute drug cases and regular crime stuff. Bullshit! Last month at the Washington County Bar Association luncheon he said half the people in Fayetteville want the other half in jail.
One group wants to impeach him for not prosecuting gays under the sodomy law; gays want him to arrest that same group for harassment. The pro-choice people want injunctions against the right-to-lifers, who want them charged with murder. By the time you get through trying to pacify all the special-interest groups, it’s already five o’clock. I thought he was gonna cry.”
Sounds like of’ Binkie might like to avoid a trial. Barton, I decide, likes gossip more than I remember.
“What else have you heard about the girl?” I ask, not worried I’m taking up his time. He obviously can afford it.
Barton fingers his tie, a plain brown number that looks like a long dirt stain against his starched white shirt.
“Not much about the girl, but her father is rumored to be a big contributor to the Razorbacks. They say he gives so much that if he wanted, he could sit in Nolan’s lap during basketball season. Big Baptist, too. One of the leaders in driving the moderates out of the seminaries. They tell me a liberal Baptist these days is one who thinks Jesus might have sported a beard.”
I try to grin at this feeble attempt at humor. Barton wasn’t known as a stand-up comedian and hasn’t improved much. Still, this information is useful. The old man may have mixed emotions about what a trial will do not only to his daughter but to the Razorbacks as well.
“Back in the old days, everybody would have wanted to keep the lid on,” Barton says.
“The girl would have dropped out of school, and it never would have gotten beyond the gossip stage.”
The old days. Barton must be all of thirty. As we are talking, Lila, one of his two secretaries, a girl who must be a student at the university, bursts into his office, and says excitedly, “Dade Cunningham’s still on the team!
Coach Carter’s just announcing it. Turn on your radio!”
Barton reaches behind him to his. stereo and we hear the leathery voice of Dale Carter. “… I realize I take this action against the advice of Chancellor Henry, who has strongly recommended a different course of action. But I am convinced it would be unfair to discipline Dade until he has had a trial. After reviewing this matter, I have to say that I have heard no evidence that leads me to believe that a crime has been committed. It would be improper for me to say more at this time. The young woman has made serious charges against Dade in the criminal courts of this state, but it’s my view that due process of law re quires that Dade be presumed innocent until proven guilty. For this reason I’m not, at this time, suspending him for a violation of team rules. This is not to say that I consider the matter closed, nor am I making any judgment about whether a violation of the law occurred. If in formation is made available that persuades me that Dade is a threat to her safety or anyone’s safety, I will change my decision in a heartbeat. That’s all I’m going to say on this matter. Athletic Director Burke has authorized me to say that he supports my decision at this time.”
“Hot damn!” I exclaim excitedly.
“Carter is one tough son of a gun!”
Barton snaps off the radio.
“God bless him!” Barton laughs.
“He just bought himself a load of trouble. They’re gonna come after him with everything but the kitchen sink.”
I look at Lila, who has remained in the room.
“Why?”
I say.
“Why shouldn’t he be presumed innocent? All Carter did was maintain the status quo until the trial.
What’s wrong with that?”
The girl looks at me coldly, as if I had suggested that this were a case about as significant as a traffic accident.
In her expensive ash-colored cashmere sweater and heels, she could be Barton’s mistress. She turns and flounces out of the room.
Barton closes the door.
“There’s your problem, right there,” he says, frowning.
“Some women will go ape shit over what Carter’s done. There’re a bunch more on the faculty and in administration than there used to be.”
“There’s also a bunch of people,” I remind Barton, “who want to see the Hogs play for the national championship on New Year’s Day in New Orleans. Without Dade, we won’t even make it to the Weedeaters Bowl.
Can I use your phone? I want to call his parents. They can stand some good news. I’ll charge it to my phone.”
Barton graciously exits his own office, and I get Dade’s mother on the second ring. Over background noise in the Cunninghams’ store, I give her the news.
“I arranged for Dade to see Coach Carter last night,” I say self-importantly.
“I think we persuaded him that Dade was innocent and that he should wait until the trial to see if he should take any action against him.” Actually, I am exaggerating my own role, but perhaps not. All I know is that if I get Dade off, I want her and her husband to know that won’t be the only thing I have accomplished.
“Thank you, Mr. Page,” she replies formally.
“But the main thing we’re concerned about is what happens to him in January.”
“I am too,” I add hastily, “but this was an important step. If Dade continues to play and does well, it can’t help but improve his credibility at the time of the trial. If the season is successful, every juror in Washington County will know it. I’m not saying that things should work that way, but it’s a fact just like it’s a fact that we’ll have to overcome the color of Dade’s skin when the girl testifies at the trial. I don’t have any reason to believe there’s any less racism in the northwest corner of the state than there is in eastern Arkansas.”
I hear the sound of a cash register while she says something to a customer.
“Do you still plan on being in your office tomorrow?” she asks finally.
“I can’t talk right now.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, already having forgotten she is driving over to Blackwell County to visit me.
“I have a hearing at nine, but it should be over before ten.” I’m pleading out a drug dealer who is managing to avoid serving time by turning over a thirty-thousand-dollar pimp mobile to the Blackwell County Drug Taskforce.
What they will do with it I wouldn’t want to speculate.
Five minutes later, I get hold of Dade in his room. It sounds as if he is having a party. I hope not. He has practice, and he damn well better have a good one. I congratulate him and tell him to keep his mouth shut. We have dodged one bullet. The next one won’t be so easy. I say that I have called his parents and for him to call me at my office if he hears from the university. I explain that Coach Carter will be taking a lot of heat and to make sure he thanks him.
“What he’s done is controversial. Don’t let him down, and keep your cool when you read or hear something negative. It’s going to happen. Don’t say anything to reporters. This isn’t over yet.”
“I know,” Dade says.
You don’t have a clue, I think, but it will be no good to harp on it. Better that he have a good practice and concentrate on Tennessee.
“It’s my job to worry about what happens next and your job to play football and keep your grades up, okay? I’ll be back up next week, but I’ll be in touch with you before then.”
“Okay,” he says, a little sullenly. I know I am being condescending, but I have trouble doing one thing well at a time much less two. I doubt if Dade is any different.
“Dr. Beekman,” Sarah says shyly, “this is my dad.”
Beekman, a medium-height, sandy-haired guy in his early thirties, smiles easily, as if he has nothing to hide.
“Charlie Beekman,” he says, rising from behind his desk and extending his hand.
“Sarah speaks of you so often that I feel as if I already know you.”
My dad the Neanderthal, probably.
“I was on my way out of town and wanted to come by and see Sarah,” I explain, getting a good grip and squeezing hard. If he’s hitting on my daughter, I want him to remember this handshake.
“I understand you’re interested in the sociology of the Delta.”
He waves his hand for me to have a seat. I look at Sarah, whose expression is rapturous. She smiles at me as if God Himself had invited me to drop by for a chat. I sit down beside Sarah in a straight-backed chair with no arms like some dumb student about to get chewed out for failing his course.
“The Mississippi Delta has so much potential,” Beekman says eagerly.
“But it’s been terribly neglected academically in the last fifty years. Both communities African-American and white, contain some very talented people, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
I shrug, looking around the room for clues to this guy’s testosterone count. Mounted on the wall behind him are familiar photographs of small-town life in the Delta, also rice fields, a cotton gin, the old bridge over the Mississippi connecting Arkansas to Memphis. The pictures don’t hold a clue to the poverty and racial tension.
“We all seemed pretty ordinary at the time I lived over there,” I say, not wanting to give anything to this guy.
“Of course, it was a different world back when I was growing up.” He nods, and I swear I think he winks at Sarah as if to say that, yeah, your old man is the real thing. A Southern cracker still fresh out of the box after all these years.
“The Delta Commission’s goal was to find ways to keep people like you at home to build it up.”
“I don’t think one more lawyer would have made much difference,” I say, trying to keep this conversation from becoming too serious. I haven’t got time to hear him lecture me on the revitalization of the Delta.
“Is Sarah doing a good job for you?” I ask, more interested in Beekman’s present relationships than his academic pursuits. I want to ask the guy if he is married and how many kids he has, but Sarah would go through the roof.
“She’s wonderful!” Beekman says enthusiastically.
“Best student I’ve ever had work for me.” He smiles at her as if she had just agreed to go for a weekend in Cancun.
I turn to Sarah, who is blushing.
“I guess being a clerk in a video store during high school,” I say sardonically, “was more training than I realized.”
“I do a lot of proofreading,” Sarah mumbles, obviously wishing her employer’s delight wasn’t so obvious.
“I check citations, stuff like that.”
“She’s great on computers, too,” Beekman gushes, “a really bright kid.”
I hope he remembers the “kid” part. Beekman, I have to admit, with his warm brown eyes is a decent-looking guy. Not a hunk, but probably the type who knows how to talk to women. The sensitive kind, who gets half their clothes off before they know what they’re doing.
“She was a good student in high school,” I say, hoping he’s getting the point. Beekman’s not wearing a wedding ring.
Of course, it could be on a shelf in his closet. It would be tempting for a visiting professor not to bring a lot of bag gage. I stand up, knowing Sarah would have been more than happy for me to have confined this visit to a hand shake.
“I’ve gotta get on the road,” I say.
“Nice to have met you. Dr. Beekman. Hope to see you again. I’ll be back up several times this fall, I’m sure.”
“Looking forward to it,” Beekman says, smiling easily.
Sarah precedes me into the hall.
“You didn’t have to come by,” she says, blushing again.
“I couldn’t leave town without seeing one of the Seven Wonders of the World.”
Sarah rolls her eyes.
“You sound jealous!”
“That’s ridiculous! It’s just that I’ve never liked professors much,” I say.
“They’ve got too much time to think.”
It is time to change the subject.
“You heard about Dade, I guess.”
“It’s all anybody’s talking about, except Dr. Beekman.
He doesn’t care about anything but his research.”
Sure, sure. My poor, naive daughter.
“What are they saying?”
She pleads, “Daddy, don’t try to use me, please!”
“I’m not,” I say, a little disappointed in her unwillingness to help me out. I should understand, but I don’t. I tell her that I will be back up early next week. She gives me a quick hug, glad to be rid of me. Parents, like children, should be seen but not heard.
“Do you think Coach Carter was wrong to leave Dade on the team?” I ask.
“He’s innocent until proven guilty, isn’t he?” If she won’t serve as an informer, she can at least act as a sounding board.
“I don’t know how I feel,” she answers stubbornly.
“I’ve already heard there’s going to be a meeting of some women tonight to discuss it. I may go.”
“That’s fine,” I say neutrally. She may eventually give me some details of campus gossip if I can resist pumping her so much.
Driving home through the glorious fall foliage I wonder if I am guilty of projecting my feelings onto guys like Beekman. What do young women see in us old guys? It sure isn’t looks or staying power. And, in my case, it isn’t money either. Maybe women really are looking for their fathers. God help Sarah if that’s true.