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 represented.
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.
A gaggle of reporters and TV camera persons are on us immediately when we exit the courtroom, but I give them virtually the same brief comment that I did going in, “My client is not guilty of any crime. Any sexual contact between him and the complaining party was completely consensual. We are not going to try this case in the media, and we don’t expect the prosecutor to do so either.
That’s all we’ll have to say until after the trial.” I look around for the green-eyed reporter from the ten o’clock news, but she may not be out of bed yet.
“Dade, are you still a Razorback?” a woman hollers at him as we push our way out the door.
I have directed him not to answer, but I notice he shrugs his shoulders, indicating he has no idea.
“Dade, is it true that you met with Coach Carter last night?” the same reporter persists, preceding us down the steps onto College Avenue. Young, with her long hair pulled back, and wearing a blue suit, she may be a reporter for the Traveler, the university newspaper, or for the New York Times. These days everybody looks high school age to me.
Afraid that Dade will talk, I say quickly, “We are not taking any more questions. Let’s go, Dade.”
Damn if she doesn’t follow us to my car around the corner on Center.
“Dade, are you still in school?” she asks twice.
I almost lose my cool. In the past I’ve had a weakness for women TV reporters. Fortunately, this girl is not my type. Too young, even for me. Still, I admire her persistence.
Dade looks at me as if he wants to respond, but I shake my head. I don’t want him to say anything that will piss off Carter or the university. If we appear to put pressure on them publicly, it will surely backfire. Carter may need Dade, but not if he starts shooting off his mouth.
For reasons of space, I presume, the prosecutor’s office is a block away in a four-story redbrick building with arches but no steeples. Cash comes sooner rather than later, and we are ushered into his office, which, if not a cubbyhole, is surely not the prosecutor’s.
“I’d like to see Dade’s file,” I say immediately.
“I can’t give it to you today,” he says, avoiding my eyes, his voice sounding mechanical.
“I just want to see the girl’s statement,” I reply, feeling myself already getting angry.
“I can’t do it,” he answers, sounding no different from a million bureaucrats I have encountered in my lifetime.
