Grif Stockley - Illegal Motion

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 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.”