IF YOU WERE A FOOTBALL PLAYER AT DAVID W. CARTER HIGH School in Dallas, you didn't have much to worry about, and since Gary Edwards was a football player, he didn't have much to worry about. He and his teammates were the Princes of the City, only they were high school kids instead of New York City narcotics detectives, their domain not the drug-infested streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn and the Bronx but a nondescript building on the southern fringe of Dallas that was nestled in the midst of a pleasant residential neighborhood with street names like Algebra Drive and Indian Ridge Trail. But they had the swagger, the feelings of immunity and invincibility, the giddy laughter that came from riding on clouds and knowing that no one could ever touch them, ever get to them no matter what they did.
"It was paradise," said Gary Edwards of the life he and some of the other Carter Cowboys led at school. "You walk around, you break all the rules. The teachers and administrators, they see you, they just don't say anything to you. It was just like we owned it. Everybody looked up to us, it was just a great life."
If Gary Edwards and his friends felt like missing class and going to the lunchroom, they went to the lunchroom. If they were bored and felt like leaving class early before the bell, they just got up and walked out before the bell. If they felt like walking around the halls without the required hall pass, they walked