Ties That Bind

Chapter Six.

A little after three on Thursday afternoon, Tim Kerrigan met with the detectives who were working a case involving a child pornography ring. Then he brainstormed with another DA about the best way to handle a tricky suppression motion. When the deputy left, Kerrigan checked his watch. It was after five, and Jack Stamm, the Multnomah County district attorney, would be by in forty-five minutes to take him over to the dinner that would kick off the National Association of Trial Lawyers convention.

There were so many other things Tim would rather be doing than attending that dinner. He put his feet up on his desk and closed his eyes. He rubbed his lids and drifted for a moment. His thoughts turned to the crumpled scrap of paper in his wallet, on which he had scrawled Ally Bennett's phone number. Stan Gregaros said Bennett's working name was Jasmine. He said the name to himself, drawing it out. He felt a nervous buzz in his belly and heat below his waist.

Jasmine would not be the first prostitute he'd been with but, somehow, Kerrigan knew that Ally Bennett would be different from the others--different from any woman he'd ever been with. Her breasts would be perfect, her buttocks would be exquisite, and her mouth would perform miracles. "Tell me what you want," she would say, and he would tell her what he needed, he would tell her the things that he could never tell Cindy.

Someone knocked on his doorjamb. Tim's eyes opened. Maria Lopez was standing in the doorway, looking like she'd lost her best friend. Kerrigan dropped his feet to the floor. He was suddenly aware of the ringing of a phone and the murmur of conversations outside his office.

"Do you have a moment?"

Tim managed a nod. Maria crossed the room and sat down.

"What's up?" Kerrigan asked the young DA.

"A hiker found Lori Andrews in Washington Park."

"Ah shit."

"It's Dupre. He killed her."

"You know that for a fact?"

Lopez shook her head. "But I know he did it." She rubbed her forehead. "I saw the pictures, Tim. She was naked. She'd been beaten so badly. Then that bastard dumped her like a sack of garbage." Maria paused. She looked devastated. "Her little girl will probably go into foster care."

"Don't beat yourself up like this. We all make mistakes," Kerrigan said unconvincingly, thinking of his own.

Silvio Barbera, a senior partner in a major Wall Street law firm and the current president of the National Association of Trial Lawyers, looked out over the crowd in the Hilton ballroom from behind the podium that had been set up for the keynote speaker.

"I have been a football fan my whole life," he confessed. "I remember Doug Flutie throwing the Hail Mary pass that beat Miami and Franco Harris's Immaculate Reception, but my greatest football moment came eight years ago when Michigan played Oregon in the Rose Bowl. Remember the game? Both teams were unbeaten, and the national championship was on the line. When the fourth quarter started, Michigan led by twenty points and the announcers had written off the Ducks. That's when one of the greatest comebacks in college football history started.

"On the first play from scrimmage, Oregon's star running back ran sixty-five yards and Oregon was only down by thirteen. Michigan missed a field goal with seven minutes left on the clock. Two plays later, the same running back sliced through Michigan's line again for forty-eight yards and cut Michigan's lead to six. The teams traded field goals. When Oregon took over for its final series on its own ten, there were only forty-three seconds left on the clock.

"Oregon's quarterback had a good arm. Everyone expected him to fling a pass toward the end zone and pray for a miracle. Instead, he handed off to his back one more time. Ninety yards later, Oregon was the national champion. That year no one questioned who deserved the Heisman Trophy as the nation's best college football player.

"Now most young men who win the Heisman make millions by turning pro, but this young man was cut from a different cloth. He went to law school. As we all know, many young law-school graduates sign on with firms like mine, but this young man showed his character." Barbera paused while the audience laughed. "He turned his back on riches once again and opted instead for a job with the district attorney's office here in Portland, where he has dedicated his life to public service ever since.

"When I learned that this year's convention was going to be in Oregon I knew immediately who I wanted as our keynote speaker. He is one of the greatest college football players who ever lived, he is a great prosecutor, but most important, he is a man of great integrity and an example to us all.

"So, it is with great pleasure that I introduce our keynote speaker, Tim Kerrigan!"

Tim had lost track of the times he'd delivered "The Speech." He'd made it before youth groups and Rotary Clubs, at sports camps and churches. Appearance fees for "The Speech" had paid his law-school tuition and the down payment on his first house. Every time he gave "The Speech" it was greeted with enthusiastic applause. Afterward people wanted to shake his hand just so they could say they had touched him. Sometimes people told him that he had changed their lives. And Tim stood there and smiled and nodded, as a knife turned in the pit of his stomach.

Kerrigan had tried to beg off when Jack Stamm told him about Silvio Barbera's call. Stamm had misinterpreted his reluctance as modesty. He'd emphasized the honor of having a Multnomah County prosecutor as the convention's keynote speaker. Kerrigan gave in. If it wasn't for the scotch he'd consumed before going to the banquet and the other drinks he'd put down during dinner, he wasn't certain he would have been able to go through with it again.

As usual, when the speech was over, a crowd formed around Kerrigan. He put on his best smile and listened with feigned enthusiasm to everyone who spoke to him. When most of the well-wishers had cleared the ballroom, Tim spotted Hugh Curtin lounging alone at a table near the dais. Their eyes met and Hugh raised a glass in a mock toast.

It didn't take a genius to figure out why the former All-American lineman had been nicknamed "Huge." After four years of opening gaping holes for Kerrigan, Curtin had gone on to play pro ball for the Giants. A knee injury had ended his career after three seasons but "Huge," who had always seen pro ball as a quick path to financial security, had started law school while playing in the NFL. He had just made partner at Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton, Portland's biggest law firm.

As soon as the last well-wisher left, the smile drained from Tim's face and he slumped onto a chair next to Curtin, who had a tall glass of scotch waiting for him. Hugh raised his glass.

"To The Flash!" he said, using the nickname a publicist had dreamed up during Kerrigan's Heisman campaign. Kerrigan gave him the finger and downed most of his drink.

"I hate that name and I hate giving that fucking speech."

"People eat it up. It makes them feel good."

"A one-legged man could have run ninety yards with the holes you guys made for me. That was probably the best offensive line in college history. How many of you made it big in the pros?"

"You were good, Tim. You'd have found out how good if you'd turned pro."

"Bullshit. I'd never have made it. I was too slow and I didn't have the moves. I'd just have embarrassed myself."

It was the excuse he always gave for not turning pro. He'd given it so many times that he'd actually come to believe it.

Curtin rolled his eyes. "We have this same discussion every time you get maudlin. Let's talk about something else."

"You're right. I shouldn't cry on your shoulder."

"Damn straight. You're not pretty enough."

"I'd be the best-looking piece you ever had," Kerrigan retorted. Hugh threw his head back and laughed, and Kerrigan couldn't help smiling. Hugh was his best friend. He was a safe haven. Whenever he got down on himself, Hugh would trick him back through time to college and the parties and the beers with the team. Hugh could make him forget about the guilt that weighed him down like a two-ton anchor.

"You want to head over to the Hardball and tip a few brewskis?" Curtin asked.

"I can't do it. I promised Cindy I'd come home as soon as this fiasco was over," Kerrigan lied.

"Suit yourself. I have to be in court in the morning anyway."

"But we'll do it soon, Huge," Kerrigan said, slurring his words slightly. "We'll do it soon."

Curtin studied his friend carefully. "You okay to drive?"

"No problem. The old Flash isn't gonna get tagged for DUII."

"You're sure?"

Kerrigan got teary-eyed. He leaned over drunkenly and hugged his friend.

"You always look out for me, Huge."

Curtin was embarrassed. He disengaged himself and stood up.

"Time to get you home, buddy, before you start crying on the good linen."

The friends walked outside to the parking lot. It had rained during dinner and the cold air sobered Kerrigan a little. Curtin asked again if he was sure he could drive and offered Tim a lift home, but Kerrigan waved him off. Then he sat in his car and watched his friend drive away. The truth was that he wasn't okay and he did not want to go home. He wanted something else.

Megan was probably asleep by now and thinking of her almost stopped him, but not quite. Kerrigan walked back inside the hotel and found a pay phone. Then he took the slip of paper with Ally Bennett's number out of his wallet and smoothed it out so he could read it. He felt sick as he dialed, but he could not stop himself. The phone rang twice.

"Hello?"

It was a woman and she sounded sleepy.

"Is . . . is this Jasmine?" Kerrigan asked, his heart beating in his throat.

"Yes?"

The voice was suddenly husky and seductive now that he'd used her working name.

"I heard about you from a friend," Kerrigan said. "I'd like to meet you."

Kerrigan's chest was tight. He closed his eyes while Bennett spoke.

"It's late. I hadn't planned on seeing anyone tonight."

Her answer let him know that he could change her mind.

"I'm sorry. I . . . I wasn't sure . . . I should have called earlier."

He was rambling and he forced himself to stop.

"That's okay, honey. You sound . . . nice. You might be able to charm me out of bed, but it will be expensive." There was a pause. Kerrigan heard her breathing on the other end of the phone. "Expensive, but worth every penny."

Kerrigan grew hard, and a pulse pounded in his temple.

"What . . . how much would it cost?"

"What's your name?"

"Why do you need to know that?"

"I like to know who I'm talking to. You have a name, don't you?"

"I'm Frank. Frank Kramer," Kerrigan said, giving her the name on a set of false identification he'd had made for this type of occasion.

"Who's your friend, Frank?"

She was being cautious. Kerrigan guessed it was because she knew that Dupre was under investigation. Kerrigan had read Bennett's file. It contained a list of johns with their phone numbers and addresses. There had been a guy from Pennsylvania in town for a convention six months ago.

"Randy Chung. He's from Pittsburgh. He spoke very highly of you."

"Did he? He had fun? He enjoyed himself?"

"Very much."

There was dead air.

"It wouldn't be all night or anything like that," Kerrigan said. "Just an hour or so. I know it's late."

"Okay, but I'll want five hundred dollars."

"Five. I . . ."

"It's your decision."

Kerrigan knew a motel where the night clerks asked no questions and were used to clients who paid for the night but stayed for an hour. Ally knew the motel too. They hung up. Kerrigan was light-headed. He thought that he might throw up. He tried to slow his breathing as he went back to his car. What was he doing? He should call back and call it off. He should just go home. But the car was already rolling.

Traffic was light. His mind wandered. He was going to use a false name, but what if Ally discovered his identity? Was that part of the thrill? Did he want to be ruined?

It was that run--that ninety-yard run. How he wished that a Michigan player had stopped him anywhere on that field short of the goal line. What he'd said to Hugh was true. No Michigan player had been close to him during those three Rose Bowl runs. His blockers wouldn't let them. But he got the credit. And then everything had snowballed out of control.

A car signaled into his lane, and Kerrigan dragged his thoughts back to the road. He tried to keep them there, but images of Ally Bennett intruded. Ally in court, what he imagined she'd look like naked. She was incredible, heart-stopping, and he would be with her in less than an hour. A driver honked, and Kerrigan's grip tightened on the wheel. That had been close. He forced himself to concentrate on his driving. Even so, he didn't notice the black car that had been following him since he left the hotel.

Kerrigan parked in the shadows of the motel lot. The rain started to fall again, pinging on the car roof. The sound startled him into flashing on the night a week and a half before the Rose Bowl, when he'd sat in another car in the rain. Tim shook his head to clear the vision. His heart was beating too fast. He needed to calm down. Once he'd pulled himself together, he dashed across the lot to the motel office.

A few minutes later, Tim hung his rain-streaked trench coat in the closet of the room he'd rented for the night. There was a lamp on the end table next to the bed. He turned it on but left off the overhead light. He phoned Ally with his room number, then sat in the room's only armchair. He felt sick with fear and self-loathing as he waited for Bennett to arrive. Twice he started to leave, but turned back at the door. Several times he wondered if Ally would come to the motel and each time part of him hoped that she wouldn't show.

A knock startled Kerrigan. His stomach felt like it held a hot coal. When he opened the door, she was standing there, as beautiful and sensual as he remembered her.

In the lot, the man in the black car watched Kerrigan open the door for his visitor.

"Aren't you going to let me in, Frank?" Ally asked with a seductive smile.

"Yes, of course," Kerrigan answered, stepping back. She glided by him, taking in the room before turning to study her client. Kerrigan locked the door. His throat was dry and his lust made him dizzy.

"Here's the deal, Frank. You give me my fee and I give you your dreams. Does that sound like a fair trade?"

Ally was wearing a short wraparound skirt that showed her legs to the thigh, and a tank top that revealed the curve of her breasts. Her voice was huskier in person. Just hearing her speak made Kerrigan hard. Without taking his eyes from Ally, he removed the money from his pocket and held it toward her.

"Bring the money here, Frank," Ally said, establishing her dominance. It was what he'd hoped for and he obeyed, gladly surrendering his will to her.

Ally counted the money and put it in her purse. Then she peeled off her tank top and unwrapped her skirt until all she was wearing was a pair of black-lace bikini panties. Kerrigan's breath caught in his throat, and his knees almost gave way. If he could have invented a woman he would have invented the woman who stood before him.

"Tell me what you want, Frank. Tell me what you dream about."

Kerrigan lowered his eyes until he was looking at the floor. He whispered his wish.

Ally smiled. "Are you a shy boy, Frank? You spoke so softly that I didn't hear you. Say it again."

"I . . . I want to be punished."

Cindy Kerrigan turned on her light when Tim crept into the bedroom.

"It's almost two."

"I'm sorry. Hugh Curtin was at the dinner. He's having personal problems and needed to talk."

"Oh, really," she said coldly. "And how is Hugh?"

"Okay. You know. Hugh is Hugh."

Cindy sat up and leaned against the headboard of their king-size bed. One strap of her silk nightgown slipped down, revealing the curve of her left breast. She had ash-blond hair and lovely tanned skin. Most men thought that she was beautiful and desirable.

"Megan missed you," she said, knowing Tim would feel guilty. He could not avoid her without avoiding his daughter, whom he loved.

"I'm sorry. You know I wanted to come home," he said as he stripped off his clothes.

"What exactly was the problem?" Cindy asked in a tone that let him know that she saw through his lie.

"Office politics. Making partner wasn't all he thought it would be," Tim answered vaguely as he grabbed his pajamas. "It's complicated."

Cindy stared at him with contempt but dropped the subject. Tim walked into the bathroom. She clicked off her light. He thought about Cindy lying there in the dark, hurt and angry. For a moment, he almost went to her, but he couldn't. She'd see through him. And if the holding and the touching led to sex, he wouldn't be able to perform. He was spent. Of course, the likelihood of kindling any passion between them was remote. Sex had almost completely disappeared from their marriage.

Shortly after their wedding, it dawned on Tim that he had not married Cindy because he loved her. He had married her for the same reason he'd gone to law school. Marriage and law school were places to hide--islands of normalcy after the media frenzy that followed the Heisman award and his decision to forgo pro football. The moment Kerrigan had his epiphany, he felt like a gray cloth had been draped over his heart.

Cindy was the daughter of Winston Callaway and Sandra Driscoll. The Driscolls, the Callaways, and the Kerrigans were old Portland money, which meant that Tim had known Cindy his whole life. They had not become a couple until their last year in high school. When Cindy followed Tim to the University of Oregon, they continued to date, and they had married the weekend Tim received the Heisman Trophy.

Tim had hoped that having a child would make him love his wife, but that experiment failed miserably, as did every other attempt he made to force himself to feel something for her. Playing a role twenty-four hours a day was exhausting and had worn him down. Cindy was no fool. He wondered why she stayed with him when all he did was hurt her. Tim had considered divorce, but he could never bring himself to leave Cindy, and now there was Megan. He dreaded losing her or hurting her.

Kerrigan slipped onto his side of the bed and thought about his evening with Jasmine. Sex was not the magnet that had drawn him to her. Freedom was the attraction. When he was naked in that seedy motel room, he had been truly free of the expectations of others. When he knelt before Jasmine, Kerrigan felt the mantle of the hero fall from his shoulders. When he used his mouth on her, he was perverted and not perfect, a deviate and a criminal, not an idol. Kerrigan wished that every person who had praised him and held him up as an example to others had seen him lying on those stained sheets, eyes closed, begging a whore to degrade him. They would turn away in disgust, and he would be free of the fame he knew was built on a lie.