Ties That Bind

Chapter Seven.

Harvey Grant, the presiding judge in Multnomah County, was a slender man of average size with salt-and-pepper hair, a life-long bachelor and friend of William Kerrigan, Tim's father--a hard-driving businessman and a perfectionist whom Tim had never been able to please. "Uncle" Harvey had been Tim's confidant since he was little, and he'd become Tim's mentor as soon as Kerrigan had made the decision to go to law school.

Normally, the judge attracted little notice when he was not wearing his robes. At the moment, however, he was preparing to make a key putt, and the other golfers in his foursome were focusing every ounce of their mental energy on him. Grant stroked his ball, and it rolled slowly toward the hole on the eighteenth green of the Westmont Country Club course. The putt looked good until the moment the ball stopped on the rim of the cup. Grant's shoulders sagged; Tim Kerrigan, Grant's partner, let out a pent up breath; and Harold Travis pumped a clenched fist. He'd played terribly all day and he needed the missed putt to bail him out.

"I believe you gentlemen owe Harold and me five bucks apiece," Frank Jaffe told Grant and Kerrigan.

"I'll pay you, Frank," Grant grumbled as he and Kerrigan handed portraits of Abraham Lincoln to their opponents, "but I shouldn't have to pay a penny to Harold. You carried him all day. How you made that bunker shot on seventeen I'll never know."

Travis laughed and clapped Grant on the back.

"To show that I'm a compassionate guy I'll buy the first round," the senator said.

"Now that's the only good thing that's happened to me since the first tee," answered Kerrigan.

"He's just trying to buy your vote, Tim," Grant grumbled good-naturedly.

"What vote?" Travis asked with a sly grin.

The Westmont was the most exclusive country club in Portland. Its clubhouse was a sprawling fieldstone structure that had started in 1925 with a small central building and had grown larger and more imposing as membership in the club grew in prestige. The men were stopped several times by other members as they crossed the wide flagstone patio on their way to a table shaded by a forest green umbrella where Carl Rittenhouse, the senator's administrative assistant, waited.

"How'd it go?" Rittenhouse asked the senator.

"Frank did all the work and I rode his coattails," Travis answered.

"Same way you rode the president's in your last election," Grant joked. The men laughed.

A waitress took their order and Grant, Kerrigan, and Jaffe reminisced about the round while Senator Travis stared contentedly into space.

"You're awfully quiet," Jaffe told Travis.

"Sorry. I've got a problem with my farm bill. Two senators are threatening to keep it in committee if I don't vote against an army-base closure."

"Being a judge has its upside," Grant said. "If someone gives me a hard time I can hold him in contempt and toss his butt in jail."

"I'm definitely in the wrong business," Travis said. "I don't know about jail, though. Civil commitment would probably be more appropriate for some of my colleagues."

"Being a senator is a bit like being an inmate in a fancy asylum," Rittenhouse chimed in.

"I don't think I could win an insanity defense for a politician, Carl," Jaffe said. "They're crafty, not crazy."

"Yes," the judge said. "Look at the way Harold tricked us into letting him partner with you."

"I did read somewhere that not all sociopaths are serial killers," Jaffe said. "A lot of them become successful businessmen and politicians."

"Imagine what an asset it would be in business and politics to be free of your conscience," Kerrigan mused.

"Do you think guilt is innate or is it taught?" Travis asked.

"Nature versus nurture," Jaffe answered with a shrug of his shoulders. "The eternal question."

"I believe the potential to experience guilt is part of God's design," Grant said. "It's what makes us human."

Harvey Grant was a devout Catholic. He and the Kerrigans attended the same church, and Tim knew that the judge never missed a Sunday.

"But serial killers, professional criminals and, as Frank pointed out, some politicians and businessmen, don't seem to have a conscience. If we're born with one, where does it go?" Kerrigan asked.

"And what if there is no God?" Travis asked.

"Hey," Rittenhouse interjected with mock alarm, "let's not say that too loudly. All we need is a headline in the Oregonian : senator travis questions the existence of god."

But Travis wasn't finished. "If there is no God then morality becomes relative. Whoever runs the show sets the rules."

"The point is moot, Harold," Frank said. "The fact that the judge missed that putt on eighteen proves beyond question that there is a God."

Everyone laughed and Travis stood up.

"On that note, I'll leave you gentlemen. Thanks for the game. It was a welcome break from work and campaigning."

"Our pleasure," Grant told him. "Let me know when you can sneak away again so I can win back my money."

Frank Jaffe stood, too. "Thanks for inviting me, Harvey. I love the course."

"You should think of joining the Westmont. I'll sponsor you."

"Hey, Harvey, I'm just a simple country lawyer. I'd be in over my head in the company of you sophisticates."

"Get out of here, Frank, before we have to start shoveling the patio clean," the judge answered.

Travis, Jaffe, and Rittenhouse headed for the locker room. "Harold was in a good mood," Kerrigan observed when they were out of sight.

"Why wouldn't he be? He's going to be the next president of the United States." Grant signaled the waitress for another round. "So, Tim, how have you been?"

"Overworked."

Grant smiled. "And Megan? How is she? I haven't seen her in a while."

"You don't need an invitation to drop over." Kerrigan smiled. "She asks about you."

"Maybe I'll come over next weekend."

"She's so sharp. I read to her every night. Lately it's been Alice's Adventures in Wonderland . A few days ago I caught her sitting on the floor in her room with the book in her lap sounding out the words."

"It's her good genes."

Talking about Megan made Kerrigan want to go home. For a moment, he wondered if he should desert the judge, who lived alone and who, Kerrigan imagined, must be lonely at times, despite the parties he threw and his constant round of social engagements. Then he thought about his own situation. He was married to a good woman, he had a wonderful daughter, but he still felt lonely. Maybe the judge was okay on his own. He had his work and the respect of the legal community. He also had integrity. Kerrigan stared out across the green expanse of the eighteenth fairway and wondered what that would feel like.

* * *

"Don't forget, we've got that fund-raiser at seven-thirty, tonight," Carl Rittenhouse told his boss as they left the clubhouse.

"The Schumans?"

"Right. I'll pick you up at seven."

"See you then."

Rittenhouse walked to the country club entrance to wait for the valet to get his car moments before another valet parked the senator's Range Rover near the bag drop. The valet put Travis's clubs in the back of the Rover then jogged away after the senator tipped him generously. Travis smiled as he walked to the driver's door. Everything was going so well. A recent CNN poll showed him fourteen percentage points up on the favorite to win the Democratic nomination in a head-to-head race, and the money for his campaign kept on pouring in.

The screech of tires tore Travis from his reverie as Jon Dupre's Porsche squealed to a stop next to him. Dupre threw open the door and hopped out, leaving the motor running.

"Lori's dead," Dupre shouted.

"Lower your voice," Travis answered, alarmed that someone might hear them.

"I'll keep my mouth shut just like I did when I was indicted. I could have caused a lot of trouble by telling the DA what I know about you."

"I appreciate that, Jon," Travis said, desperate to calm down Dupre. He could not afford to be seen having an argument with a pimp.

"I bet you do. And I'm certain the DA would be very interested in knowing about your relationship with a woman who's just turned up beaten to death."

"Lori was fine when she left me. I don't know what happened to her later."

"You know goddamn well what happened to her," Dupre said, jabbing a finger at the senator. "Look, I'll make this simple, Harold. I need money."

"Are you trying to blackmail me ?" Travis asked incredulously.

"Blackmail?" Dupre answered with a smirk. "That's illegal. I'd never do something like that. No, Harold, I'm asking you to help me out, just like I helped you. The cops are all over me. I can't run Exotic right now. I took a huge risk bringing Lori to you and supplying those other girls."

"This is not the place to discuss this," Travis answered, his voice tight with anger.

"It's the only place I can talk to you, since you're not answering my calls."

"Phone me tomorrow," Travis said as he looked around anxiously. "I promise we'll settle this."

"You'd better, and don't even think about siccing Manuel or another of Pedro's boys on me."

Dupre handed him a copy of the cassette Ally had given him when he'd delivered Lori Andrews into Travis's hands.

"What is this?"

"A tape of your buddies talking about the biotech slush fund you used to crush the anti-cloning bill. They really loosen up with a pair of lips on their dick."

Travis paled.

"Keep it," Dupre said. "I've got copies. I want to settle this fast. If you're not interested in this tape I'm sure 60 Minutes will be."

Suddenly, Travis saw Carl Rittenhouse walking toward him.

"Get out of here. That's my AA."

"I'm not messing around here," Dupre said as he jumped into his car. Rittenhouse arrived as Dupre drove away.

"You okay, Senator?" he asked, watching the car as it sped down the driveway.

"I'm fine," Travis answered, but his voice was shaky.

"Who was that?" Rittenhouse asked.

"Forget about it, Carl. It's not important."

"You're sure?"

"I'll be fine."

The incident bothered Carl, and after saying good-bye to the senator he jotted down the license number of the Porsche on the back of one of his business cards. In the meantime, Senator Travis left the Westmont. As soon as he could, he parked on a side street and punched in a number on his cell phone. He was sweating badly and his fingers trembled. When the person on the other end answered, Travis said, "We've got a problem."