Phillip Margolin - Ties That Bind

"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."

Chapter Eight.

Two years ago, Amanda had represented Alan Ellis, a banker who'd been falsely accused of sexual molestation by a foster child. Eventually, the charges had been dismissed, but not before the banker had lost his job, his wife, his house, and most of his savings. Amanda was certain that her client was contemplating suicide, so she had asked around for the name of a psychiatrist who was competent and compassionate.

Ben Dodson's office was across from the library on the fourth floor of an eight-story medical building. Dodson was slender, with a dark complexion, and looked younger than forty-two. Granny glasses magnified the psychiatrist's blue eyes, and he wore his black hair almost to his shoulders. He stood up and flashed a ready smile when Amanda walked into his cozy office.

"It's good to see you again. How is Alan doing?"

"Last I heard, he was working for a bank in Rhode Island," Amanda said as she took a seat. "You really helped him."

Dodson shook his head. "I hope I never go through a tenth of what that poor bastard suffered. So, what brings you here? Have you got someone else for me to work with?"

Amanda had practiced what she was going to say in her apartment, in her office, and during the walk to Dodson's office, but now that she was here the words stuck in her throat. Dodson saw her distress and stopped smiling.