Ties That Bind aj-2

by Phillip Margolin

  Hayes had been the senior class vice president, and the president had been Harvey Grant. As she thumbed through the yearbook, Amanda found more familiar names. Burton Rommel and William Kerrigan, Tim's father, were teammates of Hayes on the football and wrestling teams. Amanda remembered that Grant was also a graduate of the law school at Georgetown, and she was pretty certain that he'd received his undergraduate degree from the school.

  Amanda checked out the backgrounds of Burton Rommel and William Kerrigan. Neither had gone to Georgetown. Rommel had a BA from Notre Dame and Kerrigan had received degrees from the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania.

  Amanda returned to the microfilm projector and threaded in another spool, which contained an early reference to Pedro Aragon. She was curious to learn how someone who started out running a drug house in Portland got to be the head of a cartel in Mexico. An hour later, Amanda had learned that Aragon's rapid rise had been made possible by a series of murders, which had started in 1972 with the assassination of Jesus Delgado, Pedro's immediate superior, in the parking lot of a Portland 7-Eleven.

  Amanda spent more time going through stories that mentioned Pedro Aragon and Wendell Hayes, but the majority were accounts of cases in which Hayes had represented a client with connections to Aragon. She returned the microfilm and headed back to her office. Amanda had not really believed Sammy Cortez's story about The Vaughn Street Glee Club when she walked into the library, but one piece of information in the newspaper stories had really gotten her thinking: The drug house where the massacre took place was on Vaughn Street.

  Chapter Thirty-Three.

  Tim Kerrigan and Maria Lopez had been discussing trial strategy for an hour, and it was getting close to five o'clock. Kerrigan had his jacket off and his tie at half-mast. Lopez had slung her jacket over the back of a chair, and her hair was a mess because she kept running her hands through it.

  "Jaffe filed a motion to keep evidence of the Travis murder out of the Hayes case," Tim said. "What do you think? Can we get evidence about Travis's murder in when we try Dupre for killing Hayes?"

  "I'd concede the point," Maria answered. "Why risk a reversal? Hayes is an easy win. The trial should take less than a week, if you don't count jury selection. Our case will take a day, two at the most. If Jaffe defends with this self-defense bullshit, she could turn the trial into a circus, call all the reporters, do a demonstration with the metal detector at the desk in reception. But I still see it as a slam dunk. Once we have a conviction we can introduce it for impeachment if Dupre takes the stand when we try him for killing the senator."

  "Good thinking. But . . ."

  The phone rang. Tim looked annoyed as he picked up the receiver. "I'm in conference, Lucy. I don't want to be interrupted."

  "I know, but there's a Miss Bennett at the front desk. She's very insistent."

  Kerrigan felt the blood drain from his face. Ally Bennett had called several times but he'd had the receptionist tell her that he was out. Kerrigan glanced at Maria to see if she'd noticed his discomfort. She was looking at her notes.

  "Okay, patch me through to reception," Kerrigan said. A moment later, Ally was on the line.

  "Thank you for coming by," Kerrigan said quickly. "I'm in a meeting, but I do want to get together with you."

  "Yeah," Bennett said, "I think you'd better do that."

  "Let me call you when I'm through here, say in an hour?"

  "I'll be waiting, and I'll be very, very disappointed if I don't hear from you."

  The line went dead. Kerrigan could feel sweat beading his forehead. He never expected Ally to show up here. Maria knew who Ally was. What if she'd seen her in reception?

  "Are you okay?"

  Maria was staring at him. He forced a smile.

  "I think I'm coming down with something. Why don't we stop now?"

  "Sure." Maria stood and gathered up her files. "I hope you feel better."

  "Thanks. You're doing a great job, Maria."

  Lopez blushed. She backed out of his office, pulling the door shut behind her. Kerrigan dialed the extension for Harvey Grant's chambers.

  "Bennett was here, Judge, in reception," Kerrigan said as soon as Grant was on the line.

  "Did anyone see her?"

  "I don't know who was out there."

  "What did you do?"

  "I talked to her over the phone on the reception desk."

  "So no one saw you together?"

  "No. I got rid of her by promising I'd call her in an hour. That's fifty minutes from now."

  "Okay, calm down."

  "What am I going to tell her?"

  There was silence on the line. Kerrigan waited, his hand clammy against the plastic, his stomach in a knot.

  "Tell Miss Bennett that you think you'll have everything worked out by next week."

  "How am I going to do that?"

  "Say that you've almost put the money together, then intimate that you're working with a detective who owes you a favor. Be vague. Tell her that this detective can make evidence disappear, but won't tell you how he's going to work it."

  "What happens next week, when Dupre is still in jail?"

  "We'll discuss that tonight."

  Kerrigan fortified himself with scotch before meeting with Harvey Grant. He looked like he'd slept in his clothes. Victor Reis opened the door before Tim could ring the bell. The bodyguard's craggy face broke into a smile. Kerrigan was certain that Victor noticed his disheveled state, because he noticed everything, but Reis made no mention of Tim's condition.

  "Come on in. The judge is in the den. Have you eaten?"

  "I'm fine. I'll find him. Thanks."

  Kerrigan walked down the hall to the room where he and Grant had last met. The judge was dressed in khaki slacks, a plaid shirt, and a baggy sweater. A book on English military history was lying at his elbow. He smiled warmly and waved Tim onto a seat.

  "How are you holding up?" Grant asked.

  "Not real well," Tim answered as he slumped into an armchair.

  "Can I get you a drink?"

  Tim shook his head. "I've had a couple already."

  Grant's smile became wistful. "How long have I known you, Tim?"

  "My whole life."

  Grant nodded. "I was at your baptism, your first birthday, and your first communion. I've always been very proud of you."

  Kerrigan cast his eyes toward the floor. They misted and his voice caught in his throat.

  "I'm sorry I let you down."

  "You haven't, son. You're just human. We all make mistakes."

  "This is more than a mistake."

  "No, no. What's happening to you is a bump in the road. No more. It seems colossal now, but we'll take care of it. A year from now you won't remember how upset you were."

  Kerrigan looked up hopefully.

  "Tim, do you trust me?"

  "Yes."

  "And you know that I have only your best interests at heart?"

  Tim wanted to tell the judge that he felt closer to him than he did to his own father, but he could not say the words.

  "I have a solution to your problem," the judge said. "This woman is a whore, gutter trash. We're not going to let someone like that destroy your life."

  Kerrigan leaned forward, eager to hear Grant's plan.

  "Do you remember Harold Travis's musings about the existence of God when we were on the terrace of the Westmont, after we played golf?"

  "It was the last time I saw him alive."

  "Let me ask you something, Tim. Do you think that there is a God, a supreme being who sees everything that we do and punishes our bad acts?"

  Tim didn't know how to answer. He'd been raised to believe in God, and there were times when life itself seemed like a miracle. He remembered having the most certainty when Megan was born; and now and then he'd have days when the world around him was so filled with beauty that he had to believe in a divine plan. But most of the time he found it hard to accept the idea of such a plan. It was difficult to bel
ieve in a merciful God when you were interviewing an abused child whose face was devoid of all emotion and whose body was covered by evidence of a life that had known only pain and despair. The everyday routine in the district attorney's office tended to erode faith.

  "It's natural to hesitate when asked a question like this," Grant said, "and it's difficult for a person trained to use logic to accept the existence of anything--let alone a supernatural, all-knowing being--without evidence. That's one of the downsides of a legal education, I guess."

  "But you believe in God?"

  "Harold believed that the concept of God was invented to keep the riffraff in line," Grant answered, sidestepping Tim's question. "He was very cynical, but was he right? If the poor didn't believe in a reward in the afterlife, would they suffer in this one or would they rise up against their betters? Harold believed that God and Law were invented by superior men to control the masses, and he believed that morality was relative."

  "There are rules, Judge. Morality isn't relative. We know in our heart when we do something wrong." Kerrigan hung his head. "I know."

  "That's guilt, which we experience when we believe--on faith--that there are divine rules of conduct. But what if you knew for a fact that there was no God and no rules other than those that you made? If that were true, you would be a free man, because the restraints that kept your desires in check would be released."

  "What does this have to do with Ally Bennett?"

  "If God does not exist, if superior men play by their own rules, if there is no divine punishment, then Ally Bennett would cease to be a problem."

  "You mean that she could be killed?"

  "Removed, Tim, the way you erase a disquieting sentence in a brief that you're writing or slap away an insect that has interfered with your peace of mind."

  "But there are rules, there are laws."

  "Not for everyone. Harold knew that for a fact."

  "What are you getting at, Judge? I'm not following you."

  "You're afraid to follow me. There's a difference. Answer me this: What would you do if I could assure you that there would never be any consequences if you removed Ally Bennett from your life?"

  "You can't give me that assurance. No one can."

  "Pretend that I could."

  "I . . . I couldn't kill someone even if I knew that I could get away with it."

  "What if a burglar broke into your house and was going to kill Megan? Are you telling me that you wouldn't kill him?"

  "That's different. That's self-defense."

  "Aren't we talking about self-defense? Isn't this woman threatening your life and the lives of those you love? Imagine yourself as a United States senator. That's within your grasp, Tim. Now think forward a few years. Can you see yourself as president of the United States, the most powerful person in the world?"

  Kerrigan's mouth dropped. Then he laughed. "Look at me, Judge. I'm not presidential material. I'm a hard drinker, a man who goes with whores to motels where you pay by the hour."

  "That is your image of yourself, but ask anyone in Oregon what they think of Tim Kerrigan and they'll tell you that he's a man of great character who has sacrificed personal wealth and fame for public service. Only one person can prove otherwise. Only one person can destroy your marriage and the way Megan perceives you. Only one person stands between you and your dreams and the happiness of your family."

  "I can't believe you're saying this. You believe in God. You're a devout Catholic."

  Grant didn't answer. He took another sip of his drink.

  "You're not seriously thinking of having Ally Bennett murdered?" Tim said. "Tell me that this is a put-on."

  Grant continued to sit quietly. For a brief moment, Kerrigan imagined Ally Bennett dead. All of his problems would disappear. He could keep trying to heal the wounds in his marriage and create a life for Megan in which she would be proud of him. But thinking about Megan brought him back to reality.

  "I've known you my whole life, Harvey," Tim said, using the judge's first name for the first time in recent memory. "I can't believe that you could kill someone in cold blood, and I can't either. How could I face Megan if I killed someone? It would eat me alive."

  Tim stood and began to pace. "And all this talk about morality and God doesn't mean a thing anyway, because if there's one thing I've learned as a district attorney it's that everyone gets caught eventually."

  "You're afraid, Tim. That's natural. But you would see things differently if you knew that there were no consequences." The judge paused for dramatic effect. "And that is something that I can guarantee."

  "How can you possibly guarantee that we wouldn't be caught?"

  "You have more friends than you know, Tim. People who believe in you and want to help you."

  "Who are these people?"

  "Friends, good friends. That's all you need to know for now. They are policemen who will control the investigation, district attorney's . . ."

  Tim's head snapped up.

  "Yes, Tim, in your own office. You'll be covered. When Ally Bennett is dead you'll be free. Think about that. Think about what that would mean to Megan."

  Grant lifted up the book of military history and took hold of a file that had been under it.

  "This shouldn't be that hard for you. You've played by your own rules for years. I have to believe you did it because you believed that there would be no consequences for your actions."

  Grant handed the file to Kerrigan, and he opened it. On top was a photograph of Ally Bennett entering his motel room on the night they had sex. There were other shots of them, inside the room, in various sexual positions. Beneath these photographs were pictures of Tim in other places, with other women. The photos covered sexual encounters that had occurred years before. In several pictures, Kerrigan was snorting cocaine or smoking marijuana. The invasion of his privacy that the photographs represented should have made Tim furious, but all he experienced was numbing shock.

  "How . . . ?"

  "We've known for some time. It's what persuaded us of your potential."

  Kerrigan slumped back onto his chair and put his head in his hands.

  "I think of you as my son, Tim. I only want to help you out of this terrible predicament. Everything I've said is new, a shock. I can appreciate that it will take some getting used to. But you'll see that everything I've said makes perfect sense and is in your best interest."

  "I won't kill her. I can't. I'll resign my job. I'll go to the press and confess to . . . to what I've done. I just can't murder anyone."

  "I expected this reaction, Tim. I know it's hard to take the first step. Go home and sleep. You'll think much more clearly in the morning. You'll see that killing Ally Bennett is the only rational way to solve your problems. Your choice is between eliminating someone who wants to ruin you and your family, and protecting your family. Do you want to trade the future of everyone you hold dear for the life of a whore?"

  Halfway home, Kerrigan pulled to the side of the road, opened the door, and vomited. He sat with his feet on the ground and his head between his knees. After a while, Tim wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, then threw it away. It was close to freezing, and the cold stung his cheeks. He looked up. The night was clear and the stars were sharp, but the world seemed to waver.

  Harvey Grant, a man he would trust with his life, a man he revered more than his own father, had known his most intimate and sordid secrets for years, had been recording his degradation and sharing his knowledge with people Tim probably saw every day. Who were they? How many of them had treated him as if he were normal, while picturing him naked in the most demeaning positions, begging for punishment and reveling in his own debasement?

  If Harvey Grant was telling him the truth, the world he thought he knew was being manipulated by a cadre of people who believed themselves to be above the law, people who would kill without compunction to achieve their ends and who were commanding him to kill.

  Going to the police or another DA was out of the questio
n. If Harvey Grant, the presiding judge and one of the most powerful people in the state, was involved with this group, then anyone could be in it.

  What about the FBI? He could contact someone in Washington, D.C., but what would he say? The story sounded insane. And the judge had those photographs, which would completely discredit him.

  There was suicide, of course. Kerrigan wiped his eyes. We all die. Why not go now and save himself this pain? He'd made a mess of his life, so why not end it? The idea of escaping to the peace of death was tempting.