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.
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,”
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.
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,”
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