Why, I wondered, would a billionaire come so far to do something he could easily do in Macao? Was he simply seeking new competition? After all, for a man with a private jet, distance means little. But Im almost sure I remember that two of the five percent partners in Golden Parachute were Chinese. By the time I learned this, the deal was so far along that I gave it little thought. I simply made this note in the margin and moved on, caught up in the next days business. No one wanted to rock the boat by then, not even, apparently, the gaming commission. But tonight, I realize, I need an answer to the question I wrote in this margin so long ago.
Who really owns Golden Parachute?
With a last swallow of diluted tea, I close the file and slip it behind my collection of Patrick OBrian novels on the third shelf. As I walk upstairs, my thoughts and feelings about what I heard in the cemetery start to separate, like solids precipitating from a solution. On one hand, I dont doubt that Tim witnessed the horrors he described. On the other, if someone shook me awake at 4:00 a.m. and asked whether I was sure that Jessup hadnt started snorting coke againor heroin or crystal meth or whatever he was doing before Julia Stanton got him straightened outI would be hard-pressed to say I was. Most people who know us both would assume the worst about Tim. I dont, but it wouldnt be hard to convince myself that hes dreamed up a conspiracy in which he can play the hero to belatedly make up for the real-life drama in which he played the villain.
During his first year at Ole Miss, Tim agreed to host two prospective freshmen from St. Stephens Prep, our alma mater, during a football weekend. Like a lot of other students, he made several high-speed trips to the county line to procure cold beer, which was not legally available in Oxford, Mississippi (and still isnt). During his third beer run, Tim drove his Trans Am eighty-eight feet off the highway and into a pecan tree standing at the edge of a cotton field. Tim and one of the high school boys were wearing their seat belts; the third boy was not. The impact ejected him from the backseat through the front windshield and into the branches of the tree, where with any luck he died instantly. Because of the alcohol found at the scene, both sets of parents sued Jessups father, and Tim served a year in jail for manslaughter. Pleading the case down from vehicular homicide probably cost Dr. Jessup all the goodwill hed built up in twenty years of practicing medicine, not to mention the cash that must have changed hands under the table. But despite the light sentence, things were never really the same for Tim after that. As his life slipped further and further off track, people blamed drugs, weakness of character, even his father, but in my gut I always knew it was the wreck that had ruined him.
Now, with his new wifes help, Tim seems to have clawed his way back to a decent life. But a casino boat is probably a tough place for a guy with his past to stay clean. Stop, says a voice in my head. Stop blaming the messenger. Just because you dont want to hear what he said doesnt mean its not true. Remember the pictures.
A mangled dog. A half-naked teenager serving beer. A middle-aged man screwing the young girl on a board floor while four other men drink and watch. I saw those three images for only seconds, but Ill never forget them. When I close my eyes and recall them in detail, I feel nauseated. And that nausea is the reason I promised Tim that Id help him.
As I walk down the hall to check on my daughter, a different sensation chills me. Fear. Raw fear. After twelve years in the Houston DAs office, its a familiar feeling. As I told Tim, Ive run investigations using confidential informants, and more than one ended badly for the person wearing the wire. Highly trained FBI agents trip up under the pressure of living double lives, and even the best
Who really owns Golden Parachute?
With a last swallow of diluted tea, I close the file and slip it behind my collection of Patrick OBrian novels on the third shelf. As I walk upstairs, my thoughts and feelings about what I heard in the cemetery start to separate, like solids precipitating from a solution. On one hand, I dont doubt that Tim witnessed the horrors he described. On the other, if someone shook me awake at 4:00 a.m. and asked whether I was sure that Jessup hadnt started snorting coke againor heroin or crystal meth or whatever he was doing before Julia Stanton got him straightened outI would be hard-pressed to say I was. Most people who know us both would assume the worst about Tim. I dont, but it wouldnt be hard to convince myself that hes dreamed up a conspiracy in which he can play the hero to belatedly make up for the real-life drama in which he played the villain.
During his first year at Ole Miss, Tim agreed to host two prospective freshmen from St. Stephens Prep, our alma mater, during a football weekend. Like a lot of other students, he made several high-speed trips to the county line to procure cold beer, which was not legally available in Oxford, Mississippi (and still isnt). During his third beer run, Tim drove his Trans Am eighty-eight feet off the highway and into a pecan tree standing at the edge of a cotton field. Tim and one of the high school boys were wearing their seat belts; the third boy was not. The impact ejected him from the backseat through the front windshield and into the branches of the tree, where with any luck he died instantly. Because of the alcohol found at the scene, both sets of parents sued Jessups father, and Tim served a year in jail for manslaughter. Pleading the case down from vehicular homicide probably cost Dr. Jessup all the goodwill hed built up in twenty years of practicing medicine, not to mention the cash that must have changed hands under the table. But despite the light sentence, things were never really the same for Tim after that. As his life slipped further and further off track, people blamed drugs, weakness of character, even his father, but in my gut I always knew it was the wreck that had ruined him.
Now, with his new wifes help, Tim seems to have clawed his way back to a decent life. But a casino boat is probably a tough place for a guy with his past to stay clean. Stop, says a voice in my head. Stop blaming the messenger. Just because you dont want to hear what he said doesnt mean its not true. Remember the pictures.
A mangled dog. A half-naked teenager serving beer. A middle-aged man screwing the young girl on a board floor while four other men drink and watch. I saw those three images for only seconds, but Ill never forget them. When I close my eyes and recall them in detail, I feel nauseated. And that nausea is the reason I promised Tim that Id help him.
As I walk down the hall to check on my daughter, a different sensation chills me. Fear. Raw fear. After twelve years in the Houston DAs office, its a familiar feeling. As I told Tim, Ive run investigations using confidential informants, and more than one ended badly for the person wearing the wire. Highly trained FBI agents trip up under the pressure of living double lives, and even the best
Similar Books
