'Well, thank God. The last thing we need is another Kincaid
shoot-out.' He smiled, but I could tell he was mad at himself for
letting her get away. 'Dad, you did the right thing. Chuck and Ray
will get her.'
'Yeah, you're probably right.'
I looked at him, waiting for him to get to the rest of the explanation.
'Dad, you still need to tell me what's going on. How did you know to
come here! What do you know about Susan Kerr that you haven't told
me?'
I could tell he was trying to find a way to say it to me. He was
finally ready to talk.
Sixteen.
It wasn't easy for my father to get through his story; I had to prod
him along occasionally like any reluctant witness. But as I finally
understood it, my father's concern about my involvement in the
Easterbrook case began the morning of the first press conference, which
he had caught on the local news.
He recognized the woman standing near the podium, the one in the light
blue suit. He never knew her personally, but the man she eventually
married had changed the course of his life back when she was probably
still a teenager. Given the connection, he couldn't help but notice
their marriage announcement and the occasional reports about their many
community activities that followed over the years. Yes, the woman in
the blue suit on the television was definitely Mrs. Herbert Kerr.
As an Oregon State Police officer in 1979, he found himself pulling
escort duty for Representative Clifford Brigg. Brigg would ride in the
back of Dad's highway patrol car, using the time to read the paper,
confer with other bigwigs, or occasionally sneak in a round of footsie
with his large-breasted, short-skirted so-called legislative aide. He
paid little attention to my father, but my father paid plenty of
attention to Brigg. It was his job.
On a sunny afternoon in July 1980, my father drove Brigg to Salem from
a press event in downtown Portland to announce the groundbreaking of a
new office building. As usual, Brigg was multitasking, this time
meeting with major campaign supporter Herbert Kerr during the ride.
Watching the two discreetly in his rearview mirror, Dad saw Kerr slip
an envelope to Brigg. From the way Brigg stuffed it into his coat
pocket, my father concluded that the deal was rotten.
Others would have let it drop, convincing themselves that it was either
none of their business or nothing to worry about. Or perhaps they'd
seek cover before talking, reporting the observation to a supervisor or
perhaps anonymously to the press, happy to let someone else steer the
course. But not my father.
The next time he had Brigg in the car to himself, he made the mistake
of confronting him. I don't know how my father expected Brigg to
react. Maybe he was naive enough back then to believe he'd come clean
and return the money. But, instead, Brigg denied any wrongdoing. He
gave Dad a choice. He could let the matter slide, in which case Brigg
and his cronies would make sure he worked his way straight up the OSP
ladder. Or he could repeat the story, in which case Brigg's
legislative aide was prepared to file a complaint that my father had
groped her.
My father's face tightened at the memory, his palms working the edge of
the kitchen table where we sat. 'You should have seen his girlfriend
when she told me later the things she was willing to say if it came
down to it. These were truly ugly people, Sam.' Herbert Kerr would
back up Brigg's denial, and my father's career would be ruined.
The arguments he had with my mother were not, as I had inferred, about
his hours or the physical dangers of police work. The truth was that
they didn't see eye to eye about Clifford Brigg and his threats.
To my father, the choice he'd been given was no choice at all. He
wanted to blow the whistle, career be damned. He'd work as a janitor
if he had to.
'And Mom?' I asked.
One look at his face, and it all became clear to me. Mom was a good
woman, about as good as they're made. But she and Dad didn't always
approach the world from the same perspective. She loved my father, but
part of her probably wished he'd earned more money or recognition. She
was ecstatic when I announced my engagement to Roger, while my father
feigned acceptance. And, although she never said as much, she no doubt
wondered how different her life would have been if she could have quit
teaching and pursued her passion for painting.
Dad didn't need to fill in the blanks. My mother must have wanted him
to play the game and accept Brigg s deal.
But instead, my father hung up the state system and found a quiet,
humble job with the federal forest service. He told my mother about
his decision only after he had given notice at OSP. He hoped Brigg and
Kerr were smart enough to see the move as a sign that he planned on
going silently, and he had been right. He never heard another word
about it.
