SEATTLE -- In the organic, whole-grain culture of contemporary Seattle, Brock Adams was something of a Pop'n Fresh anomaly: the chirpy Pillsbury Doughboy of Puget Sound politics whose career had begun to betray the flavor of artificial preservatives.

He had, in the words of one Seattle native, been "noticed by the Kennedys" in his youth and apparently never gotten over it, trumpeting his marginal New Frontier credentials excitedly decades after tarnish had settled on the lofty spires of Camelot.

After a hard-charging career in the House of Representatives, he had served as Jimmy Carter's secretary of transportation, then vaulted to the Senate in 1986 over a favored Republican only to languish there in the shadow of younger men.

To his liberal supporters, and there were many, he was still a "caring," very human politician, "on the right side of every issue," from his early opposition to the Vietnam War to his earnest espousal of feminist causes.

His critics, however, dismissed him as a caricature of his eager-beaver early years -- a poignant 65-year-old in a hairpiece and blue-tinted contact lenses, still effusively mouthing the platitudes of a long-dead Democratic past, and tirelessly searching the mirror for traces of his promising youth.

Still, neither side was prepared for the shock waves touched off March 1 when the Seattle Times printed allegations from eight unnamed women charging Adams with a history of sexual molestation both long-term and bizarre. According to the paper, Adams was given to plying vulnerable young women with drugged drinks as well as unwanted advances, and one woman, in an incident she said happened nearly 20 years ago, said he had committed rape.

The allegations gave new credibity to earlier, skeptically received charges of one Kari Lynn Tupper, the 24-year-old daughter of a couple Adams had known well since college. Tupper told police in 1987 that she had gone to Adams's home in Washington, D.C., to discuss a job, and been given drugged drinks, awakening later in bed with him, being fondled against her will.

Adams denied the new charges, as he had Tupper's five years earlier. But he bowed out of his race for reelection at an emotional press conference the same day, declaring "I've never hurt anyone." The "politically inspired" allegations, he said, were "created out of whole cloth by people who hated me" and were "impossible to answer" because the charges were leveled anonymously. He has refused to make any further statements.

In the nation's capital, where philandering congressmen have proved grist in recent years for an increasingly moralistic press, "the Adams chronicles," as they're known here, appear merely the latest outbreak of a nationwide epidemic of sexual politics.

But here in the shadow of Mount Rainier, where memories and perspectives are longer, they're viewed as a cautionary tale on the consequences of trading the muscular, home-grown values of the Pacific Northwest for the spiritual tinsel of the city Seattleites refer to darkly as "the other Washington."

"You see, most people who grow up here love this area, settle in and can't bear to leave," explains Pat Goodfellow, a Phi Delta Theta fraternity brother of Adams at the University of Washington in the 1940s. "But for nearly 30 years Brock has chosen to be virtually a full-time resident of Washington, D.C.," even when he wasn't holding office. "In college Brock was straight-arrow, his principles above reproach."

But spiritually as well as physically, he says, "Brock moved away."

To fully appreciate the classical tragedy of Brock Adams's fall, say both Republicans and Democrats here, you have to understand the extraordinary stature he held in Seattle in his youth.

"I think he's probably the most outstanding leader and scholar ever to attend the University of Washington," said one woman a class behind him in college. "I don't think there has ever been anyone else who won the President's Medal for the highest grades while also president of the student body."

"It was more than that," said another university contemporary. "He was a kind of epitome -- the one all our parents would point to as the sort of person we should try to be."

From grade school, where he seemed to be president of every class, to Broadway High School, where he played tennis and basketball and carried off almost every prize, Adams was the smart, amiable, all-American boy from a family of modest circumstance.

Winters he would carry a paper route and find odd jobs to help the family make ends meet. Summers he would travel to Alaska with his friend Jack Roderick, now a lawyer and former mayor in Anchorage, and work long hours in the salmon canneries of Afognak Island to earn money for college. But Roderick's aunt Margarite Rochester, now a very vigorous and clear-headed 91, remembers not everything was perfect in the Adams family.

"His mother, Vera -- we called her Vee -- was an extraordinary woman, very warm but outspoken and one of my best friends for nearly 30 years. She managed the residential sales office for the oldest real estate firm in Seattle and virtually supported the family.

"Brock's father was less visible. He was a very charming Southern gentleman whom Vee had met in Atlanta doing government work during World War I, and when he got out of uniform after the war he just never seemed to figure out what to do with himself. He was very nice-looking and always had just the right things to wear while playing golf. But I don't think he ever worked very hard.

"I seem to remember him trying to sell Pontiacs for a time. But after Brock and his sister got out of high school, Vee got tired of supporting him and invited him to leave. I always wondered why she didn't do it sooner."

Her son, meanwhile, was proving to be every bit the "born leader" Rochester remembers him to be. In the 1949 Tyee yearbook of the University of Washington, he smiles out from assorted portraits of responsibility, a clean-cut, broad-browed youth, confidently astride a postwar campus world of big band music, Betty Coed and the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi.

Adams won a scholarship to Harvard Law School, and three years later returned to Seattle with his wife, Betty, a Radcliffe graduate from a wealthy family of Florida land developers.

"I don't remember him making much of a mark practicing law here in the beginning," said Hunter Simpson, retired CEO of a medical technology firm and a Phi Delt classmate of Adams. "He always looked so youthful I think that may have worked against him in the courtroom." But six years later he was early aboard John Fitzgerald Kennedy's landmark presidential campaign, and in 1961 Kennedy named him to the U.S. attorney's office here. He was one of the youngest U.S. attorneys in the United States.

'Someone to Lead Us'

Marge Weismann remembers well the first time she heard Brock Adams speak: "It was in 1964, during that terrible time when we were all trying to recover from President Kennedy being shot. Brock was running for Congress and my husband dragged me to hear him and I thought, 'At last! Here's somebody who feels the way I do about what's happening in the world. Here's someone to lead us.' " Her conviction led her to work in his campaign, labor as a volunteer for three years in his regional office here, and ultimately get hired as office manager.

Adams modeled himself after Hubert Humphrey -- effusive in speech, optimistic in outlook and liberal in politics. Yet there were obvious frustrations for the young congressman. However energetic, thoughtful or attentive to detail he and his staff were, he was inevitably overshadowed here by the state's legendary Democratic senators, Henry M. "Scoop" Jackson and Warren Magnuson, who as maverick powers in the Senate were unsurpassed in delivering federal projects and money to the state of Washington.

"Scoop and Maggy really did it all," says David Brewster, publisher of the widely read alternative newspaper the Seattle Weekly. "It seemed to me, that as someone from a safe Democratic seat Adams mostly carried water for other House members, serving on things like the District of Columbia Committee that nobody ever wants to serve on. He pushed for home rule for the District and helped restructure railroads in the Northeast -- big deal. What use was any of that to Seattle?"

Adams's real achievement in the '60s and early '70s, Brewster says, was in providing a rallying point for a low-key but deep-seated peace movement here that went well up the age and social scale. With Jackson and Magnuson tied strongly to the state's defense industries like Boeing, Adams provided a bridge in the state Democratic Party from them to those voters increasingly questioning the Vietnam War.

To many of Adams's old college friends, however, his immersion in the ideological battles of the 1960s was a turnoff. Simpson, for example, supported him in his first run for Congress, "but by the second time he ran, it seemed like I no longer knew him." He seemed to be just mouthing platitudes. You'd shake hands with him and he was always looking over your shoulder to see if he should be talking to someone more important. The other Washington had changed him."

Like a number of other old Adams friends here, Simpson remembers Adams "always talking about this Kennedy thing and about playing tennis at Hickory Hill or wherever it is. He seemed very impressed with himself about that."

Among the Kennedy insiders, however, "nobody took him terribly seriously," recalls one old Kennedy hand in Washington, D.C. "I always thought of him as Old Gee Whiz Glorioski. He wants desperately to be liked and always acts so incredibly excited to see you that he'll say almost anything that comes into his head. He once introduced me to some guy as his old touch football partner at Hickory Hill and said I'd been an all-American at Iowa. Christ, I'm no all-American. I don't remember playing football with him at Hickory Hill. And I never went to Iowa." Accomplishments

Adams's effusive manner and elliptical oratory, however, masked extraordinary intelligence and impressive political skills. When he was named to head the first House Budget Committee in 1975, remembers Wendell Belew, his assistant general counsel, "those skills were very badly needed. He is generally credited with establishing the entire budget process in the House, which was not an insubstantial accomplishment and was much respected. Had he stayed in the House he would have been a real contender for majority leader."

Linda Kamm, his general counsel on the House Budget Committee and subsequently at Transportation, remembers Adams as a competent, cheerful and eminently fair boss who kept "a pretty clear line between his professional and his private life." At a time when scandals over women brought down congressmen such as Wilbur Mills and Wayne Hays, and the names of other fanny-pinchers were noised around the Capitol, nobody, Kamm and many others agree, talked that way about Brock Adams. "He didn't hang around the office and socialize with the staff," Kamm says. After work "he was home with his family."

Furthermore, says Susan Williams, his deputy assistant secretary at DOT for governmental and public affairs, "Brock Adams did more to lift the glass ceiling on women in executive positions than any one person in the government of the United States. He didn't just hire a lot of bright, talented women like Alice Rivlin on the Budget Committee. He put them in important positions, sought their counsel and delegated to them considerable authority. Their careers have blossomed subsequently because of him."

Adams's years as secretary of transportation were uneven ones. Carter officials considered him lethargic in moving toward deregulation of airlines and other administration goals, and a Wall Street Journal article at the time named him the "biggest disappointment" of Carter's cabinet.

He resigned in 1979 to enter private law practice. But he didn't return to Seattle. He joined the Washington, D.C., office of Seattle's Garvey Schubert Adams & Barer, lobbying for the next six years on issues related to Pacific Rim trade.

"He made a whole lot of money doing that, and if money's what he wanted, I don't know why he ever quit," said one Seattle contemporary from Adams's University of Washington days. "By that time he'd lost all touch with Seattle. He was wholly a creature of the other Washington. ... I'll tell you what just epitomizes Brock for me. He did well out here at the university. You could say the university made him, gave him the opportunity to shine. He wouldn't have had that otherwise in those days, with no family money. So the other day I looked to see what he'd paid back. Donations to the university are public record. And you know how much money Brock Adams, with all his wealth, has given the university since 1947? One hundred dollars, that's how much: $100! Doesn't that tell you something?"

Those who knew Adams in the other Washington then remember something of a desperate quality emerging around him. He was making money but out of power, one of the many political ghosts who haunt restaurants like Duke Zeibert's and the Palm, hoping against hope to still be recognized.

His wife thought him well out of politics, friends say, but there was never any real question that wouldn't resume his political career. He'd never made a secret of his hunger for the U.S. Senate, the ultimate validation of Washington, D.C. By 1986, Slade Gorton, a Republican, appeared firmly ensconced in Magnuson's old seat, and few people gave Adams much of a chance. But with Gorton outspending him more than 3 to 2 -- but making a number of strategic and tactical mistakes -- Adams squeaked in with the biggest Senate upset in the nation.

With the possible exception of North Carolina's Terry Sanford, he was the most experienced member of the Senate's 1986 freshman class and when sworn in seemed, in the words of Washington state's other senator then, Republican Dan Evans, "destined to do big things." But three months later he got a phone call that was to change everything. It was from a young woman named Kari Tupper.

The Complaint

The daughter of a prominent Seattle couple, Tupper had known Adams since childhood, and now worked in Congress on the staff of the House Select Committee on the Aging. Her mother, Sylvia, had worked with Adams in student government at the University of Washington and even dated him briefly. Her father, Jim, a retired Seattle physician, had been one of Adams's brother Phi Delts, and a supporter and contributor to his past political campaigns.

On March 27, 1987, Tupper drove to Adams's house on Albemarle Street NW. where Adams had been playing tennis with several friends. His wife, Betty, was out of town. Tupper was introduced to the friends, and shortly afterward the friends departed.

Four months later, on July 24, Tupper filed a complaint of simple assault with D.C. police alleging that Adams on that March night had drugged her and sexually fondled her against her will.

In police reports she said once Adams's friends had departed he gave her several drinks ("something in a white wine glass with ice and a pink bubbly liquid") and began talking of his sexual conquests, his desire for her and the fact that he'd had a vasectomy. Tupper, who apparently hadn't eaten anything and had missed work that day because of a sore throat, told police she remembers going into the bathroom at some point feeling ill, and then waking up some time later in a bed, weeping and feeling nauseated, with Adams fondling her hips and breasts and kissing her on the lips. A tampon she had been wearing had been removed, she said.

She told police she got up, got dressed and drove home, then went to the airport to pick up her sister. Later that day she went to Arlington Hospital. Records there show she complained of nausea and disorientation, and underwent a medical test for the presence of sperm and a urinalysis drug screening test, both of which were negative. She declined to undergo the more complete examination that usually follows a rape complaint.

The most singular aspect of Tupper's complaint, however, was her contention that she was drugged. This was not just a young woman having one drink too many on an empty stomach with a predatory male, or making any kind of mistake in judgment. She was alleging victimization on the grand scale of Victorian melodrama.

To those who knew Adams, the image seemed absurd. "Can't you just see Adams on the stage?" muses the old Kennedy hand back in Washington, D.C.: "twirling the villain's mustache and chortling, 'Have some Madeira, m'dear?' "

To Kari Tupper, that image wasn't far from the mark. She told police that family friend Adams had been making sexual advances toward her, both subtle and overt, for more than two years, despite her discouragement. She said she had arranged the meeting with him to "stop him from harassing me."

She has never claimed she saw any drugs. She acknowledges the hospital didn't find any drugs in her system. She said Adams was drinking champagne and at one point topped off her drink with something pink out of a green bottle and then added more champagne. That could have been the raspberry liqueur that, when mixed with champagne, makes a potent wine cocktail called a kir royale, quite popular in the nation's capital. But Tupper -- though no big drinker -- has maintained that only some drug other than alcohol could explain the physical effects she experienced.

That contention, though unproven, is the central ingredient in the story of Brock Adams. It provides the lens through which he is now viewed, and through which other women have reappraised his past behavior. And for many Seattleites it's the point at which the improper became the unconscionable, and the unconscionable became the unforgivable.

Capital Skepticism

Kari Tupper's story was received with some skepticism in "the other Washington," partly because of the way it emerged. The month after she filed her complaint, the U.S. attorney's office decided not to prosecute it. Charles M. Roistacher, executive assistant U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia, in a subsequent letter to Tupper's attorney, cited lack of evidence to corroborate Tupper's statements, plus "problems of credibility" with the statements themselves.

"Ms. Tupper did not report this matter to the police for three days, and even then refused to name her alleged assailant. She did not identify her assailant as Senator Adams until she gave the police a formal statement in June. Furthermore, her initial statement to police on March 30 differs in some details from her subsequent statement... .

"No objective evidence supports your supposition about the drugging except Ms. Tupper's symptoms the morning after, which seem equally consistent with excess consumption of alcohol over the course of the evening. This evidence does not even amount to probable cause to believe that he drugged her, much less to proof beyond a reasonable doubt."

For more than a year, no reporter discovered the unprosecuted complaint against Adams. And Tupper, while she related her story to her friends and family, otherwise kept her silence. She moved back to Seattle in December 1987, and six months later became engaged to a University of Washington sociology professor named George Bridges.

Finally, on Sept. 27, 1988, after learning that Washingtonian magazine was preparing a story on the Tupper affair, Adams called an extraordinary press conference in his Senate office in the Capitol.

In it he charged Tupper with falsely accusing him of sexual assault and then attempting to blackmail him by demanding "$400,000 in hush money."

He acknowledged permitting the 26-year-old daughter of "dear, longstanding friends of ours" to spend a night at his home while his wife was out of town, but insisted, "I went to bed alone."

"Looking back, I should have called her a cab, but at the time the suggestion {that she stay} seemed appropriate for a family friend who was upset about her job and not feeling well."

The capital press corps found some titillation in the Adams-Tupper story, but no feeding frenzy, and soon shrugged it off for bigger headlines. The Washington Post played Adams's news conference -- and Tupper's subsequent rebuttal -- inside the paper on Page A12. By November, when Washingtonian magazine published a lengthy and detailed version of Tupper's side of the story, it created something less than a sensation.

No feminist groups rushed to Tupper's defense. No calls were raised for a Senate investigation. No debates raged on radio talk shows in the nation's capital.

But in Seattle, it was something else again.

Shock in Seattle The Seattle newspapers front-paged the Kari Tupper story for four straight days: first announcing Tupper's complaint, then Adams's press conference, then Jim Tupper's emotional press conference here where the physician denied the hush money charge and promised to drive Adams from public life, and then a five-hour interview with Kari Tupper herself. There were talk shows and letters to the editors about it. The story was the talk of the state.

When Adams's old fraternity brother Pat Goodfellow heard it, he remembers, "it was a real shock. It just didn't sound like the Brock I know. ... But the more I got into it, the more real it seemed."

The crucial ingredient to Goodfellow, as to many in Seattle, was "the character of the Tupper family. They're very, very fine people -- real salt-of-the-earth folks. And everybody here knows them." Why, Seattleites wondered, would Kari Tupper dream up something like this if it weren't true? She was no headline-minded bimbo angling for a spot on "Geraldo": Kari Tupper was a Phi Beta Kappa in English literature from a close, proud family with plenty of resources.

On the other hand, they argued, it just didn't sound like Brock Adams. He wasn't a power-minded politician given to dominating people, or even a well-known good-time guy with the ladies. Adams was a bouncy puppy dog -- a hugger, yes, and prone to silliness after a mere drink or two. Could he have gotten a little carried away and been misunderstood by Kari?

Peggy Maze Johnson didn't think so. When she heard Kari Tupper's story, "I believed it right away. I said 'My God, where are all the old bartenders -- he slipped her a Mickey!'"

A Democratic operative and former lobbyist, Johnson had raised funds for Adams's 1986 Senate campaign, and says among the staff "there were certainly rumors that he had a propensity for young blondes." She says she didn't take those rumors seriously at first because "there's a sexual dynamic in politics, and anybody who has worked in politics seriously learns to recognize it and use it. It's part of the attraction between the candidate, man or woman, and the voter."

But there's a definite line, she notes, between attraction and exploitation, between promise and possibility, and the maintenance of that line is one of the keystones of the political art. It is a form, she says, of "power flirting."

Adams in 1986 was not always careful to maintain that line, she says, and while she never heard of anyone observing or complaining of unwanted advances from the candidate, and "all I really ever observed was flirty-type stuff," there were "aspects of it that made me uneasy for the campaign."

She remembers one of Adams's longtime woman loyalists on the staff "upset because he'd been heard inviting young staff girls out to dinner with him alone." She herself grew "uncomfortable using name tags at fund-raisers because it would give him the opportunity to stare at women's boobs, if you'll excuse my language."

After the Kari Tupper story hit, Brock Adams was a different man. Back in the other Washington he walked through his Senate duties like a zombie. Susan Williams remembers that "the Tupper thing seemed to have sapped his considerable energy." Reporters who cover Congress found him shriller and less forceful than in the House. Evans, then the state's other senator, remembers him seeming "disoriented" and "not attentive to duty," routinely skipping the breakfasts where the Washington state delegation traditionally does much of its work.

"He was just shattered by it. He didn't seem to know what had happened," remembers Adams loyalist Marge Weismann. "My heart just went out to him. It was such a loss."

He gradually recovered his energy somewhat, but had no real stomach for a reelection race. "It was Betty that insisted he run again," said one Adams friend. "She wanted to clear the family name."

Jim Tupper, however, was just as determined. He sent letters to prominent state Democrats and political action committees, reminding them of his daughter's story and calling Adams unfit for public life.

More Allegations Meanwhile, the Seattle papers had fielded calls about the Tupper story, and many of the callers were women. Some were outraged Adams loyalists. But others, says Alex MacLeod, managing editor of the Seattle Times, called to say that what happened to Kari Tupper was "very much like what had happened to them with Adams. Or very like something they'd heard about. Most refused to give their names. They just wanted us to know there was more out there. They told us to keep digging."

Both the afternoon Times and its morning counterpart, the Post-Intelligencer, "pressed fairly hard" immediately after the Tupper story in their search for more allegations, MacLeod said. "And we came up with some other women. But none of them would go public. So it sort of went on the back burner. But we kept a few reporters digging."

McLeod says the Times eventually came up with enough allegations to convince editors they "were clearly not a hit-or-miss thing" and seemed to show a pattern of behavior on Adams's part that merited public scrutiny. But still the women wouldn't go public. Once Adams announced plans to run for reelection, "the choice we had was that of knowing what we knew and not publishing, which seemed irresponsible to us, or somehow publishing in the form we had."

Finally, he said, the editors came up with a sort of compromise: They would keep the women's names out of the paper, but the women would sign affidavits stating that their stories were true and agreeing to testify to that fact in court should Adams sue the Times for libel.

The paper went back to the women one by one, and at length eight agreed to the procedure. The stories of two of those women were entirely withheld from publication, because, the Times said, the women feared they would make them identifiable. The other six were:

A Democratic party activist who says Adams engineered a meeting with her in a Seattle bar nearly 20 years ago and offered her two small white tablets of "Vitamin C" for her cough, which she now believes were drugs. He then accompanied her to her home and, after she invited him in, ended up raping her, she said, and left behind $200, saying she should use it to pay her way to an upcoming Democratic function.

A former secretary at DOT who says Adams invited her to play tennis with him one day when his wife was out of town, and ended up instead offering her wine, kissing her and reaching into her blouse to fondle her breast. She was saved by a ringing phone Adams answered, she says, but not before she noticed "small white particles lying inside the glass ... like a small pill that had been crushed." They could have been the harmless crystals that form in many white wines when chilled, but she didn't drink it to find out. Since reading Tupper's story, she believes it was drugged.

A lobbyist who said she was seated next to Adams at a business luncheon in 1982 when he surreptitiously put his hand on her thigh. And wouldn't let go for 15 minutes.

A legal secretary at the law firm where Adams worked in the early 1980s, who said Adams had to be reprimanded by a senior partner for his habit of touching women employees as they passed in the hallway.

An Adams aide in the 1980s -- then in her twenties -- who says Adams stroked her leg and forced a kiss on her after inviting her to his apartment for a political conference, and later tried to lure her to his hotel room and kissed her during an out of town trip.

Perhaps the most persuasive story was that of a secretary who worked for Adams from the mid-1970s in the House to his 1986 Senate campaign. She told the Seattle Times that Adams's propensity for putting his hands on women staffers was so blatant and recurrent that she felt it necessary to warn new employees about "Brock's problem." One receptionist came to her office in tears after being slyly fondled by Adams, she told the Times, and she gradually became a kind of clearinghouse for similar complaints. She joined his Senate campaign, she said, only after being told Adams had reformed. But she continued to hear about him handling the young women, and ultimately resigned after writing the candidate to tell him why.

None of the women could be reached by The Washington Post to elaborate on her story, despite the intervention of several of their friends. McLeod said the eight women had become even more fearful of publicity, after calls for a Senate investigation of Adams's behavior raised the prospect, however remote, of their being cross-examined by Sens. Alan Simpson and Orrin Hatch.

Washington There must have been some gloating somewhere when Brock Adams bowed out of his reelection race, but what seems remarkable now is how little of it you encounter here. His critics and his supporters, Republican and Democrat, seem to speak of him with the same words: "tragic waste," "brilliant mind," "lost his way," "I hope he gets help." However hollow such comments often sound in the other Washington, they're not uttered here as sound bites.

Kari Tupper is married now and pursuing a doctoral degree in English at the University of Washington. She held a brief news conference after the Seattle Times revelations, saying she feels vindicated. But her phone's unlisted and she's taking no calls.

Her parents were back from their summer place this week and looking after grandchildren. And occasionally wondering what caused the fall of their old friend. Sylvia Tupper says she wanted to call Betty Adams in sympathy after the Seattle Times stories, but was advised by her lawyers not to do so. The once-close families have not spoken since Adams's news conference about Kari in 1987.

Searching back for visible changes in Adams, Sylvia Tupper remembers best the night of Kari's high school graduation, when Brock Adams brought champagne for the occasion and spent the night at their home. That night, she said, as she was on her way to bed he stopped Sylvia in the hall and told her, "I should have married you."

"I thought he had just had too much to drink then," she said, but other small incidents happened over the next years: a remark at a lunch, a touch of the hand, and at one point an attempt to caress her that finally, she says, made her realize Adams wanted more from her than friendship. She told her husband, she said, but he laughed it off. Before the Seattle Times revelations, she said, "I worried that he had done that to Kari to try to get at me. Now I realize it's a larger problem. I hope he gets help."

There've been many calls for Adams's resignation since the Seattle Times articles, and the biggest puzzle to Seattleites is why Adams doesn't either heed them or sue the paper for libel.

"If he's innocent of all these charges, he's being unfair to his family by not trying to clear his name," says Dan Evans, the former senator. "If he's guilty, he's being unfair to the state by staying on. Just staggering his way to the end of his term seems like the worst of both worlds. Why would he want to do that?"

But even as he says that, Evans knows the answer. He's lived in the other Washington. He's seen what it's like when people move there in their soul.