Terminal Justice Read online

  “Yes. Black please.”

  A.J. poured the coffee into china cups that were hand-decorated with Asian paintings.

  “These cups,” A.J. said with a broad smile, “were given to me by a family in southern China. They’re very special to me.” David dutifully admired them. “Now, down to business. What do you know about Barringston Relief?”

  “Not as much as I should,” David replied. “I would like to have come a little more prepared, but your invitation was rather sudden.”

  “No doubt,” A.J. said, sipping the coffee. “We tend to move rather quickly around here.”

  “I do know,” David continued, “that Barringston Relief is a charitable organization that distributes food to the hungry.”

  “We are much more than that,” A.J. said, beaming.

  “How so?”

  “First, we are the largest food-distribution charity in the world. Last year we dispensed over 150 million tons of food, countless gallons of water, $40 million worth of medicine, and started thirty different schools worldwide. And we’re planning to do even more this year.”

  David tried to comprehend the numbers, but he had nothing to compare them to. Nonetheless, they sounded impressive.

  “But that’s not what makes us unique,” A.J. continued, setting his cup down and leaning forward in excitement. “There are many charitable organizations in the world, and most of them are excellent. We, however, are unique because every dime that is given to us, we give to the world. None of it, not a single penny, stays in the organization.”

  David glanced around the opulent room.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” A.J. said with a laugh. “You’re thinking that this office and, well, this whole building was paid for out of contributions.”

  “The top ten floors of this building are used by Barringston Relief. Rent and utilities are free. How? The thirteen floors below are used by Barringston Industries. My father started the company in the mid-forties and had great success. Barringston Industries builds structures throughout the world. All our expenses are underwritten by my father and his business. They even pay for our overseas offices.”

  “What are the”—David paused as he calculated the remaining floors—“other thirty floors used for?”

  “We lease them to other businesses. Actually, the rent money from those floors almost pays for this whole building. My dad has been using other people’s money to pay for what he wants for decades. Even at eighty-seven years old, he has one of the finest business minds around.”

  “Does your father still work?” David was having trouble picturing an eighty-seven-year-old man coming to the office every day.

  “Oh yes,” A.J. replied. “No one has the courage to tell him he should retire. He’s a forceful old bird.”

  “So this building and everything in it has been paid for by your father’s firm?”

  “Much of it. Barringston Relief is not a purely nonprofit organization. You see, we do more than take food to the starving people of the world. We also develop ways of raising crops in arid, drought-stricken lands. We have a pharmaceutical department that develops medications for the treatment of diseases associated with hunger and plague. Some of these have commercial value. We market what we can and use the profits to further our relief efforts.”

  “But you do solicit contributions, don’t you?” David asked.

  “Of course,” A.J. replied enthusiastically. “We do so for two reasons. First, because the task at hand is great. How many people, do you suppose, die every day from hunger and related diseases?”

  “I don’t know.” David felt embarrassed by his ignorance, again regretting that he had had so little time to prepare for this meeting. “I would think quite a bit.”

  “Forty thousand,” A.J. said seriously. “And most of them are children. The saddest part is that hunger is 100 percent curable. More than sixteen hundred people die every hour. Every day we waste, the equivalent of a small city perishes. David, we take contributions because it enables us to respond more quickly. We also take contributions because the world needs to know of the problem. Our public appeals are as much an effort to educate about world hunger as it is to eradicate it. We can’t do one without the other.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply impropriety,” David said. “I only meant—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” A.J. said quickly. “You need to know these things if you’re going to be part of the team.”

  “What exactly would my duties be?” David asked, sipping his coffee.

  “Peter didn’t tell you?”

  “He said that you were looking for a speechwriter.”

  “That’s right. But not just any speechwriter. I need someone who understands the art of motivational speaking. I spend much of my time traveling and raising funds. But I have other duties that consume my time. I need someone who can improve my public speaking. Your background seems perfect.”

  David knew that A.J. must have reviewed the résumé he had faxed to Peter just yesterday.

  “I’m afraid that I don’t know much about hunger relief,” David said apologetically.

  “But you know about speeches. Your background and education makes us think that you would be perfect for the job.”

  The education part was certainly right. David held a master of arts in communication from the University of Arkansas. But he had been out of the discipline for nearly fifteen years and had not written a formal speech since graduation. It was true that until six months ago he had spoken publicly every week of the previous decade and a half, but preaching a sermon to a congregation of three hundred Baptists was considerably different from writing speeches for someone else to deliver.

  “Travel is involved too.” A.J. said. “As my speechwriter, you would be required to accompany me on all my travels. That means that you will be gone for about thirty weeks of the year.”

  “That’s a lot of travel,” David replied. “Truthfully, I haven’t been much farther than Tijuana.”

  “If you’re half the man we think you are, you’ll adapt.”

  David had done a lot of adapting over the last few months, more than he wanted. But he had been given no choice. His life was turned upside down, and he adapted to survive.

  “David, listen,” A.J. said, leaning forward and speaking softly. “I know you’ve been through a great deal. Yes, we know. We don’t want to invade anyone’s privacy, but we deal with hundreds of millions of dollars, and we can’t be too careful. The stakes are just too high. So we did a little investigating. When we found out you had left the church, we decided to act. I know that you have been under a great deal of pressure, and I don’t want to add to it, but we think you’re our man. We want you to be part of our team and part of the family. This may be a way to work out the transitions you’re going through.”

  David said nothing. He didn’t know whether to be angry or embarrassed. He had always been a private man, keeping his emotions to himself. To think that not only everyone in his former church knew about his problems, but now total strangers, was a difficult realization to swallow.

  “David, you are a man of belief and conviction. You are a man who cares. You believe that God has called you to help change the world. That’s why you chose the ministry as a profession. None of that has changed. You are still the same person, and you can still make a difference. David, I want you to make that difference with us.”

  David stared at the coffee cup in his hand. A.J. was right, of course. David had many times said similar things to people who were in the same position that he was in now. It was hard to leave the ministry, and harder still to be left by his wife. Perhaps a change would be good. And he certainly needed the job.

  “If it’s the money,” A.J. said, “I can assure you that you will be well compensated.”

  “It’s not the money,” David said looking up. “You’re right. I can still make a difference. If you don’t mind being patient with me, I’ll take the job.”

  A.J. leaped
to his feet.

  “Outstanding!” he said, clapping his hands together loudly. “Absolutely great. Welcome aboard, David. We’re going to have a grand time together.”

  “Thank you,” David said, standing. “When would you like me to start?”

  “Is tomorrow too soon?” A.J. asked.

  “Tomorrow will be fine. I hope …”

  Once again the door to the office slowly swung open and Sheila entered.

  “Yes, Sheila?” A.J. asked.

  She was carrying a blue file folder. Her face was taut and shadowed by a dark cloud of emotion. She looked at A.J. the way someone looks at another to communicate a silent and important truth.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but I thought you should see this.” She handed him the folder.

  A.J. took the file and opened it. The color drained from his face.

  “Thank you, Sheila,” he said with a forced smile. “David has agreed to join our team.”

  “Welcome,” Sheila said coolly.

  David didn’t need his communication expertise to know that his presence was now awkward. Whatever was in the file had clearly upset them both.

  “Thank you,” David said. “I’m looking forward to working here.”

  There was an uneasy silence as A.J. stared at the file’s contents.

  “Well,” David said, “I’m sure you have work you want to do, and I think I’m going to treat myself to a celebration dinner. So if there’s nothing else …”

  “Thank you for coming,” A.J. said, clearly distracted. “I know that you’re going to be a big addition to Barringston Relief.”

  “I’ll see you to the door,” Sheila said.

  A.J. Barringston watched as Sheila closed the door behind David. “It’s him, isn’t it?” he said sullenly.

  “We can’t be sure, but—” Sheila began.

  “I can. It’s him. I can feel him half a world away.” A.J. returned his attention to the file and removed its contents: a one-page memo marked, EYES ONLY and three photographs. The memo was unnecessary; the photos said everything. Each photo was an aerial snapshot of a burned-out camp—a Barringston camp. The brown earth was marked by areas of scorched ground where tents that had housed the feeble once stood. Ghostly wisps of smoke that had danced above the pyres were frozen in place by the photo. In the middle of one of the pictures lay two bodies, arms and legs strewn in awkward positions. A label identifying the bodies was glued to the photo. One read: UNIDENTIFIED SOMALI NATIONAL; the other: DR. JUDITH RHODES.

  “Communications dispatched a helicopter from Mogadishu when Rhodes didn’t check in,” Sheila explained. “That’s what they found.”

  “It’s him all right.” A.J. slammed the photos down on the desk. “He’s gone too far.” A.J. leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Have Peter pull Judith’s personnel file. I want to talk to the family. They shouldn’t have to hear this over the television. Also, have Kristen hold a press conference.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Where’s Roger?”

  “He arrived in Egypt last night.”

  “I hope he hasn’t unpacked,” A.J. said seriously. “It’s time for him to take another trip.”

  2

  DAVID ARRIVED FOR HIS FIRST DAY OF WORK AT 7:50. The traffic along Interstate 8 had been grueling and hadn’t improved when he turned south on Interstate 5. It had taken him nearly fifty minutes to make the drive from El Cajon in the east county to downtown. If the Barringston building hadn’t had a private parking garage, he would have been late for his first day on the job.

  The night had passed quickly. David had indeed celebrated his new job with dinner at a small Italian restaurant in La Mesa. The meal was good, but he still felt uncomfortable eating alone. He had almost always had company when he ate out, if not his wife, then a church member. The last six months David had eaten all his meals alone, turning down the kind invitations from church members who struggled to maintain contact with him after his resignation. He loved those people, but he found it impossible to face them without an overwhelming sense of embarrassment.

  He knew the embarrassment was misplaced; he had done nothing wrong. But his wife had left him for another man—a church leader at that. She left him, the church, and the city. She left him with the task of disclosing the awful truth of her infidelity to the congregation. He had to share the news of the abandonment. He did so in a quiet and uncritical way, making great efforts to appear strong and resilient, but those who knew him well knew that his mind and soul had been shattered.

  The church had been supportive. The congregation poured out their love in many ways; they also talked among themselves. They pleaded with him to stay on as their pastor. “No one can replace you,” they said. But Carol, his wife, had been able to replace him. Frequently waves of insecurity and inadequacy washed over him like a tsunami overwhelming a coastal community. The debris left behind was not the residue of houses and shops but the flotsam of pride and dignity. He had trouble sleeping at night, and when he did sleep he had unsettling dreams.

  Despite the efforts of several church members, deacons, and other local pastors, David closed himself off, building a fortress around himself constructed of fear, anger, and self-pity. For months David lived the life of a recluse, screening all his phone calls through his answering machine.

  One day he received a letter from Barringston Relief. They said they had been referred to him by the alumni association of San Diego State University where he had done graduate work in speech communication before going off to seminary. The alumni office had been made aware of David’s new status when he had, on a whim, fired off a résumé to his alma mater looking for a teaching position. Unfortunately, there had been no budget for it.

  Reluctantly, David called the phone number listed in the letter. It took only moments for David to be connected to Peter Powell, the head of personnel. Peter had gone straight to the point: They were offering David a job as a speechwriter. David needed a job. The savings he had been using to support himself would be depleted in less than two months. As a pastor, his income had been livable but limited. He was far from being a man of means. Intrigued by the offer and pressed by need, he agreed to meet with Powell the next day.

  Now he found himself at the start of a new career. He had always been goal driven, and the thought of undertaking a new project excited him. He felt privileged—no blessed—that he should find a job with such a noble purpose. Certainly it would be different from his work as pastor, but he was resilient. He could adjust.

  Stepping from his car, he started toward the bank of elevators. A message left by Peter on David’s answering machine had said that someone would meet him and take him to his new office. Before he could reach the elevators, the doors parted and a woman exited. Her hair was shoulder length and dark red, and her eyes were a deep blue, the deepest he had ever seen.

  “David O’Neal,” she said, smoothly stepping toward him. “I’m Kristen LaCroix, and I’ve been asked to show you around.” Her walk was peculiar. She held her head high, chin elevated, and moved with a strutting gait.

  David had studied body language most of his adult life. The topic had consumed him in college and graduate school, and he had found it useful in the ministry. David intuitively sensed that Kristen LaCroix was subconsciously attempting to divert his attention. He found her so stunningly attractive that diverting his attention from anything else would be easy, but years of conditioning prodded his subconscious to seek an answer.

  He discovered the truth quickly and was embarrassed to find it so obvious. Kristen’s unusual gait was caused by a physical defect. Glancing at her feet, David saw a prosthetic shoe with a sole that had been built up approximately two inches. Her right leg was shorter than her left.

  “So you’re my guide,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “I am.” Her smile was flawless and bright. “Peter had planned to do the honors, but he’s rather tied up.”

  “Well, then,” h
e said, “I’m in your hands.”

  “How about a short tour?” Kristen asked as she led the way into the waiting elevator car. “It’ll help you get your bearings.”

  “I’ll take whatever help I can get.” He watched as she punched the elevator button. The cab rose smoothly. The hum of motors filled the car. “How long have you been with Barringston Relief?”

  “Just under five years. I was recruited from a public-relations firm in Los Angeles.”

  “Is that what you do here? Public relations, I mean.”

  “Yes,” she replied succinctly. “I oversee all press releases, contact with the media, and related activity.”

  “You must enjoy it.”

  Kristen glanced at David with puzzlement. “On most days,” she replied quietly.

  David caught the look. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “You haven’t heard?” she asked. “You must not have seen the news last night.”

  “No. I ate out and then went home and read.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “What happened?”

  “One of our overseas personnel was killed,” she said solemnly. “She was murdered by a terrorist.”

  “I’m sorry,” David said quietly. That explained A.J.’s behavior yesterday. “Did you know the person?”

  “Her name was Dr. Judith Rhodes. She had been transferred from Ethiopia to Somalia three weeks ago. As you probably know, Somalia is experiencing yet another drought and famine. Because of all the problems the UN had in 1993, few countries are willing to help. Dr. Rhodes asked for the transfer. She knew the dangers, but she asked to go anyway. I gave a short press conference last night. It was on the evening news.”

  “Do they know who the killer is?” David asked.

  “We know,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Not officially, but we know.”

  The elevator stopped with a small lurch, and the doors opened. As they exited the elevator Kristen said, “We have an open communication policy here, David. There are very few secrets. That means that everyone associated with Barringston knows about Dr. Rhodes. In fact, they knew before the media. Our ranks are filled with caring people, and many of them are taking the news very hard.”