Tarnished Image (10 page)

“What is going on?” David demanded in a voice louder than he intended. As he spoke, the FBI agent turned the cuff so that it dug into David’s wrist and smoothly guided David’s hand behind his back. Before David could speak again, his left hand was dragged behind him and shackled with the other cuff.

“I asked a question,” David fumed over his shoulder.

Agent Hall ignored David and asked a question of his own. “Do you have anything in your pockets that might stick me? Needles? Knife? Anything sharp?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s a routine question, Dr. O’Neal,” Hall said evenly as he patted David’s pockets. After the cursory pat down, Hall reached in David’s pockets to pull out whatever he found: keys, wallet, and an ATM receipt.

“Tell me this is a joke.” David was simultaneously filled with fear and anger.

“I’m afraid not, Dr. O’Neal,” Hall said. “You are being arrested. We have a warrant.”

“For what?”

“That will all be explained later.”

“You’ll explain it right now,” David demanded.

Hall turned David so that he could face him. The small smile he had brought into David’s office was gone, replaced by a firm, professional stare. “No, I won’t. And making demands of me will only make things worse.”

“What could be worse?” David asked.

“Oh, there are many things worse. Much worse. And you don’t want to know what they are. Isn’t that right, Detective Wilson?”

“Absolutely.”

“But this is impossible. Don’t you know who I am?” David was flustered and felt stupid over the last remark.

“I know who you are, Dr. O’Neal,” Hall replied evenly. “Until recently, I admired you and this company. But I guess I’ll have to rethink all that now, won’t I?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“They never do,” Hall said to Wilson, who chuckled.

“David, I forgot—”

David turned to see Timmy standing in the doorway, his mouth open, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Timmy—

“What are they doing to you?” Timmy asked loudly. Turning to Hall he shouted, “You leave him alone. You leave him alone!” Timmy charged forward, his hand raised in a fist.

David knew that Timmy had the mind of a child but the body of a grown man. In anger, Timmy could hit hard enough to injure. Out the corner of his eye he saw Hall tense and start for Timmy. David reacted.

“Timmy, no!” he shouted and stepped in front of the
young man, interposing his body between Timmy and Hall. “Everyone stop!” David commanded.

Timmy halted in his steps just inches away from David.

“Listen to me, Timmy,” David said firmly, fixing his eyes on Timmy’s. “Are you listening to me?” Timmy was staring at Hall. “Look at me, Timmy. Look at me now.”

Slowly Timmy diverted his angry gaze from Hall and stared at David. His eyes began to fill with tears. David felt tears flood his own eyes. Timmy was just trying to protect him, to come to his aid. Seeing David with his hands behind his back and two strangers standing menacingly nearby had frightened him.

“Timmy,” David said softly but firmly, “these are policemen, and they’re here doing their job.”

“Where are their uniforms and badges and—”

“One is a detective, and the other is with the FBI.”

“Like on television?” Timmy asked.

“Yes, like on television.”

“But what are they doing to you?” Timmy demanded. “Why are they here?”

For a moment David was tempted to make up a story, but chose the truth instead. “They think I’ve done something wrong.”

“That’s crazy,” Timmy shouted. “He didn’t do nothin’. He’s my friend. You leave him alone.”

“Timmy, that’s enough.” David’s voice was stern, like that of a father speaking to an errant son.

“But you ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” Timmy protested.

“I know, but I need to go with them so I can straighten all this out. OK?”

Timmy didn’t answer.

“I need you to be strong. You must settle down. OK?”

“OK,” Timmy conceded. “I guess.”

“Good,” David said, easing the edge in his voice. “Thank you. Now I want you to do something for me, OK?”

Timmy nodded.

“Go next door to Ava’s office and ask her to come in here. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” Timmy answered with a pout. “I guess.”

“OK. Go do that right now.”

Timmy looked at the two men once more, then quickly walked from the office. Seconds later he reappeared with David’s administrative assistant, Ava.

“What … What’s going on?” she stammered.

“I’m being arrested, Ava,” David said with an outward calmness that belied his inner turmoil. “I need you to do a couple of things. First, call Bob Connick and let him know what’s happening. See if he can get someone from legal to help me out. Also, let Kristen know what’s going on.” Kristen was not only David’s closest friend but also director of public relations. She might be required to answer questions of the media; he didn’t want her caught off guard.

“OK,” Ava said. “But I don’t understand. Arrested? For what?”

“That’s a good question,” David said turning to face Hall.

“Well, for starters, fraud,” Hall said.

“Fraud?”

“It will be explained to you during your interview at FBI headquarters. Now it’s time we left.”

“No!” Timmy shouted.

“Timmy,” David said firmly. “Go with Ava.”

“But—”

“Do as I say,” David demanded firmly.

Tears began to streak down Timmy’s cheek. He wiped at them with the back of his hand.

“It’s going to be all right, Timmy,” David consoled. “Trust me. I’m going to be fine. You’ll see.” David could see that Timmy didn’t believe him. “Trust me, Timmy. Please.”

Timmy lowered his head and walked from the office with Ava, who had gently taken his hand.

Agent Hall took David’s elbow and motioned toward the door. “It’s time to go, but before we do there’s one more small bit of business.” Hall pulled a small white card from his coat pocket and read from it. “You have the right to remain silent …”

After acknowledging his Miranda rights, David walked from his office, his hands cuffed behind his back.

They exited through the lobby. Agent Hall was on one side, his hand firmly holding David’s arm. As they approached the glass doors at the front entrance, David could see a throng of people, some with cameras. The press. David felt his heart sink. Two uniformed security guards who worked for Barringston Industries struggled to keep the reporters back.

“Could we go out another way?” David asked quickly. The last thing he needed was this to become a public event.

“No,” Hall answered succinctly. “Our car is at the curb.”

“Couldn’t the detective here drive it into our underground garage?”

“No,” Hall answered. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

The lobby doors opened into a rising swell of cameras, microphones, and people. The reporters jostled each other for position and shouted out questions: “Is it true, Dr. O’Neal?”
“Can we have a statement?” “What is your response to the allegations?”

David lowered his head, making no eye contact. He said nothing. He had seen news footage of people who had been arrested being led through crowds like this. The suspects would bow their heads, turn from the cameras, or even, when possible, cover their heads with coats or their shirts. David now understood why.

Hall and Wilson pushed through the crowd without comment until they reached the curb where a dark sedan was parked. Seconds later, David O’Neal, his hands still cuffed behind his back, was driven away. As the car left the curb, David turned to see the crowd and wondered how they had known he was being arrested.

Across the street from the Barringston Tower, a thick man with a military haircut watched with satisfaction as David was led through the crowd of reporters. As the dark sedan in which David was seated pulled from the curb, the man removed a small cell phone from his brown sports jacket and dialed a number. When the ring was replaced by a voice, he said, “It’s done.” He hung up.

“Can I help, Papa?” Angelina shouted against the wind. Powerful gusts of air pressed against her small body. Her hair flew about her face in tangled strands and whipped at her skin. The unrelenting wind stung her eyes. Rain swept across the yard and peppered the house like grains of sand.

“Get inside, Puppet,” her father ordered. “It’s not safe out here.”

“But what about you? It’s not safe for you either.”

“I’ll be there in a moment,” he shouted. “As soon as I’m done here.”

Angelina stared at the large flat plywood sheet her father struggled to hold against the window. Her uncle was hammering nails through the plywood and into the house.

“Get inside, Angelina! Now!”

Still dressed in her bathing suit, Angelina turned and trotted for the doorway. The drops of rain propelled by the wind stung her flesh like a thousand ant bites. There were new tears in her eyes now—tears of fear.

Inside the small house was the entire Marquez clan: five children huddled near their mother, Maria, Angelina’s aunt. The youngest ones were in tears; the older ones sat wide-eyed. Angelina stood in the middle of the living room, uncertain of what to do or say next.

“Are they finished?” Maria asked firmly. Angelina knew that she was trying to be brave for the children and for her, but her aunt’s fear was as real as the loud hammering from the nails being driven into the walls.

“Almost.” Each window in the house had been covered with a sheet of plywood, leaving the house dark and confining, lit only by a ceiling lamp. Silently Angelina turned and watched the front door, waiting as each eternally long second ticked by. A new fear welled up inside her, the kind of fear that only a child who has lost a parent can feel. What would she do if she lost her father too?
No!
Angelina told herself.
That would not happen. She would not let it happen.

Angelina began to pray again.

It had all happened so quickly. Two hours ago they were on the beach enjoying the sun and ocean. The children played under the watchful eye of Maria, and the men dozed.
Angelina had become bored with her little stroll along the shore and had returned to keep her father company. Sitting by his outstretched body, she had listened to him snore and had giggled. He sounded like an old car. A small portable radio was on the towel next to him. Angelina, wanting something more melodious than her father’s snorts and wheezes, turned it on. The sudden sound startled her father.

“What are you doing, Puppet?” he asked as he rubbed his eyes. “I was having a wonderful dream.”

“About a woman?” she teased.

“No, about food.”

Angelina grunted and reached for the dial on the radio. A man was speaking, and she wanted music. Just before her hand touched the radio her father grabbed her arm and held it.

“Papa! What are you doing?”

He shushed her. “Listen.” A moment later he was on his feet and gazing at the horizon. Angelina had joined him, squinting into the ever-increasing wind. She had heard the word that had frightened him:
hurricane.

The door opened with a resounding slam that reverberated throughout the room. The wind outside moaned and howled. Angelina watched as her father and uncle staggered into the room, drenched by the pounding rain. With quick motions, her father closed the door, using his weight to offset the invisible hand of wind that resisted him.