Tarnished Image (17 page)

Rajiv was little more than a zombie, a mindless, soulless being wandering among the broken vessels of humanity. Where once had been a thriving town, there remained nothing more than flotsam, splinters of existence scattered consistently and completely. No buildings stood; only the
occasional block wall remained intact. The market area was gone, the houses were gone, and his home was gone. Automobiles were sprinkled everywhere like toy cars in a child’s cluttered bedroom.

Standing amidst the rubble, Rajiv took in the surroundings around him and attempted to fix his bearing by some landmark. There was none. The best he could tell, he was standing where his kitchen used to be. Kicking aside boards swollen with water, he found the concrete foundation that had faithfully supported his home. It was all that remained. Even the debris that so thickly covered his property belonged to others, washed to their resting place by the powerful reverse surge of the retreating wave.

What had it been like?
Rajiv wondered.
Did they know it was coming? Could they hear it?
In his imagination made vivid by sorrow, he could see the family already gathered for the birthday party. Each would be dressed nicely, each with a gift. They would have been waiting on him. Perhaps they felt something, perhaps his sweet Jaya had skipped to the window just in time to see the towering …

No!
Rajiv commanded himself.
I will not think this. I will not see this.
But he did. The vision came to his mind uninvited and would not leave. It played brightly and loudly. It would not be ignored. It refused to be evicted. Quickly and as powerfully as the monster wave had crushed his town, the vision of his family’s destruction pressed irresistible, pervasive tentacles into his thoughts—impossible to kill, impossible to sever.

Rajiv clenched his fists and beat them against his forehead to drive the image from his mind. He felt no pain in his hands as he clenched them so tightly that his fingernails scored his palms. He did not feel his hands pounding his
head. Only the pain in his heart was noticeable, and that raged like a fire. And still the image of the devil-wave crashing down on his family with immeasurable force played in his thoughts. He was spared no detail.

Down the road, or at least where the road had been, Rajiv staggered and stumbled. He fell time and time again as he tripped over the wreckage—shattered boards, bits of home, and bodies. He looked, he studied, he examined everything for a sign of his family, simultaneously filled with hope and fear of success.

Around him others, neighbors who had been away at the moment the ocean turned evil, also wandered, also looked, also hoped. Aide workers scampered among the rubble, wanting desperately to help and finding the task beyond their worst nightmares.

Walking. Looking. Walking. Looking. Then …

On the ground, near an overturned car, Rajiv saw something that jarred him from his stupor—a flash of sun off a bit of glass. A picture frame, familiar in size and design. Bending down, Rajiv picked up the photo and saw his family. They were all smiles. They were happy. Now they were gone.

Rajiv could stand it no longer. His legs folded beneath him, and he crumpled to the ground. Tears fell from his eyes, his breathing came in ragged, raspy breaths. Bands of emotional steel tightened around his chest, and his stomach became a pot of churning, burning fire.

He howled in agony, not caring who heard or saw. He wept loudly and fell to his side on the sharp debris. Rolling on his back he turned wet eyes to the cobalt-blue sky above him and cursed whatever gods there were, hoping, pleading, that they would end his life too.

“Two million dollars!” David exclaimed as he walked down the wide, pea-soup-green corridor of the downtown San Diego County courthouse. “That’s steep.”

Calvin shook his head. “Not really. Even though you don’t possess much personal wealth, you have had access to a large amount of capital. One of the charges against you deals with the illegal transfer of funds. There’s the possibility—in the court’s mind—that some of the money may be available to you and that you might skip the country. You have traveled worldwide, after all.”

“I assume that’s why they insisted on taking my passport?”

“You would do the same thing in their shoes. Actually, they could have withheld bail. I think we should count ourselves lucky. Especially since Mr. Barringston put up the money.”

“How do you thank someone like that?” David wondered out loud.

“You don’t. He’s a good man to have as a friend.”

“What now?” David asked.

“We get out of here. I’ve arranged for a car and driver to meet us outside the main entrance. The media are there, and they want to ask you a lot of questions. Don’t say anything to them. Is that clear? Say nothing.”

“Won’t that make it seem as if I’m hiding something?”

“That’s why we’re going out the front door. I don’t want it to look like we’re avoiding them. When we get there, let me do all the talking. I’ll handle everything. You just look confident.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You’ll do great. Just keep quiet. Let’s go.”

Calvin led David down the hall and through two large glass doors. A mass of reporters and photographers greeted them. Questions were fired in machine-gun fashion. Cameras snapped photos. Film crews aimed expensive video cameras at David.

Stopping at the top of the wide concrete stairs that defined the entrance, Calvin held up his hands and signaled for the crowd to be quiet. The roar turned to murmuring, the murmuring to silence.

Flashing a large smile, Calvin spoke. “I know you are eager to question my client, but I also know that you are professional enough to know that he will not—and this is at my insistence—answer any questions. I can tell you that my client is innocent of every charge brought against him and that I will conclusively prove that in court.”

“What about the tape?” someone called out.

“I am not free to discuss any evidence that might be used in this case, but I can promise you that my client is innocent.”

“How much was the bail?”

“Two million dollars,” Calvin answered without flinching.

“What will happen to Barringston Relief?” a reporter asked.

“It will continue to save lives,” Calvin snapped back. “That is its mission, and that mission has not changed.”

“Is it true that Barringston Relief funds have been frozen by the Justice Department?” a reporter with a microphone inquired.

“I have been told that is the case, but as soon as the Justice Department realizes that such an action will result in the deaths of hundreds of humans across the globe, then I believe they will release the funds.”

“Dr. O’Neal,” a male reporter in an expensive suit called out. “Why did you steal the money? And how much were you paid for smuggling illegal immigrants into this country?”

Calvin snapped his head around and glared at the reporter. He pointed a finger at the man. “Sir, I have told you that my client is forbidden to answer questions. Clearly that comment was too complex for you. I was willing to stand here and answer any questions you fine people had, but I see that a commitment to a professional approach is absent. I will answer no more questions.”

The crowd groaned, and a few turned toward the offending reporter with murder in their eyes.

“One more question—”

“No,” Calvin said loudly, grabbing David by the arm and pulling him through the crowd. “I thought I was dealing with professionals. It appears I was wrong.”

“But—”

“There will be no more questions and certainly no more answers,” Calvin snapped. Forcing his way through the crowd, he led David to a large, dark Lincoln Continental. As they approached the vehicle, a heavily built, ominous-looking chauffeur opened the door to the backseat. Both men entered.

“I can’t believe this is such a media event,” David complained sourly.

“Big-dollar corruption and the scandal of a beneficent organization and its leader breaking the law is an irresistible story.”

“But none of it is true.”

“When have you known that to make a difference?” Calvin said flatly. “Besides, you were arrested, and that in itself is news.”

“That one reporter seemed convinced of my guilt,” David said, peering out the darkly tinted window at the crowd.

“The one I accused of being unprofessional?”

“Yes, the guy in the expensive suit.”

“He’s not a reporter, he’s an actor,” Calvin explained casually. “I hired him to ask that question.”

David stared at his attorney dumbfounded. “What?”

“Look, David. It’s my job to protect you and to get the very best trial—the fairest trial possible. Assuming this goes to trial. I didn’t want us standing out there saying no comment to every question that was asked of you. That would make you look guilty. I wanted just enough time to assert your innocence and then get out. If the news media are going to be angry over the skimpy information available to them, I want them angry with me, not you. I want you to look as harmless and innocent as the day is long. So I set up the situation. It worked rather well.”

“But isn’t that rather dishonest?”

“David, you’re in a lot of trouble. This is no time to be naive. The media can be careless and dishonest. If I don’t do everything in my power to control them and this situation, I’m going to have a difficult time finding jury members who haven’t already formed an opinion.

“Modern legal logistics in high-profile cases have demonstrated that much of a case is tried in the media. If that happens with you, then I plan to win in the media.”

David sat in silence as he took in all that he was hearing. He had no taste for and very little understanding of legal matters. Those were always things for someone else to handle. Now he had been dropped in a caldron of boiling legalities that he could not fathom.

“Let’s go, driver,” Calvin said. Then to David, “Trust me. You must put your full and unbridled trust in me.”

David nodded. There was little else he could do.

In the dispersing crowd of media, one man watched intently as the dark sedan carrying David O’Neal pulled away. Purposely, he lowered the small Super 8 camera he had been holding and scratched his temple. The wig of short brown hair he wore was making him perspire, and his scalp itched.

Aldo Goldoni had continued to tape as the car pulled away, being sure to zoom in on the license plate. Most people lived their lives without a thought regarding privacy. Aldo knew that gathering information on anyone was easy. All it took was a little knowledge, desire, and some experience. By just blending with the crowd, he had not only learned who David’s attorney was—information he could have gleaned from a newspaper report—but also the measure of the man, the way he handled himself. He had also been able to observe David O’Neal’s condition. O’Neal looked resolute and unflappable, but his eyes and slightly hunched stature betrayed a weariness and confusion. He had not enjoyed his night in jail. For Aldo, that was a good sign.

Nothing got by him. He had trained himself to be observant and skeptical of all that he saw. In his line of work it could spell the difference between success and failure, life and death. That’s why he had picked up on the plant in the crowd. Overstreet must have hired someone to portray an unethical reporter so that he would have an excuse to leave. Aldo admired that and made a mental note to learn more about Calvin Overstreet, Esq. He was not a man to underestimate, but then neither was Aldo Goldoni.