Terminal Justice (2 page)

DAVID O’NEAL BOUNCED ON THE BALLS OF HIS FEET, absentmindedly ran a hand through his brown hair, and waited for the elevator doors to open. It had been a long time since he had had to look for work, and now at the age of forty he faced his first interview in years with anxiety. A normally confident and decisive man, he felt overwhelmed, intimidated—overwhelmed by the events of the last months that had strained his inner strength to the breaking point, intimidated by the executive job for which he was being considered. “Easy, man,” he said to himself. “This is just a job interview, not brain surgery.”

The doors opened and a dapper man in an expensive, dark gray, double-breasted suit immediately greeted David. David thought of his own suit, which was at least six years old and well out of style.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. O’Neal,” the man said, extending his hand. “My name is Peter Powell, and I’m the head of personnel. You may remember that we spoke on the phone. I’ve been asked to escort you to A.J.’s office.”

David stepped from the elevator and shook Powell’s hand. “Yes, I remember. It’s good to meet you face to face, Mr. Powell.”

“Please call me Peter.”

Peter was a lean African-American man of average height with salt-and-pepper hair. He had an air of confidence and wealth about him. He certainly didn’t seem like a midrange executive. When he spoke he maintained direct eye contact.

The two men studied each other for a moment, then Peter laughed a deep and genuine laugh. “Well, now that we’ve sized each other up, allow me to show you to A.J.’s office.”

They started down the corridor to David’s left. The floor was filled with plants and brightly lit. The corridor led to a large pair of oak doors. Engraved on the doors was an embossment of a thinking man holding a globe in the palm of his hand. David had seen a marble statue like it in the lobby; he assumed that it was the logo of Barringston Relief. They stood motionless at the doors for a moment before Peter knocked firmly.

“Come in,” a voice said from a speaker in the ceiling.

“Shall we?” Peter said opening the door.

David nodded and stepped across the threshold. He was stunned by what he saw. The office was cavernous. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides afforded a magnificent view of the San Diego skyline and bay. The carpet was a rich cobalt blue and had a pale yellow pattern of squares with the Barringston symbol stitched in the middle of each.

In one corner was a sitting area bordered on three sides by leather couches. A large glass table dominated the center. In the adjoining wall was a large fireplace with a hearth made of black marble.

Opposite the sitting area was a matching glass conference table. The table was the largest David had ever seen. A laptop computer was situated at one end of the table.

In the center of the office was a desk. It, like the coffee table and conference table, had a glass top, which rested on two marble columns. A smaller table to the left of the desk supported a computer monitor and keyboard.

A.J. Barringston rose from his place behind the desk and smiled. David was immediately struck with the height of the man, judging that he stood at least six foot six. He was trim but by no means thin. Unlike Peter, Barringston did not wear a suit. Rather, he wore a pair of pleated beige pants and a powder-blue polo shirt.
His hair was black and pulled back into a ponytail. He was not at all what David had expected.

“A.J., I would like to introduce Dr. David O’Neal,” Peter said formally.

“Come in, come in,” Barringston said as he stepped from behind the desk and moved lithely to David, stretching out his hand. “I’ve looked forward to this. I can’t tell you how excited I am to meet you.”

David was taken aback by Barringston’s effervescence and gregariousness. Taking Barringston’s hand David said, “Thank you, Mr. Barringston.”

“A.J. please. Call me A.J.,” he interrupted. “Everyone calls me A.J. We are a big family, and we don’t hang on formality.”

“Uh, thank you, uh, A.J.” David felt off balance. “Please call me David.”

“I shall,” he said with a laugh. “Let’s sit down.” Barringston moved toward the couches.

“If you’ll excuse me, A.J.,” Peter said, “I have a few things to attend to.”

“Certainly, Peter,” he replied. “And thanks for your help.”

Peter turned and left, shutting the doors behind him.

“Isn’t he staying for our meeting?” David asked, surprised at Peter’s sudden departure.

“Oh, no,” Barringston said with a lopsided grin. “If he didn’t approve of you, then you wouldn’t be here now.”

“I see.”

The door to the office opened slowly. A woman carrying a tray of cups entered the room.

“Come in, Sheila,” Barringston said, bounding toward the door.

Sheila Womack was every bit as stunning as Barringston himself. She was easily six feet tall and her blond hair was boyishly short. She wore a pair of black straight-legged pants that accentuated her height. Her eyes were a rich azure blue. She carried a tray with a carafe and two coffee cups.

“I thought you might like some coffee,” she said in a throaty tone.

David thought she had an odd air about her. She seemed reserved but not introverted or self-conscious. She projected poise and control but seemed, at least at first glance, to be tense, as if on guard against unseen dangers.

“Oh, Sheila,” A.J. said with a sweeping arm motion. “Come and meet Dr. David O’Neal.”

David stood and approached her. After setting the coffee on the table, Sheila offered her hand. It was large and strong and lacked the delicacy David normally associated with women.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. O’Neal,” she said straight-faced.

“It’s good to meet you. And please call me David.”

Sheila nodded slightly.

“Sheila is my personal aide,” A.J. said. “Without her I wouldn’t get anything done.”

“Please let me know if there’s anything else you need,” she said.

“Thank you,” Barringston said. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked David.

“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?”