Terminal Justice (4 page)

The communications room was nothing less than amazing. Here David learned that every field-operation team was equipped with state-of-the-art satellite communications technology. Kristen had said that it was the world’s largest and most sophisticated, privately owned communications system.

“Communications was the first to realize that something was wrong in Somalia,” Kristen had said. “When Dr. Rhodes missed her scheduled check-in, they sent an investigative team from another camp. That’s when they found her body.”

“I’d never thought of relief work as being dangerous,” David said softly.

“It’s some of the most dangerous work in the world,” Kristen replied. “You would think that people and governments would be glad for whatever help they could get, but that’s not the case. It’s true that the truly hungry appreciate what we do, but some of their countrymen resent our presence.”

“And that resentment can result in violence?” David asked.

“Definitely.” Kristen was becoming animated.

David thought a moment then asked, “Has Barringston Relief lost other workers?”

Kristen nodded. “Yes. To date, three other members of our team have been killed. Two died in Bosnia, and one was captured and killed in Somalia in late 1993. We also had six members kidnapped in Beirut, but they were later rescued.”

The tour had lasted only an hour, but David’s head was spinning. The more he saw of Barringston Relief, the more impressed he became. “Executive offices are located on this and the fifty-third floor. Your office is just down the hall here.”

A few steps later they stood before an oak door with a nameplate that read:
DAVID
O
’
NEAL, PH.D
. Kristen opened the door and let David enter first. The corner room was about half the size of A.J.’s office, which meant it was twice the size that David expected. Two of the walls were floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the bay and provided a spectacular view. An oak desk was centered in the room. The carpet was the same deep blue that he had seen in A.J.’s office, but without the embroidered Barringston logo.

“Will this work for you?” Kristen asked.

“This is more than I could have ever imagined,” David replied in amazement. “This is gorgeous.”

“You can arrange the office any way you want. Supplies are plentiful, including furniture, computers, and even art. Ava will help you get whatever you need.”

“Ava?”

“Ava is your assistant. She can help you find what you need. She’s also great at research, so make good use of her.”

“Where is she?”

“In the office next door. All you have to do is punch the intercom button on your phone and say ‘Ava.’ She’ll be paged in her office.”

“A voice recognition phone?”

“Yes, and it works great. I, however, still dial my own numbers. I guess I’m just an old-fashioned girl.”

“This is going to take some getting used to,” David said numbly.

“Shall I get Ava for you?”

David shook his head. “No, I think I’ll take a moment to look around.”

“After you settle in, give me a call. We’ll have lunch in the cafeteria.”

David smiled. “I’ll do that.”

A sensation welled up in David, a long absent feeling—a hint of happiness.

Light from the near midnight moon struggled to pierce the tinted windows of the office, adding its muted radiance to the soft glow emanating from the two computer monitors. The subdued luminescence from the computer screens provided the room’s only light. A lit cigarette dangled from the mouth of the operator, its end glowing red and trailing thin, gossamer smoke that rose leisurely into the air in a diaphanous dance about the head of the room’s lone occupant.

The office was as silent as it was dark, disturbed only by the clicking and tapping of rapidly moving fingers on the well-used
keyboard. Occasionally a vocalized “hmm” or “ah” joined the slight sounds. The typing stopped occasionally to allow the figure to tap the ash from the cigarette into a nearly overflowing ashtray to the right of the computer. The gray-black ash fell, missing the ashtray and joining the other bits of burned residue on the desktop.

“I know you’re there,” the voice said softly.
Clack, click, click, tap, clack
. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Clack, click, click, tap, clack
. “Just a little hole will do.” Five minutes passed, then, “Gotcha!” The operator hit the return key, and a shrill warbling emanated from the modem. A moment later a computer billboard appeared on the screen:
WELCOME TO AMERICAS BANK
,
GRAND CAYMAN
.
PLEASE ENTER YOUR ACCESS CODE
.
Clack, click, click, tap, clack
.
ONE MOMENT
,
PLEASE
. True to its statement, a new billboard appeared a moment later.
PLEASE CHOOSE YOUR TRANSACTION
. Fingers flew across the keyboard with the right hand moving from keyboard to mouse to keyboard until three minutes later the operator turned the computer off, leaned back in a chair that squeaked in protest, inhaled deeply on the cigarette, and then blew a steady stream of smoke at the moon outside the window.

“With $300 billion transferred daily around the world, who’s gonna miss a measly $200 million?” the operator asked the empty room.

ABSORPTION.

David had always considered his ability to get lost in his work a beneficial trait. It served him well in college, in graduate school, and at church. Many times he found himself so caught up in his work that hours passed without his noticing. Now he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his weary eyes. He had been on the job two days, yet it seemed no more than two hours. If it hadn’t been for the occasional blurring of his eyes, he would have had almost no sense of time passing.

He sighed heavily. There was so much to learn, so much to ingest. David had set three goals for his first week of work: learn the computer system, review tapes of A.J.’s speeches, and watch the Barringston briefing tapes provided by Peter Powell. Now halfway through his third day, he had accomplished all those goals. He felt good about his new job and the nobility of the work, but he was also emotionally exhausted. The tapes of the relief work were graphic and untempered. They were nothing like the sanitized versions broadcast on television by other charitable groups. These tapes showed the ugly face of starvation in garish and undiluted detail. Through the tapes, David traveled to the Sudan, Yemen, the Philippines, Bangladesh, Mexico, and even the Appalachian Mountains. Through the lens of the camera he saw children dead of dehydration caused by diarrhea, mothers carrying long-dead infants, mass graves, and the barely mobile skeletons of once-robust men.

Over the last two days, David had reviewed all eight hours of
tape twice, taking them home to study. The first time he watched them out of duty, the second time out of discipline. What impressed him most was the sacrificial work of the Barringston teams. Doctors, nurses, agricultural specialists, and more, walking through the morass of death and decay. Each day they faced the hideous image of despair, and each day they gave their all to beat back death. Their pictures never appeared in newspapers or on televisions. They received no glory or honor. They all struggled stoically against a seemingly impossible enemy.

Over the years David had met many missionaries who had left home and friends for distant lands to spread the gospel of Christ. He had always admired their dedication and willingness to forsake a more comfortable lifestyle at home. But until now he had never realized what one person would endure to help a nation of strangers. Yet here they were, living in tents, mending broken bodies, burying the dead, and standing toe-to-toe with death. Simultaneously, David felt a sense of pride at being associated with such benevolent souls and a sense of profound shame at not being one of the ones on the front lines.

While not attempting to sway the viewer with overt emotionalism, the video pulled no punches. One could not watch such poignant footage without being wounded in soul. One picture touched David deeply. It was of an emaciated child no more than six years old sitting on a woven mat with his knees drawn to his chest. He wore only a red-and-blue striped T-shirt. Lying on the mat next to him was his mother, who was clearly dead. Two Barringston workers came, rolled the deceased woman onto a pallet and took her away, presumably to a mass grave. The boy did nothing, said nothing. He didn’t even look at the men who took his mother’s corpse. Instead he stared ahead and slowly rocked from side to side. Death was no longer a stranger to this boy; death was what happened every day, and no energy could be expended grieving.

David struggled to push those thoughts aside; he had other
things to consider. At hand was his review of A.J.’s speeches. Several manuscripts were scattered across David’s desk, surrounding the yellow legal pad on which he had been scribbling notes. On the other side of the office was a television, and on the screen was the frozen image of A.J. behind a podium. David sighed and stretched.

It took a moment before he realized he was being watched. In the doorway to his office was the head of a young man. At first it looked to David as if the head had miraculously grown out of the door jamb. His heart skipped a beat as his mind attempted to make sense of the apparition.

“Uh, hi,” the head said.

“Hi,” David replied with a chuckle. “You startled me.” The head and the body it had been hiding behind the wall moved into the office.

“I-I’m sorry,” the young man said with a timid stammer.

There was something different about this individual. It wasn’t his appearance. He was nicely dressed in a pair of tan slacks and white polo shirt. He was taller than David, maybe six foot one, lanky, and about twenty-two years old.

“Are you all right, mister?” the young man asked with genuine concern. “You looked like your head hurt.”

“I’m fine, thank you. My eyes are just tired from watching videos and taking notes.”

“Oh, good,” the boy said nodding his head.

David noticed that the boy made very little eye contact and stood with his head down. He also rubbed the thumb of his left hand with the thumb of his right.

“Is there something I can help you with?” David asked.

“No, I can do it myself.”

The two stared at each other in uncomfortable silence. The young man’s nervousness puzzled David. What was there to be nervous about?

“You can do what by yourself?” David asked patiently.

“Trash.”

“Trash?”

“I’m here for the trash.” The boy pointed at the wastebasket next to David’s desk.

“Oh,” David said with a laugh, “you must work with maintenance.”

“I get the trash and put it in the big blue Dumpster downstairs.” The boy was rubbing his thumb faster now.

It was all beginning to make sense to David. The young man was more than shy; he was mildly retarded.

“What’s your name?” David asked, smiling broadly.

“Timmy. Timmy Simmons.”

“Timmy, I’m David O’Neal, and I’m new here. I am certainly glad to meet you.”

Reluctantly, Timmy stopped rubbing his thumb, brought his hand up to shoulder height and waved, “Hi, Da-Da-David …”

“David will be fine.” He extended his hand. “Well, Timmy, shake my hand and act like you like me.”

Timmy giggled and then quickly stepped forward and shook David’s hand hard several times. For a moment, David feared that Timmy would pump his arm hard enough to dislocate his shoulder. “Hi, David,” he said beaming. “I like you, David.”

“And I like you,” David said, rescuing his hand from Timmy’s grip and stretching his fingers.

“Cool!” Timmy said. “Well, I gotta go now.” He turned toward the door.

“Uh, Timmy?”

Timmy turned still smiling, “Yeah?”

“The trash,” David said quietly, never letting his grin diminish. “You came here to take out the trash.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” Timmy quickly made his way to the receptacle, pulled out the plastic liner, tied a knot in the top, and then left the room only to return a moment later with a fresh liner for the bin.

“Thanks, Timmy.”

“You’re welcome, David.”

“Come see me again, okay?” David said.

“I will. I will.”

“I see you’ve met one of my favorite people, David.” The voice startled both David and Timmy. Standing in the doorway was A.J. He was smiling expansively.

“A.J.!” Timmy shouted as he embraced the man, nearly knocking him over. “Look David, it’s A.J.”

“So I see, Timmy.”

“Easy, boy,” A.J. chuckled. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to break my ribs.”

Timmy let go but bounced on the balls of his feet to release his pent-up excitement.

“Looks like you’ve got quite a friend there,” David said.

“Timmy’s more than my friend, he’s family,” A.J. said, putting his arm around the young man. “I found Timmy living on the streets about two, no, three years ago. He was nineteen, homeless, and hungry, and two men were beating him for the sport of it. I rescued him and brought him here. He lives in one of our apartments and helps the janitorial staff.”