Tarnished Image (23 page)

He had to do something, say something.

They were still looking at him. Waiting. Watching. He wondered if the person responsible for the picture was seated among the reporters, watching and enjoying David twisting in the wind of fear, like a spider suspended from a lone strand of webbing.

Call off the news conference? Say nothing? Make no commitment one way or the other? Flee? Run from the
room? Confess to something he didn’t do? Take the burden upon himself? Pay the price of the guilty even though he was innocent?

The picture, the picture.

No. No. No.
David straightened his spine and raised his head. He would not be intimidated. It was a picture and nothing more, and it was a lie, and somehow he could prove it, and it was wrong to give up, and surrender wouldn’t guarantee the problem would go away, and there were thousands of people who would be affected, and … and … God would not abandon him. He knew that. He was doing everything right. He had help in the person of Archibald Barringston who believed in him, Kristen who loved him, Calvin Overstreet who guided him, and God who empowered him.

No
, David resolved.
It will take more than a set of lies to cower me, to pound me into submission. Not now. Not ever. I will stay with the plan.

“I wish to make a brief statement,” he said with a calm that concealed the turmoil he felt. “Two days ago I was arrested on several felony charges. I have been released on bail and so am able to stand before you now. It is my understanding that your organizations received a videotape incriminating me for the crimes of which I am accused. In light of such a video, you must be wondering what I can possibly say to you short of a confession. Well, I shall speak the truth. I am innocent of all charges leveled against me. I cannot explain the video to you other than to say that the person who appears in it is not me.”

The photo was a lie. It wasn’t true. It could never be true.

“I wish I had more answers for you than I do. I can tell you that I was not then, nor have I ever been, in league with
those who smuggle and abuse illegal aliens. Barringston Relief exists for the purpose of alleviating suffering, not adding to it. My life is wrapped up in that goal. I have not and will not do anything that would damage the goals of Barringston Relief or its employees.

“As we stand here,” David continued, “several hundred dedicated Barringston workers labor in the worst possible situations. Some have suffered illness, physical attack, and terrorism. Some have died on the field of service only to be replaced by other noble souls. I would never do anything that would sully their reputation or the dignity of their work. I would certainly not do so for material gain.”

Push the image out of your mind. Push it back. Give it no room.

“Where does that leave us?” David asked. “With a great many questions. I can tell you that the matter is being looked into as we speak. It is my hope that the truth will be known shortly so that I and many others can get back to work.

“Before I take questions, I must ask your patience. As professionals who have covered many matters that deal with the courts, you know that there are some things I will not be able to comment on. Now, are there any questions?”

The picture, the picture.

David felt weak, sick. He wondered if he hadn’t just triggered an avalanche that would not only bury him but crush the lives of those whom he loved.

“Who is your attorney?” a reporter on the first row asked.

“Calvin Overstreet,” David answered.

“How much was the bail?” another reporter asked.

“Substantial,” David replied. “And I must add that the bail money did not come from Barringston Relief.” David
looked down at the brown envelope. He could see the picture in his mind as if he had been endowed with x-ray vision. Pangs of anxiety pierced him.

“Are you saying that someone is trying to frame you?” asked a woman whom David had seen on television.

“Yes.”

“Why would someone do that?” the woman reporter asked. “What do they stand to gain?”

“We don’t know yet. Extortion, perhaps.”

The questions came slowly at first, then more rapidly. David answered or refused to answer each question posed. Calvin had spent two hours briefing him on what he could and could not address. The time with Calvin had been more intense than what he was experiencing at the news conference. Thirty minutes later, David stepped from the lectern exhausted in mind and body. A run up the stairway from the lobby to the fifty-third floor would not have tired him as much. Kristen came to his side. They started toward the elevator.

“You did very well,” she said kindly.

“Thanks, but I don’t think they believe me.”

“They will before it’s all over. I didn’t believe you at first either. When the facts are out, the world will know.”

David replied with a weary nod.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Kristen asked. “That boy gave you an envelope. When you opened it, you looked like someone had just slugged you in the belly.”

Again David nodded. “Not here. I need to call Calvin and have him come over—”

“Dr. O’Neal?” The male voice came from behind him. David lowered his head. He did not want to give a one-on-one interview.

“I’m sorry,” David began as he turned. “I can’t grant any personal interviews.” When David turned he saw not a reporter but a teenager. He was tall and thin, and his dark hair was shaved close to the scalp on the sides but long on top. He had an aquiline nose that seemed too large for his acne-laced face. “I’m sorry, I thought you were a reporter.”

“I may be able to help you,” the young man said.

“Oh?” David responded suspiciously. Was this another game perpetrated by his tormentors? He glanced at Kristen, who looked as leery as he felt. “How so?”

“It’s about the video they showed on television the other night.” His voice was deep and slightly raspy, typical of late developing teens. “There’s something wrong with it.”

“Wrong?” David raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” the boy looked nervous. “My name is Greg Cheney, and I’m a sophomore at San Diego State University. I’m majoring in television production, so I spend a lot of time looking at video. Actually I want to work in Hollywood someday doing computer animation, but that may take awhile. I have to finish my degree and then—”

“Greg,” David interrupted. “You were saying something about the video being wrong.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’m a little nervous. I think it’s fake.”

David smiled. “I know it’s fake. I just don’t know how to prove it.”

“I do,” Greg said. “At least I think I do. But I can’t tell you. I have to show you. Do you have a VCR?”

“Yes.” David was becoming suspicious again. He had been warned by Calvin to be careful about strangers, yet this boy seemed genuinely nervous. Nothing in his body language showed deceit.

“OK,” David said. “Let’s take a look at what you’ve discovered.”

Greg smiled broadly. “I didn’t think you’d listen to me. I mean, I want to help.”

“Greg, I can use all the help I can get.”

“H
E GOT THE PACKAGE
?” A
BERDENE ASKED
. S
HE WAS SEATED
behind her desk. In her hands was a two-foot-long, six-inch-diameter, clear plastic tube. Inside the tube a hundred mosquitoes clung to its smooth surface.

“Absolutely,” Jack said confidently, his eyes nervously fixed on the container. He and Archer were seated on a leather couch opposite the desk. “He got it all right. I thought he was going to lose his lunch when he opened it.”

“You saw him open it, Jack?” Aberdene pressed.

“I wasn’t actually there,” Jack admitted, but I saw the video Aldo shot.

“He was there? How wise is that?”

“He was lost in the crowd of reporters,” Jack explained. “Since no one can identify him, he can disappear in a crowd quite easily.”

“But O’Neal continued with the news conference anyway, and instead of confessing he maintained his innocence. The picture failed to elicit the proper response. Why is that, Jack?”

Jack turned to face Archer, who returned the glance with a broad grin. He was having fun watching Jack squirm.

“He was in a tough spot, Dr. Aberdene,” Jack rebutted. “The media were already there, and he had already been introduced.”

“He could have confessed,” Aberdene countered.

“I thought he would. You thought he would. Who would have guessed that he would stay the course?”

“I would have,” Archer interjected. “Study the man. You’ve got every fact there is about him except how many freckles he has on his back. He’s a religious man. Personally, I think he’s too smart for all that superstitious stuff; nonetheless, his religion plays a powerful role in his life.”

“So?” Jack said roughly. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Don’t be dense, Jack,” Archer snapped. “It has everything to do with it. He knows he’s innocent and to say he is not would be a breach of his beliefs. Besides, he has friends and some resources. He’s not going to crumble easily.”

“What do you know about faith?” Jack asked harshly.

“Not much, except those that have it aren’t quick to give up when the going gets tough.”

“Ridiculous,” Jack blurted out.

“You’re missing the point,” Archer said. “It doesn’t matter if you believe in God; it only matters that David O’Neal does. Send him all the pictures you want, and all you’ll be doing is providing more information for him to work with.”

“What do you suggest?” Aberdene asked.

“Stop. You’ve got the ball rolling. The evidence has been planted. The more he states his innocence, the more guilty he will appear. Soon he’ll be tied up in court, Barringston Relief will go broke from the asset freeze, contributions will dry up, and your problem will be solved.”

Aberdene raised the clear cylinder to her eyes and studied its winged inhabitants. She spoke softly. “Did you know that the mosquito lives only sixty-five days? In that time it
matures, feeds, and reproduces. Then it is gone. Not very long, is it? Just sixty-five days. Yet, there are two thousand species living from the equator to the Arctic Circle, from lowlands to mountaintops. They’re everywhere. All they need is water to lay their eggs, and, for the female, warm-blooded animals on which to feed.”

“Don’t the males suck blood?” Archer asked.

Aberdene shook her head. “No. They’re content with nectar and water. The females need blood.”

“Typical,” Archer quipped.

“My point is that they achieve what they’re designed to do in a short time. I want the same thing. I want Dr. O’Neal to go away for good. I don’t care how religious or moral or saintly O’Neal is. He must be dealt with. We’ll stick to the plan. Understood?”

Both men nodded.

“We’re right on track,” Jack added quickly. “Everyone and everything is in place.”

“Good,” Aberdene said as she set the plastic tube on its end in front of her. The top of the cylinder had a friction-held cap. “What’s the most deadly disease in the world?” she asked.

The two men looked at each other, puzzled at the abrupt change of subjects.

“What, no ideas from you, Archer?” Aberdene asked. “I would have thought you had an opinion.”

Archer clenched his teeth. She was playing with him. Baiting him.

“AIDS, I suppose,” he answered bitterly.

Aberdene shook her head. “No, my dear Archer. Your disease is not the worst. I suppose you can feel grateful for that. And for the medicine I provide you to keep the virus in
check. Expensive meds—twenty-five thousand dollars per year. Way out of reach for someone without the right insurance. But don’t get me wrong. You’ve done a fine job, and I’m happy to give you what you need.”

Archer said nothing. Just saying the acronym
AIDS
was painful. Being reminded of his dependence on the self-centered woman across from him only added to the pain.

“What about you, Jack?” Aberdene pressed. “Any ideas about the most deadly disease?”

Jack shrugged. “Cancer?”

“Malaria,” Aberdene said, sounding like a teacher correcting a student. “Every fifteen seconds someone dies of malaria. Four a minute, 240 every hour. And how does one contract malaria? From mosquitoes similar to these.” Without hesitancy, she pulled the top of the cylinder.

The two men stiffened as they watched several of the insects climb to the edge of the opening.

“
Anopheles
carry malaria,” Aberdene said, her eyes fixed on the mosquitoes. “
Aedes albopictus
is also known as the Asian Tiger mosquito. It’s a hardy little thing. Very resistant to insecticide. They came over from Asia on ships carrying used tire casings.
Aedes aegypti
mosquitoes, my personal favorite, are responsible for dengue fever, sometimes known as
breakbone fever
because of the pain it causes. Of course we can’t forget those little guys who stowed away in water barrels on slave ships in the nineteenth century and brought yellow fever with them. Then there’s the ever popular
Culex pipiens
, the common household mosquito. It carries the virus for encephalitis. That disease makes your brain swell. Quite a picture isn’t it? A swelling brain in a rigid skull. Not a pleasant thing to witness, even worse to endure.”

One of the mosquitoes took to the air and began to buzz around the room. Archer couldn’t take his eyes off it. He began to perspire.

“Another fascinating thing about mosquitoes is their adaptability. Usually a little pesticide will do them in, but like all living creatures, they change.”

Another mosquito took to the air.

“More and more species seem to tolerate the occasional spray of insecticide. Ironically, the viruses they carry tend to become more resistant to antivirals and other medications. Think of it: mosquitoes immune to insecticide and viruses untouched by current drugs. One could make quite the effective little weapon from these guys. Don’t you think?”

Neither man responded.

“Now think of the flip side,” Aberdene went on. “What if we could design mosquitoes to carry a weakened virus of some disease. It could bite someone and transmit the weakened virus, which in turn would inoculate the new host. That would make the lowly mosquito a harbinger of good—a living syringe. Boggles the mind, doesn’t it?”