Tarnished Image (28 page)

“You’re overreacting,” Calvin said.

“Am I? Calvin, upward of thirty-five thousand people die each day of malnutrition, add to that those who are killed by controllable, treatable diseases, and the number skyrockets. Right now, as we sit in this car, the east coast of India is digging out from a tsunami. Worst hit was Bangladesh. Cuba has been devastated by a category-five hurricane. Havana has, by all early reports, been shredded. Who is going to their aid? Cuba, aside from a few alliances with Central American
countries, stands alone in this. U.S. citizens are prohibited from conducting trade with Cuba. That includes medicines. As it is, we will have to send all our supplies through Mexico.”

“I understand your feelings,” Calvin said forcefully, “but as your attorney I must advise against this course of action. You can only hurt your case.”

“Not if we can flush out my tormentors,” David countered. “That video is too convincing. It’s going to be introduced as undeniable evidence. Even I know that. What are we going to do? Plead no contest? Entrapment? If we don’t prove—categorically prove—my innocence, Barringston Relief will cease to exist.”

“I just want to keep you out of jail.”

“Don’t you see, Calvin? That is not enough. This isn’t about me. It is about saving Barringston Relief and the people who depend on it for survival. Barringston Relief saves lives by being proactive, not merely reactive. It’s time to take charge.”

“I don’t see this working, David. We don’t know
who
is doing this. We don’t
why
they’re doing this. All we know is that they are resourceful and powerful. They’ve covered their tracks too well.”

“What about the pictures?”

“That’s another thing, Dr. O’Neal,” Calvin said angrily. “You should have shown me that picture the moment you received it. Not the next day.”

“OK, I agree that I shouldn’t have kept that from you, but the whole thing caught me off guard—the boy, the picture, the news conference. I know now it was designed to shake me up, which it did.” David paused to let the intensity of the conversation settle. “Will you send it off to the FBI labs?”

“Probably, but it won’t do any good. You’ve been handling
it, and whoever sent it is too clever to leave fingerprints or other evidence. The only fingerprints they found on the other photos were yours. That doesn’t help our case.”

“Will they be sending the originals back?” David asked. “All I have are the color copies we made.”

“We shouldn’t have done that either,” Calvin admitted. “I hate releasing such things without a reference copy of my own.”

“So we’re not going to get much support from the FBI on this?”

Calvin laughed. “Let me explain something to you, David. Law enforcement agencies are not in the business of finding evidence of innocence. They’re in the business of proving guilt. No agency, including the FBI, looks for evidence that will exonerate a person. They look only for evidence that will convict him. It took me a long time to realize that, and when I did, I discovered that I had sent an innocent woman to jail for ten years.”

“So we’re on our own.”

“Largely, yes.”

“That’s why we have to take the initiative.”

Calvin groaned. “This is crazy,” he said more to himself than to David.

“Calvin,” David began, his tone softer. “When you discovered that your investigation sent an innocent woman to prison, what did you do?”

“I made it my goal to prove her innocence.”

“That’s all I’m trying to do,” David said. “Except I can’t prove my innocence without first finding the true culprits. And the only way I can do that is to force their hand; make them break from their plan. You can understand that, can’t you?”

Calvin said nothing. He looked out the side window at the passing scenery, but David doubted that he saw any of it. He was too deep in thought.

David and Calvin drove on in silence. They drove past San Diego Bay and on toward La Jolla. Minutes passed with agonizing slowness. Finally Calvin spoke. “All right, David, you win.”

“You’ll help?”

“As long as it stays within the confines of the law. If this goes bad, I don’t want to be sharing a jail cell with you.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” David said with a small smile. It was a minor victory, but at least he was taking charge of his life. No longer would he be a passive victim; he would be an active participant.

F
ATHER
D
ONOVAN REMOVED HIS VESTMENT AND CAREFULLY
hung it on the hanger in his spartan office. He was glad to be free of it. Although a light breeze had circulated through the cemetery, he now felt overheated. It was not unusual for him to feel warm after a funeral mass and especially if there was also a graveside interment, but today he felt feverish.

The turnout at the mass for Beu Ribe had been generous. She had been a faithful member of the church all of her life and was beloved by the congregation. Her sudden death from dengue fever had surprised and wounded the church.

After leaving the hospital two days ago, the priest had returned to the church and said prayers for the saintly woman. He went back to visit her the next day. He arrived prepared to offer last rites. He found Beu incoherent, sweating profusely, and in great pain. The doctors at the Barringston clinic offered her no hope.

Father Donovan performed last rites, took her hand, and watched her die.

Now the funeral was over, but the sadness and shock remained. The doctors had confirmed that Beu died of dengue hemorrhagic fever—a new, puzzling, and virulent strain. She had not been the first, and the doctors assured Father Donovan that she would not be the last.

He wondered about the disease and how it would affect his congregation. Surely there was something he could do. Already he planned to make an announcement to the congregation about the things they could do to control mosquitoes, but they had heard such things all of their lives. It was just a problem that tropical-living people faced.

Still, he wondered. Just how far will this go? Will the government become involved? There would also be a financial impact on his congregation if too many of the men became ill. How would he deal with those situations?

He felt tired and depressed.

He rubbed the small bite behind his right ear, and wondered what the future held for his congregation.

The drive from Cueva del Toro to Havana had been slow and tedious. Angelina’s Papa had to watch very carefully as he drove the old automobile through washed-out, debris-laden streets. Once he had run over a board with a nail that flattened their tire. Angelina had watched in silence as her father changed it. He swore many times.

The car was crowded, and the humidity left behind by the storm was almost unbearable. Since Maria Marquez’s house was destroyed, Papa had decided to bring Angelina’s aunt’s family with them. In the backseat were most of the Marquez clan. Two children shared the front seat with Angelina and her father. In the backseat children sat on the laps of their parents to make room. The car was crowded and hot, but no one complained. It was a small thing compared to what they had just been through.

Now Papa was very quiet. He said he was concentrating on the road, but Angelina knew that he was worried about
her sister and their house. He wanted to get home as soon as possible, and that meant driving very slow. He had no spare tire to replace another flat. She could tell that the ordeal was eating at her papa.

“I see the city,” Angelina said with excitement. “We are almost there.”

“Almost, Puppet, almost,” her father replied, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“I wish we could go faster.”

“So do I, little one.”

As they passed the outskirts of Havana’s city limits, her father brought the car to a stop. His eyes were fixed out the driver’s side window.

“Oh, no,” he said morosely.

“What? What is it, Papa?” Angelina moved forward on the seat so that she could see. “Isn’t that where you work?”

He answered with a nod. The building, a five-story glass-and-concrete structure stood in skeletal silence. The windows on one entire side were missing, ripped from their places by a devilish wind. Papa swore some more. Angelina did not understand exactly what her father did at the Center for Agricultural Engineering, she did not even understand the name, but she knew that the water and wind could not have been good.

“Let’s go,” Papa said harshly. He sounded angry, but she knew that he was really afraid.

It took over an hour for the car to weave through the destruction. Emergency workers scrambled about, some removing rubble, others aiding injured people. Buildings that had once stood tall and strong in the tropical sun now looked broken and beaten. Some houses had their roofs ripped away,
just like the Marquez house. Commercial buildings were missing windows, and black tarpaper hung over their parapets. Pieces of wood, metal, and brick lay cast about. With no way to avoid the road hazards, the car lurched and bounced as it drove over them. Several times Papa had to stop to let firemen and policemen cross the cluttered street.

People, some with hastily bandaged injuries, wandered or stood in motionless disbelief at what the storm had done. They were as damaged emotionally as were the buildings physically. The corporate psyche of the people was as shattered as the glass that covered the ground, glinting in the cloud-shrouded sunlight. Nothing looked the same. The streets, houses, shops, and apartments were only vaguely familiar, landmarks of what once was.

Havana was wounded by the winds and rain that came only every few generations. Angelina took in the sight in silence. Each bit of debris represented the flotsam of a once-great city, now stripped and laid bare for all the world to see. She felt a profound sadness. The city’s ruin was a violation of the security and comfort she had felt all her life. Angelina had survived the storm, but her innocence was a victim of the fierce power of nature.

Papa pushed on, his knuckles white as he held the steering wheel in a death grip.

“Two million people,” he said aloud. Angelina turned to face him.

“What Papa?” she asked, confused.

“Over two million people live in this city.” He shook his head. “In just two decades the city will be five hundred years old. Now look at it. I can only guess what the harbor looks like.”

“It will heal,” Maria said from the backseat. “We all will.”

“Perhaps,” Papa said, “perhaps.”

They drove on with agonizing slowness. Angelina and her family lived in the newer area of the city, where structures had been built by subsidies of the former Soviet Union. The streets were wider and the buildings more impressive, though still damaged and marred.

Angelina held her breath as they rounded the corner that led to the street of their apartment. As they did, they passed the little church where her mother and she used to walk. All of its windows were in place; all of its tile still rested on its peaked roof.

“Look, Papa,” Angelina cried with excitement. “The church is whole. It is strong. The storm could not hurt it.”

Her father turned and looked at the small chapel. “It was sheltered by the taller buildings,” he said without emotion. Angelina was not so sure.

“There it is,” he said, nodding forward. “We’re home.” It took only moments for them to exit the car. Power lines, now dead, lay across the street. Branches and trees cluttered the sidewalk and road. “Careful,” he said, stepping over broken tile. “Watch the children.”

Water bled from the rooftops in trickles that cascaded from the opening that led to the courtyard. Angelina, holding fast to her father’s hand, crossed under the archway and into the courtyard. Their apartment was the first one on the right. The window was broken, and the door was ajar.

“Wait here,” Papa commanded.

“But, Papa—”

“Wait here, I said.” Slowly he pushed open the door and went in. Angelina strained to look in the dark apartment.
Water from the floor above was pouring from the ceiling in a torrent.

“Papa, are they there?” Angelina cried.

Her father exited the apartment and shook his head. “The apartment is empty.” His face was drawn with concern.

“Where are they?” Angelina asked near tears. “They should be here. Where are they?”

“I don’t know, Puppet. I don’t know.”

Angelina lowered her head. “They should be here,” she pined softly. “They should.”

An ache, strange and familiar, filled her tiny heart. It was a new worry. Never had she imagined that the storm would take her sister. It was an old wound. She vividly recalled the day her mother died. She never wanted to feel that way again, never wanted to be singed by those hot pains and fears. Her bravery eroded like a saturated hillside ready to give way, and tears began to pool in her dark eyes. Juanita was gone. Her sister who teased her and laughed with her and scolded her for getting into her makeup and braided her hair and did her best to fill Mama’s job after she died and—

“Father?”

It was a familiar voice. Angelina snapped her head in the direction of the sound.

“Father!” The words were excited, filled with joy.