Terminal Justice (11 page)

Near the center of the mall they came to their destination, a small coffee-and-sandwich shop. David ordered a turkey on rye with an iced cappuccino, Kristen a blueberry muffin and a mocha.
Finding a table outside the shop, they sat under the warm sun, watched the meandering shoppers, and ate their lunch.

“Tell me more about A.J.,” David said as he sipped his coffee.

“What do you want to know?” Kristen dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. The sun glinted brightly off her dark red hair and illuminated her deep blue eyes.

“Anything that will help me do my job. He certainly seems unique—and I mean that in a good way.”

“He is unique. I’ve never met anyone like him before. He is the most dedicated man I know.”

“
Passionate
is the word that comes to my mind.”

Kristen nodded. “He is that and more. He’s a big man, and I don’t mean his height. He’s big in heart and in vision. The entire Barringston Relief organization originated with him. There’s no other organization like it. Oh, there are other charitable groups, and many of them do a wonderful job, but A.J.’s vision included more than giving out food and building orphanages—all of which we do. He wanted to do something about the root of world hunger.”

“The root of world hunger?” David thought for a moment. “If I understood the briefing tapes I’ve been reviewing, most famine areas suffer from political problems.”

“That’s right. While weather, deforestation, poor farming practices, and similar factors affect hunger and may even initiate famine, political problems prevent adequate help. If the problem were only nature, our job would be infinitely easier. We, along with other organizations and nations, can deliver enough food, water, and medicine to a stricken area. What we have trouble with are bandits and demented political leaders.”

“How can A.J. change any of that?”

“It’s not easy, and I don’t pretend to understand it all, but he has made some headway. He travels to Washington several times a year to lobby congressional leaders. He’s also developed quite a reputation
as a humanitarian around the world and has befriended the leaders of many countries.”

“It sounds like you know a great deal.”

“Not really,” Kristen said with a shrug. “What little I know comes from writing press releases.”

David nodded and took another drink of his cappuccino. “You seem impressed with A.J.”

“He is impressive, and I don’t know of anyone who’s met him who wasn’t impressed.”

“Well,” David said, “he has sure made his mark with me. It’s always a pleasure to meet someone who has strong beliefs and a clear vision. Our world could use many more A.J. Barringstons.”

“Here, here,” Kristen said lifting her cup in the air with mock formality. “To A.J. Barringston and those like him.” David joined in the gesture, raising his cup and tapping it against Kristen’s. The cups yielded no sound, so David uttered a single “Clink.”

“Enough about A.J.,” Kristen said. “What about you?”

“Me?” David replied. “What about me?”

“I’m not after any deep dark details,” Kristen said. “But I would like to know more about you.”

“Like what?”

“I already know the basics: your education, ministry, and that kind of stuff—”

“Oh?” David interrupted. “And how did you become privy to such information?”

“I wrote a press release about you for the local business papers. You know, the column about executives who have been promoted, moved, and hired. I sent a copy to you. Didn’t you get it?”

“Possibly,” David said with chagrin. “There are some papers I haven’t looked at yet. It’s hard to believe: One week on the job and I’m already behind.”

“If you don’t find it, let me know; I’ll get you a copy.” After a moment, she asked, “Do you miss it? Your church, I mean.”

David stiffened a little and stared into his coffee cup.

“Did I say something wrong?” Kristen asked with concern. “I wasn’t trying to pry; I really wasn’t.”

“No, you didn’t say anything wrong,” David replied quietly. “It’s a hard question to answer. It shouldn’t be, I suppose, but it is.” He paused for a few moments before he spoke again. “Pastoring a church is a mixed bag. It was the easiest thing I ever did, and at the same time the most difficult. Some weeks there was more to do than could be done, and other weeks I would wonder if I earned my salary. It’s been more than six months since I left the church, and I still don’t quite know how I feel. I should, but I don’t.”

“Six months isn’t all that long,” Kristen said. “Time will give everything perspective.”

“I do miss some of the people. I had some good friends in that church.”

“Had?” Kristen said with surprise. “Are they not your friends anymore?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

Kristen leaned over the metal table. “When was the last time you talked to one of your friends?”

“Not since I left the church. I’ve been too embarrassed to face them since my wife left.”

“Why should you feel embarrassed? If they’re your friends, they’ll stand by you. If they don’t, they don’t deserve your friendship. It’s not like you have the plague. This sort of thing happens all the time. You know as well as I do that nearly 60 percent of all marriages fail. Why should you be immune?”

“Lots of reasons,” David said shaking his head. “It’s different for ministers. People have expectations. The work we do requires credibility without blemish.”

This time Kristen shook her head. When she spoke, she spoke softly. “David, bad things happen to the best of people. That doesn’t mean the person is bad, it simply means that you have
passed through what others have. It means you are a human and you married a human. And one of them did a very human thing. It doesn’t make it right or appropriate, just human.”

David sat silently.

“I know I’m out of line here,” Kristen continued, “but I see a lot of good in you and a lot of value. I’ve only known you for a short while, but everyone I talk to—Ava, A.J., Peter—thinks that you have a lot to offer. I agree, but I think you need to get on with the future. And that doesn’t mean cutting your past friends off. Didn’t they turn to you when they needed a friend?”

David nodded, “Yes, I guess they did.”

“So turn to them now. I bet you’ll find they’re happy to hear from you.”

“I’ll think about it,” David said.

“Isn’t that what being part of a church is all about? Worshiping God and supporting fellow Christians?”

“Yes, among other things. It sounds like you speak from experience.”

“I do. My church has been a big help to me. It’s faith that keeps us centered, isn’t it? One of the reasons I left my job at the PR firm in L.A. is the work Barringston Relief does. My old employer offered me a hefty raise to stay, but I needed to invest myself in the lives of others. I’m incomplete otherwise. I’ll bet the same is true of you. Christianity doesn’t make our lives easy, it makes them purposeful. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t mean to preach to the preacher, and I’m sorry if I’ve butted in where I’m not welcome. That certainly wasn’t my intent. But you’re a classy person, Dr. David O’Neal, and classy people shouldn’t stew in their own emotions.”

“Classy person?” David replied. “What should a classy person do then?”

“Buy a classy redhead another mocha.”

“Hmm,” David said scratching his chin. “If only I could find …”

“Don’t say it!” Kristen exclaimed with a grin. “Or I’ll make you walk back to the office.”

“Hmm,” David said again and rubbed his chin all the more.

“Hey!” she said. “I think I resent that insinuation.” The two laughed.

“DON’T YOU EVER CLOSE YOUR DOOR?” A.J. ASKED jovially. “If you leave it open like this, anyone can walk in.”

“A.J.” David said enthusiastically. “Come in, come in.” David stood and shook hands with his boss. “Leaving the door open is an old pastor’s tradition.”

“Wait a minute,” A.J. said. “Do you mean a tradition for old pastors, or an old tradition for pastors?”

David laughed. “The latter, I think. When I first went into the ministry, I worked on staff in a large church. The pastor insisted that we keep our doors open so the parishioners would feel welcome and know we weren’t sleeping. I’ve been leaving my office door open ever since.”

“Nice sentiment,” A.J. said as he took a seat opposite David’s desk. “It doesn’t appear to have hurt your work. These outlines for the press club and fund-raiser are outstanding. I especially like the front-line hero aspect.”

“I was hoping you would. I feel confident that the press will see a new angle on this if they can focus on those who are in the field, doing the work. They’re heroes and should be referred to as such.”

“It will be difficult for me to talk about Dr. Rhodes,” A.J. said somberly. “Every time I think about her death I get both angry and sad.”

“That’s the whole idea,” David replied. “Speaking of her will help unleash that passion in you that we spoke of. Those are the
emotions that you should feel. They’re honest, sincere, and moving. Share them with your audience, and they’ll listen.”

“You’re right,” A.J. agreed.

“One thing I’m certain of is you. You have the ability to be an excellent speaker. You have presence, you have a worthwhile cause, and you have the best information. There’s no doubt that with a little coaching you will rivet the audience’s attention to your message and involve them in the cause. Let that passion show through. Let them see the anger, hurt, even the tears. But also let them see the hope and the vision you own. Let them hear your heart and see your soul.”

“You must have been quite a preacher,” A.J. said. “You’re very convincing. You could have made a lot of money in sales.”

“Thanks, but sales isn’t my cup of tea,” David said, reaching for the outline. “All I need to do now is polish this and make sure my facts are correct.”

“They seem correct to me,” A.J. said, surrendering the notes. “You know, David, I’m amazed at how quickly you’re adjusting to all of this. Not everyone can deal with the ugliness of world hunger, but you seem to have taken right to it.”

“It’s a satisfying feeling knowing that I’m involved in something worthwhile,” David replied. “But if there’s anyone who should be admired it’s you. I’m amazed at what you’ve built here and the work you do.”

“It’s not just me,” A.J. said humbly. “I was lucky enough to have something to start with and good people to help. Barringston Relief is bigger than any one man.”

David paused before speaking. “If you don’t mind my asking, just how did you get involved in all of this?”

“I don’t mind at all,” A.J. replied leaning back in the chair. “It’s a long story. Let’s see if I can give you the
Reader’s Digest
version.”

“That would be great, if I’m not being nosy.”

“Not at all. As you know, I’m wealthy. Well, more accurately, my father is wealthy. You’ll have to meet him. he’s one of a kind.”
David wondered if Archibald Barringston could be any more extraordinary than his son. “He made his money in the construction business. He started building homes with his father after World War II. You can still see some of them in Linda Vista. They were small, inexpensive, and designed for military families. During those days San Diego was a big navy town. Still is somewhat, but then just about everyone was associated with the navy at Point Loma, the Thirty-second Street training area, and later at Miramar Naval Air Station. He struggled at first, but through hard work, perseverance, and an unusual ability to finish his contracts on time and under budget, he forged a reputation with the military community. Soon he was building subdivisions in other military towns. But he knew that kind of work wouldn’t last forever and that he would need to branch out. My father’s that way. There are times when I would swear that he could see the future.

“Anyway,” A.J. continued, “when my father was thirty-one, his dad, my grandfather, died, leaving the construction business to him. It wasn’t long after that that he began doing commercial construction. He started off with small offices and shopping centers, and once he learned the ropes and obtained sufficient backing he began doing larger work. He’s built no less that ten of the high-rises in downtown San Diego and has done hundreds all over the world. That’s where his genius lay. He saw the opportunities overseas. Soon he was building skyscrapers, office buildings, hotels, and the like in Iran, before the fall of the Shah, and in India, Saudi Arabia, and Pakistan as well as Western countries like England and France. I couldn’t name all the countries that have a Barringston building in them. By the seventies, Dad had built an international company that was sought after worldwide. He also built quite a fortune.”

“Did you work for him when you were growing up?” David asked.

“For a while, but I was rebellious. I had little interest in business or construction.” A.J. chortled. “I still can’t drive a nail into a two-by-four without bending it.”

“Wait a minute,” David interrupted. “Does that mean you bent the two-by-four or the nail?”

A.J. laughed out loud, “Touché, David, touché. I meant the nail. My construction skills were hindered by profound lack of interest. The only things I excelled in were spending money and having fun. I went to the best schools, Harvard and even the London School of Economics. I did well, but I didn’t especially enjoy it. Unlike my brother, I was a wayward son.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” David said. He realized that he hadn’t known A.J. long enough to know much of anything about him.

“He’s gone now,” A.J. replied. “Died from a blood clot. He had been driving supplies for dad and had been spending a lot of time sitting in trucks. The doctors told us that a blood clot had formed in one of his legs and traveled to his heart. He was only eighteen months younger than me.”

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

“More than most brothers, I suppose. We were different in many ways, but we always had a good relationship. It undid me when he died. I dropped out of the London School of Economics and began to live the high life, spending a trust my father had set aside for me. It was an empty experience except for Cyn.”