Terminal Justice (14 page)

“There she is,” Greeny said excitedly as the image of a large metal behemoth loomed on the monitor. “We got her.”

“Easy, Mr. Green,” Odle said firmly. “Let’s play this by the book. Take her aft, and let’s see what name’s painted on her.” Greeny complied by directing
Snoopy
to move laterally along the hull toward the rear of the sunken vessel. “She’s listing hard to port.”

“Looks like she impacted stern first,” he said, his excitement supplanted by a swelling sense of apprehension. Seconds passed sluggishly as the little submarine pressed against the current. Moments that seemed like eons later, the two men saw the stern. One of the two propellers lay in the silt by the ship, the port prop was not visible anywhere. “What could separate the propeller from the shaft? And look at that hole.”

The hole in the ship’s hull was large, and it was clear that it came from an internal explosion. “Take her up and back,” Odle commanded, choosing to ignore the question. Greeny complied quickly, and
Snoopy
responded without complaint. The image of the ship slowly shrank to allow a greater view of the stern. The white painted words
Sea Maid
soon appeared. Both men gasped, not at the name of the ship, for it was the ship they were searching for, but at the sight they couldn’t have expected; a scene they had never seen before, not even in their nightmares.

Not waiting for a command, Greeny slowly caused the ROV to move closer to the vague apparitions that emerged on the screen. He did so, not out of courage or some latent macabre leaning, but for the need for emotional closure. He had to know if what he was seeing was real or imagined. He knew his superiors would ask questions, and he had to be ready with meaningful answers. So he pushed
Snoopy
forward, slowly forward, until he knew the truth with no shred of doubt.

The image of the ship was secondary now, shrinking in importance in the light of the hideous vision before him. Greeny retched.

“Easy, Lieutenant,” Odle said, quietly placing a hand on the younger officer’s shoulder. “Let’s finish our job.”

“Aye sir,” Greeny croaked.

Picking up the hand piece of the ship’s intercom system, Odle signaled the bridge. “We found her, sir,” he said when the captain responded. “But there’s something I think you should see.” Turning, Odle looked at the ghastly image on the screen and imagined what was happening fifteen hundred feet below the surface as
Snoopy
hovered a few feet away from the
Sea Maid
’s crew. Their bodies floated like balloons tethered to the ship’s rail, their sightless eyes staring into the abysmal darkness of the ocean bottom. Odle wondered about the kind of man who would do such a thing.

The twenty-by-forty-foot room was filled with an eclectic assortment of sounds: squeaks, thumps, swats, and grunting. A.J. took his place between the two parallel red lines that had been painted on the highly polished wood floor at the center of the court. “Ready?” he asked.

“As ready as I’m going to get,” David replied, taking large gulps of air and expelling them in massive pants. A.J. looked at the twenty-foot-high wall in front of him, pulled his racquet back, and in a fluid motion struck the small blue rubber ball in a vicious serve. The ball rebounded off the front wall and careened back across the red lines, bouncing to David’s right. David’s swing connected with the ball, sending it sailing to the ceiling where it ricocheted to the front wall and then down to the ground. A.J. sprinted forward and gave the ball a gentle tap so that it barely touched the front wall before bouncing weakly on the floor, making it impossible for David to return. David stood at the back of the court in disbelief.

“That’s game,” A.J. said.

“Is it just me, or does this court get bigger with each game?” David asked as he walked to the back wall and sat on the floor, still gulping for breath.

“You’re just a little out of shape,” A.J. said kindly. “A few more games and it’ll all come back to you.”

“A little out of shape? I’m dying here. And you,” David remarked, pointing his racquet at A.J., “are in great shape. Look at you! You’re not even breathing hard.”

“Nothing like racquetball to keep a guy in shape. It involves more than your body; there’s a strategy to it.”

“That’s why I gave it up half a decade ago. I couldn’t think and sweat at the same time.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” A.J. said, joining David on the floor. “You show a natural talent. You simply have to spend more time here.”

“If I spend any more time here,” David said, wiping his brow, “you’ll be burying your latest speechwriter.”

A.J. chuckled. “Physical activity releases the stresses of both mind and body. We see a lot of abuse in the world, and that builds up emotional strain. I come here to work some of that off. I find I think better after hitting this ball around. Besides, the ball doesn’t hit back … usually.”

“Yeah,” David said with chagrin. “I’m real sorry about that. I wasn’t aiming for your head. How’s the lump?”

A.J. rubbed the back of his head. “It’ll heal,” he replied. “How about you? How are you adjusting?”

“I’ll get my breath back in a minute, but I’ll be sore tomorrow.”

A.J. smiled, “I meant, how are you adjusting to all the changes in your life? You’ve got to be going through some stress yourself.”

“I’m managing okay,” David squirmed.

“Getting used to living alone?”

“It has advantages.”

“It has disadvantages too. Personally, I love living alone … now. But when my wife left, it took me forever to adjust. I hated to go home, because there was no one to go home to. Just emptiness and loneliness.”

“But you adjusted?”

“I have a new wife now—my work. In most ways it’s a poor substitute, but it’s not without merit.” A.J. stretched his long legs.
“Some people are cut out to live alone, others aren’t. You strike me as one who prefers living with another.”

“I never really thought about it,” David said as he focused his attention on the strings of his racquet, straightening the misplaced ones.

“Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about such things?” A.J. asked.

“I suppose it does,” David chuckled. “Odd, isn’t it? I spent years in training and service to help others through their spiritual journey, which often meant counseling individuals and couples about their problems. And here I sit struggling with the same kinds of problems and I have no advice for myself. I guess I’m an emotional cripple.”

“How many men do you know who aren’t?” A.J. asked. “Very few of our gender can deal with their own emotions. People can say what they want about a nineties kind of guy, but we haven’t changed all that much.”

“You’re right, of course,” David replied. “But that still leaves the problem.”

“Let me ask you this: If you could change anything about your life right now, before we leave this court, what would it be? Short of wishing that none of this ever took place, I mean. What would you change about yourself right now?”

David inhaled deeply and thought. “That’s a deep question, A.J., and I’m not sure I have an answer.”

“Give it a try. I promise not to chisel it in stone.”

“Confidence, I guess,” David replied quietly. “I have moments of total, abject insecurity. I’ll be going along fine, working at the office, but then as I drive home, I’m seized by a feeling that I will never again be able to do something worthwhile. That everything that happened—my wife leaving, my resigning the church—is all my fault. My reason kicks in and says, ‘Bologna, you’re not at fault,’ but I still feel that I am. And then there’re my emotions.”

“What about your emotions?” A.J. prodded.

“They’re confused.” David crossed his legs and leaned forward. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. “There’re too many of them at times: anger, remorse, joy at my new job, regret, fear. They all pour in at the same time.”

“I understand,” A.J. said. “I felt the same way. We’re very much alike, the two of us. We both have a need to do a work that is both meaningful and lasting, and we both lost our wives. I lost mine because of my self-centered stupidity, you were an innocent victim.”

“Can anyone be innocent in a divorce?” David said solemnly.

“My wife was, and you are too. It’s not fair. It stinks. But that’s life.” A.J. bounced the ball on the floor in a consistent rhythm. “Even if you were at fault, you still have a future. The way you feel now will pass. The more you face the future, the easier it will be to remember the past.”

David said nothing. He felt uncomfortable sitting on the floor of a racquetball court discussing his problems with his boss. He wondered if it was wise. Employers seldom liked whining employees. Still, he knew that if anyone could understand, it was the man sitting next to him. A.J. had walked the path that David now found himself traveling and had succeeded in forging a new future.

“Do you remember,” A.J. continued, “when you told me I had to get in touch with my passion when I give a speech? You told me to be free to express that passion, to bare a bit of my soul. Well, I’m giving you the same kind of advice: You need to feel free to … well, feel. Face those emotions, David. Ask them questions, challenge their right to be in your life.”

“Challenge them?”

“Sure. Just because you feel something like guilt doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re guilty. Do a little self-discovery. You have too much to offer the world to sit around feeling sorry for yourself, David. We need you, buddy. And you need yourself. Does that make sense?”

“It does. Thanks.”

A hard knocking sound reverberated throughout the court. Both men got to their feet. “It sounds like our hour is up,” David said. “We had better surrender the court to the next crew.”

“It’s been a good hour. Let’s do this again.”

David laughed. “You’re assuming I’ll recover from this workout.”

“You’ll recover,” A.J. said with a broad grin, “and not just from racquetball.”

“YOU LOOK NERVOUS,” A.J. SAID CALMLY. “I’M THE one giving the speech, and I’m not nervous.”

“The problem of empathy,” David replied. “I’m nervous enough for both of us. Besides, I’m not used to wearing a tuxedo and standing shoulder to shoulder with all these important people.”

“You look good in a tux, and as far as being among important people, all I can say is that everyone is important. The only difference is that these people are rich. Which is a good thing, since I’m about to ask them for a lot of money.”

“It looks like the Academy Awards around here,” David said as he scanned the ballroom of the Harrington Hotel in Mission Valley, San Diego’s newest and largest five-star hotel. The room was crowded with men in black tuxedos and women in glamorous gowns. In one corner of the room a band played dance music. David saw movie stars and starlets, so many that he thought all of Hollywood must surely be vacant. There were politicians from the western states: mayors, congressmen, and senators, all laughing and shaking the hands of those around them like farmers working manually operated water pumps.

“Come on,” A.J. said, “It’s time to press the flesh.”

He began moving through the crowd, shaking hands with the men and hugging the ladies. David noticed that A.J. always had the right words to say. He also noticed how the women ogled as he walked by, and for good reason. A.J. was as dapper as they came in black tuxedo, white dress shirt with pearl posts, black tie, and his
ponytail bobbing behind his head. The fact that the tuxedo was wrapped around a well-maintained and muscular frame only increased the aura around him. A.J. introduced David to soap-opera stars, movie moguls, and business tycoons, and he was suitably impressed with each person he met. A.J. introduced him as “the newest member of the executive team—a key player, an exceptional catch.” After one introduction, a junior congressman from California asked if David wouldn’t like to write speeches for an up-and-coming politico, but A.J. intercepted the question and saved David some embarrassment by saying, “Now, now, Congressman, I’m here to take money from you, not for you to appropriate members of my team.” Everyone, including David, laughed.

The West Coast fund-raising banquet was off to a good start, and David was right in the middle of it. There were three more of these, David had been informed, one in Dallas, one in Miami, and one in New York City. Every few years additional fund-raisers would be held in London and Paris. Each one cost tens of thousands of dollars to promote and execute, but it was worth the cost since each brought in a hundredfold more in gifts and pledges. There was also the opportunity to meet members of the press, who were not only invited, but wined and dined. Most reporters fought to be assigned the task of covering a Barringston fund-raiser.

David followed in A.J.’s wake as he milled through the ballroom, greeting everyone in sight. David had shaken so many hands that his wrist began to ache. He was relieved when A.J. nodded toward the table where the Barringston staff were gathering and said, “It’s time to get things started.”

No sooner had the two approached the table than Kristen made her way to the front of the hall to a podium on a raised rostrum. She tapped the microphone a few times. David wondered why speakers had to do that.