your side. That’s not arrogance; it’s a simple statement of fact.”
“What did Hall mean when he said your past won’t help you?
“Hall and I go way back,” Calvin said. “We worked together, right here in this office.”
“Worked together?”
“Yes,” Calvin said with a nod. “I’m a fifteen-year veteran of the FBI.”
“Now you practice criminal law?”
“And tax law. It’s an odd mix, I admit, but I don’t take every criminal case that comes my way. Only those in which I believe the accused is innocent.”
“Why do you believe I’m innocent?”
“Mr. Barringston said you were, and that’s good enough for me. Besides, I’m a pretty good judge of character.”
David was starting to feel relieved that Calvin was on his side. “May I ask why you left the FBI?”
“Sure,” Calvin answered. “I sent an innocent person to jail. I believed at the time that she was guilty, but ten yearslater I found out I was wrong. When she went to jail, she had an eight-year-old daughter; by the time she got out, her daughter was eighteen. That’s a lot of years to miss. My mistake cost her a big hunk of her life and the opportunity to watch her child grow up. Not to put too fine a point on it, David, I destroyed her life and that of her family. I can’t forget that. Unfortunately, I can’t undo it either, but I can do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen to someone else.”
David sat in silence and looked at the man who had so easily opened himself. “I don’t know whether to be reassured by your commitment or concerned about your past mistake.”
“Be reassured, David,” Calvin said with a short laugh. “Now let me ask you something. How good is your memory?”
“Pretty good. Why?”
“Because it’s time to dig up the past, David. It’s time to dig up the past.”
6
A LDO G OLDONI TURNED THE REARVIEW MIRROR OF THE delivery van toward himself and studied his reflection through ice-blue eyes. He wore a brown cap that sported the initials WPS—World Parcel Service. The same initials were painted in gold on each side of the van. The bill of the cap rested just above his eyebrows, which were the same coal-black color as his hair. Aldo bent the bill of the cap, giving it a smooth curve. The cap gave him the finished look he was searching for. He smiled at himself and picked up the two packages that rested on the seat next to him. One was small, only five-by-eight inches; the other was roughly the size of a briefcase.
Before exiting the car, Aldo scanned the front of the Barringston building. The media people who teemed there earlier were now gone, each no doubt trying to make a deadline or wanting to be the first to report the story about the head of a local charity being arrested by the FBI. Also gone were the beleaguered security guards who valiantly and successfully had kept the reporters at a distance. There was no doubt that at least one guard would remain in the lobby, maybe several. That didn’t matter to Aldo; he had the uniform and the identification to pass through those doors. He also knew that WPS made deliveries to this building several times a day. Today would be no different.
With packages in hand, Aldo stepped from the van and briskly jogged up the six wide concrete steps, through the large glass doors, and into the ornate lobby. As he had expected, he was greeted by a middle-aged man in a gray security uniform seated behind a semicircular counter.
“Hi,” Aldo said, flashing a smile.
“Hi,” the guard answered warily. “Where’s Richard?”
“Got sick,” Aldo answered easily. “Flu or something. They called me in to finish his shift. Normally, I work in north county.” He shook his head in mock disgust. “This was supposed to be my day off.”
“That flu can be bad,” the guard said. “Had a touch of it myself just last week.”
“It looks like you survived it all right.”
“Knocked me off my feet for a few days, but I’m doing OK.”
“Glad to
“What did Hall mean when he said your past won’t help you?
“Hall and I go way back,” Calvin said. “We worked together, right here in this office.”
“Worked together?”
“Yes,” Calvin said with a nod. “I’m a fifteen-year veteran of the FBI.”
“Now you practice criminal law?”
“And tax law. It’s an odd mix, I admit, but I don’t take every criminal case that comes my way. Only those in which I believe the accused is innocent.”
“Why do you believe I’m innocent?”
“Mr. Barringston said you were, and that’s good enough for me. Besides, I’m a pretty good judge of character.”
David was starting to feel relieved that Calvin was on his side. “May I ask why you left the FBI?”
“Sure,” Calvin answered. “I sent an innocent person to jail. I believed at the time that she was guilty, but ten yearslater I found out I was wrong. When she went to jail, she had an eight-year-old daughter; by the time she got out, her daughter was eighteen. That’s a lot of years to miss. My mistake cost her a big hunk of her life and the opportunity to watch her child grow up. Not to put too fine a point on it, David, I destroyed her life and that of her family. I can’t forget that. Unfortunately, I can’t undo it either, but I can do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen to someone else.”
David sat in silence and looked at the man who had so easily opened himself. “I don’t know whether to be reassured by your commitment or concerned about your past mistake.”
“Be reassured, David,” Calvin said with a short laugh. “Now let me ask you something. How good is your memory?”
“Pretty good. Why?”
“Because it’s time to dig up the past, David. It’s time to dig up the past.”
6
A LDO G OLDONI TURNED THE REARVIEW MIRROR OF THE delivery van toward himself and studied his reflection through ice-blue eyes. He wore a brown cap that sported the initials WPS—World Parcel Service. The same initials were painted in gold on each side of the van. The bill of the cap rested just above his eyebrows, which were the same coal-black color as his hair. Aldo bent the bill of the cap, giving it a smooth curve. The cap gave him the finished look he was searching for. He smiled at himself and picked up the two packages that rested on the seat next to him. One was small, only five-by-eight inches; the other was roughly the size of a briefcase.
Before exiting the car, Aldo scanned the front of the Barringston building. The media people who teemed there earlier were now gone, each no doubt trying to make a deadline or wanting to be the first to report the story about the head of a local charity being arrested by the FBI. Also gone were the beleaguered security guards who valiantly and successfully had kept the reporters at a distance. There was no doubt that at least one guard would remain in the lobby, maybe several. That didn’t matter to Aldo; he had the uniform and the identification to pass through those doors. He also knew that WPS made deliveries to this building several times a day. Today would be no different.
With packages in hand, Aldo stepped from the van and briskly jogged up the six wide concrete steps, through the large glass doors, and into the ornate lobby. As he had expected, he was greeted by a middle-aged man in a gray security uniform seated behind a semicircular counter.
“Hi,” Aldo said, flashing a smile.
“Hi,” the guard answered warily. “Where’s Richard?”
“Got sick,” Aldo answered easily. “Flu or something. They called me in to finish his shift. Normally, I work in north county.” He shook his head in mock disgust. “This was supposed to be my day off.”
“That flu can be bad,” the guard said. “Had a touch of it myself just last week.”
“It looks like you survived it all right.”
“Knocked me off my feet for a few days, but I’m doing OK.”
“Glad to
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