She sighed as she reflected on Ida Davidson. I hope she’s watching tonight. I hope they’ve told her. Somewhere in Houston an eighty-three year old grandmother would be soon be vindicated.
If this story ever got written. She glanced at her watch. Nine forty-three a.m.
Finish the story. Deliver the story.
The telephone rang. She ignored it, in the hopes someone else would pick it up. Within seconds, her mother reappeared at her door, eyes large with excitement. “It’s Mr. Nigel from your work. He says it’s very important.”
Angel groaned. He wants to make sure the story is written and I’m having trouble putting two words together. She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Angel? Listen, I’ve got an update.” Mr. Nigel sounded rushed.
“Yes Sir?” She accidentally knocked over a diet soda, spilling it all over her notes. Her mother rushed in to help clean up the mess as she listened to his breathless words.
“I’ve just received word the arrest is underway in Galveston,” he explained. “I’ve got Joe Shockey, one of our best cameramen out there now. Good news is, none of the other stations will get live coverage. From what I hear, no one has nosed out any details but KPRC. Joe says he’ll call when he’s got the footage. By the way, how’s your story coming?”
“Uh, great,” she managed.
“Good. We’ll tie it all together when you get up here. In the meantime, could you fax me a copy when you’re done with it? Say, around noon?”
“Sure.” She swallowed hard.
“Oh, I need to let you know one thing,” Mr. Nigel added. “That blonde guy. . .the trash collector?”
“Peter Campbell?” Her heart suddenly felt as if it might stop beating.
“Yeah.”
“He’s clean.”
“I beg your pardon?” She gasped.
“I’m mean, he’s clean,” Mr. Nigel continued. “Well, as clean as any real trash collector could be. He works for the City of Galveston. That Broadway address you gave me is legit. The guy works at a homeless shelter when he’s not dumping trash. Mom’s a country club socialite. Dad’s a—”
“An talent agent.” She finished the sentence for him.
“Right. Well, anyway, your theory about Peter Campbell’s involvement was off base, but other than that, you were right on target. Those other guys are a major news story. Maybe the biggest of the year for this area. The police say there’s enough information to make a great case thanks to your legwork. This is really something, Angel.”
She felt the excitement keenly. “Wonderful.”
“You’ve done us proud at KPRC and I think I can assure you a pretty long run with the station if you keep going like this.”
“Oh, Mr. Nigel. I’m so grateful.” Angel felt the sting of tears but didn’t fight them. Her hard work had paid off. She deserved a good cry.
He picked up the pace again. “I’ve got to get off of here so I can make a couple of calls. Get me that story by noon, okay Angel?”
“Yes. Of course.” She heard a click and he disappeared.
With trembling hands, Angel hung up the phone. Peter Campbell wasn’t a liar or a crook. He was all he had made himself out to be. She replayed the entire week’s events over in her mind trying to make some sense of his actions. Nothing made any sense.
Then again, neither would her story, if she didn’t get busy writing it. When Angel looked at her watch, she realized forty-five minutes had passed. She immediately turned her attention back to the screen and began to type like a woman possessed.
***
Peter drove like a man in a trance. He reflected on many things as he made his way down the familiar stretch of The Strand, past the pizza parlor and beyond the Confectionary. His misconceptions about his father were first and foremost in his mind. They had shaped so many other decisions, so many other ideas and opinions. To think he had been wrong about the man, on any level, seemed inconceivable. And yet, perhaps, he had been.
For years, he had avoided a relationship with his dad, but why? As soon as he dared ask himself the question, Peter knew the answer. All of their struggles could be traced back to an incident in his childhood. That event had occurred at age twelve, after his father had accumulated all of the money and notoriety a man could ever want or need.
It had happened on a Sunday morning after church. Peter’s best friend, Nick Morton, had lingered behind in the Jr. High Sunday School room after all of the others had left. When Peter went back in to look for him, he found his friend in tears. Nick had explained that his family was about to lose their home. Though his best friend hadn’t completely divulged all information, Peter remembered it had something to do with gambling debts his father had acquired in Vegas.
Peter knew just what to do. The Nortons needed money. His dad had lots of money. If his dad would just do the right thing and take care of this family in need, then everything would be solved. Nick could stay here and Mr. Morton would come to know the Lord.
But Peter’s father had not cooperated. “It’s not my place,” he had said.
“Then whose is it?” Peter still remembered the question. “If you do it for the least of these,” he quoted.
But his father had been firm on the matter. “There are some things you just don’t understand, Peter. You can’t save everyone.”
Those words rang in his ears, as Peter looked up and saw Tennyson Towers in the distance. You can’t save everyone.
Nick’s father had ended up in prison, and Nick had all but disappeared. Peter would never know if his dad’s help would have changed the course of history, but he couldn’t help seeing a little of his father’s side in it now.
For years, he had accused his father of being a prideful man, and yet now, Peter had to admit, his own pride had surfaced. In trying to prove his father wrong, he had thrown his own spiritual life out of balance and had nearly lost the relationship with his father, as well.
Funny, how pride could reverse itself.
He had missed the truth in those words for years, but it was shining like a beacon now. His need to minister to the down and out had become a source of pride in his own life, whether he wanted to admit it or not. On some level, he had been trying to prove something to his father, though the revelation nearly tore him to bits.
His inability to balance this area of his life had cost him more than just his relationship with his father. It had pretty nearly destroyed any hope he had of developing a friendship with Angel, as well.
His thoughts lingered a moment on Angel. He didn’t feel a sense of release from that situation, and yet he knew he must release her into God’s hands in order for the Lord to move. Without a personal experience of her own, she might never understand the love and acceptance of the Lord he took for granted. How did that love get so mixed up with my own feelings?
Plagued with guilt, Peter glanced at his watch. It was almost noon. One more stop and he would be finished for the day. This afternoon he would head down to the feeding center to help with this evening’s weekly street feed and church service. It would keep his mind off the craziness of the week.
And off of a beautiful dark-haired Angel.
He braced himself as Tennyson Towers appeared in the distance. How could he continue coming here day in and day out without desiring just a glimpse of that beautiful face? How would he ever press her from his memory? How will I ever get past what I’m feeling?
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, after all. Peter had spent hours contemplating all that his mother and pastor had shared. He had spent even more time analyzing what he felt the Lord was now saying. None of it, even when balanced together, made him feel much better about the situation. For all of his concerns, for all of his suspicions, warranted or not, Peter couldn’t lay down the idea that he was supposed to be involved in Angel’s life in some way. But he would never see her again.
He pulled into the parking lot and numbly made his way to the back of the building. Just get through this. Every day it will get a litt
le easier.
As he downshifted and approached the familiar dumpster, he tried to remain focused. He engaged the arms into position and began to lift the metal trash unit into the air. He leaned back against his seat and turned on the radio. He listened to the words of a familiar worship song as it played softly in the background. The presence of God seemed the fill the car almost immediately, and brought a sense of peace in the middle of his storm.
Just as Peter began to relax, a noise to his right caught his attention. The parking lot suddenly filled with patrol cars. They swarmed in like locusts inciting a plague. The dizzying scene mesmerized him. “What in the world?” Peter momentarily left the dumpster in mid-air as he fought to focus on the sudden flurry of activity. Something big was going on. But what?
Officers streamed from the vehicles and entered the building. Dozens of them.
Stay focused.
Peter brought the dumpster back down to the ground with a loud thud. He withdrew the metal arms and turned the vehicle off. Then he turned his body—and his full attention—to the building. A large white van bearing the logo KPRC appeared on the scene, stirring up a gravel dust storm as it pulled to an abrupt stop. A cameraman leaped out onto the pavement like an acrobat. With camera attached to his shoulder, the agile fellow focused on the rear door of the building.
Peter watched it all, dumbfounded. “They’ve got to know something I don’t, that’s for sure.” For several minutes he sat praying. All around him officers from Galveston Country Sheriff’s Office continued to arrive.
But for what? Lord, if Angel is somehow involved in this, please be with her. Show her how to be the woman of God you’ve called her to be. Give her the strength and the courage to do the right thing, even under tough circumstances. She needs a Damascus Road experience, Father, and if this is it, then open the eyes of her understanding.
He prayed with genuine fervency, and yet battled an overwhelming sense of fear as he watched the scene in front of him unfold. If Angel had to spend time in jail, he would visit her, of course. It would provide the perfect place for women from his church to minister to her one-on-one.
Peter continued to pray as he picked up his telephone and dialed the church’s number. Within minutes, he conveyed the whole story to Rob by phone. What he knew of it, anyway.
Suddenly, from the rear door, officers pressed their way out, ushering three men in handcuffs. The one in front had blonde hair and wore a blue button-up shirt. The second one was short with curly dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses. The third…
The third man he knew quite well.
“No way.” The cell phone slipped from his grasp. Peter watched in amazement as an armed officer led the familiar tall dark-haired man to a patrol car and pressed him inside. A feeling of dread washed over him as he contemplated the possibilities. Obviously these guys were in serious trouble.
But where did that leave Angel? He waited in silence until every last patrol car pulled away. Then, and only then, did he remember Rob remained on the other end of the line.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Peter said. “I hope you’re sitting down.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Angel, are you ready?”
Angelina looked up from the makeup mirror into Mr. Nigel Nigel’s anxious eyes. “Never more so, Sir.” She gave her face one more glance before standing. Eye makeup, good. Cheeks, fine. Lips. Oops, too much lipstick. She dabbed at them with a tissue and wheeled around for his stamp of approval.
Mr. Nigel patted her on the shoulder. “This is your chance to do what you’ve been waiting for all this time.” He gave her a playful punch. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
Angel’s pulse sang in her ears. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. Years of preparation had now led her here and for the first time she felt the satisfaction of answering a God-given call. College professors had tried to dissuade. Family members had attempted to re-direct. But Angel had known all along the Lord would give her the courage to perform the task. His Word promised it. "He who is in you is greater than He who is in the world.” She kept the words from First John, chapter four in the back of her mind each day.
And this time, with God’s help, she was ready—ready to face the music and the people of Houston, Galveston, and all of the other surrounding counties, besides. This one’s for you, Ida.
A short time later, she stood before the camera, feeling somewhat lightheaded and giddy. For a brief moment panic struck her and the burst of spiritual strength she had felt just moments before seemed to all but disappear. She thought she might be sick, but the wave of nausea passed. Angel cleared her throat, took a quick swig of water and loosened up her shoulders and neck a bit. Greater is He that is in me. Then she smiled as confidently as she could and winked at Mr. Nigel, who beamed like a proud Papa.
The stage manager gave the prompting, “We’re on in 3-2-1…”
The words, “The Voice of the Angels” raced across the screen, accompanied by angel winds fluttering in the wind. Angel watched it, mesmerized.
And then the camera zoomed in. Though nervous, she spoke succinctly, assured of God’s presence as every word streamed forth. “Here at KPRC we’re hurt by the things that hurt you. Whenever we discover someone has been victimized, we want to be able to step in and do something. That’s why, when sources tipped us off to an Identity Theft ring in Galveston, we felt we had to do all we could to stop them in their tracks. These modern-day Robin Hoods seemed to be working in reverse—stealing from the poor and making themselves rich.”
Angel shifted her position slightly as the stage manager directed.
“Their crime? Identity Theft. The number one financial and consumer felony of the information age. Many people don’t realize that Identity Theft is the fastest growing white-collar crime in the United States. According to available statistics, this complicated offense has increased on average nearly forty percent per year with nearly one million people falling victim each year. The elderly are often targeted—in part because of their higher credit lines and good credit histories and in part because they have greater home equity.” Angel swallowed hard and steadied her voice as much as possible. Don’t worry, Ida. You’re going to get your home back.
She forged ahead. “And let’s not forget that the elderly are generally kinder and more compassionate. Ironically, this makes them the most vulnerable of all, for this same compassion can make them more gullible, more vulnerable to believing untruths. In short, they are often unaware of the evil that lurks around them.”
“And Identity Theft is an evil business.” She grew more serious as she read the words she had written and rehearsed at length from the monitor. “Skilled thieves are often computer-savvy, and train for years in the arts of manipulation and thievery. Many have been found working in organized groups inside of credit card companies, credit bureaus, banks and even in restaurants, where they frequently pose as computer technicians. Some use the Internet to con well-meaning people out of private information. Still others, less skilled perhaps, shoulder-surf at ATM machines or scavenge through trash cans, looking for carelessly tossed personal documents—anything with a bank account number, social security number or credit card information. Those who have the necessary equipment even resort to printing and selling illegal social security cards.”
She turned slightly to her left, letting her gaze follow the penetrating eye of the camera. “The suspected ring of thieves in Galveston had allegedly managed to accomplish all of these things and then some. But they will have to sing their victory chant from behind bars at the Galveston County jail.” A tape began to roll. Familiar faces were ushered of Tennyson Towers in handcuffs.
“With KPRC’s help,” Angel continued, “officers from the Galveston County Sheriff’s Department and agents from the FBI have uncovered enough evidence to take the following men into custody—Nicholas Schuster, Charles Banning, Thomas Dempsey and Michael Grady. These four men have been charged with stealing nearly ten millions dollars from unsuspecti
ng Texans last year alone.” A close-up of Nick’s scowling face made her stomach churn, but she plowed ahead.
“Posing as an Advertising Firm, these would-be businessmen had taken up office at Galveston’s Tennyson Towers, a complex that houses approximately one hundred plus legitimate businesses. They had also managed to spend multiplied millions of dollars, purportedly on themselves, opening credit accounts at local stores, setting up cellular phone service, making hefty purchases over the Internet and even booking lavish vacations for their families. All at the expense of their victims.”
Angel’s heart swelled with excitement. “When I first started working this story, I had no way of knowing it would turn out to be the largest Identity Theft crime in Texas history. I simply went into it hoping to assist the people of Houston and beyond. Now that these alleged thieves are behind bars, I feel confident we’ve made a difference.” You’ll be back home in no time, Ida.
As she glanced up at the monitor for one final peek at the footage, Angel’s heart lurched. In the background, far beyond the bad guys and the police, stood the familiar dumpster. Cagey metal arms locked into the monstrosity and it began to elevate. Peter!
Then the clip ended.
The camera zoomed in close on Angel’s face and she forced herself to concentrate, though her voice now shook violently. She drove her nails into her palms and forged ahead. “Tha. . .that’s what we’re all about here at KPRC. We’re on your side. If you have a story about someone in need or someone who’s facing an obstacle they can’t seem to overcome, feel free to give us a call or drop us an email.”
She took a deep breath, relieved to be nearing the end. “For tips on how you can avoid becoming a victim of Identity Theft, log onto our website at KPRCcares.com. Take care, and avoid anything that even smells like a scam. For KPRC, this is Angelina Fuentes, the Voice of the Angels.”
***
“Peter!” Donita Campbell’s voice rang out all the way across the large home. “Peter, get in here. Quick!”
Texas Weddings (Books Five and Six) Page 12