Chapter 34
Six Days, Five Hours, Twenty-six Minutes
"Thank you for calling the Heston Tower," the operator automatically announced in perfect, practiced English. "How may I direct your call?"
From Manley's – the coffee shop directly across the street from the Heston – DeMarco sat peacefully, his cell phone pressed to his ear in one hand and his finger curled around the hook of a coffee cup with the other hand. He glanced up at the tall, gray, stone building – the exact place where not so long ago he had watched Arthur Pendley's limousine disappear. He trusted that Pendley was somewhere inside, but he had no possible idea as to where.
"Yes," he replied, noticing the Washington-standard black sedan pull in front of the building. He watched as the young, red-uniformed valet scurried from his duty station over to where the car stopped and idled. The valet opened the door, allowing the vehicle passenger to step from the cool interior into the mid-afternoon sun. Oblivious to the young man, the occupant brushed past, marched toward the Heston's golden revolving door, and disappeared quickly between the twirling metal and glass panes. Focusing his attention back on the telephone call, DeMarco said, "I was hoping you would be so kind as to connect me with Senator Pendley's suite."
"Senator Pendley?"
"Senator Arthur Pendley," DeMarco repeated. "It was my understanding that the senator maintained a private residence at the Heston."
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," the operator said, "but Senator Pendley does not – nor has he ever – retained a residence with the Heston."
DeMarco was absolutely certain that he heard a familiarity in the operator's tone. Pendley lived there – of that, the man had no doubt – but the Heston's professional staff had been expertly trained in denial. Either way, it would make no difference to what had to come next. Smiling, he watched as the black car that had arrived slowly pulled away, aimlessly weaving into the busy D.C. traffic. "I'm sorry to have troubled you. I must have been misinformed."
"No trouble at all, sir," he heard. "Thank you for your call."
"Thank you."
Deactivating his cellular telephone, the man took a last swallow of coffee before rising from the table and leaving the café.
*****
The lobby was made of deep, stylish mahogany woodwork with rich marble floors and a welcome counter. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. DeMarco nodded at the concierge – a petite brunette wearing a charcoal gray suit accented by a pink blouse with black buttons – as he pushed past the revolving doors and walked up to the counter. A well- dressed young blonde man with a thin, surprisingly dark mustache met him with a rehearsed smile.
"Welcome to the Heston," he said. "How may I help you today?"
From the breast pocket on his suit coat, DeMarco pulled a thick leather wallet. Flipping it open, he showed the silver badge to the man. "Good afternoon," he replied easily. "I am Special Agent Rafael Jaurez with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"Yes, sir. How may I help you?"
"Is the person who heads your hotel security on duty this afternoon?"
"Is there a problem?"
Not wanting to draw too much attention to the badge, DeMarco quickly stuck it away in his coat. "There may be," he explained to the young man, "but I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of my investigation with anyone other than your security chief. Would you call him please?"
"Of course, sir."
Nonchalant, DeMarco stepped away from the counter a few feet. He glanced around the lobby, taking in the surroundings, studying the high windows with their deep velvet curtains and the ornate trim mould that adorned the crease where the walls met the ceiling. It was a rather unobtrusive design – very similar to other buildings he had visited in the greater District of Columbia area – and he suspected that such fundamental similarities only suited whatever Pendley's secret wishes were.
Hearing footsteps behind, he turned and found a barrel-chested man in a black suit approached. Immediately, DeMarco extended his hand, and the man took it.
"Good afternoon," he said, sounding official.
"Thank you for agreeing to speak with me," DeMarco replied, immediately producing the badge he had taken off an FBI agent he had murdered on his last trip to Washington.
"Of course. My name is Fred Gallick. I head up security here for the Heston Properties."
"Heston Properties?" DeMarco raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean to say that there is more than just this building?"
Gallick nodded. "Heston Properties manages several commercial and residential properties through the District of Columbia." Obviously curious, the man glanced around the lobby to make certain no one could overhear. "Is there something I should know, Agent Juarez?"
DeMarco nodded. "Is there a place we may speak privately?"
"We can speak in my office."
"Perfect," he replied. "That would be best."
*****
The Security office was larger – and far more decadent – than DeMarco would've guessed, but he had grown accustomed to the eccentricities of American tastes. More mahogany woodwork and marble floors. A massive wooden desk. Overstuffed rich leather chairs. Several paintings of obvious historical significance with special lighting. A wall of television screens – clearly video footage from security cameras positioned throughout 'high risk' areas of Heston Tower. A large office meant a large ego, and he trusted that Mr. Gallick would only serve as further proof to the long-held hypothesis.
"How can I be of service to the FBI today, Mr. Juarez?" the security head asked, taking a chair behind the desk.
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," DeMarco tried, hoping to gradually bring the man into his confidence. "I've no doubt that you're a very busy man, but, in times like today, the Country appreciates your cooperation."
"It's not a problem."
Sitting before the desk, DeMarco admired the painting hanging on the wall directly behind Gallick. It showed what looked to be a burning village countryside with a long line of peasants, marching in unison, carrying what little belongings they hand. In the blue sky over their heads drifted a single bird – perhaps an eagle – on outstretched wings. DeMarco had seen the painting before – was it in a book? He couldn't remember, but he did recall the name.
"'The Sacrifice of Purpose,'" he said.
Gallick smiled. "You know Verlardi's work?"
"I'm familiar with this piece," he replied. "The ransacked village – destroyed by an unseen marauder – and the plight of the survivors across fertile grounds ... all the while being watched by a solitary bird." He smiled. "Somewhat appropriate for this painting to be found in the office for the director of security, no?"
The director nodded. "I think so."
"You have magnificent taste."
"Thank you, Agent Juarez."
DeMarco waved a hand. "But, of course, I am not here to admire the Heston's decoration."
"I wouldn't presume as much."
He cradled his hands on the arms of chair in which he sat. "Mr. Gallick, I assume the Bureau has provided you with a recent copy of our memorandum on District of Columbia area properties that – based on the properties of their construction – might serve as possible targets in the event of terrorist activity?"
Slowly, Gallick shook his head. "I don't believe I've read anything of the sort," he explained. "Of course, since late 2001, there have been hundreds if not thousands of circulated memos of building fortification against terrorist attack. For months after 9/11, there wasn't a day that something on the subject didn't find its way to my desk or email. I know that I recently requested and received a copy of something which sounds similar to your publication from the Department of Homeland Security."
DeMarco smiled. "The documents are very similar," he lied. "As a matter of fact, much of what was written by the Bureau is predicated on the extensive background of Homeland Security's research."
The director relaxed a bit in his chair. "Well, the government does recycle many of its finer ideas from one agency to another."
"How true. I am curious as to – based upon your readings – how you find that the Heston would survive a possible terrorist event?"
Raising an eyebrow, the man tried, "Are you aware of a specific threat made against our building?"
Immediately, DeMarco held up his hands. "Absolutely not, Mr. Gallick. As you know, those matters are handled directly by Homeland Security in coordination with local law enforcement. I give you my word on that. However, as the Bureau has taken great steps to behave far more proactively in light of probable threats to our country's safety, I am simply doing as I've been instructed, making the rounds – as you say – discussing independent security matters in light of our recent publication."
The director shrugged. "I would imagine, then, that the Heston would meet if not exceed any expectations that Homeland Security or the FBI would ask of us." He held up a hand and ticked of his talking points with his fingers. "First, we're fully automated with surveillance cameras throughout the property. No one – not a single man, woman, or child alive – is walking in or around this building without the activity being put on record. Second, our lobby, shared hallways and conference rooms, as well as the street out front are fitted with state of the art audio surveillance equipment, recently approved by our owner. I'll tell you that the wind doesn't whisper without one of my staff overhearing it. Third, I have at least five trained security personnel on the clock – around the clock – should any incident arise. I wish it were more, but, given the budget, that's all I can afford for this fiscal year. Last, every member of the Heston's staff is fully trained to handle to any and all civil tactical needs as outlined by last year's 'Primary Response Memo' from the CIA." He laid his hand on the desk. "Given our readiness, I can say with absolute certainty that my team would answer the call to duty if it became necessary."
Drawing his lips tight, DeMarco nodded. "That is very reassuring, Mr. Gallick, but – in my conversations with some of the neighboring facilities – I am finding that not staff but guests should be of greater concern."
"Guests?"
"Yes," he answered. "Let me speak more plainly, and I think you will understand. Of course, none of us could've predicted the events of September 11th, and I'm quite certain that all of us remember the lack of substantive immediate response once it was assumed that America, in fact, had been attacked by terrorists."
"Immediate response?" Gallick asked. "What do you mean, agent? I think the President and the entire government did everything possibly ... given what we knew and when we knew it."
"I did not myself clear," DeMarco quickly corrected. "I am not doubting the President's action. I would never question the authority of our nation's highest official. I would, however, question the measure of safety provided to average American citizen." Gesturing at the room, he continued, "For the purposes of hypothetical discussion, what efforts have you placed into motion to secure the lives of your guests, Mr. Gallick? As you well know, Washington is a high profile target – if not the highest. Given that reality, what measures are you willing to take to protect human life?"
Nodding, Gallick explained, "The Heston recently underwent an extensive overhaul to reinforce the subterranean levels of our property."
"Recently?"
"Last year," the man continued. "After our Board of Directors was able to assess what efforts would substantially increase protection of the property and the lives within, they drew up their own plan of action. With the advice of several consulting firms, they agreed that a stronger foundation was necessary were the Heston to ever serve as a target for even a chemical or biological attack. The construction to further stabilize our undergrounds – Levels One through Five – began in March and ended in September." From his top desk drawer, Gallick produced a concise blueprint on 8 ½ by 11 inches laminated cardstock paper. As a schematic, it showed the Tower broken down, by floors, with twenty-five floors above ground and seven below. Laying it on the desk in front of DeMarco, the security director pointed to the blueprint. "You can see here that Levels One and Two were given a cursory overhaul. Most of their space serves primarily as parking facilities for our guests, and it was determined, after some debate, that protecting some Congressional page's BMW wasn't nearly as important as saving the page's life." Tapping a finger to the lowest portion of the construction, he explained, "As a result, the Board of Directors agreed to renovate underground levels Three, Four, Five, Six, and Seven to withstand even an earthquake should one take place."
"What magnitude?"
"I believe the architects felt the substructure could survive up to an eight-point-seven-five on the Richter scale," Gallick answered. "As they explained, it's entirely impossible to construct a truly impenetrable or indestructible residence – especially when you factor in space considerations and maintenance needs for a building the size of the Heston – but we're pretty rock solid by contemporary standards."
DeMarco nodded, clearly impressed. "So, what you're saying is that, in the unlikely event of any terrorist event, your staff and guests would be evacuated into the lowest levels of the Heston?"
The director released a minor grimace. "Well, Levels Three, Four, Five, and Six would be the most likely havens for staff and guests."
"What about Level Seven?"
"Seven is presently occupied by Darlington Industries," Gallick explained. "Their lease is open-ended, and it's co-signed by the Department of Defense."
Feigning confusing, DeMarco tried, "Sir, are you trying to tell me that Level Seven is completely off limits in the event of some catastrophe?"
Quickly, Gallick held up his hands. "No, no, no," he pressed, taking the offensive. "Not entirely. There are simply certain environmental concerns that would have to be justified first before the leaseholders at Darlington would allow civilians into their facility."
"It does not please me to hear that you would place the value of property above the value of human life, Mr. Gallick."
"You have to understand, Agent Juarez," the director responded. "This isn't my decision, nor would it be in the event of any attack. The decision is shared between the Department of Defense and the head of Darlington Technologies." Trying to distance himself from questions he found uncomfortable, Gallick added, "I've been assured that – should the space be needed – any guests of the Heston could be accommodated."
DeMarco shook his head. "I was not aware of this policy," he said firmly, "and I will have to bring it to the attention of my supervisors."
"Please do," Gallick agreed. "I haven't been comfortable with it since the renovation, but there's only so much a man in my position can do." Hoping to appease the agent, he said, "Maybe some prodding on the part of the Federal Bureau of Investigation might get this issue open for greater discussion."
Level Seven. That's where Pendley was. That's where – whatever he was up to – DeMarco knew he had to get. It wouldn't be easy, but, he would have to find some way down there, and it would have to be soon.
"Indeed, Mr. Gallick," DeMarco stated, "I give you my word – one man to another – that something will definitely come of Darlington's decision to hold the value of human life in judgment."
End of Chapter 34
Six Days, Five Hours, Twenty-six Minutes
"Thank you for calling the Heston Tower," the operator automatically announced in perfect, practiced English. "How may I direct your call?"
From Manley's – the coffee shop directly across the street from the Heston – DeMarco sat peacefully, his cell phone pressed to his ear in one hand and his finger curled around the hook of a coffee cup with the other hand. He glanced up at the tall, gray, stone building – the exact place where not so long ago he had watched Arthur Pendley's limousine disappear. He trusted that Pendley was somewhere inside, but he had no possible idea as to where.
"Yes," he replied, noticing the Washington-standard black sedan pull in front of the building. He watched as the young, red-uniformed valet scurried from his duty station over to where the car stopped and idled. The valet opened the door, allowing the vehicle passenger to step from the cool interior into the mid-afternoon sun. Oblivious to the young man, the occupant brushed past, marched toward the Heston's golden revolving door, and disappeared quickly between the twirling metal and glass panes. Focusing his attention back on the telephone call, DeMarco said, "I was hoping you would be so kind as to connect me with Senator Pendley's suite."
"Senator Pendley?"
"Senator Arthur Pendley," DeMarco repeated. "It was my understanding that the senator maintained a private residence at the Heston."
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," the operator said, "but Senator Pendley does not – nor has he ever – retained a residence with the Heston."
DeMarco was absolutely certain that he heard a familiarity in the operator's tone. Pendley lived there – of that, the man had no doubt – but the Heston's professional staff had been expertly trained in denial. Either way, it would make no difference to what had to come next. Smiling, he watched as the black car that had arrived slowly pulled away, aimlessly weaving into the busy D.C. traffic. "I'm sorry to have troubled you. I must have been misinformed."
"No trouble at all, sir," he heard. "Thank you for your call."
"Thank you."
Deactivating his cellular telephone, the man took a last swallow of coffee before rising from the table and leaving the café.
*****
The lobby was made of deep, stylish mahogany woodwork with rich marble floors and a welcome counter. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. DeMarco nodded at the concierge – a petite brunette wearing a charcoal gray suit accented by a pink blouse with black buttons – as he pushed past the revolving doors and walked up to the counter. A well- dressed young blonde man with a thin, surprisingly dark mustache met him with a rehearsed smile.
"Welcome to the Heston," he said. "How may I help you today?"
From the breast pocket on his suit coat, DeMarco pulled a thick leather wallet. Flipping it open, he showed the silver badge to the man. "Good afternoon," he replied easily. "I am Special Agent Rafael Jaurez with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"Yes, sir. How may I help you?"
"Is the person who heads your hotel security on duty this afternoon?"
"Is there a problem?"
Not wanting to draw too much attention to the badge, DeMarco quickly stuck it away in his coat. "There may be," he explained to the young man, "but I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of my investigation with anyone other than your security chief. Would you call him please?"
"Of course, sir."
Nonchalant, DeMarco stepped away from the counter a few feet. He glanced around the lobby, taking in the surroundings, studying the high windows with their deep velvet curtains and the ornate trim mould that adorned the crease where the walls met the ceiling. It was a rather unobtrusive design – very similar to other buildings he had visited in the greater District of Columbia area – and he suspected that such fundamental similarities only suited whatever Pendley's secret wishes were.
Hearing footsteps behind, he turned and found a barrel-chested man in a black suit approached. Immediately, DeMarco extended his hand, and the man took it.
"Good afternoon," he said, sounding official.
"Thank you for agreeing to speak with me," DeMarco replied, immediately producing the badge he had taken off an FBI agent he had murdered on his last trip to Washington.
"Of course. My name is Fred Gallick. I head up security here for the Heston Properties."
"Heston Properties?" DeMarco raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean to say that there is more than just this building?"
Gallick nodded. "Heston Properties manages several commercial and residential properties through the District of Columbia." Obviously curious, the man glanced around the lobby to make certain no one could overhear. "Is there something I should know, Agent Juarez?"
DeMarco nodded. "Is there a place we may speak privately?"
"We can speak in my office."
"Perfect," he replied. "That would be best."
*****
The Security office was larger – and far more decadent – than DeMarco would've guessed, but he had grown accustomed to the eccentricities of American tastes. More mahogany woodwork and marble floors. A massive wooden desk. Overstuffed rich leather chairs. Several paintings of obvious historical significance with special lighting. A wall of television screens – clearly video footage from security cameras positioned throughout 'high risk' areas of Heston Tower. A large office meant a large ego, and he trusted that Mr. Gallick would only serve as further proof to the long-held hypothesis.
"How can I be of service to the FBI today, Mr. Juarez?" the security head asked, taking a chair behind the desk.
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," DeMarco tried, hoping to gradually bring the man into his confidence. "I've no doubt that you're a very busy man, but, in times like today, the Country appreciates your cooperation."
"It's not a problem."
Sitting before the desk, DeMarco admired the painting hanging on the wall directly behind Gallick. It showed what looked to be a burning village countryside with a long line of peasants, marching in unison, carrying what little belongings they hand. In the blue sky over their heads drifted a single bird – perhaps an eagle – on outstretched wings. DeMarco had seen the painting before – was it in a book? He couldn't remember, but he did recall the name.
"'The Sacrifice of Purpose,'" he said.
Gallick smiled. "You know Verlardi's work?"
"I'm familiar with this piece," he replied. "The ransacked village – destroyed by an unseen marauder – and the plight of the survivors across fertile grounds ... all the while being watched by a solitary bird." He smiled. "Somewhat appropriate for this painting to be found in the office for the director of security, no?"
The director nodded. "I think so."
"You have magnificent taste."
"Thank you, Agent Juarez."
DeMarco waved a hand. "But, of course, I am not here to admire the Heston's decoration."
"I wouldn't presume as much."
He cradled his hands on the arms of chair in which he sat. "Mr. Gallick, I assume the Bureau has provided you with a recent copy of our memorandum on District of Columbia area properties that – based on the properties of their construction – might serve as possible targets in the event of terrorist activity?"
Slowly, Gallick shook his head. "I don't believe I've read anything of the sort," he explained. "Of course, since late 2001, there have been hundreds if not thousands of circulated memos of building fortification against terrorist attack. For months after 9/11, there wasn't a day that something on the subject didn't find its way to my desk or email. I know that I recently requested and received a copy of something which sounds similar to your publication from the Department of Homeland Security."
DeMarco smiled. "The documents are very similar," he lied. "As a matter of fact, much of what was written by the Bureau is predicated on the extensive background of Homeland Security's research."
The director relaxed a bit in his chair. "Well, the government does recycle many of its finer ideas from one agency to another."
"How true. I am curious as to – based upon your readings – how you find that the Heston would survive a possible terrorist event?"
Raising an eyebrow, the man tried, "Are you aware of a specific threat made against our building?"
Immediately, DeMarco held up his hands. "Absolutely not, Mr. Gallick. As you know, those matters are handled directly by Homeland Security in coordination with local law enforcement. I give you my word on that. However, as the Bureau has taken great steps to behave far more proactively in light of probable threats to our country's safety, I am simply doing as I've been instructed, making the rounds – as you say – discussing independent security matters in light of our recent publication."
The director shrugged. "I would imagine, then, that the Heston would meet if not exceed any expectations that Homeland Security or the FBI would ask of us." He held up a hand and ticked of his talking points with his fingers. "First, we're fully automated with surveillance cameras throughout the property. No one – not a single man, woman, or child alive – is walking in or around this building without the activity being put on record. Second, our lobby, shared hallways and conference rooms, as well as the street out front are fitted with state of the art audio surveillance equipment, recently approved by our owner. I'll tell you that the wind doesn't whisper without one of my staff overhearing it. Third, I have at least five trained security personnel on the clock – around the clock – should any incident arise. I wish it were more, but, given the budget, that's all I can afford for this fiscal year. Last, every member of the Heston's staff is fully trained to handle to any and all civil tactical needs as outlined by last year's 'Primary Response Memo' from the CIA." He laid his hand on the desk. "Given our readiness, I can say with absolute certainty that my team would answer the call to duty if it became necessary."
Drawing his lips tight, DeMarco nodded. "That is very reassuring, Mr. Gallick, but – in my conversations with some of the neighboring facilities – I am finding that not staff but guests should be of greater concern."
"Guests?"
"Yes," he answered. "Let me speak more plainly, and I think you will understand. Of course, none of us could've predicted the events of September 11th, and I'm quite certain that all of us remember the lack of substantive immediate response once it was assumed that America, in fact, had been attacked by terrorists."
"Immediate response?" Gallick asked. "What do you mean, agent? I think the President and the entire government did everything possibly ... given what we knew and when we knew it."
"I did not myself clear," DeMarco quickly corrected. "I am not doubting the President's action. I would never question the authority of our nation's highest official. I would, however, question the measure of safety provided to average American citizen." Gesturing at the room, he continued, "For the purposes of hypothetical discussion, what efforts have you placed into motion to secure the lives of your guests, Mr. Gallick? As you well know, Washington is a high profile target – if not the highest. Given that reality, what measures are you willing to take to protect human life?"
Nodding, Gallick explained, "The Heston recently underwent an extensive overhaul to reinforce the subterranean levels of our property."
"Recently?"
"Last year," the man continued. "After our Board of Directors was able to assess what efforts would substantially increase protection of the property and the lives within, they drew up their own plan of action. With the advice of several consulting firms, they agreed that a stronger foundation was necessary were the Heston to ever serve as a target for even a chemical or biological attack. The construction to further stabilize our undergrounds – Levels One through Five – began in March and ended in September." From his top desk drawer, Gallick produced a concise blueprint on 8 ½ by 11 inches laminated cardstock paper. As a schematic, it showed the Tower broken down, by floors, with twenty-five floors above ground and seven below. Laying it on the desk in front of DeMarco, the security director pointed to the blueprint. "You can see here that Levels One and Two were given a cursory overhaul. Most of their space serves primarily as parking facilities for our guests, and it was determined, after some debate, that protecting some Congressional page's BMW wasn't nearly as important as saving the page's life." Tapping a finger to the lowest portion of the construction, he explained, "As a result, the Board of Directors agreed to renovate underground levels Three, Four, Five, Six, and Seven to withstand even an earthquake should one take place."
"What magnitude?"
"I believe the architects felt the substructure could survive up to an eight-point-seven-five on the Richter scale," Gallick answered. "As they explained, it's entirely impossible to construct a truly impenetrable or indestructible residence – especially when you factor in space considerations and maintenance needs for a building the size of the Heston – but we're pretty rock solid by contemporary standards."
DeMarco nodded, clearly impressed. "So, what you're saying is that, in the unlikely event of any terrorist event, your staff and guests would be evacuated into the lowest levels of the Heston?"
The director released a minor grimace. "Well, Levels Three, Four, Five, and Six would be the most likely havens for staff and guests."
"What about Level Seven?"
"Seven is presently occupied by Darlington Industries," Gallick explained. "Their lease is open-ended, and it's co-signed by the Department of Defense."
Feigning confusing, DeMarco tried, "Sir, are you trying to tell me that Level Seven is completely off limits in the event of some catastrophe?"
Quickly, Gallick held up his hands. "No, no, no," he pressed, taking the offensive. "Not entirely. There are simply certain environmental concerns that would have to be justified first before the leaseholders at Darlington would allow civilians into their facility."
"It does not please me to hear that you would place the value of property above the value of human life, Mr. Gallick."
"You have to understand, Agent Juarez," the director responded. "This isn't my decision, nor would it be in the event of any attack. The decision is shared between the Department of Defense and the head of Darlington Technologies." Trying to distance himself from questions he found uncomfortable, Gallick added, "I've been assured that – should the space be needed – any guests of the Heston could be accommodated."
DeMarco shook his head. "I was not aware of this policy," he said firmly, "and I will have to bring it to the attention of my supervisors."
"Please do," Gallick agreed. "I haven't been comfortable with it since the renovation, but there's only so much a man in my position can do." Hoping to appease the agent, he said, "Maybe some prodding on the part of the Federal Bureau of Investigation might get this issue open for greater discussion."
Level Seven. That's where Pendley was. That's where – whatever he was up to – DeMarco knew he had to get. It wouldn't be easy, but, he would have to find some way down there, and it would have to be soon.
"Indeed, Mr. Gallick," DeMarco stated, "I give you my word – one man to another – that something will definitely come of Darlington's decision to hold the value of human life in judgment."
End of Chapter 34