Good Sam

by Dete Meserve

  I searched my memory for what I was doing Wednesday afternoon and came up blank. “I don’t know.”

  “Actually you do. Because I was with you. And your cameraman.” He cradled the coffee mug in his hands and leaned back in his seat. “That’s when we first met. Now that’s pretty convincing proof, isn’t it?”

  I grinned. “That’s some fairly good evidence, but you should know I’m never one hundred percent convinced about anything.”

  He glanced back at his iPad. “Here’s more then. The article goes on to mention three other people who received one hundred thousand dollars that day—Tanya Harris, Carlos Cabrillo, and Jocelyn Frierson. All of them say they found a bag stamped with the number eight on their front porch sometime between four and six o’clock, the same time I was meeting with you.”

  He handed me the iPad and I scanned the Times article. With a sinking feeling, I realized Channel Eleven had not known about—much less reported on—a single one of these Good Sam recipients.

  “Have you considered the idea that there might be a copycat Good Sam out there?” he said. “Look at how many people reported that they received a hundred thousand dollars that day. Four people in one day. And unlike the first few, who were spread out throughout the county, these new ones are all clustered on one area of the map—Pacific Palisades, Manhattan Beach, El Segundo, and Venice.”

  “You’ve got a great eye,” I said, picking up my phone. “Even the Times didn’t spot the pattern you’re talking about. Mind if I call the newsroom about this?”

  “Now are you convinced I’m not him?”

  “I don’t know.” I smiled. “Maybe if we kept watch over you one night and made sure you didn’t go anywhere.”

  “I might like that.” His lips parted in a slight grin. “Your keeping watch over me one night.”

  His words threw me off balance. Our eyes met, and neither of us said a word. The moment that enveloped us drowned out the hissing of the coffee machines, muffled the clatter of plates and silverware, and silenced the conversations around us.

  His cell phone vibrated then, skittering on the tabletop and breaking the spell. He glanced at it and frowned. “Captain Hayes,” he answered. I watched him listen for a moment and then respond. “I’ll be en route in a few minutes.” He ended the call and met my gaze. “I’m really sorry to jump like this,” he said, tossing a few bills on the table. “There’s a warehouse fire downtown. Some people are missing, so we have to do a search operation.”

  “I understand.”

  He started to leave, but then turned around. “I almost forgot. Happy Birthday.”

  “How did you—”

  “Your news photographer told me that too. Can we do this again…maybe celebrate your birthday?”

  I smiled, more broadly than I’d intended.

  David Dyal was the only person in the Fish Bowl when I arrived for the assignment meeting that morning. He was dressed in his usual pinstripe shirt—today it was blue and white—and khaki pants with brown suede suspenders. He sat at the head of the empty conference table, reading the newspaper on his iPad.

  “Am I early?” I asked.

  “Close the door,” he said without looking up. He was massaging his right ear.

  You know you’re in trouble when David Dyal rubs his ear. If he’s bored, he runs his fingers through his hair. If a story is mildly interesting, he brushes his hand back and forth across his chin as he listens. But when he’s unhappy or under pressure, he rubs his right ear. Sometimes with a pencil. Sometimes with his hand. Always his right ear.

  I closed the door and sat down in the chair next to him. “What’s going on?”

  “Any idea how this happened?” he asked. He waved the Times article about Good Sam at me. “How they managed to score exclusive interviews with four people who received a hundred thousand dollars and we didn’t even report it?” I opened my mouth to answer, but he cut me off. “You know, your years on the Bummer Beat haven’t exactly prepared you for a story like this, Kate.” His words fell like crushing weights. “The networks are putting their best reporters out there to cover it. I think you’re in way over your head on this one.”

  “Is this supposed to be a pep talk? Because if it is, I’m not feeling—”

  “Look, Bonnie is furious about this. She wants to bring on someone with a higher profile.”

  “I don’t—”

  “She wants Susan Andrews,” he said flatly.

  Anger lit my nerves. “She wants Susan to take over my story?” Before David could answer, I put up my hand to stop him. “I broke this one. I miss this development and you guys want to give the assignment to Susan?”

  “Kate,” he said with a sigh. From his tone, I knew a lecture was heading my way. “You know how it works. This story is big. Really big. Bonnie wants the most recognized face—the one with the highest profile—on this. It’s an insurance policy. If we fail and another station finds Good Sam before we do or nabs better ratings than we do, we can say we put our best talent out there. It won’t be our fault. But if we put you out there and you fail, everyone will question why we put the Bummer Beat reporter on one of the biggest stories of the year.”

  I wanted to shout at him or at least kick a trash can or toss a swear word around. But I knew better. The last reporter who threw a tantrum about an assignment ended up covering the Department of Public Works’ sediment removal projects for two weeks straight.

  “So I don’t have any say in this.” My voice sounded far away, even to me. “You and Bonnie are taking me off the story. For no reason.”

  “I’m saying you should focus your energies on your strengths, Kate—breaking news. And if you’re tired of that, maybe it’s time you reconsidered the political beat.”

  It was my turn to sigh. “We’ve been through this before. I don’t want to cover the political beat.”

  He leaned back in his chair, and for the first time, he looked at me. “I’ve always thought that was a mistake, you know. Your father’s connections could get you access to just about every policymaker in the country. It could propel you to becoming one of the top political pundits on TV news someday.”

  “A reporter is always looking for a story, right? Well, I already know what stories I’d find on the political beat. Hypocrisy, bribery, dishonesty. Philandering politicians. Besides, I don’t want to be a pundit. I want to report the news.”

  David wasn’t listening. In fact he was looking at something on his phone. “Thanks for taking this so well, Kate.”

  I must have been giving an award-winning performance in there, because I wasn’t taking it well at all. Anger and disappointment flushed my face. My hands were clenched so tight my knuckles had turned white.

  The psychic had been wrong. I wasn’t going to find Good Sam. But that wasn’t what was bothering me; I never expected her to be right. I only wanted her to be right.

  I had forged a strange connection to the Good Sam story. Call it reporter’s intuition or gut instincts or plain old self-deception, but I actually felt I was on a path to discovering who Good Sam was—even though I didn’t have any solid leads.

  Riding on that anger, I marched out of the Fish Bowl. Some birthday this turned out to be. I got twenty steps away and then stopped. I considered going back to demand that he put me back on Good Sam. But then I lost my resolve, and it was all I could do to make my way to my desk.

  A deafening boom startled me awake the next morning. I shot straight up in bed, instantly alert, trying to identify the source. The last time I’d heard a mammoth sound like that, a meth lab had exploded in a Hollywood apartment building six blocks away. I’d been the first reporter on the scene that night, the first to break the story at the top of our eleven o’clock newscast. Would it be too much to hope for another meth-lab explosion?

  A flash of light pierced the darkness. Then I heard the drumming sound of rain pelting the roof. I groaned and burrowed under the covers.

  I hate it when it rains in Los Angeles. I don�
�t own a real raincoat or boots, and I never can remember where I put any of the three umbrellas I own. And no one looks good in the rain, especially TV reporters in station-issued storm gear that adds twenty pounds.

  On the plus side, rain brought with it a whole slew of great story possibilities. Mudslides in the mountains and canyons. Flooding in the water-control channels. Hubcap-deep water. Car collisions. Stalled traffic on the freeways. Power outages. Stories that got plenty of airtime.

  I tried to convince myself that the extra airtime would make up for my being ripped from the Good Sam story, but it wasn’t working. I was still smarting from the offense and considered making my case directly to Bonnie Ungar. But so far everyone who had gone into her office to complain about anything came out unemployed. Okay, maybe she wasn’t actually that trigger-happy, but I figured I’d wait a bit, allow Susan Andrews to disappoint them too, then make my case.

  I hurried through a two-minute shower, threw on some wrinkle-resistant pants, grabbed the station-issued rain jacket and matching blue umbrella, and hurried out the door. Los Angeles is utter chaos when it rains. The streets turn into a real-life version of bumper cars where vehicles skid, spin, and slam into each other the minute the rain hits the pavement. Some pundits have theorized that because it rains so infrequently, oil and grime collect on the freeways, making them unusually slick. I suspect the real reason is that Los Angeles drivers spend so much time in their cars driving under blue skies and sunshine that we don’t think of driving as an activity that requires attention, skill, and, yes, caution.

  My commute to the station took fifteen minutes longer than usual, but I was grateful that I had arrived without getting stuck in standstill traffic or caught in a fender bender.

  “We got team coverage today, folks,” David Dyal said, rushing into the assignment meeting. “Weather Service says this storm is going to dump three inches in the next twenty-four hours. I need three of you on Storm Watch. Charles, Orange County. Ted, you cover inland and the Valley.” He motioned to me with his Dr Pepper can. “Kate, you’ve got Malibu and the beach communities.”

  I smiled. Even the possibility of a mudslide in any of the beach communities was a guarantee of airtime. Lots of it. And not just in Los Angeles. Network news. Viewers around the country can’t get enough of watching nature in all its unpredictable glory putting multimillion-dollar homes in harm’s way.

  There were no reports yet of mudslides or accidents in Malibu, but Josh and I headed that way so we’d be there if any news broke. Not that I was wishing tragedy upon anyone, but I did hope something newsworthy would happen to make the trip worthwhile. Otherwise I’d have to do a dreaded “reaction story,” which would require standing in the downpour and interviewing drivers about how the rain was ruining their commute.

  We hadn’t been on the road very long before David’s voice crackled over the two-way radio. “A boy has fallen in the river in Malibu Canyon. How fast can you get there?”

  “Be there in five,” Josh answered.

  My throat constricted. “Is the fire department on the scene?”

  “They are, but they can’t get to him,” David said. “Chopper Eleven is on its way. Feed it live when you get there.”

  I couldn’t move. Although adrenaline sped through my veins, I had a bad feeling about this story.

  Stan McCort, the reporter in Chopper Eleven, had a bird’s-eye view of the canyon. “Looks like the fire department’s got the canyon blocked off,” he said. “You won’t be able to get a clear shot.”

  “What about the turnout on Mountain Pass? Can I get a shot from there?” Josh called out.

  “Yeah, if you can find it in this downpour.”

  Josh knew exactly where it was. I’m pretty sure he had a photographic memory of just about every square mile of Los Angeles County. The narrow mountain roads were slick with rain, but he drove with confidence, smoothly navigating the sharp curves and avoiding the rocks and debris that had tumbled onto the road. Then he screeched to a halt, sliding three feet before we pulled to a stop at a narrow turnout.

  “The boy’s moving downstream in your direction,” Stan shouted over the radio.

  With practiced calm, Josh jumped out of the van to raise the antenna that would beam our signal back to the station. I put on the earpiece that would connect me to Stan and the control room at the station, zipped up my station-issued storm gear, and opened the door. A strong wet gust yanked it out of my hand, drenching me from head to toe in chilly rain.

  “The fire department has deployed multiple units along the stream but hasn’t been able to intercept the boy,” Stan said. “He’s moving fast. Wearing a white T-shirt, Kate.”

  I peered over the rim of the canyon into the swirling waters four hundred feet below and felt my head spin. I backed away and leaned against the side of the van.

  “You all right?” Josh shouted, hoisting the camera on his shoulder and aiming it into the canyon.

  I signaled him with a thumbs-up. But I wasn’t okay. The memories stabbed at me like splinters of glass. I tasted the nausea in my throat and tried to catch my breath. I was drowning again, but this time in slow motion. My body, leaden and heavy, sunk into the milky depths. I felt the bone-chilling cold of the water, the scrape of the rocks and debris against my skin, the searing pain in my lungs as I was dragged deep into the turbid darkness.

  “Coming to you live in four minutes, Kate,” Craig from the control room said in my earpiece.

  “Okay,” I replied, surprised at the steadiness of my voice.

  “Stan and Josh,” Craig continued. “The rain is making it a little fuzzy but we’ve got picture from both of you. We’re recording and will roll the footage hot when we come to Kate live in four.”

  From around the bend, a fire department helicopter buzzed downstream carrying a man suspended from a cable about forty feet below the helicopter. I wasn’t sure what they were doing until I saw a white flash in the water.

  The boy.

  The helicopter chased the boy downstream, matching his speed. The rescuer on the wire grabbed for him, but the current was strong and pulled the boy away. The helicopter attempted a second pass, but when the rescuer reached for the boy this time, the child went under. The helicopter lifted up, pulling the rescuer thirty feet into the air, and hovered.

  “The Malibu Tunnel is about five hundred yards downstream,” Stan shouted. “If they don’t get him before then, he’s in for a very bumpy ride.”

  Suddenly the rescuer detached himself from the rope and plunged thirty feet into the rushing whitewater below. He swam around the rocks and eddies, quickly covering the territory where the boy was last seen, then dove underneath. Seconds ticked by. Every nerve in my body was on edge. With each passing moment, the chances of this boy surviving were slipping away.

  “Anyone see the rescuer?” Josh asked, his camera trained on the rushing water.

  I scanned the rugged terrain with my binoculars, but all I could see was the water rushing over the rocks and chaparral, and the helicopter hovering above the swollen stream. After a while the rescuer had been gone so long that I’d lost track of where he’d last been.

  “Can’t see anything from here,” Stan said, his voice solemn.

  The sky darkened and the rain began to blow sideways. I scanned the water again, praying for my eyes to glimpse anything that might suggest the rescuer and the boy were alive.

  “Looks like the rescuer’s down,” Stan said. “They’re calling for backup.”

  It was a good thing we weren’t on the air live because the situation had taken an abrupt, somber turn that can be difficult to report on live. Words fail you in moments like these. Even though I’d reported on many failed rescues, it’s never easy telling the tragic story of lost lives, especially young ones.

  Suddenly the rescuer popped straight out of the water, his arms wrapped firmly around the boy. I loosened my death grip on the handle of my umbrella. As I watched the helicopter swoop over them, tears warmed my eyes. A
mixture of exhilaration and awe swept over me. This was why I covered the Bummer Beat—for the moment when a life is saved, a crisis is averted, and good triumphs.

  “The boy’s not moving,” Stan said in a hushed whisper.

  I’d been too optimistic. I peered through my binoculars and held my breath, afraid of what I might see. The boy, no more than seven years old, didn’t move as the rescuer placed a strap around his chest and clipped the strap to the cable.

  With the rescuer and boy still attached to the line below, the helicopter took off up the canyon. In my binoculars, I saw the rescuer, hanging a hundred feet above the water, perform CPR on the boy’s limp body. I struggled not to cry, but tears burned at the corners of my eyes.

  The helicopter ascended up the steep canyon, clearing treetops and rock outcroppings, with the rescuer and boy spinning below. That’s when I saw the set of high-tension wires draped from rim to rim across the canyon about five hundred feet from the ground. Like a silent enemy, they threatened to snag the rescuer and the boy, dangling like a tetherball below the helicopter.

  The helicopter inched closer and closer to the wires. In the thick gray air and fog, I wondered whether the pilot could see the thin lines. Then the helicopter pitched upward several hundred feet, pulling the rescuer and the boy with it, deftly clearing the wires.

  “Damn,” Josh said with a choke in his voice.

  “Kate,” Craig said through my earpiece, “coming to you in sixty. Ready?”

  “Ready.” The sound of my voice, calm and assured, surprised me again.

  “He’s got a pulse,” Craig said. “We’ve got Urban Search and Rescue on the line. They say the boy’s got a pulse again.”

  There was an excited whoop in my earpiece that sounded like it came from Stan. Josh rushed over, slapped a microphone into my hand and trained his camera on me. I ran my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to correct the mess the rain had made, then adjusted my earpiece, listening for the “breaking news” intro and waiting for my cue from the anchor, Mark Edwards.