Good Sam

by Dete Meserve

  “Exclusive.”

  Before I knew it, he leaned forward, cupped my face in his hands, and kissed me. I can’t say that I didn’t like it, because I did. It reminded me of the taste of him, of the excitement of being with him for the first time, of another time. Before.

  I broke off the kiss. His eyes searched mine, trying to gauge my reaction. “That guy, Eric. He isn’t—”

  “He isn’t anyone we’re going to talk about.” I headed for the door. “See you tomorrow. Ten o’clock sharp.”

  David Dyal wasn’t rubbing his ear. He was pounding the desk with his fist.

  “What did we agree on in Bonnie’s office yesterday?” he shouted. “Weren’t you supposed to hand off any leads to Susan?”

  My temper flared, but I kept my voice calm. “He contacted me and said he wouldn’t show if I brought—”

  “You should have given this to Susan.”

  “I score the interview that every network and news outlet has been vying for, and all you can say is that I should’ve given this to Susan?”

  He stared at me and then slowly sank into his chair. “How do you know he’s the real deal?”

  “Jack and his father own Hansen Investments, one of the largest investment banking firms in Southern California. We sent the proof Jack provided to Phil Hayden, the forensic accountant we used on the bank-scam story last month. He reviewed the records and confirmed that Jack did earn north of a million dollars on an IPO a few weeks ago. He also confirmed that Jack withdrew over a million dollars from various accounts in the last few weeks.”

  “That doesn’t mean he actually withdrew it to give it away.”

  “Right. It only proves that Jack has the means to give away that kind of money. But you should know that his father is William Hansen.”

  “Treasury secretary under Carter?”

  “Reagan.”

  “That gives him credibility,” he said. “But why does a guy like that give so much money away like this?”

  “He says he did it because he wanted to give directly and anonymously. He never expected all the media attention.”

  “You expect me to believe that a guy like him—a guy who grew up in a political family whose every move was followed by reporters—didn’t expect a media frenzy when he anonymously gave away a boatload of cash?”

  “Did any of us expect this kind of reaction to this story?” I asked quietly. “Who would’ve thought viewers would be obsessed with the Good Sam story when the biggest stories last week were the train derailment, the freeway chase in Gardena, and the bank shootout in Burbank?”

  David tapped a pen on his desk. “Let’s say for the moment he’s the real deal. Why did he pick you to tell his story?”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “I knew Jack before he came forward as Good Sam. We were engaged once.”

  He stared at me in complete silence. “That isn’t reassuring me,” he said finally. “In fact that’s a real problem. Your objectivity is compromised.”

  “No other reporter will be tougher on him than I will be.”

  He sat in his chair and rubbed his temples. “Viewers won’t see it that way. They’ll see that you’re not an objective news reporter but a biased former fiancée.” He took a swig of his Dr Pepper. “Why didn’t you marry him?”

  “A lot of reasons. Reasons that are between him and me.”

  “Your private life will become part of the story. You want that?”

  “Not really. No.”

  “You’ve got to see there’s a serious conflict of interest here.” He was silent for a long moment, tapping his pencil on the desk. “Susan should do the interview. Viewers will perceive her as more objective.”

  Although I knew he was right, I felt like I’d been socked in the gut. “He won’t do the interview with anyone but me,” I said, enjoying the power in those words. “He gave me an exclusive.”

  “We’ll see about that,” David said.

  Chapter Ten

  There’d be no network debut for me. No local prime-time special. No exclusive interview. No report.

  Good Sam, Jack, didn’t show. It was past eleven—more than an hour past the time we’d set for the interview—and David had assembled the station’s best crew in studio one. Our top director, Theresa Myers, had been pulled off another assignment to direct this segment, and the set had been lit with the careful attention usually reserved for distinguished guests like the governor or George Clooney.

  Some of the staff had gathered at closed-circuit monitors around the station to witness their first glimpse of Good Sam. But all they saw were two empty chairs on the interview set.

  I’d chosen to wear a red sweater dress with a long gold chain, one of the most camera-friendly dresses in my wardrobe. I’d even arrived more than an hour early so that the hair stylist could blow-dry my hair to perfection. All for nothing.

  “What do you mean you can’t find him?” David demanded. His face was bright red, as though he were suffering from a bad case of windburn.

  “He’s staying at the Biltmore, but they say he’s not in his room,”

  “We also paged him at the hotel,” Alex added. “But he’s not anywhere on the grounds.”

  “I called his office at Hansen Investments, and they tried his cell, but he didn’t answer,” I said. “His secretary said he sometimes forgets his phone and carries another phone. But she couldn’t give out that number.”

  David downed the rest of his Dr Pepper. “I’ve got every executive at this station and two people at the network waiting for this interview. What are you going to do?”

  I felt sweat break out on my upper lip. Was it better to end the humiliation now and cancel the interview? I wasn’t sure I could stand any more frustrated looks and doubtful glances from the crew as they waited impatiently for Jack to show.

  “Maybe Good Sam’s decided to give his exclusive interview somewhere else,” Susan offered to no one in particular.

  I didn’t even have to look at her to know she was enjoying this awkward moment.

  “I’ll give him ten more minutes,” David said. “Then we shut this baby down.”

  That’s when I remembered the cell phone Jack had sent me for my birthday. Hadn’t he said he’d programmed all his phone numbers into it? I ran back to my desk, grabbed the cell phone from my top drawer, and press the On button, praying the battery hadn’t run down.

  The ping of the phone turning on was the sweetest sound I’d heard all morning. I scrolled through the preprogrammed numbers. Sure enough, Jack had programmed in all his numbers: Jack—Home, Jack—Work, Jack—Cell, and Jack—Cell2. I pressed the button for Cell2 and waited for it to ring.

  “Hello,” he answered.

  “Jack, where are you?” I said with steel in my voice.

  “On my way to see you.”

  “You said we’d do the interview at ten. We’ve been waiting for over an hour. What’s been keeping you?”

  “Sounds like you’ve been missing me,” he said, his tone silky smooth. “Have you?”

  What was he talking about? “When we didn’t hear from you, we thought maybe you weren’t coming.”

  “Now why would you think that? I’d never walk out on you like you walked out on me.”

  His words hit me full force. Was he being deliberately late just to make a point? To make me pay for walking out on him at our engagement party?

  I bit my tongue. “When do you think you’ll be here?”

  “You sound like you missed me. I like that.”

  “When will you be here, Jack?”

  “About fifteen minutes. I guess the cell phone I gave you came in handy after all. Didn’t I say you’d want to use it to get hold of me?”

  As he hung up, my stomach clenched in a knot. I was beginning to worry about the price I’d have to pay for this interview with Good Sam.

  Like a rock star who had kept his fans waiting, Jack Hansen strode into the room projecting nothing but radiant self-confidence. Dressed in a tailored dar
k-blue suit, white shirt, and crimson tie, he was the perfect image of a successful businessman, definitely the kind of person who one might imagine could be Good Sam.

  Every eye in the studio was on him as he took my hand in his and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Sorry I’m late.”

  David stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m David Dyal, Channel Eleven’s assignment editor.”

  “Good to meet you, David,” Jack answered.

  David wasted no time in making his case. “Look, Jack. There’s a serious conflict of interest here because of your relationship with Kate, and we’d prefer that you did the interview with another one of our award-winning reporters, Susan Andrews.” He motioned toward Susan, who was standing by a teleprompter, fully made up and ready to do the interview.

  Jack glanced at her and then laid his gaze on me. “I understand your predicament, David. I do. But if that’s your decision, then I won’t be doing an interview with Channel Eleven.”

  David rubbed his ear. “Understand that being interviewed by Susan is not only best for Channel Eleven, but given the circumstances, it’s also in your best interests.”

  “I’ll decide what’s in my best interests,” Jack drawled. “And now it seems it’s not in my best interests to do an interview at all.” He turned to me. “I’m sorry, Kate. I think you know I didn’t want the media attention. And I only agreed to go on camera because you were going to do the interview.”

  As he headed toward the door, my stomach sank to the floor. But that was nothing compared to what Susan Andrews must have felt because the look on her face was complete, utter shock. In her entire career, I’m certain no one had ever turned down an interview with her. Not with her class beauty and gentle, west Texas lilt.

  “Wait,” David called after Jack. “Let’s see if we can work this out.”

  With frantic energy that comes from waiting around for two hours, the sound guy clipped a microphone to Jack’s lapel and hid the wire in his jacket. As the lighting guys scurried around making minor adjustments now that Jack was sitting in the chair, David waved me over to a corner of the studio.

  “Bonnie’s giving you the green light to do this interview,” he said. “But only if you get Jack to sign an agreement granting the network an exclusive. For seven days he can’t be interviewed by anyone else.”

  I flipped through the eight-page document in a type size only a fly could read. “You want me to get him to sign this right now? On set. Before the interview.”

  He sighed. “All right, do the interview first. But when it’s over, get him to sign it. Once this story airs, he’s going to get calls from just about every reporter and journalist in the country. We need this to be exclusive.”

  I took my seat on the set across from Jack. I didn’t like needing anything from him, yet I was beginning to feel my entire career depended on what he did in the next several minutes.

  “Guys,” Jack said, addressing the crew, “I’m very sorry for being late. I know you all have busy schedules, and I appreciate your waiting for me.”

  That got bonus points with the director, Theresa. “I’ll wait for you,” she said my earpiece. “How come you’re getting to interview all the good-looking ones lately, Kate?”

  I was still too nervous to even crack a smile. My pulse raced so fast that I was sure the microphone clipped to my jacket could pick up the sound of my thudding heartbeat. It wasn’t only the crushing pressure of doing a good interview, but after my phone conversation with Jack, I worried there’d be a stiff undercurrent to the interview.

  I needn’t have worried. Jack was one of the smoothest, most dynamic people I’d ever interviewed. Considering that most of the interviews I’d done before had been with the victims of—and witnesses to—crimes and disasters, that wasn’t saying much, I know. But Jack eased into the interview as if he was born to be on television.

  “For the past two weeks, much of the country has been speculating about the identity of the man who anonymously gave away one million dollars to Los Angeles residents. Thousands of inches of newsprint and countless minutes of airtime have been devoted to this person, a man we’ve been calling Good Sam,” I said. “Yesterday, Jack Hansen, cofounder of Hansen Investments, admitted he was behind the generous and anonymous gifts. Jack, are you Good Sam?”

  “Yes, I am,” he answered.

  “Tell us why you gave away so much money.”

  “My investment firm has done extraordinarily well. When a recent investment did better than I’d expected, I decided to give away all the profits, which totaled well over a million dollars. There’s no point in earning money if you can’t use it to make a difference.”

  “How did you decide who would receive the money?”

  “Most charities already target the poorest people in our communities: the homeless, the chronically unemployed, the unskilled, those living well below the poverty line. I think that’s important and necessary. My philosophy as Good Sam is this. It’s not only those who’ve hit rock bottom who deserve help. Corporate mergers, globalization, recessions, tax cuts for the super wealthy—these all have the effect of punishing all Americans. What about those who appear to be getting by on their own? The man who works two jobs to put a roof over his family’s head, who pays his taxes, yet still fights to make ends meet? He doesn’t qualify for food stamps or low-cost housing or handouts from charities. He’s laboring longer, earning less, and has fewer job protections than he did twenty-five years ago. Yet few government programs or charities address his needs.”

  “Yet some of the people you helped were not needy or poor. For example, you gave to a professor and a neurosurgeon. Why?”

  “You’re right. I gave to people in a wide variety of professions and financial circumstances. But most of the money went to the people who keep the factories and stores running, who fix our cars and our plumbing, who bake our bread and serve our coffee, who teach our children in school. They are the soldiers of our everyday lives, and they cannot and should not be forgotten.”

  I’d never heard Jack speak like this before. He was eloquent, sure of himself, and solid in his convictions. “Why did you give the money anonymously?”

  “The best way to give is when neither the recipient nor the donor knows the other’s identity. I never wanted or expected the attention this simple act of giving would attract.”

  “Then why come forward now?”

  “Many people were claiming to be me, and my actions were being appropriated and twisted by others for their own purposes. I wanted to set the record straight about who I am and what I’m hoping to accomplish.”

  “Will you continue to give as Good Sam?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.” He cracked a smile. “Although it appears that it’ll be difficult to continue to give anonymously.”

  David’s voice came though my earpiece. “Ask him the significance of the number eight on the bags.”

  I hesitated, knowing Jack’s answer could subject me to questions about our relationship. “A lot of viewers are curious to know why you stamped the number eight on the canvas bags that held the money.”

  He met my gaze and held it. “Let’s just say that eight is a lucky number for me. I’m not the superstitious type, but that number has brought me and those I love good luck a number of times.”

  “What’s your reaction to all the attention that’s being paid to Good Sam?”

  “I have to say I’m not all that comfortable with it. I don’t think such a big deal should be made about giving away money—something all of us in higher-income brackets should be doing anyway. But I’m starting to see that it’s an opportunity to get people thinking about their own giving and how they too can make a difference.”

  “Your father is former treasury secretary William Hansen. What does he think about what you’ve done?”

  “Well, actually, I haven’t talked to him about it, but I think he’d approve. He always says the greatest thing you can do is to help others.”

  I knew when
the interview was over that it was the best interview of my career. As much as I was proud of myself for handling it, I was even more amazed at Jack. His answers were polished and short—perfect for television. And he exuded a kind of charisma I’d seen only in powerful executives and high-ranking politicians.

  “Great interview,” Theresa said, shaking his hand. “You’re exactly how I hoped and imagined Good Sam would be.”

  “Thank you.” He met her gaze. “I appreciate your waiting for me.”

  I found it curious that many of the crew waited to meet him, I’d rarely seen them attempt to talk with any of the dozens of guests and celebrities who shuttled through the studio every year.

  David came out of the control booth with the beginnings of a smile on his face. I knew I’d done well even if he wasn’t going to tell me.

  “Just got off the phone with the network,” he said. “The nightly news wants a segment for the six thirty cast and a package for an Evening Edition newsmagazine special at eight.”

  I’d never had a story air on the network in front of eight million viewers before. Certainly never had one on a prime-time news magazine. So I should be forgiven for the dizzy grin on my face and the giggle that sprung from my throat even as I wanted to appear calm and composed about it.

  “But remember…” he went on. Notice how there was always a “but” in David’s sentences? “Get Jack to sign that agreement.”

  I watched as Jack spoke to each crewmember, listening to each of them as though whatever they were saying really interested him. This wasn’t the Jack I knew. This Jack had a self-confident quality that made you feel you were in the presence of someone important.

  Although I tried to resist, I found myself getting caught up in the flush of being around him again too. I tried to analyze what it was that was slowly drawing me back to him like a moth to a flame. Then I realized I was falling for Jack because he was Good Sam.

  He was everything I imagined and hoped Good Sam would be. At the same time, he was what I didn’t think existed—someone doing good without ulterior motives.

  “Was it everything you wanted?” he asked when the crew had filed out.