by Dete Meserve
“Yes, of course. Good to see you again, Senator Wintour,” I said, remembering him. But as I looked at him, my mind flashed to…candy. Chocolate candy with fluffy caramel centers.
“Former senator,” he said.
I studied his face, and this time my mind flashed to pink and green mints. “Was your desk in the Senate chamber called the candy desk?”
“It was,” he said. “I kept it stocked with candies, chocolates, anything sweet.”
“I remember that too,” Jack said excitedly. “When I visited as a kid, I always made a beeline for your desk.”
“Me too,” I said, sharing a laugh with Jack.
“You two and every senator around,” Tom said. “The desk got so much attention that the Chocolate Manufacturers Association started sending me free candy.”
“The caramel candies with the nougat centers,” I said, closing my eyes. “To die for.”
“I liked the chocolate mints best,” Jack said. “I’ve tasted a lot of chocolate since then, and nothing compares.”
“Well, with any luck, at some point down the road you could be sitting in the candy desk yourself, Jack,” Tom said, and patted him on the shoulder. “I’m getting another scotch. Can I get either of you anything?”
“No, thanks,” Jack and I said in unison.
After Tom left to refill his drink, Jack turned to me and smiled a broad South Carolina grin. “Darlin’,” he said, exaggerating his accent, “you look wonderful tonight.”
“Don’t,” I said quietly.
“Everything okay?”
“I just heard a rumor that you’re planning to run for Congress and—”
“Damn,” he said; then he lowered his voice. “I wanted you to hear it from me first. Come out on the terrace with me for a second.”
I followed Jack out the french doors at the other end of the room and onto a balcony with a panoramic view of Santa Monica Bay. The sound of the ocean was like background music, slightly hushed so as to not drown out the conversation, as though the superrich and powerful could even orchestrate that too.
“Only a handful of people know it yet, but I’ve decided to run for Congress,” he said. “In the thirty-third district. The current representative, Charles Campbell, is stepping down at the end of his term and my advisers think this is a good time for me to announce my candidacy to succeed him. I know this is a lot to take in but I’ve bought a house in the district. In Calabasas. You’ll love it. It’s got plenty of space for—”
“When did you decide this?”
“I think it was decided thirty-six years ago, when I was born,” Jack said, without a hint of irony. “It was always a given that I’d get into politics someday. You know that.”
“Odd timing, don’t you think? Deciding to run for Congress right after all the Good Sam frenzy.”
“C’mon, Kate, don’t twist this,” he said, his drawl thickening. “I’ve been evaluating opportunities to run for office since I was old enough to vote. After all the Good Sam attention, my advisers thought the timing was right for me run for an open U.S. representative seat. That’s all this is.”
“But you’re running in the thirty-third district, Jack. That’s the same area where you—as Good Sam—gave away most of the money. Are you going to tell me that too is just a coincidence?”
“I swear to you, I didn’t decide to run for Congress until after I gave the money away.”
I thought about his Good Sam TV interview. Had it been too polished? Too carefully crafted? “Your whole thing about helping the people who keep the factories and stores running and who fix our cars and our plumbing—that wasn’t about Good Sam. That was your platform statement, wasn’t it?”
“I meant every word of it.”
I remembered Eric’s comment that the Ellis family was wealthy, not middle class. “So how do you explain Michael and Marie Ellis?”
“Who?”
“One of the families to whom you gave a hundred thousand dollars.”
“What about them?”
“If you did your homework, you’d know the Ellises are quite wealthy. Michael Ellis is head of neurology at St. Joseph Hospital.”
He rubbed his jaw. “I might have made a mistake then.”
“It’s a pretty big mistake, Jack. Surely you would have researched your targets to make sure you didn’t end up giving a hundred grand to a guy who probably makes that every month.”
He combed his fingers through his hair again. “If what you say is true, then I screwed up. I’ll look into it first thing in the morning.”
“It’ll be in my next story,” I said quietly.
His tone darkened. “Why do you have to report that?”
“That’s what I do. I report the truth.”
“Don’t, Kate. It doesn’t serve your purposes to burst this bubble we’re both in. You have as much at stake as I do,” he said. “Look, would it make a difference if I told you that your father is backing my bid for Congress?”
I felt something snap inside me. Resentment and bitterness short-circuited my brain. I opened my mouth to reply, but words failed me.
“He’s going to call you later to tell you himself,” he continued.
Jack misunderstood my silence for disbelief. But for once I believed what he was saying was true. I just couldn’t believe that while he was working me on the Good Sam angle, he also had the audacity to be working on a political favor from my father.
My father had met Jack several times when we were dating. It had surprised me back then how easily their friendship was forged over a shared interest in golf and history, particularly the Civil War. Jack even read some of the history books my dad had recommended. I thought he had befriended my dad in order to win me over. How could I have been so naive?
I bit my lip, angry that he thought he knew my weaknesses so well. “I need to get out of here.”
“Don’t.” He took hold of my wrist. “You did that once before to me, and I never got over it. Maybe I deserved it then. But you can’t do that to me now. These men and women are going to back my bid for Congress. If you walk out now, you’ll make me look like a complete failure.”
“So that’s what this is about, isn’t it? You want me back in your life because you don’t want to look like a failure for losing me.”
“No, that’s not what this is about.” He loosened his grip on me. “I love you.”
“Do you, Jack? Or do you love Kate Bradley, the daughter of Senator Hale Bradley? The well-connected wife to help you with your political ambitions.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “I do love you. I always have. You have to believe that.”
“We’ve been looking all over for you two,” Candace said, swinging open the terrace door. “Dinner is served.”
Jack held out his hand to me. I didn’t want to cause a scene in front of Candace Wintour. But as I followed Jack back into the living room, I wondered what price I would pay for staying.
The skies cooperated the day Jack announced his intention to run for election in California’s thirty-third district. The press conference took place outdoors, in the plaza of a trio of office buildings in Santa Monica, a backdrop that was designed to command attention and give Jack an aura of authority and leadership.
Not that he needed to worry about getting attention. Every media outlet in town had come, covering every square inch of the plaza with reporters and cameras and microphones. Officially all they were told was that Jack Hansen, the man known as Good Sam, was going to make an announcement. Many plugged-in news organizations had heard the rumor that he was running for Congress, and although that kind of news didn’t usually warrant live coverage, many stations still opted to cover it live, knowing that anytime a Good Sam story was on the air, ratings soared.
I took my place at the front of the pack, directly in front of the podium where Jack would soon be standing. As I waited for Jack to come out, I realized I was as angry with myself as I was at him. I’d let down my guard, let him suck
me into the Good Sam story, never fully realizing he might be manipulating me for his own benefit. Jack had that effect on me. Being with Jack was like standing in the midst of a brilliant sunbeam, at once dazzled by its radiance even as you knew it was burning you.
That radiance was on display as he made his announcement. Flanked by my father and several other well-known politicians and businessmen, he had the handsome, healthy look of a well-connected candidate on his way to Congress. He had mastered the image—the strong, authoritative hand gestures; the decisive facial expressions, and a solid delivery with the right amount of charm and sincerity.
From the expressions on the faces of the reporters around me, they seemed to be buying the idea that Jack had decided to run for office after all the Good Sam attention. After all, this was Good Sam, the man who had anonymously given away a million dollars to complete strangers. He was one of us—a little richer perhaps—but nonetheless someone we could trust.
Dark clouds were beginning to form on the horizon as Jack spoke. A few fat raindrops spattered on us, but then, as so often happens in Los Angeles, the rain stopped. Jack had a lot to say about education, taxes, and poverty—all the usual candidate hot buttons. But it was his closing remarks that would really grab viewers’ attention: “We should remember that the concept of the Good Samaritan is not found in the Constitution, which explains why government has been an abysmal failure at reducing the ranks of the poor and needy. But more government isn’t the answer. We need to encourage businesses, organizations, and individuals—through tax incentives and other programs—to do their part. So that the people who keep the factories and stores running, who fix our cars and our plumbing, who bake our bread and serve our coffee and teach our children in school have a chance at the American Dream.”
But after Jack finished his presentation and reporters were allowed to ask questions, the afternoon took on an almost surreal feeling. Every aspect of it seemed like made-for-television news, manufactured into perfect sound bites with precision planning and exceptional photo opportunities.
I didn’t have any actual proof that Jack had created the Good Sam event in order to build awareness for his political campaign. It was only a hunch. Instinct. I had hoped to ask my father what he knew about the timing, but I could never get Jack away from him long enough to have a private conversation.
Back at the station, that uneasy feeling stayed with me as I worked with Alex on editing the interview.
“Okay, what’s up?” Alex asked as we sat in the editing bay watching the playback of Jack’s press conference for the eighth time.
“Nothing,” I said. “I just want to get this edit right.”
“I think you’ve gone through something like a pound of M&M’s while we’ve been in here. What’s on your mind?”
“This is what’s bothering me.” I fast-forwarded the clip to Jack’s closing remarks. Alex looked confused. “Seems pretty straightforward to me. Kind of inspiring, actually.”
“Jack says he wants to give these people ‘a chance at the American Dream’ but he didn’t seem to know that Michael and Marie Ellis, to whom he gave a hundred thousand dollars, were already quite wealthy. Michael Ellis is head of neurology at St. Joseph Hospital. He was already living the American Dream long before Jack gave him money.”
Alex scratched his head. “So maybe he made a mistake and the money was supposed to go to someone else? Is that what you’re thinking?”
“To be honest, I don’t know what to think. Something about that gift, something about the sequence of events just feels…off.”
“Follow the money.”
I shot him a quizzical look.
“You know, from the movie, All The President’s Men. Deep Throat tells Robert Redford that all the answers to his questions can be found if you “follow the money.”
“Aren’t you a little young to be quoting that movie?” I asked.
“You know that movie is like a journalist’s textbook.”
I nodded. I’d first seen the film in high school and it had inspired me to think about a career in journalism. It made a reporter’s work—even the constant pressure and the arduous work of tracking down leads—look exciting, even thrilling.
The editing bay door opened and David’s voice startled me from behind. “There you are, Kate. I need you and Josh to head back out right now and cover the storm situation in La Crescenta. Thunderstorms are dumping so much rain there that they’re bracing for mudslides in the mountains. Several big homes are in jeopardy and they’re evacuating the area.”
He sure knew how to pitch a story to get my heart pumping. I grabbed a station-issued storm umbrella and started out of the edit bay; then I stopped and turned to Alex.
“Call Phil Hayden, the forensic accountant who reviewed Jack’s financial statements, and ask him to make a list of each cash withdrawal from Jack’s account and then match it up to the times that each of the Good Sam recipients got their money,” I said. “Let’s follow the money.”
Chapter Thirteen
The rain pounded Los Angeles throughout the afternoon. Carl, our morning weatherman, had predicted we’d get slammed with a half inch today. But since Carl spent more time worrying about his receding hairline than analyzing weather patterns, I was pretty sure he was wrong. The way the rain was falling in sheets, we were in for at least two inches.
As Josh guided the van through bumper-high water on the way to La Crescenta, we passed the Los Angeles River. Most people know it as the dry concrete channel that is the backdrop for dozens of movie car chases. But this stretch of the river actually has an earthen bottom and was brimming with gray, rushing water and debris.
A green haze in the current caught my attention—a jade green blur. I blinked my eyes and peered out the rain-soaked window to see whether I was imagining it. But something was definitely moving in the water. Someone.
“Stop,” I shrieked. “Someone’s in the river.”
Josh slammed on the brakes, but in the rain, the van slid ten feet before coming to a stop. A car behind us honked, but Josh was unfazed. Without breaking a sweat, he angled the van out of traffic and to the side of the road.
“Call nine-one-one,” I said, then grabbed my binoculars and jumped out of the van. The cold rain pelted me like a thousand tiny needles. I ran to the railing and looked over. The blur in the water was gone.
Damn. Had I imagined it? I ran in the direction the water was flowing. That’s when I saw the green blur farther downstream. But it wasn’t a blur anymore. With my binoculars, I could make out that it was a teenage girl in a green sweatshirt in the midst of the rushing waters.
I ran the length of the chain-link fence, trying to find a way down to the river, but the only gate I found was locked. I pulled the rain-sopped hair away from my eyes and shook the gate to no avail. Where were the rescuers?
Then I noticed a small section of chain link that was bent backward, forming a small opening. A child could have easily squeezed through, but an adult in an oversize rain jacket would have a hard time.
I stopped, stared at the twisted metal, and decided to wait for the rescue squad.
Help her, I thought.
But what could I do? I wasn’t experienced in first aid and didn’t have even a vague idea what to do if I could get to her.
No one helped you when you were drowning. Don’t repeat their mistake. Do something.
I dropped to my knees and slowly guided myself through the small opening. My coat snagged on the exposed wire a few times, but in less than a minute I was safely through.
A flat grassy area extended about thirty feet and ended at a concrete embankment that led down to the river. The embankment was steep—at least a forty-five degree angle.
I called out to the girl, but I could barely hear my own voice over the din of the rushing river. I stared at the water, trying to decide what to do. My legs felt like they’d been nailed to the ground.
Every second matters.
Slowly and steadily, I st
epped down the wet concrete embankment, grateful that at least I’d had the foresight to wear sensible shoes. I still wasn’t sure what I would do if I made it down to the water. One foot after another, I got closer to the churning waters below.
I kept shouting, trying to get her attention. When I got to the edge, she turned toward me, her eyes glassy, her face scratched and swollen, her lips trembling. I stumbled, slipping down the embankment.
Then I was in the river. The shock of the cold water took my breath away. I clawed at the embankment, which was only feet away, but the current was strong, and it dragged me downstream, away from the side.
I panicked. Eric’s one swimming lesson hadn’t prepared me for the deep end of a pool, much less this churning water. The water was about to claim me again.
Suddenly a tree limb slammed like a battering ram into my back, sending searing hot pain through my body. Its branches scraped the backs of my legs and entangled my feet as I struggled to pull away. My head slid under, and water rushed into my ears and up my nose as the swift current carried me downstream.
Thrashing my arms wildly, I used every fiber of strength I had left to push my head above water. I gasped, taking in air with the cold water. I tried to shout for help, but no sound came from my lungs. I turned to see if the girl was still there, but I was easily two hundred yards from where I’d fallen in, and I could only see the endless gray of the falling rain.
Ahead I saw what appeared to be a narrow patch of concrete across the channel. I felt a brief glimmer of hope. Did the river end here? But my hope evaporated when I realized it was a low-head dam, a narrow concrete cap that drops the flowing water into a deep basin designed to slow down the water.
As I neared the dam, all I could see was a churning line of white water and the horizon. I tried to find anything to grab on to, to slow me down, but the swift current kept pushing me closer. My body scraped along the edge and stayed there for a moment before the force of the water pushed me over.
It felt as though I were falling forever. All I could see was the rolling water below, and then I hit it with a force that knocked the wind out of me. I plunged underwater, my body tumbling in every direction to the point where I didn’t know which way was up. I was forced to the bottom, debris ripping at my skin.