by Todd Borg
“What’s next?”
The line was moving. I stepped onto the ferry.
“I’m heading back to my motel in the East Bay and will drive home tomorrow. Are you okay with His Largeness for the next day?”
“Sure. Call me tomorrow?”
“Will do.”
We each said ‘love you’ at the same time and hung up.
When the ferry got back to The City, I found the stairs down into the underground depths, got on BART, and rode the train east under the bay toward Oakland and then on to Walnut Creek. I was in my motel room around midnight.
TWENTY-THREE
I n the morning, I pulled up Google maps on my phone and looked up the location of Betty Rodriguez, one of the regular donors to the Red Roses of Hope. She was in Roseville, a suburb northeast of Sacramento. Just before I got to downtown Sac, I veered onto 80, cruised out toward the foothills and turned off in Roseville.
Multiple turns later, I pulled up at a row of eight modern townhouses, beige with brown trim. Around them were beds of white rocks interrupted by small shrubs where people used to have green lawns before the new water conservation rules began motivating developers and homeowners associations alike to trade in turf for stones. I parked and walked back through a passageway that led to a spacious courtyard with more white rock and several large maple trees that cast the entire courtyard in shade. On each of the four sides of the courtyard was another row of eight townhouses forming a large square. Each had a front door that faced the courtyard. The garages and smaller entry doors were on the outside of the square. Residents could come and go through their garages. Guests were funneled through the courtyard. If one loved conformity and regularity, it was an attractive way to construct a miniature village.
I found the townhouse with Betty’s number and pressed the bell. A pleasant ding-dong sounded from within. In time, the door opened. A tiny woman wearing a white frock and over it a pink apron stood there holding a baker’s rolling pin as if it were a club and she was ready to defend herself. Her hands were white with flour. The amazing aroma of baked goods – croissants maybe – washed over me. I felt like Spot probably does when he’s hit with food smells. Try not to drool.
“My name is Owen McKenna. Are you Betty Rodriguez?”
She nodded without speaking. She had piercing blue eyes that were dramatic against her pale, pink skin and white hair. From the baking smells, it was obvious that she was an accomplished kitchen alchemist.
“I’m an investigator from Lake Tahoe.” I showed her my license. “I’m looking into a charity called the Red Roses of Hope Charity for Children. I understand that you regularly donate.”
I paused.
She didn’t respond.
“May I ask you some questions about the charity?”
She nodded. “Would you like a croissant?”
“Yes, please.”
She turned and walked into the kitchen. I shut the door and followed. On the counter was a bowl of dough and next to it pieces of dough that had been rolled out onto a sprinkling of flour and then cut into triangles.
On the stovetop sat another cookie sheet with a dozen or more baked croissants with golden exteriors that suggested a hint of crispiness. Betty opened a cupboard and pulled out a small thin, china plate with scalloped edges, a ceramic glazing with blue flowers, and a metallic gold line around the perimeter. On it she set a paper doily cut in a floral shape and on that set a croissant. Next, she set out a cup and saucer, both of the same delicate, gold-rimmed china. She poured coffee and transferred the coffee and croissant to the dining table on which was a narrow vase with a single yellow flower, a mum maybe. Or a daisy. She looked at me as if waiting for my reaction. She didn’t move, just stood and leaned back against the kitchen counter.
So I sat down at the table, took a bite of croissant and truthfully told her, “This is the best croissant I’ve ever had.”
She nodded and continued to wait.
I ate the rest of the croissant. “Really, the croissant is fantastic. You’re an amazing baker.” I drank the coffee. “Thank you so much. May I ask you a few questions?”
She didn’t move from where she leaned against the counter, and she didn’t speak.
So I said, “From the Red Roses of Hope records, it appears that you send them a check for one hundred dollars every month.”
She didn’t respond. Maybe because she realized that I wasn’t asking a question.
“I’m curious about your motive for sending in a hundred dollars every month.”
She frowned as if she didn’t understand what I wanted. “I always pay my bills on time.”
“Yes, of course you do. But every month you also send this charity money.”
“They send me a bill.”
“The charity sends you a bill.”
“That’s what I just said.” She pointed to the end of the kitchen counter where there was a small bundle of envelopes. “I pay my bills on the first and the fifteenth.”
“Is it possible I could see one of the bills from the Red Roses of Hope charity?”
Betty Rodriguez looked worried. “Are you suggesting that I’m doing something wrong? I’ve always tried to do the right thing.”
“No. I’m not suggesting anything like that. I’m certain that you are a generous person who is making the world a better place. I’m just trying to answer some questions about this charity.”
Betty thought about it. She walked over, took the rubber band off the bills, and looked through the envelopes. She pulled one out and brought it over to me.
The outside of the envelope had a small version of the picture I’d seen on the large marketing mailer Kyle Spatt had shown me. Even rendered very small, the poverty-stricken child tugged at the emotions. The envelope was open. I pulled out the contents. There was a return envelope and what looked like a standard bill. It said ‘If you send us your payment of $100 by July 1st, we can save four more children. Thank you for your prompt attention to the needs of our children. Your funds are saving lives and transforming despair into hope.’
It wasn’t a bill, and I didn’t think that Betty Rodriguez actually thought of it as a bill that had to be paid. But it did have the subliminal urgency of a bill.
“Do you remember when you first learned about the Red Roses of Hope charity?” I asked.
“No. I think I got something in the mail.”
“Do you get emails from them?”
“No. I don’t like email.”
“Do you send money to other charities?”
“Of course. Not a lot of money. But there are so many that need help. Children and disabled veterans and Native American kids trapped on reservations without any proper schools and Social Security and…”
“Wait, please. What about Social Security?”
“Well, they need help. Social Security is in danger. And so many people need it.”
“Do you have an example of the Social Security charity?”
“It’s not a charity. It’s the government. They’re fighting for the rights of old people who are less fortunate than me.”
“I’d love to see what they send you.”
Betty picked up the bundle of envelopes. She didn’t find what she was looking for. She walked over to a pantry door, opened it, reached down to a cardboard file box, and slid it out. It made a scraping noise on the floor. She lifted the lid off the box and reached into a stack of papers. I was impressed by both the number of papers and the fact that she had kept them.
“Is that your charity box?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said as she looked through its contents. “This box is how I know that I’m giving back to the world. After forty-four years as a grade school teacher, I retired. I took up baking. I’ve been baking for fifteen years. But my baking is a luxury. So many people don’t have luxuries. So I help them where I can. I don’t send lots of money to any single charity. One hundred dollars a month is my maximum.”
I asked, “How many charities do yo
u send one hundred dollars a month to?”
Betty frowned. “I haven’t thought about the number. I suppose there are ten.”
“A thousand dollars a month works out to twelve thousand dollars a year.”
She nodded. “At least I’m fortunate enough that I can afford it. I have my California Teachers State Retirement pension. I live on that. When I sold the house my husband and I lived in for forty-one years, I bought this townhouse and used what was left over to buy an annuity. That gives me an extra thousand a month. That’s what I use to help the charities.” She pulled out some papers that she had stapled together. “Here’s the info on the Social Security Safety Commission.”
I looked at the sheets of paper. At the top of the envelope, it said, ‘Official Communication from the Social Security Safety Commission.’ Under that, it said, ‘Protecting the Legacy of the United States of America.’
To the left side of the envelope, printed in red, it said ‘This is a Priority Communication.’
I scanned the papers that Betty had stapled to the envelope. There were several slips of paper and one letter. In many places, copy was printed in red with italicized lettering. The overall tone was stern, and the presentation gave the impression that this so-called safety commission was a branch of the U.S. government, appointed and set up to safeguard what other branches of government were trying to dismantle. At the top of the letter, printed at an angle, were the words, ‘Congress is trying to take away your Social Security. We need your help to save your income!’
It was, to me, a blatant and revolting attempt to misrepresent what was, at best, a lobbying group that wanted the Bettys of the world to send in money. At worst, it looked like another version of what Dory Spatt had been doing. But instead of scamming people by playing on their desire to save children from terrible fates, this one played on people’s fears of losing what, for many, was their only source of reliable income in their old age.
I searched the pages for the address, but there was none that I could find.
“This Social Security Safety Commission,” I said. “They provided an envelope for you to mail in your contribution?”
“Of course.”
“Because I can’t find any address on these pages.”
“Well, they probably don’t want to be easy to find. It could be that they want to avoid getting on the junk mail lists. They no doubt collect a lot of money. It would make sense that they keep a low profile so that scammers don’t come after them.”
Her statement seemed incredible. I didn’t want to make her feel bad, but I couldn’t resist responding. “Don’t you think it’s possible that they are scammers themselves?”
Betty didn’t react. “Well, I suppose there are bad apples in every orchard, right? I’ve always thought that it was possible that some of the charities that I send money to might not give away as much as they should. But I wouldn’t want to deny funds to the good charities because of the not-so-good ones.”
“That is certainly a generous attitude,” I said.
She showed no surprise. “If people aren’t generous, the world would be in bad shape. I learned that teaching Kindergarteners. Some kids will always cheat. They’re so young, they couldn’t possibly have been trained to cheat. Yet they do. It’s in their genes. But most kids don’t cheat. So it’s important not to judge all kids just because of the few cheaters.”
It impressed me that Betty could feel good about sending money off to charities even though she thought some of them might be cheaters. If I’d sent money to a charity and then learned that it was a scam, I’d be very mad. Not mad enough to murder. But other people might be.
I thanked Betty for her time.
“Do you want another croissant for the road?”
“I’ve been trying to get up the courage to ask.”
She put a croissant in a sandwich bag and handed it to me.
I left. After I’d shut the door behind me and walked into the center courtyard, a man approached from the street.
“I saw you leaving my mother’s door,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” I introduced myself and explained that I was investigating charities. “Your name is…”
“Gray Rodriguez. I try to stop by every few days during my lunch break to see how mom’s doing.”
I nodded and held up the sandwich bag with the croissant. “And sample whatever she’s baking? She gave me the best croissant I’ve ever had.”
He smiled. “Yeah, that, too. I assume she was helpful with your charity questions. I’ve told her that they might be scams. I even offered to do some research on them online before she sends money. But she doesn’t want that. She says she goes by her instincts.” Gray’s words had an edge to them. He clearly didn’t like the idea that she might be sending money to scammers.
“It bothers you,” I said.
“More than that,” he said. “It drives me crazy. My mom is so kind and giving. Her whole life has been about helping others. From the little kids she taught to the teachers who worked with her. And now she sends money – lots of money – to charities. I’ve tried to tell her what I’ve read about charities paying their top executives a half million dollars or more in salary. Most of which comes from older women who live frugal lives all so they can send off twenty or a hundred dollars here and there. But apparently the joy she gets out of sending money would be lost if I found out that some of those charities were dishonest.”
A bicyclist came through the courtyard at high speed. He swerved to go around us, but came too close for comfort. Both Gray and I took a fast step out of the way.
“Damn!” Gray said. “I hate that about bike riders! They drive me crazy the way they have no empathy for people on foot!”
He radiated anger as he stared off after the biker. His anger seemed out of proportion to the incident. But it was probably his anger at the scam charities that I was witnessing.
I pulled out my card and handed it to him. “May I call you if I have questions in the future?”
“Sure, although I don’t know what I could help with.” He took my card. “The bastards who prey on well-meaning people like my mom are parasites on society. They should all be thrown in prison or worse.” Gray almost seemed to spit as he said it. He obviously harbored a deep resentment, and his anger was building as we spoke.
I still didn’t know his phone number. “Do you have a card?”
“No. I’m just a worker bee, a bureaucrat with the parks and rec department. You can call the central number and ask for me. Maybe they’d put you through. Maybe not. They don’t give cards to people like me. They barely even give me enough to live on.” He sounded more resentful.
“I’m curious about one of the charities your mother donates to. It’s called the Red Roses of Hope Charity for Children. Are you familiar with it?”
I watched as Gray’s face grew pink and then red and then nearly purple.
“They’re one of the ones that she gives a hundred dollars a month to. They send these mailers that are so obviously fraudulent, preying on people’s natural empathy. Are you going to do something about it?”
“I’d like to. First, I need to get a sense of the scope of the problem. I was quite surprised to learn that your mother doesn’t think they are obvious scams,” I said.
“I know. I can’t stand it. These crooks should be strung up.”
I said, “Have you tracked down any of the charities to see if they are legitimate?”
“I don’t have to. You can tell by looking at the mailers which ones make thoughtful presentations. Like, ‘here’s our situation, and here’s what we’re trying to do.’ They print it out in regular type. They make their case in a basic essay format. It’s a little bit like reading decent journalism. Then you get these disgusting come-ons with pictures of amputee veterans. The letters have lots of blue and red type and little balloons with exclamation points and arrows pointing to certain points. Sometimes the envelopes have windows that show coins or a c
heck for a weird amount. All to try to get you to open the envelope and see the veteran without arms.” Gray’s eyes got wider, and I saw the bulge of his jaw muscles. “For only twenty-nine dollars and fifty cents this veteran will be saved. They’re obviously deceptive, yet people like my mother fall for it. She actually says that the charities have to make excessive claims to get the attention of people who aren’t as naturally generous as she is. It makes me nuts!”
“Have you ever thought about doing something to stop it?”
“Yeah, wouldn’t you like to know! I want to find these people and tie a cement block to their feet and drop them in the Sacramento River!”
“I understand. But just to be sure that I’m getting this correct, you wouldn’t really do that, right?”
Gray didn’t back off. If anything, he turned redder. “Try me. Tempt me! If I could string these people up and send a message to the rest of them that we won’t tolerate these scams, I might!”
I nodded, thanked Gray for his time, then left.
TWENTY-FOUR
A n hour later, I’d come over Echo Summit and was driving down to South Lake Tahoe when my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Sergeant Santiago, here. You in the area?”
“I’m on the South Shore, in my Jeep, breaking the law talking to a law officer on my cell phone.”
“I recently talked to Sergeant Bains of El Dorado County, and he said you were looking into the murder out on Fannette Island,” Santiago said, ignoring my comment.
“Right.”
“We’ve got another one in Kings Beach.”
“Same MO? Hanging upside down?”
“Yeah. This time the victim is a man hanging from the top of the flagpole at the Kings Beach Post Office. Maybe you’d like to have a look.”