by Dete Meserve
There was a good chance she was right. But that didn’t stop me from focusing on the consequences if we were both wrong. I was not only putting my job on the line but hers too.
“I’m okay with taking the risk,” she said, as though reading my mind.
“Change of plans,” I said to Christopher. “Hannah is going with you in my place.”
He shrugged. Christopher was a go-with-the-flow photojournalist, not easily ruffled. He never got caught up in newsroom politics, and as long as he got to cover something visually interesting, he didn’t complain.
I ran back into the building to find Josh—the one photographer who knew the Arlington Heights area as well as I did—and spotted him in the lunch room. His face was red and smudged with dirt.
“Would you come with me to cover a story in Arlington Heights?” I asked.
He slumped in the chair and rubbed his face. “I’m beat. We just got back from covering a fire at the Port of Los Angeles, and Conan had me running everywhere on the story. We got some awesome shots but I can hardly move.”
There was a sound of admiration in his voice that I didn’t like. “You were on a story with Conan?”
He nodded. “He’s really good at the breaking-news stuff. He got us an exclusive interview with the captain of the Long Beach fireboat and one of the fire department’s scuba divers.”
I’m usually the breaking-news reporter Josh raves about, so I felt a sting of jealousy. “I think this gathering in Arlington Heights has something to do with Robin Hood. No evidence of it, but if I’m right, I’m betting we’ll get an exclusive.”
I could tell he wanted to say no. And from the exhausted expression on his face, he should’ve.
“If you think this is another Robin Hood story, I’m in,” he said finally.
A few minutes later, we barreled down Olympic Boulevard in a news van loaded with remote broadcast equipment, hoping I wasn’t making the stupidest move of my career.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time we got to Washington and Fourth Avenue in Arlington Heights, the crowd had grown to what looked like two thousand people. Josh dropped me off at the corner and set out to find a place to park the van on the packed side streets.
A few minutes later, a yellow school bus lumbered down the street and stopped in front of the crowd. The front door squealed open and about two dozen teenagers, mostly African American and Latino, filed out of the bus. They were dressed formally in brand-new suits and ties for the boys and cocktail dresses for the girls. Their clothing was so finely coordinated that they almost looked like an ad from a magazine, or at least like a stylist had been involved.
The teens looked bewildered as they were led to the middle of the street. Two men wearing headsets encouraged the crowd to form a ring around them.
What happened next I wouldn’t have believed if we hadn’t captured it on camera. A few people in the crowd started singing, then others joined in, and then more until the sound became so clear and powerful it was obvious this was not an impromptu singing but a planned production. A flash mob.
The song was surprisingly upbeat, not mournful or soulful, like one would expect at a vigil. The teens looked totally surprised. I had the feeling that they hadn’t been told anything about whatever was unfolding in front of them.
Josh moved to get a closer shot. Who were these teens that were being serenaded? Were they kids somehow connected to the boy who had been killed in the drive-by shooting?
Then as the singing reached a crescendo, a dozen dancers dressed in black leggings and colorful T-shirts seemed to come out of nowhere, adding a dance sequence to the song and handing each of the teens a big blue envelope.
When the song ended, the crowd erupted in loud applause, cheers, and whistles. Then a tiny woman, as fragile as crystal, slipped through the throng and stepped up to the bewildered teens with a microphone in one hand and a sheet of paper in another.
She stood there for a long moment, her eyes trained on the teens, her hands trembling slightly. I recognized her then as the mother of the boy who had been killed in the drive-by. When she finally spoke, her words reverberated on speakers that had been set up along the parkway.
“My name is Evelin Gutierrez. Michael Gutierrez is my son. Today, out of despair and tragedy comes hope,” she said, reading from the paper. “Each of these twenty-five students here—they are the best and brightest from our neighborhood schools, top in their class, seniors with dreams and extraordinary talents and hopes of a better life. Each of them has received a four-year scholarship to the college of their choice. Whether they choose the most expensive school or a community college, their tuition, room and board, and living expenses are paid for the next four years. The blue envelope in your hands is a ticket to a future filled with excellence and prosperity, a lighted path to safety and security. You are our hope.”
The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles again. The look on each of the teens’ faces was of such profound surprise and awe that a lump formed in my throat as I watched them react to the news. Three of the girls hugged, their arms linked around each other’s shoulders. A few of the students stood alone, staring at their envelopes with tears in their eyes as they realized the magnitude of what they’d received.
The woman tried to speak again, but the applause and cheers grew so loud that even her amplified voice was drowned out.
Three long minutes later, the noise died down enough for her to speak. “This ticket to your future comes from someone we all know as Robin Hood—but it comes with strings. You must finish in four years and when each of you is a success someday—and notice I said when—you must find some teen with great potential and little opportunity and help them achieve their dreams.”
She turned and faced the crowd. “And this is only the beginning. We’re told that another five hundred students from our community will be selected to receive full scholarships to the colleges of their choice. Five hundred more of us.” She wiped tears from her eyes and her shoulders began to shake. “This is proof that you matter. We matter. Light has entered our world.”
She lifted her hands toward the sky and started crying then, and many of the crowd did the same. I couldn’t fathom the despair and tragedy of her loss, but somehow, through this transformative moment, she was given comfort and healing.
The singers began again—what sounded like Beethoven’s Ode to Joy in an arrangement so upbeat and full of hope that people in the crowd couldn’t help but smile through their tears. Strangers linked arms with strangers and swayed to the music. Others came up and embraced the startled teens. Many held up their smartphones and snapped pictures or shot video of the event.
Evelin slipped back to the sidelines, where she was greeted by hugs from people in the crowd. Josh and I inched our way through the crush, grabbing sound bites.
“It restores your faith in humanity,” a man named Eliecer Amezcua said, carrying his four-year-old son on his shoulders so the boy could see over the crowd.
“It’s melting my heart,” his wife said, dabbing the corner of her eyes with a tissue.
I approached one of the teens, a young Latina with a luminous smile. “My dad is a carpenter. My mom works in a panaderia,” she said, clutching her blue envelope. “I will be the first in my family to go to college. And to Berkeley, where I’ve been accepted but could not afford.”
“Did you have any idea this was what today was about?”
Her voice broke. “It’s a complete surprise for all of us. I didn’t think anyone was paying attention to people like me. Good students without money. But to think that they’d do this for me…”
Her voice trailed off and she started to cry again. Another teen with tear-stained eyes and long brown hair that drifted to her waist came up and gave her a hug. Then she was enveloped in hugs from other people and I lost sight of her.
I pressed my way through the crowd toward Evelin, the mother of the slain boy. I found her surrounded by a dozen o
ther people waiting to talk to her.
“I’m Kate Bradley from Channel Eleven,” I said.
Her eyes were flint gray, steely in their determination, but no amount of makeup could conceal the puffiness around them. She smiled brightly, but I could see it was forced, her last threads of energy.
“How do you know the scholarships are real?”
Another woman with a short bob replied for her. “The money’s in a bank account at City National and the bank has been appointed as the trustee. It’s been verified.”
“And you’re certain it’s from Robin Hood?” I asked.
Evelin nodded. “Yes. A Robin Hood coin came in all of the envelopes.”
I called the newsroom and a despite PowerTrade’s boycott, a few minutes later I was reporting live from the scene in a breaking-news report that interrupted the morning’s highest-rated talk show. I don’t often get to report on stories of hope, so I was bursting with excitement when Craig told me the story would open the next newscast as well. Not the fire at the LA port. Or the kidnapped woman. Even the stolen-car chase down the 405 wouldn’t open the cast. Hope would.
“The hope for a savior to restore the balance of power is enduring,” the pastor of a church in South Central intoned to anchor Kelly Adams on our evening newscast. “Robin Hood is a powerful symbol against inequality and injustice. In troubling times like these, he has come to the aid of the common man and woman. As it says in Isaiah, ‘Share your food with the hungry and give shelter to the homeless.’ Do not turn away. Robin Hood knows that if you want to be perfect in the eyes of God, give to the poor.”
The Huffington Post asked whether the kids would be allowed to keep the scholarships when they might have been funded by proceeds from stolen goods. But that sentiment was drowned out as news stations, including Channel Eleven, ran profiles of the kids who received the scholarships. All of the students came from staggering poverty or families broken by drugs or gang violence. All of them were achieving stellar grades in college-level courses, winning awards in debate team, or mathlete competitions—one even won a national competition in robotics—against impossible odds. Some of them had already been awarded scholarships to attend the top schools in the country, but none of them had amassed enough funding to attend.
Two of the stories grabbed the most attention. Mario Hernandez had just returned from a funeral for his two uncles, who had been killed in a gang shooting, when he found out he had won a scholarship. And seventeen-year-old Shannon Johnson, a talented African American ballerina whose family of eight was living in a two-bedroom apartment just east of crime-riddled Watts, was enrolling in the dance program at Juilliard.
The story had taken on such enormous importance that the people at PowerTrade had no choice but to retract their position saying their “thinking had evolved.”
Even the pope seemed to be weighing in, although sidestepping the stealing element of Robin Hood’s work. “The worship of the ancient golden calf has returned in a new and ruthless guise through the idolatry of money,” he said to reporters aboard his plane back to Rome. “But we are all awakened when we see that money can have a truly human purpose.”
Eric was waiting for me when I came home that night. He was sprawled on my living room couch, watching a football game on TV. Built in 1929, my apartment building in the hillside neighborhood of Los Feliz, is considered historic by LA standards. It has the high ceilings, original tile, and vintage appliances that appeals to the LA history purists, but also comes with high-speed fiber optic. That means that even the football games on my TV looked like something you’d see in an expensive home theater.
I dropped my purse on the floor and kicked off the pumps that had been digging into my toes all evening.
He paused the football game and sat up. “I’m surprised they’re not interrupting the game for updates on Robin Hood,” he said, pressing a kiss to my lips. “It’s all anyone’s talking about. Looks like you’re becoming a fixture on ANC too.”
“About ANC…” I dragged in a deep breath. “They’ve made an offer. They want me in New York next month.”
“Next month?” His face turned pale. “Are you going to go?”
I looked down at my hands. “I don’t know.”
His jaw hardened. “But you’re seriously thinking about it.”
“I’ll get to cover more important stories. On a much bigger network.”
“I get that this is a huge opportunity for you “ he said in a faraway voice.
“What if a position were available in the New York Fire Department—”
“I looked into it and there isn’t. I talked with a friend of mine who’s a captain there—and there are no openings for what I do. And I was right about the certification. Even on the fast track, it will take years.”
I rubbed my forehead, trying to stall the headache that was forming. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said in hushed tones. “You also have to remember that Brian’s family is here in LA too. I can’t just leave them. They’re all I’ve got.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “All you’ve got?”
“I didn’t mean—I meant that they’re the only family I’ve got left. I’m still in the middle of helping settle his estate…”
I felt a rush of warmth as I looked at him. He was my best friend. He understood me in a way no one ever had. Why was I letting something as mundane as a job tear us apart? “This is happening so fast, so maybe I shouldn’t…”
“No. You should pursue this. But I also want us to be together. I just can’t see how we can have both at the same time.”
“Maybe we can make this work long-distance. What if we flew back and forth every other weekend?”
He placed his hand on mine. “I don’t know if I could live like that. Apart from you for most of the time. Is that what you want?”
“No.” I heard the certainty in my tone, but inside I was wavering. “What if we try it out for six months? See if I even like New York. I can always come back.”
“If you go, we both know what will happen. At first, we’ll see each other every few weeks. Then we’ll get busy, and it’ll become every few months until…we just drift apart.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
His voice became a raspy whisper. “I’ve been in love with you almost since I first laid eyes on you, Kate. I won’t make you stay here—and I can’t stand by while you build a whole new life in New York without me. That would kill me. I don’t see how we can make this work.”
As I headed into work the next morning, the decision that lay ahead weighed on me. I fumbled through the call from my agent Sharon as she rattled off the details of the ANC offer. Double your salary. Wardrobe allowance. Multiyear contract. Two free months in a furnished apartment overlooking Central Park. The perks blurred together into meaningless words. I couldn’t even muster an excited tone, even as my usually laid-back agent gushed about the offer being “a career opportunity of a lifetime.” I promised to get back to her with an answer.
A few minutes later, a text came from a number I didn’t recognize.
“$6M heist at Palazzo de Bella Vista. You on it?”
I typed back: “Who is this?”
“Jake. Back in town. Meet me later tonight?”
I paused a moment before I typed back. What if this wasn’t Jake? What if it was someone pretending to be him?
“What was the name of the severed-head victim?” If he was Jake, he’d know, as that was the first story we worked on together.
“Bizarre question. Jaclyn Conway. Why?”
“Making sure it’s you.”
There was a long delay before his reply: “8 tonight. Howling Wolf Den. Silver Lake.”
“???” I typed back. Since when did Jake hang out at a placed called the Howling Wolf Den?
“No one will be looking for either of us there.”
He was right. Silver Lake, a small neighborhood
just east of Hollywood, had been the hipster haven of LA for years. It’s a place where you can pick up a cup of single-origin organic coffee. Or you can forage through organic vegetables at the farmers market, then watch an indie band play on a small stage in a Moroccan café specializing in fresh mint teas. It wasn’t a place I ever expected to meet Jake, which was exactly why he was right about no one ever discovering us there.
“Will you be at Palazzo de Bella Vista?” I texted.
“Can’t. But you should be. Big surprise coming.”
Chapter Sixteen
The sixty-thousand-square-foot Palazzo de Bella Vista, owned by real estate magnate Elliot Wagner, held an IMAX movie theater, a thirteen-hundred-gallon aquarium, eleven master suites, and an underground garage with parking for thirty vehicles. The estate had so many Jacuzzis, waterfalls, fountains, and water slides that the owners engaged a full-time “pool technician.”
No reporters were allowed on the grounds, but Josh and I didn’t need to go inside to see the over-the-top extravagance. The estate had recently been on the market for $135 million, and realtors had a website with over two dozen photos of the property taken by one of the top photographers from Architectural Digest.
So many reporters were swarming the streets outside the estate that we were forced to set up fifty yards from the front gates. Within minutes, the police chief, flanked by two police officers, strode through the tall iron gates. I hadn’t seen the chief at a crime scene very often—most of his announcements were done from downtown headquarters—but the sheer magnitude of this story must have changed his approach to talking with reporters.
In a flash, all of the reporters were jockeying for premium space in front of him, and our news photographers edged to the back and sides to get unobstructed views. One reporter from Channel Four smacked me in the ribs with her clipboard and another scraped my arm with his microphone. It was like the early-morning hours at a Walmart Black Friday sale—with the shoppers all dressed in suits and heels.