Perfectly Good Crime

by Dete Meserve

  “This is your dream. It’s what you have to do.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “But where does that leave us? I know you can’t go with me. Can we try this long-distance?”

  His expression softened, a pleading look in his eyes. “I want more than that. I don’t want to just hear about your day on the phone. I want to be a part of your day.” He reached out to stroke my hair, and his touch was so gentle that I thought I might cry. “I don’t know how to make this work. I only know that I want to.”

  There was a swift knock at the door and Hannah peeked her head in. “Sorry to interrupt. But the network needs you to file a report about the Mayday Fund for the six o’clock eastern time cast. They need you in editing…”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Hannah stood firmly in the doorway. “The piece airs in less than thirty minutes. They need you now.”

  Eric had a faraway look in his eyes, and I wondered what he was thinking. “I’m heading to a training session in La Jolla tonight,” he said, without taking his eyes off me. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

  We finished the interview package and uploaded it to the network with only a few minutes to spare. Back at my desk, I rested my head against the back of my chair and watched the piece air on the network news feed for the East Coast. Normally I would’ve been excited about having a report airing on the network, but any joy I might have felt was dampened by the ache of leaving Eric. A longing that deepened as the afternoon wore on.

  Hannah sat next to me and watched the last minute of the report with me. “If this is inappropriate, tell me. But who was that firefighter?”

  “He is the guy I’m leaving behind to go to ANC.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I turned to look at her. “I mean, the way he.…Well, he seems like a keeper. And the way he looks at you…” Her cheeks flushed bright red. “I’m shutting up now because I’ve definitely said way too much.”

  “I’m an idiot for leaving him, aren’t I?”

  “You already know the answer to that question.” She picked up her notepad. “And if I had to choose between the ANC gig and him, I wouldn’t be getting on a plane.”

  My thoughts were spinning. One moment happy at seeing him again and full of hope. The next moment feeling wiped out at the thought of leaving him.

  “Okay. Seriously trying to focus now,” she said. “What’s next on the Robin Hood story?”

  I glanced at my scribbled notes detailing my repeated attempts to contact Stephen. “I need to get Stephen Bening on the phone, but I’ve tried all morning and his assistant says he’s not going to call me back.”

  “Why do you want to talk to him?”

  I wasn’t ready to explain my theory about Robin Hood. “To follow up on the Mayday Fund interview.”

  She thought about it for a moment. “Can you arrange it so you run into him?”

  “A guy worth north of five billion dollars doesn’t exactly run in the same circles as I do.”

  “But he’s one of your father’s friends. One of his biggest donors, right?”

  I frowned. “I can’t ask my father where Stephen Bening is.”

  “Yeah, probably not. But maybe he’s on your father’s calendar.”

  My dad’s assistant, Lisa, was sharp—she could smell manipulation miles away—so I planned out every word I was going to say to her. Wrote it out like a script for a report.

  “My dad wants me to stop by when he’s meeting with Stephen Bening, but I’ve forgotten what date that is,” I said to her on the phone.

  “Oh, he didn’t say anything about that.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Want me to e-mail him for the details?”

  “No, no. Let’s see…your father is going back to DC on Thursday so Stephen’s coming in tomorrow at two thirty. I’ll put you on the calendar.”

  “It’s supposed to be a surprise. Stephen is a rare-book collector—he’s got quite a library—and my dad asked me to pick up a copy of a first edition of a Raymond Chandler novel for him.”

  “He could’ve asked me to pick up the book.” She sounded like her feelings were hurt.

  “He only asked me because he knows how I like to haunt antique bookstores.” It wasn’t the least bit true, but I doubted she knew that.

  “See you tomorrow at two thirty.” She sounded distracted, which probably meant another call was coming in.

  My dad ran his meetings like clockwork. Most visitors were lucky to get thirty minutes, and even though Stephen was a big donor, I suspected the meeting wouldn’t last much longer than the prescribed twenty-eight minutes. I arrived at my father’s office at 2:55 p.m., hoping that they were winding up the meeting so my arrival would seem spontaneous.

  I carried a book in a gift bag, in case Lisa asked about it, but she was too busy coordinating some other guests and waved at me as I sped by her desk. I opened my father’s office door and stepped inside, swiftly closing the door behind me. My dad and Stephen were seated around a small glass-topped table. They looked up at me, startled.

  “I didn’t know you were meeting with anyone,” I said. I’d rehearsed the line several times on the way over to make sure I could say it with some authenticity.

  My dad smiled, but I could see he was confused. I’d rarely shown up at his Los Angeles office unscheduled. Not even on his birthday.

  “I brought you a treat.” I placed a bag from Café Luxe on the table, my heart beating so fast I thought he might be able to hear it as I leaned over.

  My dad’s expression went from surprise to delight. He’s not one to indulge in pastries but if one is placed before him…

  “You two know each other, of course,” he said. “Stephen, do you mind if Kate sits in with us for a minute or two?”

  Stephen looked straight at me, his dark eyes boring a hole through me. “I think we’re about done anyway, Hale.” He closed a notebook on the table.

  My dad didn’t seem to register the tension in the room, and if he did, he was ignoring it. “That interview you all did is getting a lot of attention around the Beltway,” he said. “How much has your Mayday Foundation raised so far?”

  I detected a slight tremor in Stephen’s voice. Was he worried I was going to accuse him of being Robin Hood in front of my father? “Nearly two hundred million. And my phone is still ringing.”

  My dad motioned for me to sit, so I deliberately chose the chair next to Stephen. If this had been a cartoon, there would have been a dark cloud forming over Stephen’s head.

  My dad’s office is furnished very conservatively. United States and California flags flank the room, and dominating the back wall is a painting of the California hillsides back in the late 1800s. Absent from the office was any sign of technology—no laptop, no tablet, not even a TV set.

  “And still no solid leads on who Robin Hood is,” I said staring straight at Stephen.

  He was opening his mouth to reply, but Lisa poked her head in the office. “Your three o’clock is here. All five of them. They’re pacing the floor in the conference room.”

  My father stood and swung on his suit jacket. Stephen stood as well, poised to leave.

  “Sorry to step out,” my dad said. “But I’ve got some disgruntled union officials down the hall, and they’re not very good at waiting. I know you both can find your way out. See you in DC next month, Stephen.”

  He gave me a quick hug and hurried out the door. Stephen tried to follow behind him, but I stepped in his path.

  “Why didn’t you tell my father I accused you of being Robin Hood?” I said quietly, making sure my father was out of earshot.

  “This is a clever way to get my attention. But after our last meeting I don’t know what more we have to say to each other.”

  I closed the door slowly so as to not draw Lisa’s attention. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Your father and I are friends. What would I have to gain
from embarrassing you by telling him your outrageous theory?”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps to pressure me not to file a report about you being Robin Hood?”

  “I’m not Robin Hood, Kate, but I’m flattered that you thought I was. Because off the record, even though I was robbed, I’ve come to admire him.”

  I took a step back. “You admire him?”

  He pushed the hair out of his face. “When I first started SalesInsight, we were operating out of a converted warehouse in downtown LA, just on the edge of Skid Row. No matter how many times I walked through the area, I couldn’t believe I was in a civilized society, in the richest nation in the world. I always expected someone would show up and say, ‘I’ve got to change this.’ Then Robin Hood did.”

  I leaned on the edge of my father’s oak desk. “But as you said in your first interview with me, stealing is always wrong.”

  “It is. But I think what he did was brilliant. If we could get ten of the one hundred richest Americans to give a small fraction of their wealth, we could solve Skid Row. We could solve childhood hunger in this country.”

  “You didn’t say any of that in our interview. You called it theft. A felony.”

  “Yes, it was theft. But have you considered that sometimes theft can be used for good? Everyone benefited. The wealthy lost nothing—insurance will replace what Robin Hood stole—and he inspired many of us to think differently about our wealth and how we can use it to change lives.”

  “Sounds like something Robin Hood might say.”

  He shifted his weight to the other leg. “Who were the victims, Kate?”

  “There were at least two. Your team member is still in a medically induced coma after being trapped in the fire. And a housekeeper was seriously injured.”

  He adjusted the sleeve on his gray sport coat. “I’m sure Robin Hood regrets both of those. But think about a firefighter. If one of them loses a life or is injured in the pursuit of helping another, no one says firefighters shouldn’t be saving people in disasters. We accept that loss as the price of doing good. The Robin Hood team member was doing good. It’s a tragic loss, but he’s helping change the world.”

  “Again, sounds like something Robin Hood would say.”

  “If we’re pointing fingers, you could say that you played a pretty big part in Robin Hood’s plan.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I did?”

  “Robin Hood’s mission would’ve been impossible if the public didn’t know about it. When police were covering up evidence, Robin Hood needed someone to make the connection between the coins found at the crime scenes and at the large-scale giving events. He needed someone to tell the story in a way that people would understand what’s at stake. Whoever Robin Hood is, he needs someone exactly like you.”

  “Exactly like me.”

  “A reporter who understands that things are not always what they seem. Who’s looking for good in the midst of the crime and tragedy. Wasn’t it you who broke the story about Good Sam a few months ago? Maybe that story showed Robin Hood that one person could change the world.” He strode to the door and opened it. “As much as you needed Robin Hood to get the story of the year, Robin Hood needed you.”

  “You say needed. As though it’s over…”

  “I’m willing to bet your Robin Hood is finished with robbing estates. I’m sure he regrets that two people were injured in the robberies. And now that he’s started a movement for shared prosperity and even the billionaires themselves are giving to the cause—I can’t see why he needs the heists to continue.”

  “You’re done with the heists?” My eyes met his but he said nothing. “Will you just admit that you are Robin Hood?”

  “Who is Robin Hood? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? To me, Robin Hood is anyone who fights the system that permits politicians or wealthy individuals to amass too much power and control over our world. Robin Hood is anyone who works hard to help others.”

  “And if you were this Robin Hood?” I asked quietly. “Would you tell me?”

  He paused for a moment, drumming his fingers on the edge of the door. “Robin Hood would never confess to anyone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I had the Story of the Year.

  As I raced back to the newsroom, I knew that my discovery of Robin Hood’s identity would make headlines and catapult my report into the national spotlight for weeks. Every news outlet was talking about him, seemingly nonstop—Robin Hood was donating homes to the homeless, giving cars to the working poor, distributing thousands of food baskets, and funding hundreds of college scholarships. Viewers, inspired by Robin Hood, joined in. There were stories of people painting their elderly neighbors’ homes, of car dealers donating vans to disabled veterans, and single-mom waitresses receiving 200 percent tips.

  “The legend of Robin Hood is that he’s an outlaw living on the outskirts of society,” I could say in my report. “But the Robin Hood behind the sophisticated, high-tech heists of the 100 wealthiest Americans’ estates—is one of the richest men in America.”

  Yes, I had no evidence. No proof. I had absolutely nothing a reporter usually relies upon. But I had a story that would touch viewers’ hearts. A story about a poor boy from Mexico who became a multibillionaire and dreamed up a perfect crime to give to the poor, the sick, and the homeless; to challenge the super wealthy to put their unused wealth to work changing lives for the better; and to inspire others to join in his mission to bring light and hope into the world.

  But as I sat at my computer back in the newsroom, my heart pounding with the thrill of finally getting to reveal Robin Hood’s identity and telling this story, my fingers froze at the keyboard.

  What good would it do to expose Stephen as Robin Hood? Especially now that he had disclosed—without admitting to being Robin Hood—that he had ended the heists.

  The truth is all that matters. Since the moment I set foot in my first journalism class, every professor and every news director I had worked for since had repeated the same mantra: reporters must hold tight to rigorous reporting of the truth.

  I had believed that. Followed that.

  But Robin Hood was changing the world for the better—a world where thousands of people would not have to worry about a meal tonight, where hardworking, smart kids could afford to go to college, and homeless shelters had beds and meals so families could get off the streets.

  Exposing Robin Hood’s identity would end all that.

  “What’re you going to do, Kate?”

  I swung around to see David heading my way, a Dr Pepper in his hand.

  My face flushed. Did he know that I’d figured out who Robin Hood was? I stood. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what are you going to do for your last report on Channel Eleven tomorrow?”

  “I’m planning to reveal Robin Hood’s identity.”

  He thought I was kidding. “Well, that would be a helluva way to go out. With the biggest story of the year.”

  I was about to launch into the details and then closed my mouth. I’d become a reporter to find the silver lining. To make a difference. And in that moment I realized that the best way—the only way—to do that was to keep silent about Robin Hood’s identity.

  “Of course I’m kidding,” I added quickly and with too much enthusiasm.

  He stared at me. “You had me going there for a second. I came over to tell you to pick your own assignment on your last day. And to wish you good luck at ANC. In case I don’t get to say something tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and gave him a hug. It was the first time I had ever hugged him, and I could tell he was uncomfortable with it, patting me on my back like a coach might do.

  “And in case you hate it there—and you probably will—don’t think you can come back and get another reporting gig at Channel Eleven.”

  It was my turn to stare at him.

  “Now I’m the one pulling your leg,” he said with a smile. “Go the
re and kick some butt. Show them how it’s done.”

  He hugged me. Another quick one—but this time he glanced at me with moist eyes. I was going to miss him too.

  The sweet scent of honeysuckle hung in the air as I stood outside the gates of Stephen’s estate and filed my last report for Channel Eleven. His Chateau de Soleil was drenched in sunshine this afternoon, glittering in the warm afternoon light like a beacon of hope.

  I’d already had a good-bye lunch back at the station, and when I was asked to say a few words, I tried to sound lighthearted about my departure and new adventure. But as I spoke and glanced over the room, I felt tears gathering in my eyelashes. I was going to miss Hannah as my producer and researcher most. Maybe I could convince ANC to bring her aboard too? I was even going to miss David and his lectures. And I couldn’t imagine covering stories with any news photographer but Josh. Who would ever put up with me like he did?

  My knees shook as Josh trained his camera on me for the last time. “Is it possible to commit a perfectly good crime?” I started. “Could you plan and carry out crimes of massive proportions—tens of millions of dollars—where there were few victims, and yet the proceeds from the crimes provided college scholarships to hundreds of poor students, thousands of backpacks filled with food for the struggling poor, housing for the homeless and working poor, and more?

  “If you were Robin Hood, why would you risk everything to commit such a perfectly good crime? First, you’d have a consuming passion to change the world. A passion shaped by your own experiences with crushing poverty perhaps or observing others living in squalor in places like Skid Row. A passion so powerful you could convince good people to knowingly commit a crime. Second, you’d have an entrepreneurial spirit and experience that makes you believe that you have the power to change the world. Third, you’d also have to believe that by taking this risk, you’d be bringing global attention to the plight of the poor, inspiring others to join in changing the world, and ultimately convincing the wealthy victims themselves to join in your crusade. And last, you’d need a willing news media to pause from wall-to-wall coverage of crime, tragedy, and violence to trumpet the good you’re doing.