Web hosting Custom Email SiteBuilder

I could envision the headline as clearly as I saw the road before me as I drove. I felt that

it was a headline that was both interesting in its implications, yet benign in its conclusion

of a great story, which had brought suspense into our sleepy city.

Rumors had circulated for months, making it the hottest story since the spectacular trial of the famous athlete with now permanent marital troubles. The story with its intriguing tale of murder and of deception captivated the imagination of our readers and sold papers in volume that we had not seen in years. The subject of the story, Rob Thane, was a self-made businessman of tyrannical nature and of rule-breaking repute. He was, in short, a cliché that the everyday person summarized in a glance with envious desire to walk in his shoes. He was a cliché that now swam in hot water due to his reckless belief that he could destroy his wife, who was missing, and his partner, who was found murdered in Rob Thane’s office after an alleged adulterous scandal, without being exposed for the shark that he was. At least that was the current buzz until he was surprisingly cleared by a grand jury in the midst of speculation and of more rumors of bribery and jury tampering. Many would disbelieve that it was so easy to dismiss the charges against him. Rob Thane was definitely the story of the hour, surrounded by questions and mystery. And yet somehow, I ended up with the exclusive interview with the enigmatic Mr. Thane at the behest of a phone call from the secretary of the man himself.

In my shock at the unexpected request, I do not recall the actual conversation dominated by the professional and abrupt woman, only that what transpired resulted in my driving up the winding drive of his mansion. As I drove past ancient trees that hid the secluded house from view, I wondered what Rob Thane intended with the interview and what kind of dangerous games he might yet have up his Brooks Brothers sleeve. I did not wonder much longer as I rounded a final bend into a yard filled with a plethora of blooming trees and shrubs artfully surrounding a Tudor home not nearly as large as I had imagined. As I approached, the massive leaded-glass door was stately opened by a imposing gentleman who appraised me, thankfully, as fit to enter. I was led through a warm yet elegant interior graced with overstuffed furniture and quiet artwork to a terrace, which framed yet another horticultural wonderland filled with the gleeful squeals of a child.

Rob Thane, assisted by an older woman who was apparently a nanny, chased a small golden girl about six years old in an attempt to corral her wild flight of fancy. He was relaxed, laughing and dressed in swim trunks and tee shirt. If I hadn’t recognized him from his picture that we ran almost daily in the paper, I might have assumed I had come to the wrong place. Gone was the stern and imposing visage I was used to seeing until it reappeared when he noticed me and left his nanny to tame the child.

As he walked toward me, he cordially but formally introduced himself and remarked on the unusually cool weather. He led me through an archway leading to a magically-landscaped pool and into an alcove containing a wrought iron set of table and chairs. I quickly set out my tools-paper, pen, and tape recorder. I was suddenly nervous as the moment unfolded and I realized it was time to get down to business.

" I was pleased to receive your call, Mr. Thane, but I am unclear of your objectives for the interview." I threw that out there to bait him to start spilling his motives.

" I have read a few of your investigative pieces and I like your tone and your

commitment to the truth. I feel you can best tell what I wish to disclose. Katie, my wife,

had been given no hope from her doctors. She was in the last stages of leukemia. She

wanted privacy, so I took her with our daughter to a clinic where we could be together

and she could receive the care she needed. We were trying to find memories to fill her

last days with when I received the call from my secretary."

"Mrs. Branwell?" Somehow, I did recall that from the phone call.

"Yes, she had gone into the office early on that morning to fax some contracts to me

when she found my partner dead in my office with the note that he had ended it there to

spare his family." He paused for a moment as if to process the emotional reality of his

statement.

"What made it clear that quickly that he killed himself?" I used his pause to begin to

fill in the holes he was leaving in his story.

"He was holding the gun he had carried for years for protection. We didn’t suspect

foul play because he had been having financial and marital difficulties and had been

seeking the treatment with a therapist to work through them. I guess it wasn’t enough."

Placated, I allowed him to continue with a nod.

"I told Mrs. Branwell to leave everything as it was and that I was on my way. I caught

the company jet and I was there within a few hours. She managed to keep everything

under control until I got there by sealing the office and keeping everyone busy elsewhere.

I was the only other person to enter the office until I notified the police. I touched nothing

in the room except for the note that he had left in plain sight on my desk. I said goodbye

to him and followed his request in the note to notify his family myself." He placed his

head upon his hands as if remembering the grief he felt after finding his friend.

"If it was so apparent that it was suicide, why did the police arrest you?" I was still

wondering why he had left the scene but began to see that his regret at the loss of his

friend and his desire to carry out his friend’s last request might have effected his decision.

" The police jumped to conclusions when they arrived at the scene. I was hunted down

at his home and arrested. It was sorted out and they released me pending investigation. I

was frantic because I was unable to return to Katie at the clinic, because I was unable to

leave the city until everything was cleared. I had a few choice words with them. I think

that is why the arrest was leaked to the press." He had genuine tears in his eyes as he

recalled this.

"Why did the police jump to the conclusion that you were involved and that your

partner’s death wasn’t suicide?" I saw that the holes in the story were filling, yet some

remained.

"There have been rumors for years that Katie and my partner had an affair. The only

truth was that I met her when he brought her as a blind date to a party we both attended.

There was never any reason to believe either had betrayed me." His trust was evident in

his assertive tone of voice. He was desperate that I believe him. Not like someone who

was trying to convince me of the truth but as one who truly believed it and felt I would be

better for knowing it.

"How did this play in the investigation of your partner’s death?"

"After finding his body in my office, the media discovered the rumors and used them

as evidence that I had killed him in a jealous rage."

"What happened with your wife?" I was reluctant to ask, guessing the conclusion, but

I had to get the facts for the piece.

"Mrs. Branwell went to the clinic to be there with them, Katie and my daughter. Katie

died two days later while taking a peaceful nap with our daughter. She left instructions to

be cremated and to spread her ashes in the place she had found peace and joy with us for

her last days. There was no body to return home and no local service. Because of our

notoriety and people’s distrust of us, she had very few real friends and I didn’t think our

daughter needed the publicity. Mrs. Branwell brought our daughter home and we began

to learn to live without Katie until the media realized she was not here. The rest of story

broke without warning. Because I was known for ruthlessness in business, those reporters

believed I could actually murder my wife and best friend. They assumed that I had killed

them for an illicit affair. It seemed so surreal as it all unfolded."

"Why did you not come forward to tell the truth at that point?" I interrupted because

the question was urgent.

" I was advised by my attorneys not to say anything to the press. The District Attorney

decided to investigate the matter in order to appease the media’s certainty that the events

were related and a cover-up. He intended the investigation to clear my name, but, as you

have seen, it simply lent the story false credibility and stirred events into a mire of lies

and mud. I have been exonerated of all wrong doing, but I fear the media will not let it

rest. It will be like a national scandal that builds with time and the longer the story exists,

the more credibility it will gain until the real truth becomes the mystery and the lies

become more real than the truth." He ended his statement with a sigh and pushed back

the hair that recklessly fell onto his face.

"That is why you called me. To set the record straight." I treaded lightly, still wary of

the truth and looking for a catch.

"Yes. Can you help me? I just want all of this to be sorted out so that our daughter

does not hide in shame or bear any further stress after losing her mother."

He seemed sincere. I became uneasy recalling the interview article I had practically

written in my head before I had even pulled into his driveway. I was beginning to see the

plausible reality of his story and realized that if it were true, I, as a member of the media

and a writer for the paper who rallied such a campaign, might be responsible for his

plight, and, further, might be able to play a role in correcting it.

"I’ll start working on this and get back to you. I’m not sure how to do this without

making it worse. It seems to me that people are ready to believe the worst of notorious

people. We seem to apply our own fears, fantasies, and prejudices toward famous people.

The more they fight it the more we believe the worst. There is almost no self-defense

in this area. I’ll look at it and see what I can do. I will be honest and say that it will take

just short of a miracle to change the tide of public opinion."

"Thank you. Just do as much as you can."

I thanked him and tied up my notes as he proceeded back through the garden. As I retreated myself and reached the pool, it was to be greeted with a drenching splash of water and to see him swamping his daughter from a raft. After the heart-wrenching story he told me, I was touched to see his sweet playfulness with his daughter. I resolved to help these two souls pick up the pieces of their lives and to return to normal if possible.

I mulled my way through the dilemma as I drove back to the office. I knew that I was susceptible as a woman to his emotion-filled explanation and to his charisma. I believed him, because I met him and saw with my own eyes his sincerity. I saw the home his wife had lovingly created and the innocence of his child. These things did not read in the black and white print of the newspaper that had created the situation, yet somehow I would need to portray them in order for the truth to be known. I felt that as people we are responsible for our image through the decisions that we make, but his child was innocent and hardly responsible for the stigma and the grief she would encounter if I could not help them. I arrived at my desk with the determination of the gods to convince even the hardest enemy of Rob Thane that he had acted in a touchingly protective way towards the people that he loved. I plugged in my headphones and was consumed by the story.

Several hours, hunger pangs, and leg cramps later, I filed the interview for publication, and for the first time in my life felt that I had written something that would leave a mark.Of all of the pieces I had filed in my years at the paper, I felt my voice rather than the stilted and formal journalistic prose I had trained to obtain until I practically spoke it. I didn’t know if I could ever return to it again. I pondered the dogged way I had pursued titillating stories, any one would do, just to get my name in print. How many had I embellished or slanted to make them read better? What truths did I obscure in the hastily done research? What would I have uncovered if I had looked deeper and more objectively at my subjects? Was it possible I had covered up even more interesting encounters and situations to recreate the same expose over and over to culminate journalistic success? How had these stories damaged or altered the lives of the subjects? Why did we call them subjects when they were people, bad and good, simply living life and ending up as the subject in the latest news? These were the questions that burned and begged to be answered as I spent many hours staring into a screensaver on my computer screen, searching for the answers and eliciting many inquiries about my health from coworkers as I waited for the results of the interview to uncover themselves.

The paper had chosen to run the interview as a Sunday special. I watched for a few days as the voracious stories of Rob Thane’s legal coup and scandal laced with expert testimony and public polls piled onto one another in a great dung heap. I managed to stay quiet and sane by making wagers with myself on the reaction of my colleagues as they read the interview and as they were faced with the truth. Little did I know that I would lose every one of those wagers. I knew with that one story the careers of the journalists and the credibility of the newspaper would either be confirmed or ravaged as would my own. I prepared for a fight. On the morning the story appeared, I strolled casually into the office as if I had not a clue that I had created a few ripples in the pond. I should have gleaned from the cold stares of those I encountered that I was about to drown in a tidal wave. My usually calm and respectful editor bellowed across the office for me to report to his office where I was forced to explain my story. I was hard-pressed to find enough words to convince him it was not a hoax designed to embarrass the paper nor was I a hapless victim of the charms of Rob Thane. I finally ended up daring him to start checking facts and met his demand for my resignation.

After it was obvious that I was no longer welcome at the paper, I cleared out what few possessions that I kept in my cubicle and left the building. I was followed home by a news van. Finally I realized my fate. I had, in an ironic way, become a player in my own story and I futilely resolved to refuse to play their games. My phone rang unanswered and I was notified that the office server had crashed trying to receive all of my email. My postman delivered my mail by the boxful , which I generously donated to the trashmen. I allowed no one in my home and left for nothing. After a while, I thought the storm would calm, but to no avail. As the groceries ran out and my freelance articles were sent back unopened, I knew the price of the chance I took in telling the truth.

As for Rob Thane, he weathered a different storm altogether. His notoriety not only endured but also blossomed into a cult-like existence. He was still the subject of debate and attention. Somehow in my writing I had convinced half of the world of his innocence and the other half of the world of his guilt. He was forced to sell his business and leave the city for an undisclosed location. For a few months, his suspected whereabouts were the most sought-after bits of information until he was finally located, but found to be still inaccessible. He had managed to outwit them all and have the last laugh. And laugh at them he did when I spoke to him on my cell phone.

Finally, I could take no more, donned casual clothing complete with baseball cap and sunglasses, sprinted through the airport and boarded a plane to the most wonderful island in all creation. To this day, I sit on the edge of our little island and watch the throngs of tourists and sunbathers streaming around the new resort developments on the far away shore, a commercial product of the frenzy pursuing the notorious man, Rob Thane. He is known for being the father little girls dream as their own, the sexy and vulnerable titan unattached women dream to marry, the obsession of the camera-toting tabloid reporters seeking to expose the secrets of his perfect crime and the cool icon of the boys who bodysurf on the beach. I wonder at the way notoriety has more power than self-determination and skill to shape lives and I itch to yell at the beachcombing throng to go away and get a life of their own.