Samantha Sanderson at the Movies

by Robin Caroll

  “What are you doing in here?” Makayla whispered.

  “Working on my next story. What about you?” Sam nodded toward the computer. “Going boldly where no one has gone before?”

  Makayla wrinkled her nose and snorted. “Ha ha. I’m finishing my homework. I want to have it done before I get home. Mom was in homework master-mode last night. Standing over my shoulder, checking every little thing, even though I told her I knew I’d done it all right.”

  “What’s up with that?” Sam asked. “Everyone knows you’re brilliant.”

  Makayla shrugged. “Some homeschooling friend of hers said at karate practice the other night that kids in public schools score lower on tests or something. I hope she’s not gonna be like this all year. I’ll go crazy.”

  “Crazier than you already are, you mean?” Sam laughed as Makayla nudged her. “You always get the highest score of anybody in our grade. Your mom’s just being weird.”

  “Tell me about it.” Makayla opened the internet. “So, what do you want to put in your next article?”

  “Gotta be something different.” Aubrey had been very clear that everything had to be fresh and new and informative, or she’d hand the assignment off to someone else. She would be looking for a reason to snatch it away from Sam and give it to Kevin or someone. Sam didn’t want that to happen.

  “What if you ask your dad to take you to the theater tonight? Maybe you could talk to the owner,” said Makayla. “Or maybe you could talk to someone in the bomb unit. Your dad could tell you who.”

  “Maybe.” That was a good idea, but she didn’t think Dad would be willing to help her in her reporting. To tell the truth, Sam wanted to do it on her own, to prove to her dad that she was mature enough to be taken seriously.

  Makayla lifted a pen and began to doodle on the notebook beside the keyboard. Nothing new there — if she was idle, she was drawing. Sam smiled at the anime faces, all with hair covering one eye; the sunflower; the unicorn; the bus; the . . .

  Wait a minute. Bus. Why was that sticking in Sam’s mind? “Bus,” she whispered.

  “What?” Makayla whispered back.

  “Hang on, let me think.” Sam closed her eyes. Bus. Buses. Ms. Kirkpatrick’s nasal voice . . .

  Her eyes shot open. “Search ‘bus ads in Little Rock’ in Google,” said Sam.

  Makayla gave her a funny look, but typed it into the search engine. Within seconds, the results loaded. Sam leaned over and scanned the results.

  Sam clicked on one of the links and skimmed the information until she found what she needed. “Listen,” she whispered. “ ‘The Central Arkansas Coalition of Reason purchased over five thousand dollars’ worth of anti-God ads to run on the Central Arkansas Transit Authority buses serving Little Rock. The ads read: Are you good without God? Millions are.’ ”

  Makayla shook her head. “Oh yeah, I remember now. Mom got upset about those ads.”

  “Why?” Sam asked.

  “A judge ruled the ads fell under the free speech law. Mom said the liberals were going to ruin our democracy altogether.”

  Sam didn’t respond. Her mom often talked about free speech and how every journalist should fully support the law. Mom said that even though this coalition pushed the wrong message, they should have the right to take out an ad stating their ideas. But Sam didn’t want to argue the point right now with her best friend, so she clicked the mouse to scroll down the page. “The local spokesperson is Jessica Townsend.”

  “Never heard of her.” Makayla leaned closer to the monitor. “What does it say about her?”

  “She ‘wants to bring together humanistic, secular, and nontheistic organizations in the Little Rock area in a nonviolent manner,’ ” Sam read.

  “Is that why her group went to federal court to get those stupid ads put on the buses? They ran them the two weeks of all the big revivals in town,” said Makayla.

  “How do you remember that?” Sam asked.

  “Because a friend of Mom’s was the planner of one of the revivals. Mom got pretty upset about it all. Don’t you remember it being on the news and all?”

  “Yeah. Now I do.” Sam nodded. “The About Us part of their site says they proclaim ‘the understanding of what is good relies on human reason and compassion, and not on theistic or supernatural beliefs.’ ”

  “So they’re basically saying that everything good is from humans being reasonable and compassionate?” Makayla rolled her eyes. “They think God has nothing to do with it?”

  “That’s how I understand it.” Sam had reviewed almost a year’s worth of the high school paper’s format and how they managed to link one story to another, so she had several ideas for articles. Linking the coalition to the bombing would be an amazing hook.

  “These people are crazy enough to plant a bomb,” said Makayla.

  “Maybe not,” Sam answered.

  Makayla narrowed her eyes and shifted to stare Sam in the face. “How do you figure that?”

  Sam shrugged. “Well, think about it. They go to court to get the right to put ads on public buses. Just makes me think they wouldn’t do something like planting a bomb.”

  Makayla snorted again. “They only went to court to get the publicity.”

  “So how does bombing a movie theater get them publicity?” Sam asked.

  “What’s been on the local news the past few days?” Makayla sighed . . . heavy, as she rolled her eyes.

  “That doesn’t get any publicity for them.”

  “Maybe they didn’t want publicity. Maybe this time they wanted to hurt their opposition — Christians.”

  “I just don’t know,” said Sam.

  The five minute bell rang. Mrs. Forge clapped her hands. “Students, close your files, shut down the computers, and prepare your personal items for dismissal.”

  Makayla hit the button to shut down the system. “Want me to see what I can find on their leader tonight?”

  “Sure,” said Sam. “Thanks. I’m sure you’ll find something. You usually do.”

  Makayla grinned as she turned off the computer. “That’s because I’m a genius. And a ninja. I’m a ninja-genius.”

  “And so modest, too.” Sam chuckled and pushed her chair under the table.

  “Hey, I checked out your blog post right before you showed up. Did you know you have almost a hundred and fifty comments?”

  Man, she’d gotten almost fifty more in what, less than an hour? “I haven’t gotten a chance to look yet. Ms. Pape and Aubrey were going to answer the ones they felt they needed to, I guess. I can’t wait to read them.” But she wanted to do it when she could take her time and enjoy the moment.

  “Check when you get home,” said Makayla.

  The bell rang and students rushed out of the classrooms like ants toward watermelon at a fourth of July picnic.

  “Text me when you’re done with cheer practice.” Makayla rushed toward her locker.

  How was she going to make it through cheerleading practice when all she wanted to do was get home, read the comments, and do more research on the coalition?

  And wouldn’t Dad just love her questions tonight.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE CALL TO ACTION

  Yes, ma’am, the same Sam Sanderson who called earlier.” Sam could almost hear the sigh in the woman’s voice over the phone line as she recited her cell phone number. Again. “I’m with the Robinson Senators’ paper.” She deliberately left out the middle school part. Maybe if they thought she was with the high school, they’d respond more favorably. “I’d like to ask Mr. Hughes just a few questions.”

  “I’ll give him both of your messages as soon as he’s available, Ms. Sanderson,” the woman said, and not in the friendliest of tones.

  “I really appreciate it. I know how busy he is and thought it might be better for Mr. Hughes if I just called instead of dropping by the theater to ask my questions.” It wasn’t really a threat, because Mom always said threatening and intimidation wouldn’t help secure a source, but this
was just trying to get past the theater owner’s personal assistant.

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that. Thank you, Ms. Sanderson. Goodbye.”

  The click boomed loud against Sam’s ear, then the dial tone sounded.

  She tossed her Bluetooth headset onto her desk and stared at her laptop screen. She paced the short space in front of her desk. The blog continued to get a steady stream of comments, all about Bobby Milner. The bombing itself seemed to get lost. She needed to get the focus back on the bombing itself. And the theater.

  She needed a backup in case Mr. Hughes didn’t call her back.

  Her legs trembled as she paced faster. They’d had quite the workout in cheer practice today. After practice, Kate’s mom had brought Sam home. Since Kate was on the squad, too, and only lived one block over, whenever they had practice and Mom was out on assignment, Kate’s mom was nice enough to bring Sam home. When there was no practice, Mrs. Willis, their next-door neighbor, picked her up from school.

  Sam quickly texted Makayla and asked her to see what she could find on Frank Hughes.

  Her smartphone sounded the text alert almost immediately.

  Sam snatched it up and opened her text from Makayla:

  No net research tonight. Mom watching over my shoulder. Grr.

  Great. One more avenue closed off.

  No, she couldn’t think that way. Mom always said, “Real journalists don’t accept closed doors. We find window-ways in.”

  Chewy jumped off the bed, barking, scrambling toward the foyer. Dad had to be home.

  Sam laughed and headed to the kitchen. She pulled out the salad mix from the refrigerator just as Dad came through the front door. His keys clanked into the wooden bowl on the entry table. Maybe she’d find her window-way in the press release Dad brought home. “Hi, Daddy,” she called out.

  “Hi, Sam,” he said, his voice dragging. As usual, he went immediately to his room to lock his gun and badge. He came back and checked the chicken casserole in the oven. “Looks like it’s ready.”

  She nodded. “Should be. I put it in the oven as soon as Kate’s mom dropped me off after practice.”

  Dad grabbed the hot pads, then pulled the pan from the oven. When Mom was home, Sam would help her make up a lot of casseroles that were easy to freeze and store. That way, when Mom was gone, Sam and her dad always had home-cooked, easy-to-reheat meals.

  Within minutes, Sam sat across the table from Dad, hot chicken casserole with ready-bake rolls and garden salad in front of them. Dad said a quick prayer over the food, then took a long sip of milk. Sam immediately shoveled in a bite of the casserole, then had to suck in air to cool it. Dad always picked on her about not being patient enough to let her food cool before she dug in. But he was silent now.

  She studied him. Uh-oh. He wore his bulldog expression. And she hadn’t even asked him for the press release yet.

  “About the article you wrote that was posted on the school’s blog today . . .” He paused, setting down his glass and meeting her stare. “About Bobby Milner and his past . . .”

  Oh. So that’s what he was upset about. “Dad, his police report is public record. Anybody with a little determination can find that information.”

  “The question is, how did you?”

  She slowly swallowed the chicken casserole that now tasted like her pom-pom strings. “Did you know police reports are available online these days?” Not that she looked it up, but that didn’t change the fact that she could have. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t make anything up. I didn’t add anything to the truth. I exercised responsible reporting.” How many times had she heard Mom argue for her colleagues in the same way?

  “I didn’t say you did anything wrong, Sam. But you didn’t give all the facts. Like Mr. Milner’s violent offense was dropped and he hasn’t had any further issue with the police,” he said.

  She swallowed hard, heat already crawling up the back of her neck. “Dad, you’re the one who’s argued that domestic abusers are some of the worst kinds. Are you taking up for Mr. Milner?”

  Dad shook his head. “Not at all. I’m merely pointing out that you didn’t give all the information you have. You can’t just pick and choose what you give the public.”

  Why not? Isn’t that what news people meant by the phrase the slant? Each reporter had their own take on a story, and that take was how they slanted the tone and text of their article. Dad knew all that, so why was he acting like this?

  He sighed. “Since I’m the lead detective, when you write something like that, people assume your information comes from me. I can’t tell you how many people asked me if Bobby Milner was my prime suspect.” Dad shook his head. “Even my captain.”

  “Just tell them that I do my own research. I find my own story slant.” Couldn’t people understand she was quite capable of forming her own opinion and finding her own story details? She was getting mighty tired of everyone treating her like she was some little kid.

  Dad sighed again. “It’s not that easy, Sam.” He finally shoved a forkful of the casserole into his mouth and chewed.

  “I didn’t even use the answers you gave me in the interview. Well, except for the no comment part,” she said, her fork hovering over her plate. Her own hunger had disappeared faster than Chewy after a squirrel.

  “I just wish you’d let someone else handle this one.”

  What? Give away her one decent chance at making editor? So not happening. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I can’t.” She wouldn’t. God, please don’t let him make me give this up!

  He took another bite, this time chewing so hard the little muscles in his jaw danced.

  She had to make him understand how important this was to her. “It’s part of my job on the school paper. You’ve always said I have to build strong work ethics, right?”

  “This isn’t what I meant, Sam,” he said.

  “Isn’t it?” She let her fork clatter to the plate. “Daddy, I might only be in seventh grade, but you know I want to be a journalist when I grow up. Being on the school newspaper is a way of building toward my career goal.” At least, that’s how Mom said it when she bragged about Sam wanting to become a journalist.

  “And this is a good story, real news, not some ‘teacher tips’-type article. Something important.” She hated that it sounded like she was begging for his permission. She wasn’t.

  He and Mom had agreed she could be on the newspaper. Surely he couldn’t change his mind now.

  Man, I wish Mom was home.

  “I understand that, pumpkin, I do.”

  “Then what’s the issue?” she asked.

  He pressed his napkin to his mouth. “Because it’s my case, everything I do is under scrutiny. Especially a case as important as this.”

  “But that’s just it, Daddy. What you do. Not what I do.”

  “I’m sorry, but in this case, because you’re my daughter, what you do is under scrutiny, too,” he said.

  Her heart pounded against her chest so hard. “So what are you saying, Daddy?” she asked. Her stomach cramped, like the chicken casserole she’d choked down wasn’t going to stay down.

  “I’d like you to not report on this anymore. Let someone else take this story.”

  No way! She’d fought Aubrey too hard to get the assignment to just give it back. Sam’s mouth got drier than Mom’s sense of humor. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Daddy. It means too much to me.” Boy, did it ever!

  Neither said anything for a moment. A very long moment. Finally, Dad took a sip of milk, then set down his glass. “I won’t tell you that you can’t report on it. At least, not now. But, Sam, please understand the position I’m in.”

  Would he order her to give up the story? She wanted to scream and rant but knew — all too well from past experience — that wouldn’t work to her advantage. Instead, she took a deep breath. “I do respect you as the detective on the case, Daddy. I just ask for the same thing—respect as the reporter covering the case.”

  H
e smiled, the little lines at the corners of his eyes deep, like his eyes were weighted down. “You’ve got a deal, Ms. Sanderson.”

  The press release was a joke!

  Sam reread it for the third time. Nothing she didn’t already know was in the statement. She balled up the paper and tossed it into the trashcan. What a waste of a perfectly good press conference.

  She checked the state newspaper’s blog, but nothing really new had been posted about the bombing. The latest headline was about the Arkansas Razorbacks’ upcoming first game. Really? She was a huge Hog fan and all, but football ousting a bombing on the news page? How messed up was that?

  Her cellphone rang. She jumped, then laughed at herself as she answered. “Hello.”

  “Sam Sanderson?” a man’s voice asked.

  “This is she.”

  “This is Frank Hughes, returning your call.”

  He’d called back! Sam reached for her iPad with her questions as she slipped onto her bed. Sitting cross-legged, she said, “Thank you for getting back with me. I’m with the Robinson Senator newspaper, and I have a few questions for you.”

  “Of course.”

  How nice was he? Her fingers poised over the iPad’s keyboard. “Mr. Hughes, how long have you owned the Chenal 9 Theater?”

  “Well, we opened in 2008, under the Dickinson Theatres’ ownership, me being the manager. Two years later, they allowed me to purchase the theater as a franchise.”

  Sam typed furiously. “A franchise? How, exactly, does that work?” she asked.

  “A franchise is a business system where a bigger and established company gives a person or a smaller business the rights to sell its products and to operate under its brand name. The smaller company, or person, has to operate under guidelines of the bigger company to protect the brand name.”

  “I see,” she said, but she really didn’t. She needed clarification. “So, it’s kinda like you own a branch of Dickinson Theatres, but you have to operate under their rules?” she asked. At least she learned something new today.