Crooked Letter I -- Chapter Two

Birmingham, Alabama

The newsroom on the fourth floor at the Birmingham Iron-Herald was abuzz as reporters and editors finished assignments for the day. The morning newspaper was the state’s largest in circulation covering every major city in Alabama through stringers, The Associated Press and a five-person staff in Montgomery, the state’s capitol. The Birmingham office was staffed with over 100 writers and editors.
Readers looked to the Iron-Herald for its investigative reporting, especially when it came to being a watchdog over the state’s legislative process. Some of the top young writers from the journalism school at the University of Missouri came to Birmingham to ply their writing skills before moving on to larger newspapers like The New York Times, Washington Post or Los Angeles Times.
Rob McRobbie, 32, was one of the first journalists to apply at the newspaper before other university alumnus’s found their way to Magic City. He was considered the “old man” among the younger staff members. A reporter who aspired to report about civil rights found plenty of sod for honing their social skills. A sports writer had plenty of wiggle room as high school and college football ranked somewhere between Jesus and the late legendary coach, Paul “Bear” Bryant, who some claimed could walk on water. An investigative reporter literally had enough territory to cover as those able bodied men and women did on the Oregon Trail. The state was wide-open for illegal gambling, prostitution, hate crimes and even terrorist organizations. The city ranked No.3 in the nation for homicides. Mostly it was black on black but, on occasion, reporters got more than enough fodder for their notebooks when a white man murdered a man of color. It was unusual, but it did happen. A black man taking the life of a white man was considered more serious.
McRobbie was familiar with Birmingham because he grew up on the western side of city in a poor-class neighborhood. He was a three-sport letterman in football, baseball and basketball. His high school English teacher told him his senior year he showed promise as a writer. She threw out the names of T.S. Elliott, William Wordsworth and Edgar Allen Poe. He knew following high school the University of Missouri’s journalism school was one of the best in the country. He applied and was accepted. After four years he returned to the city as a cub police reporter. Now he was the newspaper’s leading investigative reporter, known for his penchant to find the truth no matter how long it took. Research and details, as well as his knack for explaining complicated issues, were his strengths.
Only the year before, McRobbie was a finalist for a Pulitzer Prize in journalism, only to see a former colleague, Rick Stutts, win it as a New York Times reporter. He was proud for his friend’s accomplishments. Who better to lose the most cherished prize in writing except to a good friend and confidant?
Feet propped on his desk, Rob leaned back in the swivel chair in his office and stretched his arms behind his head. Having an office alone without too much interference from other reporters was one of the perks for being an elite journalist. His colleagues worked in tiny cubicles. He wondered now how he ever dealt with such a closed-in space. He needed space. His editors gave him more leeway to write controversial stories about citizens who got themselves in trouble with the law or courts. His articles had put more than a few criminals in prison, the latest being the killer of his uncle – Judge Roy Mallard, a liberal federal appellate judge appointed by then president, Jimmy Carter. A white supremacist that belonged to the Society of Southron Patriots had been indicted for the murder when a mail bomb was sent to his luxurious home in a rich suburb of Mountain Springs. The homemade bomb detonated when Uncle Roy opened the package. He was dead on the scene. W.L. Medders was sentenced to Kilby Prison where he was on death row awaiting turn to see his maker by electrocution. Medders testified before the Grand Jury, Judge Mallard was a “nigger and Jew lover.”
McRobbie followed the case from beginning to end even though his editor, Angus McCarron, was unsure about assigning a relative of the judge to cover the story. It worked out in the end. McRobbie always felt Medders did not act alone. Someone higher up in authority gave Medders the order. McRobbie had been unable to prove it, but he vowed he would unravel the case before he died.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his publisher walked briskly toward his office. He positioned himself upright in his chair, looked at the computer monitor, which had a game of poker on the screen. He was a whiz playing Texas Hold ‘Em or Blackjack. He often spent his off days in Biloxi, Mississippi at the casinos. Counting cards was his forte and casino managers tried to catch him several times. He moved around from casino to casino. He made more money at the tables than he was paid as a newspaperman.
He hurriedly closed the computer window before his boss caught him again.
McCarron wasn’t alone. In tow was a beautiful young lady in her early twenties. Rob winced. Did he have another young journalist to train?
“Rob, I want you to meet Miss Cindi Brown,” he heard McCarron say. He hardly remembered what his editor said afterward as he watched the shapely young woman, dressed in a blue business suit, blue high heels and a white blouse that revealed her luxurious buxom breasts. Her long, straight black hair hung down her boney looking shoulders and the twinkle in her deep brown eyes sparkled like the Fourth of July. Her long legs made her look more like a college basketball player. She was at least five-foot-nine, an inch shorter than him.
“I’ve been talking with Miss Brown for over two hours and decided her story deserved more than an article from our religion editor,” McCarron said, smiling at the young lady by his side.
What Rob was thinking when he heard his editor mention religion would violate one of the 10 Commandments.
He stared blankly into McCarron’s brown steely eyes. Neither his boss nor the young pretty lady smiled. Why would his editor give him a story with a religious angle?
“I’ll leave you two alone,” McCarron said, winking at Rob as he walked out of the office. “This might be a good story, Rob.”
“Please sit, Miss Brown.”
“You can call me Cindi,” she instructed as a smile crossed her smooth cream-colored face revealing perfect white teeth. Her lips were those of a gorgeous princess. The red lipstick was not inadequate looking. In fact, it accentuated everything about her. Her long black hair and ruby colored lips would attract any man. She had to be Latino, he thought. But, the name Cindi Brown didn’t match that of a Central American woman. He noticed the other male journalist looking into his office, and he closed the door.
“How may I be of help?” McRobbie finally managed to ask.
She fumbled with a brief case for a second before gathering a folder and placing it on his desk. The cover read, International Ministries for the 21st Century. McRobbie innocently let the file lay on his desk. He would read it later. First, he wanted Miss Brown to talk about why she was visiting, and why in the hell his editor brought her to him? He saved the latter thought for later.
“Mr. McRobbie,” she started awkwardly. “I am the public relations director for the International Ministries for the 21st Century. Have you ever heard of us?”
“Not sure I have, but go on, Miss Brown.”
“You might or not be aware we are holding our annual convention here in Birmingham next month. People from all over the world will converge on the city. The economic impact will be tremendous for the city. This is the Mecca of civil rights history and many of our members live in third world countries. But many come from Japan, Europe, Africa, South America, Mexico, Canada and even a few from China and Russia. We are a global spiritual organization that reaches out to people other than Christian. Some of our members are Muslim, Hindu and Buddhist. Our God is the God for all people. We believe God is Omniscient. The God we worship doesn’t belong only to the Jew and Christian, but to all people regardless of color and creed.”
“Hold on for a moment.” McRobbie held up his hand. He was certain that this beautiful woman who sat in his office could get really wound up in her ideology, and he wanted to stop it before she got carried away. He was not very religious although he believed in a Higher Creator. But religion was not something he talked about in front of friends much less a stranger.
“Why are you here?”
“Your editor seemed to think you can help our organization,” she said bashfully.
“I don’t know if you know it or not, but I am an investigative reporter. I investigate stories about people who are committed to harming other people, especially white collar crime.”
“Then, I must be talking to the right man. We need your help.”

******

McRobbie was finally able to make direct eye contact with the lady seated across his desk. He prided himself in being able to read body language, especially the eyes. It was something he intuitively did when interviewing subjects. He had been unable to look into Cindi Brown’s eyes because they had a look of seduction.
“After all I’ve told you about my work, you still want to talk to me about this convention you are putting on?” McRobbie got right to the point.
He saw her squirm a little bit in her seat, but her eyes were intently focused on him. It was an awkward feeling. She knew how to read body language and the language of the eyes as well as him, he thought.
“It’s a long story, Mr. McRobbie. But we need your help.”
“Who is we in the story,” he asked.
“The man who will be coming to Birmingham to speak to thousands of people at Legion Field is suspicious about this convention, and the people behind it. Dr. Ken Prior is an international speaker and author on self-development, one of the best known figures in the world when it comes to passions of the soul. He has written many books, been on the lecture tour for many years. He just went through a divorce. His wife left him for another man. They have seven children. He was running out of money before being approached by my boss through me. He wouldn’t be able to continue his lecture circuit without fresh money.”
“And, who is your boss?” McRobbie asked, finally taking his pen and scribbling down a few notes on his pad.
“I can’t say at the moment, Mr. McRobbie.” The subject before him began to tense her shoulders and he could see her eyes watering. “I shouldn’t be here. I must go.”
Cindi Brown stood up, picked up her briefcase and shook Rob’s hand.
“Wait just a minute, Miss Brown. You came here asking for help. If you are in such dire straits I need to know what this is all about.”
“I’ve already told you too much. I thought I could go through with this, but if my boss even knew I was talking to you my life could be in danger.” She went to open the office door.
“You must have told my editor more than you’ve already told me. Does he know what this is all about?”
“Mr. McCarron only knows part of the story, and he thought you would be able to investigate what we suspect to be happening concerning the convention. It’s more than a bunch of men getting together to fill their soul with spiritual energy. We feel that a larger picture is being framed by my boss, but right now it’s only a suspicion. Knowing my boss like I do, I can only imagine.”
“Sit down, Cindi,” McRobbie instructed. “I promise I’ll keep your suspicions to myself until we can accurately decipher what you’re talking about.”
Cindi sat down again and crossed her tan legs. McRobbie noticed. After all, he was great with body language.”
“Okay, now let’s start from the beginning,” McRobbie said.
“It all starts with Dr. Prior,” she started with a quiver in her voice. “He has been a leading exponent of men’s psychology for years. He’s helped many men learn from his teachings what it means to be a real man in the 21st century. The women’s movement pushed aside the man’s role in relationships, and he is reversing the challenge to men. He helps men take a deeper journey into the wounds, wonder, anger, grief and joy that comes from being a healthy man in the 21st Century.
“Birmingham is the pilot for this new enterprise. Dr. Prior is only a puppet in the show. We have over 100 young ladies set to embark on this city. They are called counselors, but in reality they are high society prostitutes.”
“Whoa!” McRobbie stopped her at this point.
“Why would someone bring in outside prostitutes to pick on little ol’ Birmingham? We have enough prostitutes around here.”
“They are going to pick their pockets, swipe their identity without asking for sexual pleasures. That’s the way it works. Besides the mayor of Birmingham is a sucker for any new ideas to bring attention to his city. He falls for anything and everything.”
“I can’t say I disagree with you on that point,” McRobbie said. This girl is good, he thought.
“The guys behind this scam have been around for years. It’s a carefully thought out plan. I know because I helped train the young women they are bringing to Birmingham.”
“Then you are in on this scam as much as anyone?” McRobbie was getting a little nervous and angry.
“That’s just the thing, Mr. McRobbie,” Cindy said, fishing for a handkerchief in her purse. “Since meeting the great Dr. Prior, I’ve changed my mind about my life. I want out of this mess, but I can’t. I am bound to these men or I will be killed if I go MIA.”
“Have you gone to the police or FBI about this?”
“No, I haven’t and I will not get them involved,” she told him. “Besides most of the upper management in your fine police department have taken cash to turn their heads concerning anything about the convention. You’d be surprised how much money has been passed around this state. My boss has his sights on the politicians in Montgomery. He is a big investor in the casinos on the Gulf Coast.”
“What’s his name?”
“I cannot disclose his name at this time. You will have to put on your Dick Tracy hat to follow these hoodlums. I am sick of them, and I want out of it. I’ve been with them since I was sixteen-years-old and the old man behind all of this thinks of me as his mistress. He loves me. I hate him. I turned over a new leaf after several meetings with Dr. Prior. I want a new life for myself.”
“Are you single?” McRobbie squirmed in his chair at the question. It was a little too personal, especially since he just met Miss Cindi Brown.
“I’m as single as they come, and I plan to keep it that way.”
Rob looked down at the notes he scribbled. It appeared he had nothing solid to go on except the word of some female nut case. He was beginning to wonder about her now. Was she actually telling him the truth or just trying to get out of jam and let someone else come to her rescue – like Rob McRobbie?
“Let me think on this for a day or two, Miss Brown. That is your real name, isn’t it?”
“You don’t believe anything I’ve told you, do you Mr. McRobbie?”
“I’ll do some snooping around and see if I can identify the men behind this alleged caper you’re talking about.”
“You cannot use my name in any stories you write. Do you understand? You will be dealing with something that is way over your head, and if you get too close to the fire, you will be char-broiled and used as Cajun meat in Creole.”
“Where are you staying in case I need to contact you?” McRobbie asked.
“I’m at the Hyatt Regency, room 532. I’ll be here only for a couple of more days and then return to Biloxi.”
“Is that where you are from?” McRobbie’s curiosity was taking on all sorts of what ifs – the attributes which make a great journalist. Every story has to answer who, what, when, where and how. Without them, there is no story.
Rob saw Cindi Brown to the elevator.
He walked away without a byline story for the next day.