Page 89 of Hacking the Holidays
I changed back into my civilian clothes in a semi-private corner. The jeans and sweater felt strange after two days in scratchy jail scrubs.
My identity and my real life had returned.
At the final desk, I waited for the release paperwork while another officer processed the forms.
“Do you know what happened with my pending charges?” I couldn’t help asking the other officer, hoping he had some information. “Were they dropped?”
He glanced up from his computer. “Yeah—it says here the case was dismissed. Federal prosecutors declined to proceed.” He shrugged. “It sometimes happens when the evidence falls apart or things weren’t done by the book. Sign here.” He gestured to the document.
So, the evidence fell apart. Was it my self-destruct protocol that left them with absolutely nothing to find? Or had Zara actually found something that proved Beverly had planted something at my desk?
“You’re all set.” The officer handed me my release papers, then gestured to his left. “Exit through those doors over there.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” he said with a smile.
I walked toward the exit, my heart pounding harder with each step. The heavy doors buzzed open, and I stepped through them, then through another set of doors. That waswhen I was immediately hit by an onslaught of light, noise, and shouting.
Reporters. Dozens of them.
Camera crews from multiple TV stations. Photographers. Journalists with recording devices and cameras thrust forward like weapons. They surged toward me, a wall of questions crashing over me all at once:
“Are you Good Sam?”
“Did the FBI have the wrong person?”
“What will you do now?”
“Are you planning to sue for wrongful arrest?”
I blinked against the camera flashes, trying to orient myself. This was the last thing I’d expected.
“Please answer the question!” A reporter pushed closer. “Are you Good Sam? People would like to know.”
I almost laughed at his tone, like I owed him something.
“If I were Good Sam—I’d probably still be inside there, wouldn’t I?” I simply said, gesturing back at the Justice Center with my thumb.
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.
“But I believe in Good Sam’s mission,” I added.
“Even if it means breaking the law?” one of them asked.
“No,” I immediately answered. “I would never encourage that kind of behavior to anyone.”
And for some reason, with all those cameras pointed at me, all those microphones recording every word, it felt like the only chance I’d ever get to say what actually mattered.
“The United States has the largest number of millionaires of any country in the entire world—almost twenty-fivemillion of them,” I added. “Can you imagine the impact if each of those people gave just a little more each year to help others? Not millions. Just ... a little more. Enough to make a difference. A little goes a long way.”
The reporters had gone quiet, actually listening.
“And if Good Sam—whoever he or she might be—has reminded even a few people that sharing is caring, then I’d say he’s making the world a better place. I’d love to see the compassion and kindness of the holiday season last all year round, not just in December. Imagine what kind of world we could build if we actually tried a little more. We can do better.”
The questions exploded again, but I was no longer listening, because I’d just spotted Zara. She stood at the edge of the crowd, partially hidden behind a news van. Her hand was pressed to her heart, and even from here, I could see the smile on her face as she wiped her eyes.
I started moving in her direction, weaving through the reporters, ignoring their shouted questions. She was moving toward me, pushing through the crowd with urgency.
