The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  Hopefully, I will be bonded out and have time enough to get my affairs in order … resigning from the bank, selling off my furniture, finding a home for Lucy, and worst of all, breaking things off with Phillip. I suppose if Chelsea thought I had it all, she would find it pleasing to know I ended up completely and utterly ruined and devastated. Is that what friends are for?

  The thought of how much she hated me sends tears to my eyes. I can barely see where I’m going as I cross the parking lot to my car. Once I slide behind the wheel, I toss the box onto the passenger seat and collapse my head on the steering wheel and cry. I weep for the loss of my best friend. I weep for the idea she didn’t see me the same way. And yes, I weep for the losses I am about to experience. Everything crashes down on me at once and I cannot contain the flood of tears burning down my cheeks and dripping onto my pale blue dress.

  It takes a long, long time for me to cry myself out and regain composure. But even then, I cannot bring myself to call Phillip. The pain is too intense. After years and years of not having a partner in my life, I ache over the thought of losing him. I find myself driving to the police station, convincing myself that my one phone call will be to him once I’m arrested. In the meantime, I will draw strength from him as I tell the detectives everything I have withheld.

  When I pull into the parking lot and come to a stop, another wave of tears makes its presence known. After my second pity party, I blow my nose, touch up my makeup and head inside.

  At the front desk, I ask to speak with Detective James Andrews, Phillip’s uncle. Following directions, I head toward his office, taking in huge breaths for courage. As I turn down the last hallway, I see him racing away from me to the office next to his. I keep up my pace, arriving on his heels as he enters Detective Sutton’s office.

  Since my appearance is behind Detective Andrews, it is Detective Sutton who addresses me. “Hannah, what brings you to the police station?”

  “I … I … I would like to talk to someone about a bank recording.” I remove one of the many discs and hold it tightly within my trembling hand.

  “Is it of Douglas Vanover entering Mobility Bank late at night and later killing Ivan Crenshaw?” Detective Andrews asks, holding up an envelope which I have just noticed.

  My heart lets me know an attack is a huge possibility because, they already know. How is this possible? “Uh … yes,” I squeak out.

  “Well, let’s see if you have the same information we have,” Detective Andrews suggests. He directs me to a laptop already set up on a small table and I hand him one of the CDs containing the recordings of Douglas Vanover. He temporarily places it on his envelope, while Detective Sutton powers the unit on.

  Detective Sutton inserts my disc and hits the play button. Of course, it is the same exact capture of events that Detective Andrews just spoke of. But I simply cannot understand how they already know this information.

  Detective Sutton removes my copy, places it back in the case and keeps it. He pushes back from the small table and addresses me. “It’s my understanding that Detective McMillan spoke with you earlier today about finding Chelsea Long’s body in her home.”

  “Yes,” I manage.

  “Well, about an hour ago, one of our detectives found an envelope in one of Ms. Long’s dresser drawers.” He gestures to the brown 8 x 10 envelope. “She left a disc depicting the same footage we just watched, along with a letter explaining things.” He uses a pair of gloves when he pulls out a note and begins reading it to me.

  “To whom this may concern:

  A few days ago, I had lunch with Douglas Vanover. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. In exchange for one million dollars, he requested that I obtain copies of discs collected by Hannah Williams which, according to him, depicted him in a compromising position with a male. He claimed she was threatening to go public, and he wanted me to get them back from her. He offered to double the amount to two million if I promised not to watch the videos.

  At the time, it seemed like a dream come true to receive so much money for simply retrieving the discs. So, with the promise of riches beyond my wildest dreams, I asked for three days to find an opportunity to accomplish this feat. At the first opportunity, I went into Hannah’s desk as well as her safe deposit box and confiscated the incriminating footage.

  Though I had sworn I wouldn’t view the clips, I couldn’t help but watch. That’s when I saw it wasn’t anything to do with him and another man. Instead, the recordings were of Mr. Vanover entering the bank during close of business and, I suspect, transferring fifty million dollars of his wife’s money into an account in the Caymans. During this process, Mr. Vanover killed Ivan Crenshaw, a bank customer who was making a night deposit. Then he drove away in Mr. Crenshaw’s car with the poor old man in the trunk. That’s when I knew I had been conned.

  When we met, I delivered the copies and promised him I hadn’t watched the footage. I’m an accomplished liar, so I thought he bought that I hadn’t viewed the damning evidence. Additionally, he seemed genuinely earnest about the money and seemed to believe I had been successful in my goal. But in case I have been a complete fool, I have written this note. If something happens to me, then Douglas Vanover should be held accountable. Because, if you are reading this, then I am dead.”

  He finishes the note and inserts it back into the envelope, and then looks at me for an explanation.

  I came here to confess. I might as well get on with it. “Yes, months ago, I realized Douglas Vanover had broken into my apartment and stolen the bank keys. I thought he was going to rob the bank, but as it turned out, he only robbed his own wife. While I realize he killed a man in the process, I reasoned that Mr. Crenshaw was dying of cancer.” I slump down in my seat and frown. “The truth is, I made up every excuse in the world to keep from coming forward with the recordings because I was scared to death of Mr. Vanover. I thought for sure if I didn’t have those recordings to hold over his head, he’d kill me the same as he did Mr. Crenshaw, and now Chelsea. And possibly even his wife and Joe Avery.” I heaved, my chest going up and down in the process. “It was only earlier today when I realized he had gone back into my apartment and removed the recordings hidden underneath my bed. And when I returned to the bank, I realized Chelsea had taken the discs I had hidden there too. Here’s a copy of her doing the deed.” I pull out the second disc and hand it to Detective Andrews before continuing. “Chelsea didn’t know I’d placed a copy in Mr. Crenshaw’s safe deposit box. Afterward, I made more copies, intending to courier them over to Mr. Vanover to let him know he would never be able to get rid of the evidence and that he just needed to leave me alone. But before I had a chance, Detective McMillin came by and informed me that Chelsea had been found dead.”

  When I stop talking, Detective Sutton asks, “Why didn’t you inform Detective McMillin about the discs at that time?”

  “Partly, I was in shock after learning of Chelsea’s death. But mostly, I was still scared. Honestly, I was even more scared. It told me Mr. Vanover wasn’t going to stop until all loose ends were taken care of.” I sighed. “I’m a loose end.”

  “So why come forward now?” Detective Sutton asks.

  “It’s not because of the letter. I didn’t know Chelsea had written that note. It was because I wanted justice for her murder, even though she apparently hated me. I know I should’ve come forward long ago, possibly doing so would’ve even saved her life. But I thought Mr. Vanover, being a rich man, would find a way to beat the charges and, in the end, he’d seek revenge against me. What I did was wrong and I’m fully aware that criminal charges need to be filed against me.” I sigh again and look at the floor.

  “I don’t believe charges will be necessary if you’re willing to testify against Mr. Vanover at the time of trial. We’ll need you to authenticate the bank recordings and recount how he got the bank keys and codes, and then how he went about collecting up the evidence. Are you willing to cooperate?”

  My eyes blink in rapid succession. “Yes, of cour
se I will.” Never had I considered this possibility. It’s a giant weight off my shoulders knowing I’m not going to be arrested. Still, what is Douglas Vanover going to do when he finds out I’m going to testify against him?

  Douglas

  When a police car pulls up outside my office window, a bad feeling overtakes my emotions. Two uniformed officers disembark and head for the front entrance. Thank goodness they are at my workplace and not my home, and Rhonda has already left for the day.

  “Can I help you, officers?” I ask once they enter the front door.

  “Douglas Vanover?” one of the uniformed men inquires, though I’m quite sure he already knows who I am.

  “Yes … is this about the bicycle incident?” I know it’s not. But it’s too late to run and hide … like in Switzerland.

  “Douglas Vanover, you’re under arrest for the murders of Ivan Crenshaw and Chelsea Long. Please place your hands behind your back.” This is followed by a Miranda Warning. After being allowed to secure the premises, I am hauled off in the police unit. Later I phone Angela and tell her I will be delayed because I am being questioned about the bicycle incident.

  In truth, I am being interrogated to the nth degree about Ivan Crenshaw and Chelsea Long’s untimely deaths. Oddly, Joe Avery is not thrown into the mix, and neither is Carol … although Carol fell down those stairs. I had nothing to do with that. They also don’t bring up the old man in the hospital or any of the other numerous murders I have committed. Likewise, I don’t either.

  During their never-ending loop of questions, my mind runs through how careful I have always been, wondering what smoking guns they have up their sleeves. Then finally they whip out a letter Chelsea left and read it to me, along with a disc the bitch provided them. How about that? All this time, I was worried about evidence Hannah was holding over my head. It never once occurred to me that Chelsea had made a copy for herself. She must be an expert liar because I believed her when she said she hadn’t watched the recordings.

  My interview comes with the highest priced, fanciest lawyer money can buy. After we have been confronted with Chelsea’s letter and the video, I am blindsided by Hannah’s statement – yeah, sweet little Hannah gave a statement about the authenticity of the video and about everything she knows against me. At this point in the interview, my attorney suggests a private conference. During our chat, a buttload of money is arranged and my lawyer tells me to give him one day. In the meantime, I am booked into the jail system.

  “Strip, please,” I am instructed by a militant officer that I don’t dare disagree with.

  Whereupon, my expensive, charcoal-colored Valentino suit is exchanged for some horrid garb, a mix of faded orange and dirty-white in a horizontally striped pattern that isn’t aligned at the seams. My black, patent leather, Tom Ford dress shoes are swapped for something resembling Crocs. My fingerprints are taken, along with a mug shot, and then I am led in cuffs, chains, and shackles to a filthy cell, one shared between myself and some hulky guy whose death stare alone is enough to unnerve me. Promises of money are made in exchange for him leaving me alone. He acquiesces and, given the chance, I will make good on my bargain because of … fear.

  As I lie down on a cement bed with little padding and no pillow or covering, I hope my night in jail is not a prelude to the rest of my life being spent in such low-class establishments. I think of Angela and my children and want to go home. My attorney agreed to call Angela to let her know there was a delay in my release, but not to worry. Of course, the only thing mentioned is the bicycle incident.

  The night is spent in restless naps and when I wake my joints are stiff and my neck can hardly move. Breakfast, the only meal since my incarceration, is something cold and unidentifiable. After a small taste, I fear I am going to throw up and certainly can’t tolerate eating another bite.

  Hours and hours later, my attorney finally drops by and tells me he has worked out some of the finer points.

  “Let’s go,” a guard instructs me sometime later in the afternoon.

  The next thing I know I’m brought before a judge. I’m not going to say which judge, and I’m not mentioning the prosecuting attorney’s name either. My attorney, who also remains nameless, said to trust him, and so I do.

  Normally at this hearing, a plea of not guilty would be entered and bail would be set – in my case, any amount really – and I would be released. However, my attorney has advised me that bail is not a probability given my net worth, the theory being I will take my money and flee to parts unknown and never be seen again. Having been denied bail, I would then return to my less-than-adequate accommodations to await my trial, a date at least two or three years into the future. In likelihood, I would be found guilty and sentenced to life in a deplorable prison, making last night’s jail stay akin to a room in a five-star hotel.

  My brilliant attorney makes a quote about honesty being the best policy and the truth shall set me free. His advice is followed to the letter, and I find my appearance in the courtroom isn’t conducted according to normal procedures. At the hearing, I enter what is called an Alford plea. This plea is used when a defendant enters the functional equivalent of a plea of guilty, but still maintains his innocence.

  Considering the abundance of extremely incriminating evidence the State has against me, which includes a video literally showing me kill an old man, an unfortunate letter from Chelsea Long, and the combination of Hannah’s statement and expected testimony, there is little doubt that I would be convicted and sentenced to life in prison, possibly even receiving the death penalty. There is no way I’m willing to put my life in the hands of a jury. To avoid the potential consequences, an Alford plea is entered. Therefore, there will be no trial and no jury. And everyone is aware, including the judge, that I am truly remorseful for what I have done. And I do feel bad.

  The judge asks me a few questions to make sure I understand the Alford plea. Once I tell him that I do, I am found guilty of murdering Ivan Crenshaw and Chelsea Long. And for good measure, my attorney has included my actions in hitting Hannah on her bike. Might as well wipe the slate clean … at least to the matters at hand.

  Sentencing is scheduled at two months away. And after some additional under the table arrangements, I am released pending my sentencing date, though it is on a substantial bond (several million dollars), and my passport is surrendered. According to my stellar attorney, along with the delivery of another buttload of money, my one night in jail will be considered time served and I will be released for my good behavior. Bear in mind, I don’t have any prior convictions, and I am a strong pillar to the community with a fine reputation.

  It is further my understanding that sentencing will include enormous fines and most likely some community service. But for another hefty fee, my attorney tells me the judge will seal my file and no one will ever know about my conviction. In other words, everyone’s on the take and for the right amount of money, I’m not going to be damaged by any of this. And since I work for myself and have well over a billion dollars in my bank account, not to mention the gold bars in the attic and the hidden account I kept from Carol, there’s really nothing for me to worry about. All that truly matters is being free to go on about my life with my children and Angela.

  “Just leave the small details to me,” my capable attorney assures me as we part for the day.

  “Sure thing,” I say, wondering why I was so worried about getting caught in the first place.

  I give Angela a call to let her know I’ll be home for supper and well before bedtime stories with the kiddos. Angela thinks I have worked out that bicycle incident. There’s no need for her to know about my past. I’m no longer in the robbery business or murdering people. My whole life is before me, and I’m looking forward to being a great daddy. In time, I plan to ask Angela to marry me. Everything is going to work out for me according to my perfect-perfect plan.

  Everything is going to work out for Hannah too. She no longer needs to worry about me coming after her. After all
, I will have paid my debt to society. Yes, it’s very, very, very, nice to be rich.

  After arranging for an Uber pickup, I leave the courthouse, whistling a happy tune to myself. My stride brings me to the crosswalk where I hesitate only for a moment, waiting for the walk sign to appear. As the sign switches to the walk position, I smile, feeling on top of the world with my newfound freedom and big plans looming on the horizon.

  Just as I step off the sidewalk, my peripheral vision catches a white Camry barreling down on me, trying to beat the yellow, then the red light.

  In only a second, it seems as if the world falls into slow motion. For the slightest of moments, I listen for screeching tires or a honking horn. Instead, it is as if the car has sped up, intentionally trying to run me over. Then, BAM, I am thrown across a lane of traffic and land in a crumpled mess on the edge of the street. An unimaginable white pain instantly runs from the top of my head to my toes, and I am almost certain my leg is broken. A few seconds later, it feels like something is bubbling in my lungs, causing my breathing to become erratic. My chest tightens, making it a harsh struggle to catch my breath. Please let this only be a collapsed lung. Panic sets in, fearing I might be dying.

  In the background, people begin bustling around me and a raised voice shouts, “Call 9-1-1.” A shadow hovers over the top me and I strain to look up.

  “No,” I cry out in agony, recognizing the driver as being none other than Ms. Camry, the nosy lady from Hannah’s bicycle incident who couldn’t stop pointing her finger at me.

  She leans forward with an evil smile on her face and says, “Sorry, the sun was in my eyes.”

  ENDING NUMBER TWO