by Lisa Libby
He looks back at me still crying before he walks out the door.
I panic and all my thoughts rush in at once. When is my roommate getting home? I check her work schedule on the refrigerator. She’s working a double tonight, but I must call her to confirm.
The phone rings and rings.
“Come on Samantha, pick up the damn phone,” I talk to myself.
“Hello.”
“What time are you coming home, because I have a hot date and he’s parked in your spot?”
“Jesus, Ava, no hi, how are you doing,” Samantha responds.
“I’m sorry, I’m just nervous about this guy. I really like him.”
I cover my mouth to hide my sobbing.
“OH, Ava is in love. What’s his name?”
“Um, Mike.”
“Is it Mike that works at the bookstore in Harvard Square?”
I’m pacing the living room.
“Jesus Christ, Samantha, what fucking time are you coming home?”
I lose my temper.
“Jeez, chill out. I’m not coming home tonight.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little stressed tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hang up.
I check both doors to make sure they are locked. Close all the drapes and shades.
First thing I need to do is clean up all the blood and brain matter. I dilute bleach and water and scrub for hours and throw all I can in trash bags. After I finish cleaning around Mac, I go in the bathroom and clean any blood Paul left behind while he cleaned himself. I throw everything out in the bathroom that isn’t tacked down.
I strip everything off and shower, scrubbing my skin roughly and washing my hair three times.
I get dressed and put all the bloody items in suitcases, dragging them outside and throwing them into the trunk of Mac’s car. I didn’t want to throw trash bags in his car; I figured that may look slightly more suspicious.
The only thing left is getting rid of Mac’s body. I’m going to need help. I should call Johnny; I can manipulate Johnny better. He was at my house the day Mac was at my house. He knows Mac was trying to get back with me. He will believe me when I tell him Mac raped me and I was defending myself.
I call Johnny.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Can you come over?” I ask.
“Now?”
I start crying uncontrollably.
“What’s wrong?”
I can’t speak, I just keep crying.
“I’ll be right there,” he says.
I’m scared Johnny will look at me differently when he sees Mac dead on my bedroom floor.
I chain smoke and drink straight vodka from the bottle. Not my first choice, but it’s the only liquor in the house. I jump when I hear Johnny knock on the door.
“Are you okay?” he asks offering me a hug.
I hide my head in his chest and cry.
He pulls back, holding my face in his hands.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I pull him to my bedroom without speaking. He looks back at me confused, but slowly walks inside my room.
“I don’t see anything.” He looks confused.
“The floor, under the blanket.”
“What the fuck! Who the fuck is that … who did this … you?” Johnny asks in a frightened tone.
He runs out of my bedroom like he’s scared.
“He … he was raping me, and I shot him. It was an accident. I was just trying to scare him so he would leave, but he wouldn’t leave.”
“Jesus, oh Jesus, Ava. You’re nuts. Where’s the gun?”
I point outside.
“I cleaned up everything and put it all in the trunk of his car including the gun.”
He keeps running his fingers through his hair. He does this when he’s stressed.
“Have you ever got rid of a body?” I ask.
He just looks at the floor.
“Ya, sorta,” he responds.
“Tell me what to do.”
“We’re gonna wrap him in your rug and get him in ya cah.”
“What about my neighbors?”
“Ava, we have no goddamn choice. Unless you prefer to cut him up in ya bathtub.”
I follow Johnny into my room, and we wrap Mac in my bedroom rug; a rug my mother helped me pick out. I will miss the rug more than Mac.
We struggle dragging Mac’s heavy body to his car. I try not to look paranoid, but I can’t help but worry one of my nosy neighbors will peek out their window. It’s late enough that most people are asleep.
“Thank you. I couldn’t do this without you,” I say giving him a big hug and kiss.
“You owe me big time. I’ll be back in a few hours. Do me a favor and make breakfast?”
“Of course.”
And here it begins; the favors he will ask will be for an eternity.
AVA
CHAPTER 17
D.R.
I haven’t seen Johnny in a few days, and he hasn’t reached out to me. He must be giving me some alone time since the incident with Mac. To be honest I’m relieved; it’s been difficult dealing with the rape. I feel no remorse for killing Mac. If he spoke anymore about Thomas, I would never be able to convince Paul it wasn’t true.
I did poison Thomas, but it was all for Paul. Thomas was no good for him. He was an emotional mess and they were in a toxic relationship. Anyway, if I never did it, someone else would have.
If I lose Paul’s friendship, I’ll have an impossible time avoiding going to trial to defend the Mob. He’s my only connection to the money we stole from Atlantic.
I try to convince myself Johnny’s isn’t keeping tabs on me only because his boss orders him to but instead enjoys being with me. Sometimes he’s difficult to read and sometimes he’s an open book. I’m still confused if I have real feelings for him or if I am just using him and have no clear plan. I need more time to piece it all together. One thing is for sure: I will not rot in jail while the Irish, Susan and Johnny walk free. I’m not enjoying their financial gain and power, so why should I lie on the stand and possibly do time for their stupid accounting mistakes.
In the meantime, I’ll need to find money to continue to protect myself. The FBI hasn’t frozen my accounts and nor should they, according to the detailed letter I received. I have plenty to continue to pay my bills and living expenses, but nowhere near enough to pay the Indian and Mr. Alterman. Paul told me I’d be expecting my cut from the Atlantic account, but it’s taking time, and I don’t have more time. Even with the remaining funds borrowed from Mac and the cash from Ruben, it’s still not enough. The most important thing right now is to find the money to pay my debts. I know just the person to visit: Jose.
Jose’s excited to see me and even more thrilled to use me as his mule. According to him, white American women are less likely to be targeted by the TSA. It sounds like a crock of shit. The mule job is lacking details and there’re several holes with his plan. All the information I have is that I’m traveling to the Dominican Republic with two suitcases full of medical supplies for a charity organization: bandages, antiseptic and ointments. I’ll have a carry-on bag containing just my belongings. I’m excited to wear a two-piece swimsuit on a beach for the first time in over a year. I’m traveling under my alias, Sherry, and Jose has given me what look like fake papers showing I’m registered with the non-profit to whom I’m bringing the supplies. Jose stresses the fact I should return with the same number of bags I arrived with. Therefore, the drugs are hiding in art supplies and crafts made by the children from the charity. I don’t want to know how much or what type of drugs I’m transporting because it will make me more nervous. US customs tracks several details of all travelers. I asked Jose if he has connections with customs and the TSA; he claims he does, but his eyes tell a differen
t story. When I ask him the question, he avoids eye contact and itches his neck. This tells me he’s lying. This concerns me, but not enough to back out of the job. Jose is paying me $80,000 for this trip and is covering all my traveling needs. It is a decent amount, but not for the risks I’m taking. A few weeks ago, when Jose asked me, I said I would never do it, but here I am, desperate for cash. I should just ask Johnny or Ruben for a loan, but my ego won’t let me. I feel they’d find me less attractive.
My plane lands in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic just after 4 p.m. I step out of the plane onto the tarmac. The heat and humidity consume me, and I immediately take off my sweatshirt. It was thirty degrees when the plane took off in Boston. I’m frightened to go through customs because I’m using my fake passport for the first time. I keep repeating in my head my alias name, date of birth, address, and social security number. I don’t want to misspeak in front of immigration.
The lines are long and confusing going through customs. It’s very disorganized and doesn’t feel secure. I see how easily people can sneak by customs, but you can’t avoid it if you need to return to the US. Relieved after passing through customs and out the door to find my arranged ride, I see a man holding a sign reading Sherry Conley. I almost walk by the sign, forgetting my new name.
The taxi driver doesn’t speak English at all or does a great job pretending. I speak some Spanish. I studied it in high school and took a few college courses. It’s difficult to remember some words, but I know the basics. I plan on practicing some while I’m on vacation.
After a forty-minute ride we arrive at Princess Beach Resort. Since Jose arranged everything, I had no idea what to expect. This place is amazing: steps to the beach, all inclusive – all the food and alcohol I can drink and eat. My room is on the fourth floor; a corner, ocean front suite with two balconies. The room is oversized for one person, with two full bathrooms, a living room and a king bedroom with a sectional sofa. I see what Jose is doing; he is trying to make this job more appealing and thinks I will continue to do this. I told him this was a one-time thing and to not expect it again.
I spend the next few days lounging on the beach or poolside, drinking cocktails and reading. I packed books for my trip with subjects about how to start a non-profit business: Top 10 Ponzi and money laundering schemes, Obvious Accounting Errors, Whistleblower 101. One story caught my attention. It was about a businessman that opened several banks on the Island of Antigua. He was given permission by the President of the banks of Antigua with bribes. He was selling fake stocks and bonds. He made a lot of money for several years and only got caught because he wasn’t paying out to his investors. I feel this is always the same ending to every financial scammer who gets caught; they don’t keep their promise. The major issue is the promise was too enormous to ever be kept or the fact that greed or the pure excitement of scamming people is the rush in itself. There are many cases you’ll never hear about because they never get caught. I read all my books in three days and am restless, longing to explore the island.
The hotel is selling many excursions. I choose the air-conditioned option that includes lunch and drinks. It’s all day, so I get picked up at 8 a.m. The bus is filled with older couples and couples with small children. The tour guide is a happy, tall, slender middle-aged man. He’s wearing a polo shirt with the tour company logo, khaki shorts, and a generic pair of black shoes. He has the friendliest, trusting smile. We wind through the narrow roads of the Dominican Republic visiting museums, churches, shops, stopping to have a buffet style lunch and even visiting a beautiful public beach with water so clear you can see schools of fish swimming at your feet. The tour is coming to an end and we stop to visit a school for children from five years of age to their early teens. They give us a brief tour of the school. The cramped school is made of concrete and lacks an appropriate number of windows, the reason for the dark and depressing halls. The glassless windows that exist are too high from the floor to lookout. I notice right away that there is no kitchen to make lunch for the kids, but a small area to sit to eat lunch. I try not to feel depressed for the children who study at this school. The children I see look rather happy. However, I can’t help but think there could be a greater happiness at this school with some donations.
I ask the tour guide if I can speak to the principal about how to donate. He claims he’ll go find the principal and hurries off down the hall.
The tour guide returns in less than fifteen minutes with a short, heavy-set woman with a smile reaching from ear to ear. She’s wearing a bright colored floral dress that falls past her knees with brown wedge sandals. Casually dressed for a principal, but appropriate considering the tropical climate. In almost perfect English she introduces herself as Mrs. Sanchez. My first impression is that she’s a caring and trusting women. Her eyes smile even when she’s not smiling. She guides me to her office, so we can talk in private about my donation.
“Thank you for offering a donation – as you can see, we need any help you’re offering.”
“I’ll get straight to the point so as not to hold up the others on the tour,” I explain. “I’ve lived a selfish life and have never given money or donations to those who need it. I want to make this change and visiting this school today has inspired me to get involved. I’d like to donate $30,000 US dollars to your school. Your students should have a kitchen where meals are cooked and provided at no cost to the children. Is this enough money to at least start this project?” I ask.
Mrs. Sanchez presses her hands against her cheeks in shock. She stares and says nothing. The tears roll down her cheeks and she jumps up and goes around her desk to hug me. She doesn’t need to say anything; I can already tell she’s thankful.
“Ava, you’re an angel from above. You don’t know how much this will mean for my students and my teachers to have lunch … provided,” she says, sobbing.
“Research the cost to get the kitchen and all you need, send me the estimates and I’ll write the check to cover the cost,” I explain.
She agrees, and we exchange personal information.
I take a few pictures of the school before leaving. When I arrive at my resort, I hardly get through the door before bursting into tears. I’m sobbing and can’t gather myself. I don’t know why this overwhelming emotion comes over me, but I can only think how lucky I am, even with all my problems; there are others worse off. I have been thinking of only myself in every aspect of my life. This is why my last relationship failed. I feel I can do something good out of all the bad I do. Maybe heaven can still be an option, if I can offset my bad with some good. I laugh at the thought.
I don’t feel like leaving my room, so I order room service.
I’m missing Johnny so I text him:
I miss you
Waiting for his response, I boot up my computer. Paul hasn’t responded to my many emails begging him to believe me. I have a bad feeling about bringing these drugs to Boston. I must find another way; there’s no guarantee Jose’s way works. I know he’s done this several times before, but I trust nothing he says. He’s a criminal; I would be stupid to trust him.
My phone beeps, it’s a text from Johnny.
I miss ya too babe. Where are ya?
In the Dominican
With who?
Myself
Bullshit, ya with that guy from the hotel?
What, how does he know about Ruben? I ignore his comment.
No, for real I’m by myself, call me…
I can’t, Casey’s over.
Do you have any connections at Logan?
Why?
I have some heavy luggage to get through customs
Huh?
The items in my luggage, they are HEAVY
Ava, you’re crazy!!! I will never understand you
Good, so, you think you can help me
It’s gonna cost ya
I just want a backup plan that’s al
l
Okay, I’ll call ya in the morning
It’s my last day in the Dominican Republic. Johnny called from a secure line, late last night. I could tell by his voice he’d been drinking. It irritated him that I’d risk so much for such a small amount of cash, and he implied I should have asked him for the money. He cursed, bitched, talked down at me, but it was worth the earful. I got what I wanted. According to him, I won’t have any issue at the airport. The luggage will be taken off the plane and delivered to Johnny. I’m putting all my trust in him. It makes me sick to my stomach to trust another person; a man.
After throwing a fit and yelling at me, he told me he was in love with me. He admitted he thinks about me all day. According to him he’s called off the wedding and moved in with his parents. He wants to be with me and only me. He asks me if I love him and I say yes. I love him, but maybe not the same way he loves me. I don’t want to be in a relationship, but I like the idea of having someone to lean on, and I know he’ll do anything for me.
A migraine has entered my head, probably from all the stress. I fight through the headache and get dressed to head down to the bar. My favorite bartender is working. I have nicknamed him Nice Guy, because he’s nice, but it’s a front to get big tips. It rains most of the day, so I sit at the bar drinking and smoking cigarettes for at least five hours. My drinking fun ends when my luggage arrives. It is a strange hand off. The taxi driver doesn’t look at me when he hands over my luggage. The bellman brings it to my room, and that is where I stay for the rest of the night. I’m so drunk I just sit on my bed staring at the luggage and thinking about opening it and doubting my choices in life.
I wake up extra early for time to calm my nerves. I smoke an entire pack of cigarettes while getting ready. I purposely dress like the average wealthy American woman: a white linen, collared button up with khaki capris and loafers. I complete the look with a small scarf tied around my neck and a petite silver bracelet and watch. I clip my hair into a French bun. I look like I’m going to watch my husband play golf. This look adds ten years to my age.