It's Not My Fault!

'What happened? As my heart skipped a beat, I realized I couldn't get _______'.

Approx. 1,214 words

It’s Not My Fault

I was about twelve when my mother, sister and I were walking from the De Anza Theater to the parking lot after seeing the Disney production of Cinderella during one of its frequent resurrections. Mom noticed me walking along, head down as usual, and urged me to quit looking at my feet and hold my head up. I followed her advice and kept walking, only to have my nine-year-old sister shout, “Look what I found!” a dozen steps later.

In the twilight of evening, she had spotted a twenty dollar bill someone had dropped; twenty dollars which would have been mine, a veritable treasure, if only I had kept my head down.

My mother is to blame, I see that now. It’s entirely her fault I am laying on an uncomfortable cot, in a barren cell, on death row.

To suspect Brenda of cheating was one thing, but undeniable proof was another. Under the community property laws of California, divorce was out of the question; I’d rather be dead. The only alternative was murder—but how to avoid getting caught?

For weeks, I pondered the problem, and finally arrived at a solution. I expected the police to consider me a prime suspect, so I devised a ploy to provide incontrovertible proof I could not have committed the crime, having been several hundred miles away at the time.

The first part, choosing a weapon, was easy. Bren has worked as manager for House of Diamonds for six years, and has a carry permit for a 380-auto because she often has to deposit large amounts of cash late at night. I would use her weapon.

Next, I needed an alibi which would clear me of suspicion. I knew she and Jake Bennett would not miss a night together if they thought I was out of town on business. Fortunately, in my job as staff-photographer for Southland Living, I frequently make over night trips. In January, I was scheduled to spend four days and nights in Las Vegas covering a home builder’s convention, taking shots of model homes, appliances, furnishings, and other accessories. That seemed like an excellent time to take my revenge.

More details came into my mind as I read the Los Angeles Times one afternoon in August. A drunk driver had hit a lamp post in the wee hours of the morning, then wandered away in a stupor and was found passed out later the next day. But how could I attend the convention in Vegas, and be in Los Angeles to commit the murder?

It was elegantly simple. I flew to Las Vegas and paid cash for a small but speedy motorcycle and rented a storage shed to keep it in. On the eve of the murder, I would arrange to be seen in several bars while pretending to work at setting a world record for hangovers. Late in the evening, I would wreck my car somewhere not far from the strip, then ride the motorcycle to Los Angeles and catch Bren and Jake together. I would shoot Jake before he could get out of bed, then put a bullet into Brenda’s brain. Murder/suicide the police would decide.

To further bolster my alibi, the front and back doors would be locked and chained from the inside, and I practiced closing the sliding doors to the patio very slowly, while allowing a broom stick to lower itself into place and prevent the doors from being opened. It would be the classic ‘locked room’ mystery.

Then I would make my way back to Vegas on the motorcycle, stash it in the storage shed, walk a few blocks and collapse in an alley to sleep off my ‘drunk.’

My car would have been found hours earlier, indicating my presence in Las Vegas around the time of the murder. All I had to do was pretend to be confused when the cops inevitably questioned me. The plan was foolproof; I could bet my life on it, and I would!

But, as Robert Burns observed, “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, gang aft a-gley.” The modern equivalent is Murphy’s Law, which reads much the same: Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong, at the worst possible moment.

The murder went off, exactly as planned. Arriving home on my bike, I saw Jake’s car half-way down the block and knew he and Bren were up to their usual tricks. Quietly I let myself into the house and crept upstairs. Exhausted perhaps, neither Bren nor Jake awoke until I turned on the light in the bedroom. As I expected, Jake sat bolt upright, knowing he had been caught. I blasted him twice in the chest, killing him instantly.

Bren was screaming, but I didn’t care, I didn’t think the neighbors would hear. I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to where I had been standing so the angle would be correct when the forensics boys made their measurements. Forcing the gun into her right hand to collect that telltale gunshot residue, I pressed it to her skull just behind the temple and pulled the trigger. She collapsed like a wet bag of laundry and I tossed the gun across the room, presumably where it would have landed when driven by recoil from her lifeless fingers.

All I had to do now was open the sliding glass doors to the sun deck, prop the broom stick into position, then close the doors and allow the broom stick to drop into the track on the floor. I had practiced this all important step several times and it worked to perfection.

The next thing that happened was my mother’s fault, and is the reason I am awaiting the needle in my arm and the lethal cocktail of drugs which will end my life.

As I closed the sliding door and spun around, I didn’t see the potted plant Bren had set on the deck to catch the feeble sun of winter and immediately I went sprawling, hitting my head on the coffee table and knocking myself senseless. I was still lying there twenty minutes later when the police arrived to investigate the sound of gunshots.

My lawyer assured me I would be acquitted by reason of diminished capacity, having committed the crime in the heat of passion. The prosecution however, found my motorcycle and that, combined with my staged car crash in Las Vegas, was enough to prove premeditation and intent to commit murder.

What happened? As my heart skipped a beat, I realized I couldn't get the words of the jury foreman out of my mind while he read the verdict—guilty! Neither could I forget the words of the judge as he sentenced me to death by lethal injection.

Tonight is the night, and the hour is rapidly approaching. I have a different lawyer now, who says he may be able to get a stay, giving him more time to work on my appeal. The barred door at the end of the hallway grates and I hear footsteps! I know it’s him, coming with a reprieve and scant minutes to spare!

I sit up as the lights come on, only to see the face of the prison chaplain. “Would you like me to pray with you?” he asks.