Getting Even

It winked at her from under a folded newspaper in the back of a Yellow Cab in Manhattan.

A black leather cover with gold guilt edges. Interesting enough to make her push the newspaper aside to see more of it, although touching detritus in a public space made her shudder.

Marci pulled a pen from her purse and flipped the cover open. A tiny meticulous entry on the first page read:

Admission to Yale University

From: Francine Bellencourt

To Soccer Coach $20,000 (c)

Paid through: Key Worldwide Foundation

SDB #119 Chase Bank, 1860 Broadway, NYC, NY.

Marci flipped the page. The next several pages of the book had been cut with a razor to notch out a small tight opening. Inside was taped a flat silver key engraved with the number 119.

Marci pushed her dark sunglasses back into place and stared out onto the busy street. She glanced at the driver, who was distractedly thumping the steering wheel to a song on the radio. He was paying her no attention.

Shifting herself back into her seat she thought about the rumors that swirled around her office every day about wealthy families who paid to get their children into elite Ivy League schools.

At the small liberal arts college in Connecticut where she worked, no one was clamoring to get in through graft but she had spoken to another intern working in the Yale admissions office who had told her that she regularly questioned some of the admission applications she processed each day.

….like the daughter of a Wall Street executive who asthmatically wheezed her way up the staircase, while her application painted her as a lacrosse star.

Or the son of a talk show host who boasted an “off the charts” SAT score but couldn’t string a sentence together during the interview.

All indications were that $20,000 dollars of cash lay in a safe deposit box just blocks away waiting to be paid to get one Francine Bellencourt into Yale University under false pretenses.

If she were to, say, walk into Chase Bank and take that money would that make her a criminal?

Did stealing from a corrupt rich person mean that she was a corrupt poor one? Robin Hood managed to come out clean in the fairy tale. And the money would help her pay down her own college debt, which weighed her down and drained her bank account every month. No one had paved her way into school, she groused.

More to the point, did she have the nerve to walk into Chase Bank, produce the key and pocket the money? The thrill of doing it sent chills through her and she felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead. She gently nudged the black book off the seat into the conference tote bag at her feet. Pounding on the Plexiglas divider between her and the driver, she shouted that she needed to make a stop before going to the hotel, a stop at 1860 Broadway. He nodded and edged out of the middle lane to take a turn. There was no time to lose and a lot of work to do before she got out of the cab.

She frantically typed “Francine Bellencourt” into several of her social media accounts. On the third try she pulled up a profile. Location: New York City. A smiling dark haired teen with a perfect complexion and movie star good looks. She saw a spoiled and pampered little princess, one who was getting into a school Marci could never afford, and doing it without any effort at all. Marci disliked her viscerally.

The biggest obstacle would be signing the account ledger at the bank. It was doubtful that Francine was the key holder. Likely a parent. Marci searched the profile to see if any relatives showed up. There was no way to access her friend list- that was locked down. She scrolled through photos, hoping to get a clue. A photo of Francine under a palm tree with an older female stopped her. “Mom and I in Jakarta and Bali” was scrawled across the corner of the picture.

The mother looked enough like Marci to make it work. The same dark long hair and oval face. Lines around the eyes and forehead but with the dark glasses, maybe. Francine had thoughtfully tagged her mom in the picture, so she was able to click over and find out that Jillian Bellencourt was the signature she was going to have to forge. The taxi pulled to the curb.

Marci took one last look at the photo. She had the “J” for Jillian and the “B” for Bellencourt. With any luck mother and daughter had similar handwriting. Without luck Marci would end up incarcerated.

Entering the bank was an out of body experience. Marci had retreated to a place slightly above and to the left of her body. She floated in through the heavy revolving door as if she were in a dream. On a normal day she would not have had a chance, but this was the Friday before a holiday weekend and the bank employees were scrambling to get customers out before closing.

She had palmed the key and flashed it with a toothy smile as the hurried bank worker waved her to the back room. The signature card contained several helpful examples of Jillian’s signature for copying. The matching box and key were produced in an instant. As she settled in the tiny confessional of a room she laughed to herself, thinking she had a lot to confess. As the door closed behind her, she felt her consciousness slam back into her body with full force.

“I am DOING this!” she gasped.

She opened the slender grey metal box.

Two thick stacks of banded hundred dollar bills were inside, along with fat envelopes of paperwork. She scooped the money into her tote bag and closed the metal box. In just 15 minutes she was back on the street, hot footing several blocks before turning to hail another taxi.

As she settled into the back seat she checked in with her conscience and was surprised to learn that it was silent. The only discomfort came at the thought of being caught. Perhaps she was not a better human than Jillian Bellencourt when it came to morality. This caused her to feel a little uneasy.

Her mind turned to what came next. Would Jillian report the theft? Surely there were cameras in every part of that bank. Marci’s image would have been captured instantly. It was good that she had thought to leave a note in the box. It read:

I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING. IF YOU REPORT IT, THE BLACK BOOK WILL BE SENT TO POLICE AS EVIDENCE. BE SMART.

Marci slumped back in the seat, immediately feeling complete exhaustion. A nice drink in the hotel bar would help, she thought. And maybe later this month, a nice vacation to Jakarta.