Chapter 19 - The Final Visit
On a freezing Tuesday morning in late January, forty-eight hours before Brandon was scheduled to be transported to the federal transfer facility in Oklahoma City, I drove out to the Franklin County Corrections Center.
I hadn't planned on going.
Sarah had advised against it, telling me that Brandon had nothing left to say that could possibly benefit my life.
But I am an auditor.
In my profession, an audit is never truly complete until you conduct the final exit interview. You don't leave the balance sheet open. You sign off on the findings, close the binder, and look the subject in the eye so they know the case is closed forever.
I passed through the metal detectors, signed the visitor log, and was escorted into a small, sterile visitation booth divided by thick, scratched Plexiglas.
A single black plastic stool sat on my side. A matching stool sat on the other.
A minute later, the heavy metal door on the inmate side buzzed open.
Brandon shuffled in, wearing an oversized dark blue county jumpsuit.
He was handcuffed, his chains linked to a leather transport belt around his waist. He had lost at least twenty pounds; his collarbones were visible beneath the loose fabric of his jumpsuit. His hair was cropped short in a rough prison buzz cut, and a dull, hollow emptiness filled his eyes.
He sat down on the stool, picked up the heavy black plastic telephone receiver with trembling, shackled hands, and pressed it against his ear.
I picked up my receiver.
"Claire," he whispered. His voice was raspy, stripped of all the booming arrogance and country-club confidence that had once defined him. "You came."
"I came to deliver a message, Brandon," I said, my voice crisp, even, and calm.
Brandon leaned forward against the Plexiglas, a desperate, pathetic light flickering in his sunken eyes. "Claire, please... the plea deal... sixty months. Five years in federal prison! You have to talk to the prosecutor! Tell them I was confused! Tell them it was a marital misunderstanding! If you write a letter to Judge Albright before Friday's formal sentencing—"
"I already sent a letter to Judge Albright, Brandon," I interrupted.
Brandon stopped, his breath catching. "You did? What did you say?"
"I sent her the complete accounting records of our four-year marriage," I said. "I detailed every mortgage payment you defaulted on, every fake commission story you invented, every dime you stole from Ohio Medical Logistics, and the full timeline of your affair with Chloe Mercer."
Brandon’s face collapsed into a mask of pure despair. "Why? Why do you hate me so much? I loved you, Claire! For four years, I was your husband!"
"You never loved me, Brandon," I replied, looking directly into his hollow eyes. "You loved my credit score. You loved my ability to pay the bills while you played the high-rolling executive. You loved having a wife who kept your refrigerator full and your house clean so you could pretend you were a provider."
"I made mistakes!" he cried, tears welling in his eyes and spilling down his hollow cheeks. "I got greedy! Mom was in my ear every single day telling me I was falling behind, telling me that you were making more money than me and that I was losing control! She pushed me into this!"
"You are thirty-seven years old, Brandon," I said, my voice turning to steel. "Your mother didn't forge my signature on that HELOC. You did. Your mother didn't buy an eighteen-thousand-dollar diamond ring for Arthur Mercer's daughter using stolen funds. You did. You made every single choice with your eyes wide open, fully convinced that I was too weak, too grateful, and too afraid of being alone to fight back."
Brandon looked down at his cuffed hands, his shoulders shaking with silent, ragged sobs.
"I have nothing left, Claire," he whispered into the phone. "Nothing. My job is gone. My career is destroyed. I don't have a single friend who will take my calls. When I get out in five years... I'll be forty-two years old, a convicted felon with zero dollars to my name. What am I supposed to do?"
I looked at the man who had looked me in the eyes two months ago and told me I was on my own.
"You're going to pay for your own existence, Brandon," I said, quoting his words back to him for the very last time. "Just like you told me to do."
Brandon looked up, his face pale, his breath catching in his throat as the full, crushing irony of his own words hit him like a physical blow.
I didn't wait for his reply.
I hung up the plastic telephone receiver, placed it neatly on its cradle, and stood up from the stool.
Brandon tapped frantically against the Plexiglas with his cuffed knuckles, mouthing my name, his face contorted in silent, helpless terror.
I turned my back on him, walked through the heavy steel door, and stepped out of the facility into the brilliant, freezing Ohio winter.
The audit was finished.
The exit interview was complete.
May you like
And the balance sheet was closed forever.
***
