Justice
A fan-fiction follow-up to "It's a Wonderful Life"
By Aurora Nova
[If you are at all like me, you are extremely frustrated that at the end of the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life," by Frank Capra, that Henry F. Potter gets away with nothing less than highway robbery. It's clear to anyone who watches the movie that he stole the money from Uncle Billy, but nothing happens to him afterwards. When the movie was made in 1946, there was something called the Hays Code, which governed how movies should be made. Part of that Code dictated that criminals MUST be punished for their crimes, in order to let the viewing audience understand that "crime doesn't pay." Except Mr. Potter doesn't get punished, and part of the reasoning why he doesn't could be that he didn't exactly STEAL the money – in other words, he didn't actively TAKE the money away from Uncle Billy. Uncle Billy "lost" the money, and Potter chose not to return it. Fuzzy logic all around, I say. Anyway, I watch this movie every year, and every year I get upset about Potter getting away scott-free. So, here's my take on what might have happened after the story "ends." Enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I may have given names to some of them, who didn't have names in the cast list, but all rights are owned by (I believe) Paramount Home Entertainment.]
Henry F. Potter was the richest man in Bedford Falls. Everyone knew that. He was also the meanest. Everyone knew that, too. From the poorest immigrant, slaving to pay his inflated rent money for a broken-down shack in Potter's Field, a section of town that was not much more than a slum, to the most prestigious stock-holder on the Board of Directors, everyone knew that Henry F. Potter was second cousin to Ebenezer Scrooge, if not in reality, than at least in spirit, and none knew that better than George Bailey.
For years, the Bailey family had butted heads with "old man Potter" as the latter attempted one hostile takeover after another of the Bailey Building and Loan Company founded by George's father, Peter Bailey. Every attempt had failed, of course, but at the cost of Peter Bailey's health. Even then, Potter let no grass grow under his feet in his attempts to close the business down after Peter Bailey's death. The only reason he hadn't succeeded was George. George had convinced the Board of Directors that Bedford Falls – in his words – "needed this measly one-horse institution, if only to have someplace people could go without having to crawl to Potter."
Sourly, Potter sat in his office now, the day before Christmas, scowling at the headlines in the Bedford Falls Sentinel: "HARRY BAILEY RECEIVES CONGRESSIONAL MEDAL OF HONOR." There would be a big to-do in town to celebrate, but Potter felt the furthest from celebrating anything that he'd ever felt. He would have squashed the headlines, if he could have. After all, he owned the paper that had printed it. But his editor had advised him that would result in another paper picking up the story, and lost revenue when people didn't buy their copy of the paper.
As he opened the paper fully, an envelope fell out onto his intricately carved mahogany desk. It wasn't sealed. Opening it, his eyes widened at the neat stack of bills inside. Thumbing through the stack he guessed there to be a few thousand dollars.
Immediately, his mind went back to moments before, when one of the Baileys, George's imbecile uncle, William, had openly mocked him about the headline, and insinuated that Potter himself was less than a man because he hadn't fought in the recent war. Hogwash! War was for young men, to be fought on behalf of the old men who sent them. War was an opportunity for wealth, if one knew how to play the game, and Henry F. Potter knew how to play very well.
His eyes narrowed with a calculating gleam, and he ordered his manservant, Frank Simmons, to push him closer to the office door. Opening it just enough to peer out into the bank lobby, he saw William Bailey frantically going through trash cans and patting down every pocket. At length, the old fool rushed out the door in a panic.
Potter sat back in his chair. "Take me back," he motioned to Simmons, who dutifully pushed him back to his desk. Yes. Opportunity. He knew clearly now what had happened. Bailey had been so busy gloating, so eager to score a point on Potter, that he absent-mindedly tucked the deposit envelope into the folds of Potter's own newspaper. Well, well, well. It would be interesting to see just how this would play out. And if things worked out as he believed they would, it might just be the final nail in the coffin of the Bailey Building and Loan.
"Please, Mr. Potter," George begged. "You have to help me! I've misplaced eight thousand dollars. I don't know what happened to it."
"You misplaced it?" Potter drawled, watching the younger man carefully. George refused to meet his eyes as he nodded. "Well, have you got any kind of security for the loan? Any stocks or bonds?"
"I have an insurance policy," George replied. "A fifteen-thousand-dollar policy."
"Any equity in it?" Potter asked shrewdly.
"Five hundred dollars," the younger man replied, desperately trying to keep the panic out of his eyes.
Potter enjoyed the laugh he got from that. "Five hundred dollars?" he mocked. "And you want me to loan you fifteen thousand?" He sneered at George. "You're worth more dead than you are alive. Look at you," he jibed. "You were going to take on the world. You once called me a warped, frustrated old man. What are you, now, but a warped, frustrated young one?" He gave another snide chuckle as he picked up the phone and began dialing. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do, George. I'm going to swear out a warrant for your arrest for stealing from the Building and Loan, embezzlement, corruption, malfeasance—" He broke off as George got unsteadily to his feet and backed out of the room. "Go on, run," he laughed nastily. "You can't hide in a little town like this."
The Sheriff, Joe Langley, picked up, and Potter took immense pleasure in filing his complaint. As he hung up the phone a few moments later, he gave a most sinister smile as he began to plan what to do with the space currently occupied by the Bailey Building and Loan.
Joe Langley came to take his statement, of course, along with the bank examiner, a Mr. Carter, and a small cadre of reporters from the Sentinel. Potter had called the Sentinel himself to request they send a reporter around. They left soon after, having obtained the address of the Bailey residence. Now all that was left was to wait for word that George Bailey had been arrested before he could call an emergency meeting of the Board of Directors to take over the Building and Loan, and soon after to dismantle it.
It was nearly an hour later, and he was still wondering what was keeping them, when a pounding on his window jolted him out of his reverie. It was young Bailey, grinning like a madman and screaming "Merry Christmas!" at him through the glass.
"And a happy New Year to you, too, in jail!" he stormed, irritated. "Go on home! They're waiting for you!"
And they were. But something had happened that not even Henry F. Potter, with all his worldly experience and all his arachnidian machinations could explain. George Bailey didn't go to jail. George Bailey found the money to pay the debt. Oh, not the eight thousand dollars that Potter had held onto, to be sure. But somehow, some way, the people of Bedford Falls came together to help the young man in his hour of need. The very same immigrants Potter scathingly referred to as "garlic-eaters", the downtrodden, the war-weary veterans, the middle-class people – all had banded together to help George Bailey come up with the missing money.
"Preposterous!" Potter fumed. George Bailey was living a very charmed life, and it just wasn't right! Now, more than ever, Potter was determined to stamp out the Building and Loan business permanently. There had to be a way to do it, but it had to be done legally. There could be no hint of corruption in the handling of this matter.
"Get me the lease contract for the Bailey Building and Loan," he ordered his secretary. Perhaps by scrutinizing the documents, he could find a loophole somewhere.
"At once, Mr. Potter," his secretary replied. "But Mr. Langley is here to see you. Shall I send him in?"
"What does he want?" Potter demanded.
"I don't know, sir," the woman replied, "but he says it's urgent."
"Send him in, then," Potter snapped, "but get me those documents." He switched off the intercom before she could respond. The door opened a moment later, and Joe Langley cleared his throat.
"What is it, Langley?" Potter snarled. "I'm a very busy man. This had better be worth the interruption."
"Henry F. Potter," Langley intoned. "You're under arrest for theft."
Potter's head jerked up. "What?" he glared. "What kind of nonsense is this?"
"It's not nonsense, Mr. Potter," Langley said firmly, holding up a warrant. "You're under arrest for the theft of eight thousand dollars from the Bailey Building and Loan."
"Now, look here, Joe," Potter simmered, attempting to put a face of calm reason over his temper. "You and I go way back. I helped you get elected, didn't I? You can't possibly believe this poppycock story!"
"It's not a question of what I believe, Mr. Potter," Langley said stiffly. "That's for a jury to decide. Frank, step away from the chair."
"Stay where you are, Simmons!" Potter barked, but to his amazement, the man who had pushed his chair, helped him get dressed and served him his meals for the last twenty-two years did as the police chief ordered and stepped aside. The two officers flanked him, though it was clear he would not have been able to get away from them.
"Who swore out this warrant?" he growled. "Where's your proof? I demand to know who my accuser is!"
"Your accuser is William Bailey, Mr. Potter," Langley told him. "He remembered where he left the money. Your teller, Mr. Wilkins, tells me you made a deposit of eight thousand dollars later in the day, just before closing."
"That's not proof," Potter argued. "I'm a very wealthy man, Joe, you know that. It's not unreasonable to expect that I might have that lying around my office here from rents I've collected."
"No, Mr. Potter, it's not," Langley agreed. "And I would need more than the word of two people against such circumstantial evidence."
Potter gave a satisfied smirk. But it ran away at the Sheriff's next comment.
"As it happens, I have the testimony of Mr. Frank Simmons, stating that on the date in question, you discovered the envelope in your newspaper, after your conversation with Mr. Bailey, and that you furthermore made no effort to return the money to him. Instead, you deposited it into your account."
Potter turned his gaze to Simmons with a gasp of outraged betrayal.
"You, Simmons?" he sputtered. "How could you? I pay you—"
"Yes, you do, Mr. Potter," Frank Simmons said quietly. "You pay me to dress you and care for you and wheel you around. But you do not pay me to turn a blind eye while you attempt to frame an innocent man for embezzlement. You do not pay me to ignore how you have callously treated every person with whom you have had business dealings, let alone personal contact. I am a human being with feelings and morals, Mr. Potter, and unlike you, I also have a conscience. What you tried to do to George Bailey was wrong. I could not have lived with myself if he had gone to jail for a crime he didn't commit."
"You Judas!" Potter spat. "I'll see that you never work in this town again!"
"I doubt very much you'll have that much authority in jail, Mr. Potter," Simmons replied mildly. "And there are other towns. There's a bigger world out there besides Bedford Falls, and it doesn't revolve around you."
Joe Langley nodded to the two officers, and they wheeled Potter out of his office, out of his bank, and into a waiting van.
Henry F. Potter was tried for, and found guilty of theft and embezzlement, and the scandal whirled through the little town of Bedford Falls like a winter blizzard. The Board of Directors was convened in an emergency meeting to appoint a new Chairman, and George Bailey was unanimously voted in. Under his direction, the town grew and prospered, with many civic and infrastructure improvements implemented.
"Old Man Potter", as he was cynically called, served only two years of his ten-year sentence, passing away in prison, a warped, frustrated, broken old man. His enormous fortune was used to establish several community assistance projects and programs for the poor, of the kind he would have hated in his covetous lifetime.
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