The Revenge of John W: Desert Intrigue, Daring Prison Escape: Thrilling Action (Unlimited exclusive, Joe Corso Book 1)

by Joe Corso

  The jury foreman stood. “We have, Your Honor. We find the defendant guilty of all charges.”

  The judge nodded in agreement. He expected nothing less. The judge rested his hand on the open journal and looked around the crowded courtroom. He off took his glasses and cleared his throat. Without realizing it, he began to tap his glasses on his desk as he started to speak. All eyes were on him as he went into a long tirade against John W, which lasted for fifteen minutes about the evils of selling drugs to children. In the heat of that tirade, he tapped his glasses harder to emphasize the point he was making. When everyone was sure the judge had finished, he then read John the riot act for getting involved in the drug trade. When he finally worked himself into frothing at the mouth, he stood and pointed his finger at John telling him, “Look at your mother. Go ahead and look at her! You should be ashamed of yourself for causing your mother so much misery and grief.” The judge got so carried away with his brim and firestone lambasting of John W, you could hear a pin drop in the courtroom. Suddenly, there was an audible sound bouncing around the courtroom walls like a window breaking, only much quieter.

  The sound stopped the judge in his tracks and he looked around the room for the source of the noise, but he couldn’t find it. When he put his glasses on, he was embarrassed to find that a cracked lens, which everyone in the room noticed, had caused the noise, causing snickers and guffaws in the courtroom. He placed his glasses back on his desk, hoping no one noticed, even though everyone had. He glanced down at the open book, trying to focus his eyes on the words, which was difficult without his glasses. He strained to read the statute, knowing he had a problem now that he had no reading glasses. He squinted and with difficulty managed to make out the intent of the paragraph. Satisfied that he read it correctly, he closed the book and ordered John W. Hardin to stand. Then, without further adieu, he sentenced him to fifty years at hard labor in the Florence, Arizona Territorial Prison, the very same prison that the prisoners of Yuma built back in 1909.

  CHAPTER SIX

  One day, a man knocked on Mrs. Abigail Hardin’s door. He asked if he could come in, as he had something to discuss with her that would help her son’s appeal’s case. She welcomed him into her home, wondering what he had that would help her son.

  “Mrs. Hardin, I represent a very rich man. He owns a very large company and he’s been following your son’s case with interest. He feels your son was unjustly accused and he would like to help you in your time of need. So he sent me here with an offer that should help you out of your predicament.”

  Mrs. Hardin interrupted the man. “Can I get you a cold glass of water or tea? It’s very hot today.”

  “Why, yes. A glass of water would be fine. Thank you.”

  She returned a few minutes later with a tray with a pitcher of water and a glass on it. She sat it on the end table. “Now tell me how you can help my son when no one else could.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I can help him directly, but I can certainly help him indirectly.”

  “Please, say what’s on your mind, Mr.? Mr.? What did you say your name was?”

  “It’s Mr. Winters, ma’am.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Winters, how can you help my son indirectly, if you can’t help him directly? You know, Mr. Winters. I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about this meeting.”

  “Please don’t feel that way until you hear me out.”

  Abigail let out a sigh. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  “My employer wants to purchase your land as an excuse to give you money. It’s worth nothing but it would justify his giving you the money you need to pay your lawyers. He also has a home on a tract of land near the Grand Canyon, all paid for and furnished that he would like to give you. I checked with the Mohave County Land office and I found out what you paid for this property. I did it only to make sure we gave you far more than it is worth. This property is worth approximately two thousand dollars. We will give you seventy-five thousand dollars and the home but we can only do it in exchange for this worthless piece of property you own. We need it to justify this transaction with our shareholders. Since we own a corporation, we just can’t be giving money away for nothing. No, we have to show some sort of exchange and this is the only way we can justify the monies we will be giving you. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Mrs. Hardin? Once this transaction is completed, you’ll have enough money for a retrial.”

  Abigail wasn’t quite convinced that this man was telling her was the truth. “Why would your boss want to help us when the whole world is against us?”

  “That’s just it. The whole world’s against you and he feels it’s unfair. If you would let him, he would like to help you.”

  “Seventy-five thousand you say?” She took the bait. She was hooked. “Why yes. Seventy-five thousand. And the home?”

  “Yes, and the home.”

  “Make it one hundred twenty-five thousand and you have a deal.”

  Winters smiled inwardly. He was authorized to go to two million. “That’s quite a lot of money, Mrs. Hardin, but I’ll talk my principal into taking the deal. A lot rests on my say so. But I’d like to see you be able to help your son with his legal problems. Just sign here, Mrs. Hardin, on the dotted line below your name.”

  “Just hold on a minute, sonny. I don’t see any check being given to me.”

  “You’re absolutely right, ma’am. I have it right here in my attaché case.” He opened his case. He pulled out a blank check and he made it out for one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars and handed it to her. “Here you are, Mrs. Hardin.”

  “Where are the papers for my house?”

  Winters once again reached into his attaché case and pulled out another document. “Here is the deed to your new home and the property it sits on, along with the bank statement stating that the home and property we are giving you is paid in full.” Winter’s document stated that the home and property given to her was given as a gift rather than as an exchange of properties.

  “Give me your pen, Mr. Winters, and I’ll sign this document.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hardin thanked God for small favors that the old Yuma territorial prison was no longer used. His father had taken him there once and he remembered from the tour they took that it opened its doors on July 1, 1876 to accept its first seven prisoners and it closed on September 15, 1909. John was thankful that he was sent to the newer prison, which the bailiff told him was now the oldest functioning prison complex in Arizona.

  Back in the early 1900s, the prisoners that were transported to Yuma Territorial prison tried hard not to touch the iron bars with their bare skin, but they didn’t have much success as their rig jostled along barren desert roads. They knew second and third degree burns would be the result if their flesh touched iron, because it was as hot as an oven in the transportation conveyance in which they were riding. Unlike the metal cages on wheels pulled by horses, and sometimes burros, over a hundred years ago in the stifling 120 degree Arizona heat, John Hardin was transported to prison in an air-conditioned police cruiser and not in a prison bus like other criminals. It seemed odd that he was given preferential treatment and he felt a foreboding. But, young John W had no time to ponder his dilemma because when the cruiser arrived at the prison, he was immediately taken to a holding cell by a guard who ordered him to disrobe. After removing his clothes, he was led naked to a shower and he was given a prison uniform. He was officially logged into the prison rolls as a prisoner of the state of Arizona.

  Although he didn’t know it, he would be given no introduction into the prison system nor would the Warden give him a talking to. Instead, John W. Hardin was taken down three levels and placed in a cell that was rarely, if ever, used these days. Once inside the cell, the guard manacled his hands and feet. The sneering guard laughed coldly as he told John W that he would remain in this cell until he was moved to a very special facility, an old forgotten prison, which was being dug out of the desert and was being prepared just for hi
m.

  The very special facility to which the guard alluded too was once known across Arizona as the Gila Bend Arizona State Prison. It officially opened in 1908 and it was another fine example of a prison built by the inmates of the Yuma Territorial Prison. Because the prisoners worked in the scorching hot 120-degree summer heat, they only worked till twelve noon. The desert site was their home and they wouldn’t leave it until the prison was completed. The tents in which the men lived were modeled after a Roman military camp. They were spaced equally and positioned in a semi-circle around the perimeter of the prison. The tents remained that way during the entire time the sand was methodically removed and the cinder block foundation for the new prison was laid. Soon, the prison began to emerge from the desert like a sleeping dragon.

  A few months passed, and one day the prisoner in charge of construction entered the Captain’s tent and reported the good news to him. The prison was cleared and the foundation, walls, roofs, cells, and the guards living quarters were now ready for use. The prison was finally completed. The Captain smiled happily and left with the prisoner to inspect the completed prison. They walked the perimeter and the supervising prisoner pointed out certain areas that required special attention during construction.

  After the inspection, the Captain smiled and surprised the prisoner by saying. “Good job, Willard. Come on, let’s go back to my tent and we’ll have a drink to celebrate. I’ve been saving a bottle for this occasion.” Willard Smith gladly accepted the Captain’s offer. After the two men finished their drink, the prisoner left. The Captain immediately cranked up his Model T Ford and left the prison for the long ride to Tucson. He couldn’t wait to send the Governor a telegram, giving him the good news that the Gila prison was completed and ready for use. When he sent the telegram, he hoped the Governor would wire him back telling him to take a well-earned vacation and leave his sergeant in charge of the prison. Then, when his vacation ended, he hoped the Governor would then instruct him to return to his home in Tucson. As he read through the telegram, to his surprise and utter delight, the Governor did tell him to leave immediately for a well-earned two-week vacation. Then, he went on to say that when his vacation ended, he was to go home for another two weeks. But, as the Captain read the rest of the telegram it shook him to his core because to his disappointment, he got the very thing he didn’t want. The Gila Bend prison would now be his prison as well, because he was now the new warden.

  The prison’s location in the middle of Gila desert was not selected arbitrarily. It was built in that exact location to deter prisoners from escaping. If they did manage to escape, there was nowhere for them to go. It was 286 miles of nothing to San Diego and 126.9 miles to Tucson in another direction. That made the Gila Desert Prison the most isolated place in Arizona. In 1942, when its last prisoner died from natural causes, the State of Arizona, rather than closing the prison, turned it over to the United States Army. The old prison was perfect for army use because of the hot desert climate. It was the perfect terrain in which to train soldiers to get them accustomed to desert warfare. General Irwin Rommel had been successful in fighting a strategic war in the Tunisian Desert in North Africa from June 10, 1940 to May 13, 1943. Men were trained at the old prison site to stop Rommel once and for all. General George Patton led the men sent to fight General Rommel and he defeated him. Soon after his defeat, the momentum shifted to the Allies. When Rommel returned home to Germany, Hitler, with the threat of killing his family, forced him to commit suicide. The Japanese surrendered on September 2, 1945, ending the war. Two months later, the Gila prison was closed.

  Governor Holland Wilson decided the Gila prison would be perfect for what he had in mind and he issued an order for it to be re-opened. No one other than he knew it would only house two prisoners, and if a nosy journalist discovered his secret, he would simply tell him the prison was being utilized as a pilot program for incorrigible prisoners. His real motive was to confine the two men permanently in the dungeon. When Governor Wilson visited the prison site, he was surprised to see that very little of it remained above ground. The shifting sands of the desert had reclaimed most of the prison, burying it under the Gila sands. His face grimaced into a malicious smile, which he was careful to hide from his pilot. Oh yes, he thought to himself. Dutch Henry will sing like a canary when he realizes that this will be his home from now on. He’ll tell me everything, and if he doesn’t talk, he’ll spend the rest of his life here.

  When Jack McCormack heard the story, he giggled like a child. “How long do you think the kid will last out there in the desert, confined to a cell with all that heat and no one to talk to?”

  The Governor returned the smile. “Hell, we have some tough old buzzards in this state. One old man is in that prison for quite a while now, and he is still as belligerent as ever.”

  “What’s his story?” McCormack asked.

  “He’s just a crazy old prospector who doesn’t know when to give up. He’s trekked up and down the Superstition Mountains digging for gold most of his life. The old man never had a pot to piss in - then one day he comes into my store in Payson and he wants to trade some gold nuggets for an outfit.”

  McCormack squinted his eyes in confusion. “What in hell’s an outfit?”

  Wilson looked at McCormack sideways, surprised that a man in the mining business didn’t know what an outfit was. So, he explained to McCormack what an outfit was, as if he were a child. “He bought all the things a prospector uses. You know, desert clothes, a pick and shovel, a weapon, a canteen, a horse, a burro, and a host of other items that every prospector needs.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you say he wanted to buy some prospector’s gear? If you would’ve said ‘gear’ instead of ‘outfit,’ then I would have known what the hell you were talking about.”

  The Governor shook his head and continued. He didn’t want to get into a pissing contest with the man who nominated him for Governor at the Democrat State Convention, backed him with his money, and to whom he owed his governorship, so he ignored the barb and continued telling his story. “Of course, this was long before I became Governor of this great state.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing - then. But my curiosity was piqued. I asked him where he found the gold nuggets. He just smiled and said he found them in a stream way up in the Superstition Mountains, but I could tell he was lying. He got the gold somewhere up in the mountains all right, but he didn’t get them by panning for the gold in a stream. I asked him if he was going to file a claim and he gave me a tight-lipped smile, and he said ‘no,’ ‘cause he didn’t want the government putting their hands in his pocket. I asked him if he had a run of luck and struck it rich. He just laughed. ‘Could be,’ he said.”

  Talking about gold always interested McCormack and he was anxious to hear how the story turned out. “What happened then?”

  “Well, I didn’t see him for a few years until one day, out of nowhere, the front door opens, and he comes sauntering into the store. I was in my office going over my books when I spotted the old geezer on my surveillance system. I immediately stopped what I was doing and ran out to greet him. I had to find out if he hit it big. I was excited, but I acted casual as I approached him. I asked him how he was doing. ‘Pretty good,’ he said.

  “The way he said it, I knew it was more than ‘pretty good,’ but I asked him anyway. ‘Did you find any more gold?’ ‘Some,’ he answered evasively. I just knew in my gut that he hit it big. I had that feeling and I guess he must have sensed it, because he became more evasive. I figured if he struck it rich, then it made sense that he wouldn’t want anyone to know about it. One thing was for sure, he had money, and plenty of it, and the thought crossed my mind that he may have stumbled onto a lost gold mine. I damned sure didn’t want another Lost Dutchman Gold Mine found without being a part of it, so I asked him again. ‘How much gold did you take out of that mountain?’ When he heard the question, he became suspicious. He gave me a look of disapproval and he said, ‘Oh, eno
ugh to get by on.’ That was all he said, and then he turned to my clerk, paid for his gear and then he hurriedly walked out of the store.

  “But, after he left, Dutch Henry, that was the old man’s name, lingered in my thoughts and for a long time and I just couldn’t get him off of my mind. I just knew he struck it rich. I had tried to get him to tell me where he was getting his gold for twelve years, and as the weeks, months and years passed slowly by, it became an obsession. But at the time, I was powerless to do anything about it. It was a different story, though, when I became Governor, because after I was sworn in, I came into a lot of power. So, after things settled down and I was comfortable in the Governor’s seat, I decided to track down Dutch Henry.

  “My troopers found him in Tucson, living high, staying in a fancy hotel, and spending money like it was water. I ordered my men to bring him in for questioning. When he was brought before me, I told him that this doesn’t have to be painful; all he had to do was to tell me about his gold. I tried reasoning with him. I told him that as Governor, I could take much more of the gold out of the mountain than he ever could by himself. No matter how rich you are. I said to him. If I were your partner, I would make you ten times richer than you could ever be on your own. But it was no use. The old man was either stupid or dumb because no matter how hard I tried to reason with him to get him to tell me where his gold mine was, he wouldn’t budge. He just looked at me pensively as if I were crazy, then he put his head back and laughed. ‘I don’t need you, sonny. I got it all under control.’ He told me, ‘the gold I found was because I scratched holes in the Superstition Mountains for the last forty years. I guess the mountain felt a mite sorry for me because it led me to what I had been searching for all of my life. And what I found I ain’t sharing with nobody. It’s mine and it’s going to stay mine, and when I die, it’s gonna die with me. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.’