MORGAN WENT ABOUT his prison routine in the days that followed, putting aside the small hope he’d found in Sammie’s dream. This time there was no substance, her idea of escape was wishful thinking. He settled into life behind bars as best he could except for the group counseling session. He didn’t need counseling, he needed justice.
The courts had locked him up for the rest of his life, but why force him to listen to a bunch of bickering inmates air their petty complaints? Or to the sanctimonious platitudes of the fresh-faced counselor who led the others in their pointless rankling? He didn’t want to share his pain.
The problem was, the day the counselor started working on him he ended up bellyaching just like the rest of the group. Afterward he felt cheap and ashamed. He’d let it all out, the unfairness of the jury, the uncaring judge and U.S. attorney, the incompetence of his own lawyer. He’d gone on about being used, manipulated like a rat in a lab experiment. The counseling he got, in front of the whole group, only made it worse. At least the counselor had gotten him a job in the automotive shop, but only because they needed skilled men. Now, thankful for that good luck, he crossed the prison yard on his way to another “shrink” session, for another hour of misery.
IT WAS JUST one o’clock when Lee found the group counseling room and stepped inside. A gray metal desk stood across the room, arranged so the group leader sat with his back to the wall facing three rows of folding chairs, all empty. The young counselor looked up from his paperwork, then glanced at a list. “Lee Fontana?”
Lee nodded. The first one there, he took a seat in the middle so he wouldn’t have men pushing by stepping on his feet. The young man was all of twenty-some, a college type with an almost pretty face, a deep tan, a blond crew cut. He wore a V-necked red sweater with turned-up sleeves over a starched white shirt. He gave Lee a charming smile, introduced himself as Tom Randall, and returned to his loose-leaf notebook. He didn’t look up again until a broad-shouldered black man entered. He looked Lee over and slid into the chair next to him. Lee hoped he wasn’t going to be talkative, he wasn’t here to be social.
But the man’s smile drew Lee, his eyes alive with intelligence and humor. He was middle-aged, square faced and clean-cut, with flecks of gray through his short hair. He extended his broad, lined hand. “Andy Trotter,” he said in a polished British accent.
“Lee Fontana.” Lee shook the man’s hand. “You’re a Brit? What are you doing in here?”
Trotter grinned and pulled a bag of Bull Durham from his shirt pocket. “Born right here in Georgia. But I spent most of my childhood in Jamaica with my granny, she made sure I could speak the King’s English. Smoke?” He extended the makings.
Lee shook his head. As Andy rolled a cigarette quickly and neatly, three more men wandered in. Two of them were the dregs of prison population, scruffy, edgy types. Lee could smell the body odor of the frazzled, dirty one before he sat down at the end of the row. The man’s hair was greasy, his eyes darted restlessly, and he couldn’t keep his hands still, his twitching fingers rubbing and fidgeting. This fellow didn’t need counseling, he needed to dry out. The man who took the chair next to Lee held himself rigidly, staring straight ahead to avoid eye contact. His thin red hair was combed straight back over a premature baldness, his mouth and chin dwarfed by a large beaked nose.
The third man, who came in behind them, was younger, clean-cut, probably in his late twenties, an honest-John citizen type. Lee watched him with interest, wondering what he was in for. Open, friendly face like that, he’d make a great con artist. Only when their eyes met did Lee see his deep, embedded anger.
The young man grinned at Andy, received a smile in return, and took the seat on the other side of him. When Andy made introductions, when Morgan Blake reached across to shake Lee’s hand, Lee saw something else in his look. Not the buried anger now, but a spark of surprise, a puzzled frown as he studied Lee. A surprise and confusion he found hard to conceal. What was that about? Around them more men drifted in jostling, scraping chairs along the floor as they settled down.
Morgan Blake’s look lasted only a minute, then was gone. Turning away he gave his attention to Tom Randall. With only two chairs vacant, Randall closed his notebook, glanced at his watch, and looked up at the group. In the open doorway, Sam Delone sauntered in, his blond pompadour catching light from the overhead bulb, his cold eyes scanning the group. His gaze settled on Lee.
The counselor looked Delone over. “Glad you could join us, Delone,” he said coolly.
“Sorry,” Delone said. “Those dummies in the laundry took forever, farting around slow as hell.”
Randall introduced Lee to the group. Ralph Smee was the one with greasy hair and nervous eyes; he barely flicked a glance in Lee’s direction. Red Foster stared straight ahead over his big nose and didn’t acknowledge Lee. Sam Delone lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “I’m afraid Gramps and I have already met.”
“Who wants to start?” the counselor said, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. “Anything where you think the group, in an exchange of ideas, can be of help.”
Delone flicked his burnt match onto the linoleum. “Why the hell can’t they hire someone in the kitchen who knows how to cook? Those dumb bastards can’t even cook an egg without pounding it into leather.”
Lee tried not to smile, but Delone caught his look. “You think that’s funny, old man?” Turning, he fixed his gaze on Trotter. “And what are you grinning about, darky?”
“Perhaps,” said Andy slowly, “Mr. Randall has something more important in mind than your gourmet sensitivities.”
“And maybe,” Lee said evenly, “you ought to be more careful what you call people.”
The counselor adjusted his sleeves again. “These sessions are not for petty gripes, you men know that. How about you, Blake? You settle into the automotive shop okay?”
Morgan Blake nodded. “Yes, sir. I appreciate getting the job.”
“Have you heard anything on your appeal?”
Lee saw Blake’s jaw tighten. “Not yet,” Blake said, “but my wife’s found a new attorney. One who might really try.”
Sam Delone snorted.
“I didn’t rob that bank,” Blake snapped at him, “and I didn’t kill anyone.” He looked hard at the counselor. “The courts don’t want justice, all they want are bodies to fill up their prisons, any scapegoat they can lay the blame on.”
Lee watched Blake with interest. If he was lying, he was pretty good.
But Lee had seen plenty of scams in his time, a man could fake anything if he practiced long enough.
Delone ground out his cigarette with his heel, glaring at the counselor. “Ralph, here, he has the same problem, don’t you, Ralphy? Tell us, Ralph, how you didn’t rape that little girl, up at Stone Mountain. Tell us how the park ranger and that girl made it all up just to get at you.”
Smee darted a hasty look at Delone and laughed raggedly.
Delone said, “You see, Blake, everyone in here is innocent.”
Lee leaned back, watching the group and watching the ineffective young counselor. Morgan Blake said no more, but sat quietly, his hands tense, his face flushed.
“Anyway, Blake,” Delone said with mock sympathy, “there’s always parole. Don’t forget parole. You might be old by then, as old as this old fart here,” he said, glancing at Lee. “But maybe you’ll have some time left, a year or two to spend with your little wife and family.”
The counselor tried to take things in hand, shooting Delone a look to shut him up, then looking at Morgan. “You haven’t told us your whole story, Blake. Would it help to talk about it?”
Blake was silent. Randall nodded encouragement. “How long is your sentence?”
“I’ll be eligible for parole in twenty-three years,” Blake said reluctantly, and Lee could see that he needed to talk. “Fifteen on the life term, eight on the twenty-five-year jolt.” He had turned, was talking to Lee and Andy, glancing up at the counselor only to be polite. “For the next twen
ty-three years I’ll get to see my little girl grow up, from right here behind the bars. I’ll be here on visiting days to talk with her, to help with her problems, to help shape what kind of a young woman she’ll be. When I get out, she’ll be grown and married. My wife will be over fifty years old.”
Blake seemed, once he got started, to need badly to spill it all out. He looked deeply at Lee, again that puzzled look that made Lee uneasy. “My life, their lives, are down the drain because of a crime I didn’t commit. But what do the courts care? No one in law enforcement, no one in the courts will listen.”
“Even if you lose your appeal,” the counselor said, “you know you can try again.”
“What good is a second try?” Morgan said. “The first jury didn’t believe me. If we lose an appeal, why bother with another? The witnesses who lied in court, they’ll keep on lying.” Morgan flushed deeply. “If I were guilty I’d figure I had it coming, I’d figure I had to get used to prison. But I’m not guilty and every day I’m in here is hard time, unfair time. I don’t know how to get used to it.”
Andy stubbed out his cigarette, his broad, dark hands catching the light. His look at Morgan was gentle and patient. “The reality is, you are here. You cannot change that, not until the appeal. You can only take each day as it comes. You are fortunate, you know, to have such a loyal and loving wife working to help you, and to have your little girl to visit you, to hold her and love her, even here in the prison setting.”
Morgan nodded. He looked companionably at Andy and was quiet.
Randall listened to several more petty complaints from other inmates, then he tried to draw Lee out. “You were transferred down from Springfield, Fontana. That means your health has improved.”
Lee didn’t care to discuss his weakness in front of these men. Didn’t Randall have any sense? “Springfield had a new bunch of men coming in, they needed the space,” he said. He clammed up and would answer no more questions, scowling at Randall until the counselor turned to another inmate.
At the end of the session, as they headed for the door Andy Trotter laid a hand on Morgan Blake’s arm. “Stay steady, man. I’d like to talk, have a cup of coffee, but I have to get to work.”
Lee moved out behind them. The ground shook as, beyond the wall, a train thundered and screamed, passing the prison. Lee was getting used to their freedom call, to their beckoning. He’d started to turn away from the other men when Blake fell into step with him, and again that searching look. “Sorry I came on so strong back there. I know that doesn’t do any good.” Blake’s frown as he watched Lee seemed to hold some question about Lee himself.
Warily Lee said, “Why do you care what I think?”
Blake colored, lowered his gaze, and moved away. Lee felt relief but then, on impulse, he stepped up beside Blake again. “Come on, kid. Let’s go down to the mess hall, see if we can wrangle that coffee.”
Even as he said it, he wondered what he was doing. A few minutes over a cup of coffee could get him uncomfortably involved, could gain him a persistent sidekick that he didn’t want hanging around. This guy needed a friend. And Lee wasn’t interested. He knew nothing about Blake or about Blake’s crime. He didn’t know whether Blake’s trial had been fair or rigged. He didn’t want to know. He knew only that any friendship, in prison, could end up the kiss of death.
11
BRAD FALON WASN’T finished with the Blake family. Having skillfully finessed Morgan into the federal pen, his full attention turned to Becky and the child. They had been staying with Caroline Tanner but it looked now as if they’d moved back home again just as he’d hoped they’d do. Last night he had cruised by meaning, if he saw no one about, to jimmy the back door and slip inside.
But the Tanner woman’s white van was parked in the drive beside Becky’s car, there was another car behind it that he didn’t recognize, and the living room and kitchen lights burned bright behind the drawn drapes. Easing his car along past the house beneath the overhanging oaks he had parked for a few minutes, looking back, watching the house, wondering what was going on, wondering what Becky might be up to.
But now, this late morning, there was no car at all in the drive. There was no room for a car in the small garage, he knew it was stacked with boxes of automotive parts and new tires for Morgan’s shop. He remained parked for a few moments, scanning the neighborhood. He saw no one in any of the yards, no one looking out a window. Parking half a block down, he walked back beneath the tree shadows to Becky’s front porch.
Having studied the lock on earlier visits, he quickly inserted a thin screwdriver, tripped the simple device, and let himself in. Locking the door behind him he made a leisurely tour of the rooms to be certain the place was empty. In the kitchen he opened the refrigerator, drank some milk from the bottle, took out a bowl of cold spaghetti, found a spoon in one of the drawers. He ate half of it, then put the bowl back. The kitchen was too neat, the counters scrubbed, everything put away behind cupboard doors. None of the easy clutter his mother kept on the counter, the cookie jars filled with flour and packages of staples where she could reach them, the pots of miniature cacti, the pictures and lists she kept stuck to the refrigerator and to the walls between hooks bearing limp dish towels and greasy potholders. His mother still lived alone, the house too big for her. The rest of his clothes were there, but he didn’t stop by often, they had their differences. She seemed sometimes almost afraid of him, he thought, smiling.
Moving down the hall to the front bedroom he opened the closet, stroked Becky’s neatly arranged dresses and fondled them. Morgan’s clothes still hung beside hers—as if they thought he was coming home again. He chose a pale blue cotton dress Becky had worn during the trial. Stretching it tight on the hanger he slashed it with his pocketknife, ripped it nearly in half and dropped the pieces on the floor. He’d reached for a second dress when a chill ran through him, a sense that he was watched.
He stared into the shadowed end of the closet where Morgan’s clothes hung but saw nothing to threaten him. He looked foolishly up at the shadowed shelf as if someone could hide among the half-dozen shoe boxes and the battered suitcase. Nothing there of course, and no one behind him in the small bedroom. He checked the hall, went through the rest of the house, then returned. On the dresser stood a cluster of framed photographs, one of Becky and Morgan standing before the house, their hands clasped, and several pictures of the child, from baby to little girl. One by one he smashed the glass, pulled the pictures out and broke the frames. But even as he tore the pictures into small pieces and dropped them on the floor he felt watched again, felt that he was not alone. Nervously he began to open dresser drawers. He removed Becky’s panties and bras one at a time, dropped his pants, and rubbed them over himself. She wore only cotton, not silk, but the garments felt smooth and cool. From the next drawer he lifted out nighties and some stockings and did the same with these, leaving the drawers in a tangle ripe with his male scent.
He left Morgan’s side of the dresser alone except for the top drawer, which was locked. That interested him, and he was examining the lock when he heard a car door slam. As he stepped to the closed window a faint breeze touched the back of his neck, making him shiver. But when he turned, nothing was there. Outside, a car had parked at the curb. A strange man was heading for the house as Becky’s car pulled into the drive, a big man, broad of shoulder, his tie loosened over a white shirt, his gray suit wrinkled. Quickly Falon headed for the kitchen, eased open the bolt on the back door and left, shutting the door softly behind him.
BECKY CAME INTO the house ahead of Quaker Lowe. She made him comfortable in the living room, then went to make some coffee. They had met outside the courthouse where Lowe had spent the morning going over the transcripts of the trial. They hadn’t talked there, Lowe had followed her directly home. She was comfortable with Lowe, he seemed to understand clearly her lone battle and her helpless frustration.
He had driven up from Atlanta two days before to talk with the bank employees who had w
itnessed the guard’s murder and then been beaten and locked in the vault. He was staying at the nicest of Rome’s three motels. So far he had seemed content with the five-hundred-dollar retainer she’d given him, which was all the money she had in their savings account. She had seen him for only a few minutes the day he arrived and then again last night when they’d had a simple dinner here at the house, when Caroline had joined them bringing a hot casserole. Now, as she carried the tray of cookies and coffee into the living room, Lowe was reading his copies of the police reports.
“I read the transcripts,” he said, smiling up at her, “and talked the court steno out of a set of her carbons.” He spooned sugar into his coffee. “Last night after I left you I tried again to see Natalie Hooper. There was a light in the living room, but she didn’t answer the door. I tried again this morning. She didn’t respond and she isn’t answering her phone.”
He added cream to the brew and slid three cookies onto his saucer. “It wasn’t much good sitting in the car watching the front entrance to the lobby when she could slip out the back. I parked around the corner, borrowed a chair from the building manager, and sat in the hall. When she did come down, she wasn’t happy to see me,” Lowe said, smiling.
“I told her we could either go upstairs to her place or talk there in the hall. Reluctantly she took me upstairs. I spent over an hour with her but I didn’t get much, just the same lies she told in court. Except for one small discrepancy.
“On the stand, she said Falon left her apartment at two-thirty, the day of the robbery, to go across the street to the corner store. This morning she told me two-fifteen, I got her to say it twice.” He looked evenly at Becky. “I don’t see how she could forget what she said on the witness stand, though the woman doesn’t seem too swift.
“It may be nothing,” he said, “but it flustered her. I’ll talk with the store manager when I leave here. But the biggest hole in Falon’s story,” Lowe said, “is that double entry to the apartment building, the fact that when he left the grocery he could have gone in the front door and out the back. But with no witness, there’s nothing to support that. Can you think of anything that might have been overlooked?”
The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape Page 8