The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  This room, too, was paneled in white-stained oak, with shelves of law books along one wall behind the plain oak desk. Two walls were hung with black-and-white photographs of rugged mountains, snow-covered peaks, and close-ups of rocky escarpments. A U.S. flag and a California State flag stood together in one corner. The windows of the fourth wall were open to the yellow-tinged fog. Storm nodded toward four easy chairs grouped around a conference table, and took a chair himself rather than retreat behind his desk. He sat quietly waiting, looking them over, taking stock of them.

  Lee had not given his name on the phone; he’d said that Storm would understand why when they met. Now as he introduced themselves, the lawyer’s eyes hardened with recognition.

  “Our names were in the L.A. papers?” Lee asked.

  “They were. You haven’t seen the papers?”

  “We’ve been traveling,” Lee said.

  Storm waited, quietly watching Lee.

  “I don’t know how we can convince you of this,” Lee said. “In Atlanta, Morgan was doing life plus twenty-five for a robbery and murder he didn’t commit. We went over the wall in order to correct that injustice. It would be pretty stupid for us to break out, come clear across the country, and then make ourselves known to a lawyer without a good reason—an honest reason. We’d be crazy to pull a stunt like that unless we’re straight.”

  “And unless you have a plan laid out,” Storm said. His hands were relaxed on the chair arms, but Lee could feel his tension. “As I recall,” he said, looking at Morgan, “you were convicted for the bank robbery, killing a guard, and badly wounding one of the tellers.”

  “Wrongly convicted,” Morgan said. “I know who robbed the bank and killed the guard. He’s now in Terminal Island on an older, land-scam charge committed in San Diego. The other four men had already been indicted when they picked Falon up.”

  “I know the case,” Storm said. He rose and stepped to his desk. When he touched the intercom, they both jerked to attention. They eased back when he said, “Nancy, try to reschedule my next appointment, and hold my calls.” He picked up a yellow legal pad and a pen and returned to the table. He watched them carefully as Morgan told his story. Only when Morgan finished did Storm speak again.

  “So Falon, who committed the murder, is now a short-termer at T.I. on another charge. You plan to turn yourselves in, where you can get at him before he goes into court on the land scam charge. You think you can make him talk, make him provide new evidence.”

  Lee nodded. “We mean to try.”

  “You understand how risky that is. And that, ethically, I should not be a party to your plan,” Storm said. “Also, Falon may not be kept at T.I. for long. He could be shipped off somewhere else. T.I. is still mainly a naval discipline barracks, has been for about three years. The Bureau of Prisons has a small section they use for civilian prisoners, men with federal convictions waiting to be transferred to a permanent facility. And they do keep a few short-termers. They might possibly keep Falon, depending on how crowded that part of the facility is. But you two . . . It isn’t likely you’ll be there long.”

  He looked at Lee. “They might keep you, Fontana, to finish out your sentence, or they might send you back to McNeil. But you, Blake . . . That’s a medium-security institution, they won’t want a man with a brutal murder conviction. I’d say they’ll ship you right on out, maybe back to Atlanta or maybe Leavenworth.”

  “We’ve got to do this,” Morgan said. “Even if we’re in T.I. only a few days. It’s my only chance, the only chance I’ve had to get close to Falon. I was locked up before I knew there was a robbery and murder, I’ve been behind bars ever since.”

  Storm shook his head. “You know that’s coercion. You understand I shouldn’t be a party to this. You think in that short time you can corner him, make him tell you where he hid the money? Those are pretty long odds. Slim chance you can even get near him.”

  “Slim, maybe,” Lee said. “But it’s what we mean to do. This is our only chance to get to him, where he can’t get away.”

  “Why are you in this, Fontana?”

  “It’s something that needs doing,” Lee said. “The only real evidence will be the money and maybe the gun. The money has to be stashed somewhere, and the most likely place is Georgia. We’re guessing he hid it right after the robbery. If he knew, then, that the feds were getting close on the San Diego case, he’d want to ditch it fast before they came nosing around.”

  “And,” Storm said, “there were no witnesses who could identify Falon at the bank? They saw only a man in a stocking mask?” The way Storm was looking at them, Lee thought the lawyer was going to refuse them. “You know the matter of coercion itself could tilt things the wrong way.”

  “If he bangs us up,” Lee said, “how can he claim coercion? He could have attacked us, who’s to say? If we can find where the money is—hopefully with his prints on it—that’s hard evidence. That’s what we’re after.”

  Storm sat back, watching them. Lee, despite his own wariness, saw a keen challenge in Storm’s gray eyes. “You know,” Storm said, “you’re putting me in a compromising position. What if you kill him? That makes me an accessory.”

  “We won’t kill him,” Lee said. “A dead man can’t tell us anything, and he can’t confess later. We just plan to scare him real bad.”

  “You’re very confident,” Storm said. “You turn yourselves in, Warden Iverson calls Atlanta, tells them he has their escapees, what do you think will happen? They’ll make the connection to Falon, even if it takes a couple of days. As soon as Iverson puts it together he’ll lock you down and ship you out of there, before he has a mess on his hands.”

  Storm moved to his desk again and dropped the pad on the blotter. “There’s also the matter of your escape. You’ll be charged and tried separately for that. I’m sure the brass in Atlanta didn’t like you climbing their wall.”

  Lee grinned and shrugged. “If we can make Falon talk, maybe we won’t be charged with escape. Anyway, with the time Morgan’s looking at, what are a few years tacked on? He won’t be any worse off than he is now. As for me, I’ll take my chances.”

  Storm stood looking at them, his square face solemn. “You walk into T.I., what are you going to tell them? Iverson asks you why you turned yourselves in, what are you going to say?” Lee and Morgan just looked at him. Storm sighed. “You better have a story ready that doesn’t involve Falon. And you’re not to mention me. Iverson and I are on good terms. Let’s keep that relationship, we’re going to need it.”

  “Then you’ll take us on,” Lee said.

  Storm shifted his weight, put his hands in his pockets. “I’ve never committed to anything quite like this.” He watched them rise. “How are you going to pay me?”

  Morgan pulled the six hundred dollars from his pocket. Lee said, “Is that enough to get started, get the trial transcript, make some inquiries, talk to Morgan’s Atlanta attorney?”

  Storm nodded. He laid the money neatly on the yellow pad.

  “Here’s Quaker Lowe’s phone number and address,” Morgan said, handing Storm a battered slip of paper. “When you call him, he’ll let Becky know we’re safe. She’s had a long wait, not hearing from us, a long time to worry. I’d like to know,” he said softly, “if my wife and our little girl are all right. Can you get a message to me?”

  Storm smiled. “I’ll be in touch.” They shook hands. “Once you’re inside,” he said, “you’ll each be allowed two calls a week if you’re in good standing. They’ll keep a record of the numbers.”

  Lee smiled. “We’ll let you know as soon as Falon talks.”

  Storm walked them out, through the outer office past the blond secretary. She watched them with curiosity, turning away only when Storm glanced at her.

  Out on the hot L.A. street again, at the covered bus stop, they read the schedule tacked inside. They had half an hour before the bus arrived that would circle out past T.I. They settled down on the wooden bench to wait, not talking, not l
ooking forward to the next step. They were both edgy, afraid they’d be shipped out again before they had a chance at Falon, a chance to get him alone.

  The bus ride toward the ocean was hot, the humidity worse inside than on the street, the sky hazy and yellowish. Hot, sulfurous air blew in through the open bus windows. Smog, a passenger said. The result, the thin-looking woman told them, frowning, of too many cars and too many factories. They rolled through Florence sweating, passing row after row of little box houses, then some shops and billiard rooms along Gardena’s main street, then more box houses crowded together. They listened to the other passengers complain about the heat, telling each other this wasn’t a typical California winter and that they wished they’d get some rain. Not until they crossed a bridge leading to the main gate of Terminal Island did they feel the cool breath of the Pacific. They drank in the smell of the sea, but then came the ripe stink of the commercial fishing boats that nosed farther along the shore. The bus jolted to a stop in front of the federal penitentiary, jerking them hard.

  Lee stumbled up and led the way down the steps. They alighted directly in front of the broad gray prison, on the walk that led to the main entrance. Here on the ocean the sky was clear and blue, the smog blown inland behind them. Overhead, wheeling gulls screamed, flaunting their winged freedom. Behind them the bus departed with a motorized fart. This was the first time Lee, in all his long life, had ever asked to be locked behind bars. First time he’d ever entered a federal prison out of choice. “Come on,” he said. “We either hike on in or run like hell.”

  34

  MISTO DRIFTED OUT of the bus beside Lee and Morgan just as he had floated into the vehicle and, during their ride through L.A., had snooped among the passengers’ belongings and looked out the dirty windows at the city rolling by, at the green hills rising to the east with a glimpse of tile-roofed mansions. Lee’s and Morgan’s destination of another federal prison didn’t thrill the ghost cat. Even though, of the three of them, only he could come and go as he pleased from the regimented environ. He alone could float out from the prison rooftops over the adjacent harbor where sailboats and fishing boats were moored, bristling with masts and sails, and great ships lay at anchor. As Lee and Morgan descended the bus, three young trusties looked up from where they mowed the green lawn; the smell of freshly cut grass was sharp, mixed with the tang of the sea. Only one guard tower was visible, placed to view the front entry.

  At the foot of the concrete steps Lee stood with Morgan before an open metal booth. Inside hung a microphone, with a speaker attached. As Lee reached for the mike, a voice from the speaker barked, “Identify yourselves. State your business.”

  “Lee Fontana,” Lee said, looking up at the tower where the guard held a second mike. “And Morgan Blake. Escapees from the federal pen in Atlanta, come to turn ourselves in.”

  There was a long silence while the guard looked them over. Lee knew he had sounded an alarm inside the building. No surprise when suddenly the front doors were flung open and four guards burst out crouching, covering them with riot guns.

  Their response was so dramatic they made the ghost cat laugh. Lee and Morgan had their hands up and, at the guards’ orders, moved on into the prison. Misto floated beside them, protective and amused. He watched as they were searched. Still surrounded by armed guards, they were directed to sit in wooden chairs in front of the warden’s office. Misto drifted on in through the warden’s closed door, to have a look.

  He floated beneath the ceiling of a typical prison office. Dark oak floors, government-green walls, prison-made oak desk and swivel chair, oak bookcases stacked with untidy pamphlets and file folders. Venetian blinds crossed at right angles to the vertical bars that secured the windows. Warden Iverson sat at his desk holding the earpiece of a black telephone as if waiting for his call to be answered. He was a tall, bony man, maybe sixty, pale skin wrinkled over prominent, bony cheeks, a military-short haircut emphasizing his large ears and prominent nose. He wore a brown, lightweight suit, crisp white shirt, and plain brown tie. As soon as he was connected he picked up the tall phone itself, leaned back in his chair, holding the mouthpiece close. Misto lay down atop a stack of reports, careful to disturb nothing, to make no sound. Iverson frowned a little, but had no idea anyone watched him and listened.

  “Paulson? John Iverson. We’ve got your two escapees out here at T.I., they just turned themselves in.”

  Misto knew Paulson; the Atlanta warden was a slight, quick-tempered man about Iverson’s age, a man he’d found was generally respected among Atlanta’s prison population.

  “What kind of a plant you running,” Iverson said dryly, “to let those two go over your wall? I thought you were maximum security back there. You expect me to keep them corralled here? We don’t even have a wall.”

  Misto padded up the desk beside Iverson where he could hear Paulson, as well. The Atlanta warden’s voice at the other end sounded tinny. “What did they tell you?” he asked. “What crazy reason did they think up for turning themselves in? That old man, Fontana—”

  Iverson said, “They told the guard they got tired of your place, said they wanted an ocean view.”

  Misto was suppressing a cat laugh when he carelessly brushed a pencil from the desk, sent it rolling to the floor. At Iverson’s puzzled frown he retreated to the door, sat on the floor as decorous as a trained poodle. Iverson was saying, “You bet I will. When this business of escape has been handled, we’ll give Blake an ocean view. Maybe from Alcatraz, they’re not real crowded up there.” He listened, then, “You’ll send me copies of Fontana’s record? And Blake’s trial transcripts?” He nodded at the phone. “We’ll keep Blake locked down until this is sorted out. They’ll be confined to the civilian compound.”

  Again he listened, then, “No, we have plenty of room. The navy’s winding down on its detention numbers, we’re losing population every day.”

  He made no mention of Brad Falon. Neither had Paulson. Maybe, Misto thought, they wouldn’t discover the relationship right away. Even if, in Atlanta, Paulson had read Morgan’s transcript and come across Falon’s name as a witness, why would that mean anything to him? He’d had no contact with Falon, Brad Falon had never been in the Atlanta pen.

  But somehow, Misto knew, the two wardens would make the connection, it was only a matter of time.

  Misto thought, when Iverson hung up, that he’d signal the guards to bring Lee and Morgan in so he could interrogate them, that maybe he’d pick up on the connection right then. He’d have Falon’s file, and Falon was from Rome. When he questioned Morgan, he’d learn that Morgan was from Rome, and that was all he’d need. Two Georgia convicts showing up in California, in the same prison, one of them by choice?

  Hanging up the receiver, Iverson set the phone down on the desk and looked at his watch. Switching on the intercom, he told the guard to go ahead and process the two escapees. “Let them eat lunch, whatever’s left. Get their medical checks, then lock them in their cells.” He rose, picked up his briefcase from the desk and added a few papers. Once Iverson had left the building, Misto returned to Lee and Morgan.

  WITHIN TWENTY MINUTES Lee and Morgan were body searched, had showered, and had dressed in prison blues. Their personal effects were locked in storage. They were marched away for the noon meal before the medical staff checked them over. The civilian unit of the naval disciplinary facility was small, isolated by a locked gate. It had its own small dining room, several rows of single cells and one dormitory. Misto followed them to the cafeteria, where only a few wrapped sandwiches and some desserts were visible, this long after the noon meal. Leaving his charges to partake of the lean pickings, Misto drifted away.

  He hovered above groups of inmates, into rows of dull prison offices, through the larger, navy mess hall and the steamy kitchen. Out over the exercise yard, through the auto shop, machine shop, furniture and clothing workrooms, none much different from the other prisons Misto had prowled invisible and often amused. When he returned to the small ci
vilian dining room he found Lee and Morgan alone at a table eating roast beef sandwiches. A guard stood against the wall watching them—and across the room sat Brad Falon at a table with two other inmates, his small eyes narrowed as he, too, watched Lee and Morgan. It had been easier to find Falon than they’d thought. Under the eyes of the guard, they couldn’t approach Falon, but Misto had no such restraint.

  Drifting close to Falon’s face he let his fur brush the convict’s cheek. The vibration sent Falon up from the table swatting at empty air. Misto, drifting away, smiled and lashed his tail.

  From across the room, Lee watched Falon’s gyrations with satisfaction. Morgan watched, perplexed. The guard rounded on Falon, his hand touching his weapon. Falon slapped at the air again, looked sheepishly at the guard, and sat down. But the guard jerked him up, spun him around, and quickly patted him down. Finding no weapon and no drugs, he looked at Falon a long time, then shoved him back in his chair.

  Falon’s face was flushed. Still the guard watched him. Falon hunched over his plate finishing his coffee and pie. He left the room quickly. Misto abandoned Falon, brushed Lee’s arm, and received an amused smile.

  IT WAS AFTER lunch when Morgan was locked in his cell, that Lee was ushered by two guards to Warden Iverson’s office. He found the warden at his desk, his suit jacket dangling from a prison-made coat tree, his pale tie loosened, his thin, bony face flushed from the heat. “Sit down, Fontana.”

  Lee sat, in a hard wooden chair facing the desk.

  “You want to tell me, Fontana, why you and Blake turned yourselves in? Why you took the trouble to climb the wall—no mean task—why you hitched all the way across the country only to give yourselves up? Headed right back to prison, as docile as starving dogs?”

  “I guess that’s the way we were feeling,” Lee said. “Seemed like, every move we made, every train or truck we hitched, the cops were on our tail. Almost like they were pacing us. They never made a move, but they made us nervous, we couldn’t seem to shake them.” He looked levelly at the warden. “When we got to California we’d run out of steam. We were hungry and scared, and my emphysema was real bad from that blizzard weather. Right then, prison looked pretty good. Free bed, hot meals, a place to rest and quit running.” His lie sounded plausible to him.