The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Judge Crane waited patently for Ballard to finish, then let silence fill the courtroom. At last his look cold as stone, he leaned forward to better observe Ballard.

  “How much trauma, Mr. Ballard, did Morgan Blake experience when he was imprisoned for a robbery and murder that he did not commit? How much hope for justice did Morgan Blake have?”

  Judge Crane leaned back, watching Ballard. “How much hope did the bank guard have when he was murdered in cold blood?” The judge looked so intently at Ballard that Ballard backed away. The judge said no more. He looked around the courtroom, then dismissed Ballard, and summoned Falon to the stand.

  Shackled, Falon faced the bench, trying to look mild and submissive. Twice he moved in a strange sidestep and, with his cuffed hands, scratched at his puffy hair. Each time the deputy marshals crowded nearer. The judge watched Falon, puzzled, as Falon fidgeted and tried to be still; it was some time before Judge Crane spoke.

  “It is the judgment of this court that defendant Brad Falon be sentenced to twenty-five years on the charge of armed bank robbery. To life imprisonment without parole on the count of first-degree murder, and twenty-five years for assault and attempted murder. These sentences shall run consecutively, not concurrently.”

  A ripple of voices; a catch of breath from Becky as she looked across at Morgan and half rose, wanting to go to him. Above them Misto drifted unseen over the heads of the deputies and the judge to crouch high on the windowsill watching the drama play out, watching this one perfect moment, in the endless human tangle, play out the way it should.

  In the gallery Becky held herself back from running through the gate and throwing her arms around Morgan; Sammie’s small hand squeezed her fingers so hard Becky flinched. Life plus fifty years. Falon would never be out again to harm them. Barring some change in the law, he would die in prison just as he had meant Morgan to die, behind prison bars.

  As Falon was led from the courtroom he looked back belligerently, straight at Becky, arrogant and threatening. Becky watched him coldly. But when Judge Crane looked over at Lee and Morgan, her heart started to pound again.

  Morgan took the stand first, and then Lee. The questioning didn’t take long. Both men admitted they had escaped from Atlanta. When, at the judge’s question, Lee explained in detail how they had gone over the wall, again there was amusement or perhaps challenge in Judge Crane’s eyes. When Reginald Storm made his final statement, his voice was soft and in control.

  “Your Honor, Mr. Blake and Mr. Fontana did escape. For the express purpose of coming across the country to turn themselves in at Terminal Island, where they knew Brad Falon was incarcerated, where they knew he wouldn’t be able to evade them.

  “Morgan Blake wanted the truth from Falon, he wanted to see Falon duly tried for the crimes that he committed, for which Morgan had been convicted.

  “That has now been accomplished. Blake and Fontana committed no new crimes coming across the country. They lived on the money Mrs. Blake earned and borrowed. They had a destination and a goal. Their efforts, against all odds, have corrected a grave injustice.”

  Becky’s arm was around Sammie, squeezing her close. Judge Crane asked both Morgan and Lee if they had anything further to add. Neither did. When the judge leaned forward, looking down from the bench directly at Lee, Becky couldn’t breathe.

  “Mr. Fontana, can you tell me why, at Terminal Island, all of a sudden after so long a time, Brad Falon decided to reveal where the stolen money was hidden?”

  Becky saw Lee swallow. “At first,” Lee said, “we tried to talk with Falon, tried to reason with him. But reasoning didn’t work very well. It made Falon so mad that he went after Morgan, he hurt Morgan bad, I didn’t know whether he’d live or die. After Morgan was taken to emergency, I found Falon,” Lee said, “and I used a little force on him.”

  “How much force, Mr. Fontana?”

  “Enough to scare him,” Lee said quietly.

  The judge nodded. He didn’t press the question. When he glanced up at the defense attorney, Ballard was blank faced and quiet. Becky expected him to pull open Falon’s collar and reveal the red marks Lee’s cable had made. Ballard didn’t, nor did Falon attempt to exhibit the injury. Maybe they knew it wouldn’t make any difference, that this judge wouldn’t go soft over Falon’s pain.

  Judge Crane looked back at Lee and Morgan, ready to sentence them. Becky couldn’t breathe. She took both Sammie’s hands in hers; they were ice-cold.

  “Escape is a serious charge, gentlemen. It is not dealt with lightly by this court. However, the statement that Mr. Storm has made on your behalf, and the circumstances of the situation, must be taken into account.”

  U.S. Attorney Heller approached the bench. The thin, pale man made Becky uncertain. He was not prosecuting Falon now, he was concerned with Lee and Morgan, with their escape from prison. When she looked at Morgan she could see sweat beading his forehead around the white tape.

  Heller’s narrow back was rigid, where he faced the bench. “Your Honor, Mr. Fontana and Mr. Blake have confessed to breaking out of Atlanta Federal Prison. Their attorney has stated that this was for an admirable cause.” The thin, dark-haired man stood silent for a moment, then, in a reedy voice, “The United States Attorney, Your Honor, declines to press charges. We will not seek prosecution in this case.”

  Becky felt limp. At the witness table Morgan and Lee were very still, watching Heller. As if they couldn’t believe his words, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the downside.

  “I move, Your Honor, that in light of the present trial of Brad Falon and the jury’s verdict of guilty, Morgan Blake’s conviction for murder, robbery, and attempted murder be overturned in its entirety. That it be wiped from the books. With the perpetrator in custody and duly sentenced, Mr. Blake should be left with a clean record. I move that he be released from all charges. That, as of this hearing, Morgan Blake be divested of any criminal record.”

  Morgan put his face in his hands. Lee’s arm went around Morgan’s shoulders, hugging him. Judge Crane looked down at them.

  “Mr. Blake, Mr. Fontana, it has been only a matter of days since you turned yourselves in at Terminal Island. Since that time, you have been waiting, hoping for this hearing. I sentence each of you only to the time you have already been held in custody awaiting trial. As of this moment, Morgan Blake, you are a free man.” He nodded to Heller, dismissing him from the bench.

  “As for you, Mr. Fontana,” Judge Crane said, “you are a riddle. I have your record. I see what you have done in the past, and I can guess there are many crimes for which you were never apprehended. But there is another side to you. You took a grave personal risk to help Morgan Blake. As far as I know, you had nothing to gain by that risk. Now you have a little time left on the term you are serving. And time will be added on for your escape from Atlanta. I rule that both be added to your parole, that you finish your sentence on the outside. With the hope, Mr. Fontana, that this time you will stay out of trouble.

  “You will both be returned to the prison long enough to get whatever personal belongings you left there and attend to the paperwork to transfer you out. Mr. Blake, you will have to be released by the medical staff. And Mr. Fontana, you will be interviewed by a probation officer before you leave. Then you’re free to go, you’ll be on your own.” Judge Crane looked them over. “Mr. Blake, your wife and child are waiting for you.”

  Morgan and Lee thanked Judge Crane. He smiled and nodded and shook hands with them. The look in his eyes was satisfied, a look that said justice had been done despite the bizarre and questionable manner. Lee would always wonder, even years later, what had gone on between Judge Crane, Reginald Storm, and Falon’s attorney, that Lee’s use of force on Falon had not been further pursued.

  When Morgan turned away, Becky and Sammie ran through the gate, they were in his arms, Becky crying against him. Lee thanked Reginald Storm and, stepping aside with him where they could talk in private, he removed the Blythe money from h
is pocket, counting out the bills. Storm pushed them back at him.

  “When you first came to my office, Lee, you gave me a six-hundred-dollar retainer.” He took the folded bills from his pocket. “Every year I do a couple of cases pro bono, cases that I find particularly interesting or rewarding, that move me in some way.” Storm grinned. “Looks like I’m starting early, this year. This money is yours and the Blakes’. This one’s on me, Fontana.”

  Lee stared at him. “We can’t take this. You did a fine job for us, you saved Morgan’s life. You can’t—”

  Storm shook his head. “I can. This is my decision. I enjoyed every minute. As to the six hundred,” he said, “I can sell you the Chevy for that, if you want it. Save you looking for transport, and save me the bother of advertising and selling it, now that I have the Buick.”

  Lee didn’t know what to say. He’d need transportation, at least until he could pick up a good saddle horse and a packhorse. But more important than the car or the money, Lee truly liked this man. Reginald Storm was one of the few people who’d touched his life in a way he wouldn’t forget. “There’s no way in hell to thank you,” Lee said, handing back the six hundred. “And I sure could use the car.” He watched Storm remove a slip of paper from his pocket, lean over a table, and sign it.

  “You can fill out the rest,” Storm said, handing it to Lee. Turning, he nodded to the deputy marshals. He shook Lee’s hand, stepped over to say good-bye to Morgan and to give Becky and Sammie a hug. Then he moved away out of the courtroom, not looking back.

  Lee and Morgan were escorted out to a marshal’s car heading for T.I., for their final processing and release. And where Lee would spend a tedious hour with one more federal probation officer no different, no more amiable than any of the others he’d dealt with. But by five that evening they had jumped through all the hoops. They moved out the sally port of T.I. for the last time, to where Becky and Sammie waited.

  Crowding into the green Chevy, they headed for their motel, where Becky had gotten a second room for Lee. Soon they sat in the small restaurant for what should be a happy, celebratory dinner. But even approaching the little café, already Lee hung back, distancing himself from the Blakes, feeling heavy and sad and not liking the feeling. Not liking that they would soon be parted. For maybe the first time in his life he didn’t relish the fact that he would soon again be alone. It was only when Sammie took his hand and pulled him along faster that he hurried to catch up with Morgan and Becky.

  “Can Uncle Lee come home with us? And live with us in Georgia?”

  Becky turned, laughing. “Of course you can, Lee. We were hoping that’s what you’d want. Come back to Rome, live with us, get acquainted with your family—the family you didn’t know you had.”

  Lee felt a sudden sharp longing, imagining that kind of life. As they entered the café Becky tucked her hand under his arm, looking up at him. But, watching him, she saw it in his eyes. Saw that he wouldn’t come with them, that he would soon leave them. She felt hurt and disappointed, but she’d known this was how it would be. Lee had a different agenda. Something urgent guided him. Whatever pulled him in the opposite direction, it was too private for her to ask. What could be so urgent that he would abandon Sammie? Where would Lee’s life take him? She so wanted him to remain part of their family and she knew he never would. Nor could she and Morgan and Sammie follow into that other world, the one Lee longed for.

  Except, she thought, Sammie might follow. In her dreams Sammie might still reach out to Lee. Becky prayed that would happen, prayed Sammie could know something of Lee as his life played out.

  43

  AS THEY HEADED for the Blakes’ motel room after a quiet supper, Becky handed the car keys to Lee, but he hesitated to take them. “You could drive it home to Georgia.”

  “The Chevy’s yours,” Morgan said. “If we drove home we’d be forever getting across country. This time,” he said, grinning, “I’m in a hurry.”

  Lee dropped the keys in his pocket, fished out the money he’d drawn from his savings account in Blythe and counted out six hundred dollars. Morgan tried to push it back.

  “I’ve still got a couple hundred,” Lee said. “Soon enough, I’ll be rolling in cash, I’ll be fixed up just fine.” They both looked at him, but said nothing. He hoped he was right, hoped the stolen money was still where he’d buried it. “I’ll take you to the airport in the morning, then I’m on my way.”

  In the Blakes’ small room, Lee and Morgan sat in the two faded armchairs, Becky and Sammie on the bed leaning against the limp pillows. This last night together they were all uncomfortable, reluctant to say good-bye, knowing they might never see each other again. Lee hated partings, hated to string things out. With their long ordeal ended, parting was harder than he’d imagined. He itched to move on, and at the same time he wanted badly to stay with them, to head for Georgia, to be with his family and with Sammie, see Sammie grow up. He couldn’t explain that if he stayed in the U.S. he might soon be back in the joint. When Sammie slid down from the bed and crawled in his lap, he wondered for one unrealistic moment if he could go back to Rome and never get caught for the post office heist. Sammie leaned against him, wanting him to stay. When he could no longer stand her sadness he stood up, hugging the child to him, and set her on her daddy’s lap. “We need to be up early, need to head for the airport by six. Maybe we can grab a bite of breakfast near there.” Not looking at Sammie again, quickly saying good night, he headed for his own room.

  Crawling into the lumpy bed, he slept fitfully. He dreamed of crossing the desert on horseback, choking on dust, dreamed of thirst, of fighting rank and unbroke horses. He woke wondering why he’d dreamed that. At five-thirty, he showered and dressed and headed for the Blakes’ room.

  They left the motel in darkness, the air cold and damp with mist. As they hurried through a greasy breakfast in a tiny café near the airport the sky began to grow light, to brighten the dirty windows. In the airport, checking Becky’s bag and the canvas duffel Morgan carried, they moved out to the tarmac behind the terminal where the DC-3 sat waiting, the metal stairway being rolled into place by four sleepy Hispanic men.

  In the cold dawn they endured a last, tearful good-bye. Lee watched them ascend the metal stairway among a dozen passengers. He waited, shivering in the cold morning, until the plane backed around, revved up a little, and headed for the runway. Watched it taxi away to the far end of the strip, thinking how the man-made birds had helped to shape his life. Planes not yet invented when he was a boy: helped him steal, helped him escape, carried him to prison, and now carried away the child he loved. Far down the field the engine roared, the plane turned in a tight circle, came back nearly straight at him, lifted over him into the sky. He watched until it had vanished among the clouds, then turned away, a heavy knot in his belly.

  He gassed up the Chevy near the airport and headed south out of L.A., taking the inland route against the green hills, direct for San Bernardino and on toward Blythe. All the while, part of him longed to turn around and follow the Blakes back to Rome, to live among his own family. The pain of parting was wicked, of learning to care for someone and then turning his back on them. Walking away as if he didn’t give a damn, when in fact it took all he had to do that. The distress of leaving Sammie, just as he had abandoned Mae, was nearly unbearable.

  Passing through the little towns separated by stretches of orange and avocado groves, he thought about Sammie’s smile, so like Mae’s. Such vital little girls, Sammie so filled with joy after the trial when he and Morgan had been freed—but then, at the airport, Sammie smearing angrily at the tears she couldn’t stop.

  But in Sammie’s dark eyes he had seen something else as well. He’d seen a power that startled and then cheered him. In that moment, something in Sammie had shone out as strong as steel—she was born of Russell Dobbs’s blood. No matter what turns her life took, no matter what occurred in the years ahead, Sammie would prevail. And maybe he would see her again, maybe somehow he would m
anage that. The ties that had begun with his memories of Mae and that had led to Sammie, those ties could not be broken.

  Moving on past San Bernardino, he pulled up at a little cluster of houses and stores, parked the Chevy before a pawnshop. How many pawnshops over the years, all with the same black iron bars protecting their tangles of old watches, dusty cameras, tarnished jewelry, and used guns. At the counter he chose a .357 Magnum with a shoulder holster that fit nicely beneath his heavy jacket, and ten boxes of ammunition. He picked up a frying pan, a used sleeping bag, a good knife, all the necessities for a meager kit, then he stopped in a little grocery for canned beans and staples.

  Leaving the store with his box of groceries he spotted, on down the street, a tiny Mexican café. Stowing his purchases in the car, he stepped on in. He bought four burritos and four tacos, which the accommodating waiter wrapped in a red-and-white-checked napkin and dropped into a brown paper bag with two cold beers.

  Driving south again munching on a taco, heading for Blythe, Lee’s thoughts turned to the moves he’d have to make slipping in and out of the area, easing up the hills unseen to where he’d buried the cash. That got him thinking about the gray gelding he’d ridden up the mountain when he buried the money, had ridden back down to connect with the crop duster that lifted him fast over into Nevada. Not until the plane had appeared had he turned the gray loose, watched him gallop away over the desert bucking and kicking. Lee knew when the horse got thirsty and hungry he’d head for the isolated ranch that stood below on the empty desert.

  The gray had been a good and willing companion; Lee missed him. He didn’t like this sadness of being alone, this was new to him, this hollow loneliness.