Fugitive

by Phillip Margolin

  The prison standoff came to a head on the third day. The close air in the storeroom stank of sweat, fear, and paint thinner. The hostages were exhausted, frightened, and depressed, and Freddy was at the end of his rope. He hadn’t slept for more than twenty minutes at a time since precipitating the hostage crisis and his nerves were completely frayed. Charlie watched him pace back and forth in front of the hostages, the shiv clutched in one hand and the lighter in the other. Freddy would tense every time a “thump-thump-thump” signaled a helicopter passing overhead and grow even more tense when there was silence, which he took as the lull before a SWAT team stormed the storeroom.

  “This is it, this is it,” Freddy mumbled under his breath. His eyes were bloodshot and his jaw was clenched so hard that his skin was drawn tight across his cheekbones.

  “Be cool, Freddy,” Charlie said, trying to sound confident through his exhaustion.

  “The motherfuckers are stalling. The SWATs are coming any minute. I can smell them.”

  “I don’t think so. I really believe they’re getting the money together.”

  Freddy stopped pacing and stared at Charlie.

  “Bullshit.”

  Normally, Freddy yelled and ranted, but now his voice was calm and pitched low. His self-possession terrified Charlie.

  “They’re not sending a plane. They’re playing you. It’s time to show those motherfuckers I mean business or they’ll lose respect for me. Once that happens it’s the SWATs for sure.”

  “They’ll definitely send in the troops if you send out a body. You’ll be giving them no choice.”

  Freddy’s shoulders sagged and Charlie knew that his friend had given up all hope of lying on the beach of a tropical island.

  “I don’t give a fuck anymore. The SWATs come in, I’m a dead man. I go out there, I’m a dead man. You don’t think some accident is gonna happen to me somewhere down the line if I survive today? Sending a body out is my only chance.”

  Freddy turned away from his friend and studied the hostages. Most of them were too tired and hungry to show emotion. Larry Merritt was the only one who had the courage to meet Freddy’s eyes. Freddy pointed at the guard.

  “I’ll slit his throat and you’ll drag him out. Tell McDermott that a hostage dies every hour the plane and the money aren’t here.”

  “No, Freddy. Don’t do this.”

  “I gotta, bro. Ain’t no other way.”

  “If you kill him you’re killing me, too. They’ll come in shooting and no convict is gonna walk out alive.”

  “You can hide behind that,” Freddy said, pointing to a broken, three-legged office desk that canted sideways, one corner touching the floor. “Then you surrender. You’re smart. You can talk your way out. Me, I gotta act.”

  Freddy started toward the guard. “Say good night, motherfucker.”

  Freddy started his downward thrust and Charlie hurled himself between the prison guard and Freddy’s knife.

  “What the fuck!” shouted Freddy as the shiv buried itself in Charlie’s shoulder blade. Charlie was sprawled across the startled guard. Freddy jerked the knife out of Charlie’s back and Charlie rolled sideways so he could see his cellmate.

  “Shit,” he groaned. “You stabbed me, Freddy.”

  “What the fuck were you doing?” asked his shocked friend.

  “Saving your life.”

  Charlie pulled himself into a sitting position and gathered his courage, still keeping his body between Freddy and Merritt. What he wanted to say was hard for a man to express.

  “I love you, Freddy.”

  “What?”

  “Not like that. I’m not queer. I love you like a brother. Hell, we are brothers. We don’t have the same mother or father, but we’re more brothers than natural brothers. You hear what I’m saying?”

  Freddy looked stunned. Outside of bitches in the throes of passion, who he knew were just after his dope or money, no one had ever told him they loved him.

  Charlie reached over his back and felt blood leaking from the knife wound. He grimaced.

  “You okay?” Freddy asked with genuine concern.

  “No, man, I’m not okay. You fucking stabbed me. But I’d let you kill me if it would save your life. That’s why I couldn’t let you off the guard. If he died, you’d be a dead man for sure.”

  “You’d die for me?” Freddy said, trying hard to get his mind around the fact that Charlie was willing to take a bullet for him.

  “To save you, yeah. Hell, how many times have you rescued me? I can’t count them. It’s time for me to pay you back.”

  “Oh, man, you don’t owe me shit. You’re my friend, Charlie, my only friend.”

  Freddy’s eyes filled with tears, something that hadn’t happened since he’d built an iron shell around his feelings to shield himself from his father’s vicious abuse.

  “Naw, Freddy, you got plenty of friends,” Charlie lied, embarrassed by Freddy’s unexpected and unprecedented display of emotion.

  “You’re lying, bro, but I ain’t mad. I know you just want me to feel good, but I don’t. I know plenty of people fear me, but you’re the only one who cares. You protected me from my old man when he, well, when he done that shit.”

  Charlie felt a spasm of pain and moaned. Freddy knelt next to him and looked at his shoulder. The back of the blue prison-issue shirt was turning red. Freddy helped Charlie take it off, then made a compress by folding the shirt and tying it in place over the wound with his own. As he helped Charlie to his feet, Freddy noticed an empty liter bottle of cola that had rolled against the wall. A wave of strong emotion swept through him as he realized what he had to do. Then he threw his arms around Charlie and hugged him.

  “I’m sorry I got you involved in this,” Freddy said when he’d released his friend. “I wasn’t thinking. You could have been killed, but I was just thinking of myself.”

  “Hey, man…”

  “Don’t say nothing, Charlie. Let me talk. You always think about me, man, but I’m a selfish bastard. It’s time I did something for you. I’m setting everyone free. You’re gonna take them out of here. Tell McDermott I’m gonna surrender and face the music. I fucked up and I gotta pay.”

  “That’s great, Freddy. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “Yeah, bro, I believe I am. Cut them loose and get your ass out of here.”

  Charlie felt lightheaded from his wound but he knew he had to move fast, before Freddy changed his mind. Charlie used the shiv to cut everyone’s bonds. Then he gave it back to Freddy and led the hostages out of the storeroom.

  “It’s Charlie Marsh, Mr. McDermott,” he shouted through the library door. “I’ve got the hostages with me. They’re free and unharmed. Don’t shoot, we’re coming out.”

  The door opened and the hostages rushed into the corridor. Some were sobbing; others were too exhausted to show emotion.

  “Mr. McDermott, Freddy wants to surrender. If you go in now he’ll give up,” Charlie managed. He was feeling dizzy from blood loss and the pain was making it hard to think. Suddenly, Charlie staggered and collapsed to the ground next to Warden Pulliams.

  “Get a medic,” the warden told McDermott. “This man was stabbed saving Larry’s life. He’s a hero.”

  The captain of the SWAT team sent a medic over to Charlie. Then he and McDermott and several members of the SWAT team entered the library. The point man led them through the stacks until they could see the door to the storeroom. The captain used hand signals to place his men where they would have a clear shot.

  “Mr. Clayton, this is Assistant Warden McDermott. We’re grateful that you’ve released the hostages unharmed. Please come out now and we’ll take you into custody. I assure…”

  The storeroom door burst open to reveal Crazy Freddy Clayton. He was stripped to the waist and his sculpted body gleamed with sweat. In one hand he held his shiv; in the other he held the soda pop bottle. The bottle was filled with paint thinner. A rag had been stuffed through the neck and into the liquid. Bri
ght flames were eating away at the rag.

  “FREEDOM OR DEATH!” howled Freddy as three shots fired simultaneously by members of the SWAT team caught him in the chest.

  Freddy staggered a step and the Molotov cocktail exploded, bathing him in flames.

  CHAPTER 11

  Charlie Marsh had always been a nobody; an insignificant member of the human race who had left no mark on history during his time on Earth. Now he was a hero and, as Warden Pulliams was quick to point out to anyone who would listen, walking proof that the warden’s theories of rehabilitation worked. What better example could there be than Charlie’s willingness to sacrifice his life for that of his jailer?

  The warden was wise enough to realize that many convicts would not view Charlie’s actions in a positive light and would consider Freddy Clayton, who had died in flames rather than knuckle under to The Man, as the true hero of the prison standoff. To protect Charlie from those inmates who had not yet turned a moral corner, the warden sent Charlie to the county hospital to recuperate while he arranged for an early release, an appropriate reward for his gallantry.

  The first evening Charlie spent on clean sheets in the air-conditioned luxury of his hospital room, the nurse tuned his television to the national news, where the prison standoff was the lead story. It was surreal, watching himself stagger out of the library behind the hostages and collapse to the floor while Mabel Brooks told the world:

  “That guard wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Mr. Marsh. None of us would be alive. He threw himself between that knife and Mr. Merritt. And he kept that animal from setting us on fire. I know we’d all be dead if Mr. Marsh hadn’t protected us. God bless him.”

  Charlie should have felt proud of his heroic actions and elated by his proximity to freedom, but the primary emotion he experienced was guilt. Was he really a hero? Had he thrown himself between Freddy’s knife and Larry Merritt’s body to save an innocent man or to save himself from being charged as an accessory to murder? And why had he told Freddy he loved him? Had he spoken from the heart or was he trying to distract Freddy to keep himself from being murdered for interfering with his lunatic friend’s insane plan? Charlie had been living the con for so long that it was hard at times for him to divine his own motivations.

  Life moved quickly for Charlie. While the parole board considered Warden Pulliams’s recommendation for early release, he waded through offers from literary agents and movie producers. The offers were a surprise, and the fact that he was going to make a huge profit from Freddy’s death increased his guilt. An image of Freddy Clayton in flames seared his brain whenever he thought about the money he was going to make. This image didn’t deter him from hiring an agent or accepting a seven-figure movie deal and another seven-figure book deal for his autobiography, but it kept him from experiencing unfettered joy at his sudden reversal of fortune.

  Freddy’s death was the only downer for Charlie in the whirlwind that became his life after prison. Within days of his release he was on Oprah and the Today show, and he learned that Tom Cruise was interested in playing him in the movie. No longer did Charlie sleep in the upper bunk of a prison cell; now he slept on silk sheets in a Manhattan apartment that his publisher let him use while he was working on the book.

  Charlie stayed away from drugs, which were offered at the many parties he attended, and he didn’t get drunk, because he liked to keep his wits about him, but he did not stay away from the ladies. Charlie could not believe the variety of women who begged him to take them to bed. There were black women, white women, and Asian women. There were blondes, brunettes, and redheads. There were women who were attracted to celebrities; there were women who wanted to have sex with a rich man; and there were women who were fascinated by dangerous felons, which was how Charlie began portraying himself. No one in his new circle of acquaintances had ever heard of him or Freddy before the prison standoff, so they accepted his new and improved version of Charlie Marsh, the extremely violent felon who had experienced a miraculous conversion.

  Mickey Keys, his newly acquired agent, a fast-talking, red-haired, freckle-faced man of forty-two who was frenetically cheerful, had given him the idea when he joked that it would help sell books if Charlie had a more exciting name. As soon as his agent made this comment, Charlie realized that not only was his name as dull as the image a marsh conjured, but so was his life story. His parents had been decent, hardworking folks whose only sin was spoiling their only child. Charlie had turned to crime because he was lazy, and the only violence his escapades ever caused occurred when he was beaten up by a mark who caught on to his scam.

  On the other hand, Freddy Clayton’s life resembled a Shakespearean tragedy or a really good soap opera. Freddy had been an abused child. Television talk show hosts loved that dysfunctional-family shit. Freddy had committed murders and armed robberies. He’d had hairbreadth escapes from the law, and violent fights. Few people beside Charlie knew the facts of Freddy’s life-or his, for that matter. Who could contradict him if he took a few incidents from Freddy’s saga and claimed them for his own? Their parents were dead, and so were many of the witnesses to Freddy’s deeds. Oh, there was the odd living acquaintance, but most of those in the know had prison records. Who would take their word over a hero’s, and how many of them had outstanding warrants that would be executed if they stepped forward? Charlie convinced himself that his book would be a homage to Crazy Freddy if he claimed his friend’s life as his own.

  Most of his interviews had focused on the prison standoff, and Charlie had been vague when an interviewer asked him about his past. He hadn’t started working with the ghostwriter who would actually write his book, either, so no one knew what he was going to say in his autobiography. Charlie spent the next month revising the outline his agent had suggested he write. By the time he met the ghostwriter, his autobiography contained accounts of knife fights and bare-fisted brawls, in which Charlie emerged victorious, as well as murders and other illegal endeavors. In his introduction, Charlie explained that the details of these incidents had to be kept vague because of potential criminal liability. There were also hints of a childhood in which he had been physically-and perhaps sexually-abused. Charlie knew that this would make his innocent parents look bad, but they were dead, and anyway, wouldn’t a parent be willing to tarnish his or her name a little bit if it helped their child succeed in life after a rocky start?

  Of course, the book had an uplifting ending. Charlie talked about the Inner Light” that had infused him during his near-death experience, and how being filled with this light had led him to renounce crime and vow to help everyone else on earth find their own Inner Light”. Getting a trademark for this phrase was another idea of Mickey Keys’s.

  There hadn’t really been any light, inner or otherwise. Charlie didn’t have a clear recollection of what had happened during the insane moment when he’d thrown himself between the guard and the shiv. The inner-light business had been Mickey’s suggestion, too. Well, not an outright suggestion, more a “memory” of Charlie’s that had been elicited by some very pointed questions, such as “Did you have any religious experience when you were stabbed? You know, some people who’ve had near-death experiences claim to see a blinding light. Something like that? That would be great, because talk shows love it when you have a religious conversion or a near-death experience.”

  Charlie announced the formation of Inner Light, Inc., at the press conference heralding the publication of The Light Within You, which had been hurried into print while the action at the prison was still fresh in the public’s mind. At that conference, Charlie also announced that henceforth he would refer to himself as Gabriel Sun, a new name that would commemorate the death of the bandit Charlie Marsh and his rebirth as a bringer of light.

  Charlie’s autobiography became an instant best-seller. It began in his deprived childhood, detailed the way poverty and abuse had made him a criminal, and explained how his experience with his Inner Light while saving Larry Merritt-and Warden Jeffrey Pullia
ms’s belief in him-had restored his faith in the goodness of man. Charlie told the attending media representatives how he looked forward to holding seminars in the cities on his book tour so he could help troubled people find their Inner Light. There would be a nominal fee for attendance but, Charlie promised, the benefits to an attendee’s personal and spiritual development would far outweigh the price of admission.

  The seminars and the concessions that hawked Charlie’s book, CDs featuring Charlie’s words of wisdom, T-shirts, and other Inner Light paraphernalia produced a river of cash. Charlie had made a living swindling people out of their money, and he found a kindred spirit in Mickey Keys. The agent and his new client began sending the cash in the accounts of Inner Light, Inc., to secret bank accounts in Switzerland as quickly as it came in. Mickey, who had an accounting background, worked up a second set of books for the IRS, and Charlie and Mickey’s real financial picture looked very healthy even as it appeared to be anemic in their ledgers.

  Charlie held his seminars at each stop on his book tour. They were attended by members of the middle class who longed to be wealthy and successful, and people with wealth who were troubled by their success. If the opportunity presented itself, he would fuck any rich woman who wished to purge her guilt by servicing an all-wise and dangerous ex-con. On occasion, he would have sex with one of the less well off groupies who hung around his book signings. That’s what he was doing after a very lucrative seminar at Yale University when he was startled in mid-thrust by Mickey Keys’s unannounced entry into his hotel bedroom.