Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  “I did not hear that.”

  “I said, is this—”

  “Karen,” Gifford said. “Get back to work. I just wanted to give you a heads-up so you can warm up to it. I was hoping to head off a confrontation.”

  “Don’t you know better than to expect things like that of me?”

  “Make nice with the agents in the ’Frisco field office while you’re out there. You’ll be making more trips out that way in the future.”

  “San Francisco. They hate ’Frisco.”

  “See?” Gifford said. “You’re already learning the lingo. This is going to work out great.”

  “Yeah, well, you should’ve given me that heads-up a little sooner.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before Gifford said, “You’ve already managed to piss off—”

  “Not my fault. The guy they’ve assigned to the case is... Well, we’ve got a history.”

  “My voice is going down here, Karen. This will not affect our realignment. You’re just going to have to learn how to play well with others. And if you’ve already shit in your bed, well, it’s up to you to clean it up.”

  “Great image. Thanks, Dad. Hey, who knows? One day I may say that and it won’t be laced with sarcasm.”

  “God forbid,” Gifford said. “Now get back to work.”

  Vail pressed END. “Shit.”

  Dixon turned away from the body. “You’re lucky this isn’t our cuss-free week.”

  Vail sighed heavily. “Your what?”

  “California legislature can’t pass a budget to save their lives, but they can pass a decree declaring that one week a year everyone should stop cursing.”

  Vail eyed her suspiciously. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Just an observation here, but I think you’d have some difficulty with that.”

  “Damn right I would.”

  “Goddamn politicians,” Dixon said. “Hell with all of ’em.”

  They both laughed.

  Vail took a deep, cleansing breath. “Thanks, Roxx. I needed that.”

  Dixon gestured at Vail’s phone. “Bad news?”

  “I’ll deal with it. Right now we need to get our heads around all this.”

  Burden hung up from his call. “They’re emailing us what they’ve got so far. It’s not complete—they’ve got a list of inmates, still working on the correctional officers.”

  “Something you should all know,” Carondolet said. “Cell door’s locked, right? And I told you the only way to get it open is by getting access to that closet. But what I didn’t tell you is that the locking mechanism is a complicated gear and clutch job. I remember having a tough time learning it when I worked here.”

  Vail turned back to the victim. “So you’re saying the offender has to know what he’s doing. An insider?”

  “I’m just saying. It might mean something.”

  “Actually,” Agent Yeung said, “it’s up on YouTube. Someone filmed a park ranger explaining how it works. My brother gave me the link after visiting from New York.”

  Burden sighed. “Is anything about this case easy?”

  New York. Vail looked around; Hartman had still not returned. Goddamn him. She turned to Yeung. “I really need to ask Mike an important question. Any idea where he went?”

  “I’ll give him a shout.” Yeung lifted his BlackBerry and dialed. A moment later, he said, “Went straight to voicemail. Coverage on the island’s spotty at best.”

  Vail clenched her jaw. Talk about delayed gratification. This is really pushing the limit. “I’m gonna go find him.” She walked out the way she came in and realized she did not know where she was, or where to begin looking. It was dark and the lighting was insufficient, at best. She thought of asking Carondolet to take her around, but she didn’t want him there when she questioned Hartman. She headed back into the cellhouse and approached the agent who was manning the entrance. “You got a map or something I can use?”

  “Just a tourist brochure I picked up on the dock when we got here.” He reached inside his sport coat and handed it over.

  Vail thanked him, and then walked back outside. Ahead, the lighthouse was whipping its beacon around at a regular interval. Off in the distance, straight ahead and cutting the fog, was the Bay Bridge, lit up and stretching from the extreme left, across an island, then traversing the ocean to the soupy murkiness of the city on the right.

  A gull dove and pecked her hard on the head. “Damn bird.” She brought a hand to the spot to check for blood, but found none.

  The temperature had dropped and the wind was slapping rudely against the map she had unfurled. She took a moment to study the diagram of the buildings, then moved ahead a few paces onto a patch of grass and peered into the dark areas around her. To her left stood the burned-out remains of a building: the warden’s house. She started in that direction, but her BlackBerry buzzed. A text from Dixon:

  Get back here now.

  Vail turned and trotted into the cellhouse, then back down Broadway. “What’s going on?”

  “Got an ID on the vic,” Burden said. “And you’re not gonna believe it.”

  “Why should this be any different from the rest of the case?” Vail said. “Who is it?”

  “That, Karen, is John William Anglin.”

  62

  November 9, 1962

  Alcatraz

  Walton MacNally and Reese Shoemacher had coordinated their plans for escape during each weekend on the yard. Shoemacher had nearly cut through the interior bars on a rear kitchen window, along the south side of the basement. Once through those, the window rotated inward, exposing a second set of flat, and softer, bars. He had cut through a substantial portion of these as well, leaving just enough to withstand the periodic “bar knocking” procedure the guards implemented throughout the cellhouse to ensure inmates were not doing what Shoemacher had done.

  Due to the increasing risk of discovery with each passing day, he urged MacNally to move forward as quickly as possible with his role: devising a method of getting them safely across the Bay to land.

  MacNally had never disclosed his role in the Morris-Anglin escape, other than telling the investigators that he had assisted in the planning and the gathering of certain materials, such as pilfering dining hall spoons that they used for digging out their ventilation grilles. Fortunately, Allen West did not implicate him relative to his work sewing the life preservers or rafts, and MacNally likewise took care to place a majority of the responsibility on the three men who had left the facility: no disciplinary action could be taken against those who were no longer behind bars.

  As a result, MacNally was permitted to return to his job in the glove shop upon release from segregation. The flotation devices he planned to construct would be simple and easy to build, made from raincoat material that he secured from the clothing room on successive shower days, utilizing his Industries pay to compensate the con who passed him the attire. After cutting and sewing the pieces into two pant-leg shaped sleeves, he would manually inflate several rubber gloves another inmate had pilfered from the hospital, and insert them into the hollow tube he had created.

  Once wrapped around their torsos, they would provide buoyancy, allowing them to ride the outgoing current—which, according to a prisoner who knew how to read tides from his time in the Navy—would take them west toward the Golden Gate Bridge and directly to the Marin Headlands, where they would make land.

  There was risk—the water stood at around 54 degrees year round, so the amount of time they would be able to remain submerged was limited. If they did not get ashore quickly enough, their body temperatures would plunge, and they would perish shortly thereafter.

  The crucial part of their plan required that MacNally request, and be granted, a transfer to the Culinary unit. He explained to the officer in charge that he had always wanted to learn how to cook and prepare meals, and since he had spent nearly two years working in the glove shop, he wanted a change of scenery while simultaneously getting the opportunit
y to acquire a new skill.

  With the escape planned for this evening, he had awoken early, unable to sleep. He sat up in his bed and drew his knees to his chest. He reached over and took the photo of Henry and once again inserted it into the waterproof covering he had constructed for the last escape. The officers who searched his cell had not known what he intended to use it for, so they left it undisturbed. Also in the wallet was $31 in cash he had secured during his stay; it was money he had made trading items he had purchased with his Industries wages: a musical instrument he had no intention of playing, which he bought and then sold at a discount, and a magazine subscription that he handled in the same manner.

  Once he made it off the island, he would need the money to buy food, a bus ticket—anything that would allow him to survive without having to break into a home or commit some other crime that would be reported to the authorities, giving them a bread crumb with which to locate him. He believed that not plotting ahead for the success of their own plan was a common mistake made by escapees.

  MacNally placed the wallet in his shirt pocket, then grabbed his pad and pen to compose a letter that he was certain would be found. Upon discovery of his escape, the cell would be searched, and there were things he did not want left unsaid. He began writing, the words flowing freely:

  Dear Associate Warden Dollison,

  I wanted to thank you for treating me fairly and with respect back in June, in the aftermath of the escape. By now you know that I have left the island. But I don’t want you to take it personally; it is the unending desire to see my son, who I essentially but unwittingly abandoned, that has led me down this path. I have no desire to commit criminal acts with my freedom, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that the boredom, the rote mechanics of life on The Rock, the sucking of intellect and the loss of person...the loneliness, the violence that I have endured are also reasons for leaving. All have left a permanent mark on me.

  I find myself in this place by circumstances not of my own creation. This is not to say I don’t take responsibility for my actions. I was once told by a Leavenworth hack that life is a series of choices, and that I have made a number of bad ones. I’ve had time to reflect on that, and I don’t feel it’s quite that absolute, or black and white. I did rob those banks and I did take the money, but it was only to provide for my son. That said, I should’ve found a way to do things differently. I know that now.

  My decision to leave your institution is based on my attempt to fix what I have mangled in my son’s life, and, I guess, in my own. I have only been incarcerated for three and a half years, but it feels like a lifetime. I have become a bitter and broken man, and if I die amongst the waves of cold Bay waters, at least it was with the noble intent of looking after my child’s well-being.

  With respect,

  Walton MacNally

  MacNally folded the letter and left it on his wall-mounted desk with “Warden Dollison” scrawled across the top. He sat on his bed, thinking of the last time he saw Henry, watching him run from the car into the blind area between the houses. Tears formed, then ran down his cheeks. He grabbed his hair in two hands and pulled, the pain he had attempted to hide instantly present, replacing the numbness he had sought to guide him through each day.

  The wakeup whistle blew and MacNally jumped off the bed. He could not wait for the day to begin—because when it ended, he expected to be standing on land, two miles away.

  His work request had been granted and he started in the kitchen on November 6. Two days earlier, he had passed the flotation devices to Shoemacher in the yard, who stored them behind one of the large refrigerators in the basement, trusting that his partner would not depart without him.

  The day passed slowly. MacNally kept watch on the time, trying to go through his activities without exhibiting behavior that would arouse suspicion. When dinner ended at 4:45, the prisoners returned to their cells for the 5pm count. MacNally, Shoemacher, and three other inmates had the assignment of cleaning the dining hall and food preparation areas, as well as wrapping and placing all uneaten food in the refrigerators. Though they were not in their cells for the standing count, Culinary Unit workers were accounted for by the correctional officer assigned to the kitchen.

  On his way down to the basement, MacNally slipped a carving knife out of the deep sink filled with soaking pots, pans, and cooking utensils, and wrapped it in a soiled apron. Shoemacher joined him downstairs a minute later and they busied themselves with putting away supplies.

  Once the guard finished his survey of the basement, he ascended the steps to check the remainder of his patrol.

  Shoemacher grabbed a twelve-inch crescent wrench he had taken from an inmate’s maintenance toolbox and then hidden behind a large fuel tank that stood by the window from which they planned to leave. Using the tool, he went to work prying loose the nearly severed bars.

  MacNally, meanwhile, used the knife to slice off the long electrical cord from the industrial floor waxing machine. He quickly made a knot every several feet, then shoved the wire into one of two potato sacks along with the knife and the flotation devices that Shoemacher had squirreled away behind the refrigerator.

  MacNally joined his partner by the window, ready to pass him their kits once they broke through to the outside.

  But a loud clang that sounded like it emanated from the basement made both of them stop and turn in its direction.

  “Go!” MacNally said, knowing they were now committed. They were in the southernmost portion of the room, and the tank provided reasonable cover should the guard unexpectedly appear. If the hack ventured too close, they would have to deal with him: splitting up and rushing him from different directions would prevent the unarmed man from subduing them.

  “Fucking thing isn’t giving!” Shoemacher said through clenched teeth as he pried against the bars with the wrench.

  MacNally came up beside him and grabbed his partner’s hands and pulled, tensing his muscles and leaning into it with his entire body weight. The metal fatigued—the severed joint gave way—and two crossbars popped free.

  But the wrench slipped and struck the window casement with a clunk.

  They looked at one another, wide-eyed. Had anyone heard that?

  MacNally couldn’t worry about it—he grabbed the wrench and leveraged it against the other two joints, and a second later had broken those free as well. They pulled open the window and then slammed the palms of their hands against the flat bars. Shoemacher had been able to do a more thorough job on these, and they surrendered more easily.

  Shoemacher squeezed through the opening and reached down toward the wide sill on the outside of the cellhouse, but missed it and fell to the sidewalk below. He shook his head and rose slowly with a grimace and a bloody scrape on his forehead, but reached up and received their kits, which MacNally was pushing through the window.

  MacNally then mimicked Shoemacher’s movements, but learned from his accomplice’s tumble and successfully righted himself before jumping to the ground seconds later.

  With his back against the building, MacNally saw the Bay fading in the descending darkness. The carefree squeals of gulls emanated from somewhere down the hillside ahead of him, on the other side of a tall chain-link fence.

  They could go right—away from their launch point—or left, alongside the building, headed toward it. There were advantages to both routes, but moving closer to their intended goal made more sense than taking a more circuitous course. The longer they remained on the island, the greater the odds their absence would be noticed and the officer corps would be mobilized.

  They crouched down—passing other kitchen basement windows—and scampered along the building in the direction of the towering water tank that loomed a hundred yards ahead.

  They reached the end of the cellhouse and stopped. Listened. Hearing nothing, MacNally peered around the edge. Directly to their left rose a staircase that led up to the hospital wing. They moved past it and stepped up to the sixteen-foot barbed-wire-topped c
yclone fence.

  MacNally slung his kit across his left shoulder, then began climbing. When he had reached the top, he tossed the sack across the spurred surface, then laid his body over it and pivoted to the other side.

  Shoemacher followed, pulling their barbed-wire shield off the fence top and tossing it down to MacNally before beginning his descent. This time, his landing was more graceful than his clumsy exit from the kitchen’s basement window.

  They ran down a short flight of cement steps, then turned right—and saw a much longer staircase—that was bisected partway down by a tall chain-link gate, topped by yet another row of barbed-wire. MacNally stopped and looked up. “C’mon, we’re going back. Over that wall—”

  “Back?”

  “Up. Faster and easier than trying to get over that gate.” He led Shoemacher back to a spot thirty feet from where they had traversed the sixteen-foot fence. In front of them stood a short, decorative cement wall. “Get the electrical cord.”

  Shoemacher rooted through the sack and pulled out the knotted wire. MacNally tied it around an opening in the concrete barrier, then tossed the long end over the side. “Follow me.” He climbed over the edge and went hand-over-hand till he reached the stairs, on the other side of the chain-link gate, approximately twenty feet below. He waited for Shoemacher to reach his side, then headed down the steps.

  He did not want to leave the electrical cord behind, if nothing else because it would provide an important clue as to which direction they were headed. But it couldn’t be helped.

  They ran past the old Army morgue building, then two large fuel tanks. Above and over their left shoulder was the border of the recreation yard.

  MacNally led the way forward, beneath the massive, iron-footed water tower, then down a short set of stairs to a long, sloping, narrow sidewalk. In the near darkness, they had to be careful not to go off the edge—to their right was a sharply inclined hillside, which abutted the main road that either led down to the dock, or up toward the south end of the Industries building.