Willie the Actor

by David Barry

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if I could help you, I would. But - like I said - you’re wasting your time. I’m sorry. ‘

  Bill turned away from him and looked out the window. Not much of a view, but at least it was a view. He would savor it while he could.

  Angrily, the detective flung open the door. ‘Okay,’ he told the guard posted outside. ‘We’re through in here. This guy’s a loser. ‘

  The Pinkerton agent was right. Just over a week later, following the trial, the newspapers screamed GUILTY in banner headlines, and the tabloids christened Bill WILLIE THE ACTOR. Every New York paper ran the story, and even the broadsheets gave the news prominence over the collapse of the German banks. From the moment Bill stepped into the courtroom, things had gone badly. In his opening address to the jury, the D. A. had talked about the suspect’s plea of not guilty, and the fact that there was no confession, so that when it came time for Bill’s lawyer to produce the photographic evidence of the bruising, it was rejected as inadmissible evidence. And when the black porter took the stand, Jim Vitale did his best to discredit him, and came out of it badly burned. It looked to the jury as if the lawyer’s tirade against the black porter was racist, and even though every jury member was white, it nevertheless made them feel uncomfortable and they sided with the porter, who gave his evidence in an unshakably clear and stoic manner, describing details about Bill he remembered, observant details that no amount of make-up and disguise could hide. Bill had known throughout the trial that he was going to lose. The Pinkerton agent’s words echoed in his head. And he couldn’t stop thinking about Louise. Had she visited him, it might have brought him the little bit of luck he so desperately needed. While he waited in his cell for the trial to begin, his heart went out to her, and he longed to see her once more, if only to beg her forgiveness. But, perhaps because she was too grief stricken, she didn’t visit or send any message. When he came into the courtroom on that first day, his eyes darted around searchingly, hoping to find her sitting amongst the crowd. He needed her goodness to sustain him, to help him to think positively. But, in spite of her love for him, and in spite of her decency and kindness, she remained significantly absent throughout the trial.

  Jack Bassett was brought back into court for the sentencing. He looked wretched, and Bill could see that he seemed to be squirming inside from feelings of guilt and betrayal. He avoided catching Bill’s eye. As they waited for the judge to come back into the courtroom, Bill tried to get Jack to look his way, so that he could show him there were no hard feelings. Even though Jack had behaved stupidly over the women, it was Kitty who was really to blame. And even though Kitty had betrayed them, Bill tried to hate her, but couldn’t. He could see it from her angle. Jack had treated her so badly, she had reacted with bitterness and hate. If anything, he felt sorry for her; because now she would have her entire life to reflect on the fact that she was responsible for sending two men to prison for a very long time, one of them being the husband she had loved so much. No, he didn’t blame Kitty. He had no one but himself to blame. He was the one who had brought others shame and disgrace.

  The jinx. Affecting anyone who’d ever known him. Like he’d smashed a mirror or a black cat had crossed his path. But it was others who suffered. Everyone he touched. Like Midas. Easy, rich pickings. As long as he didn’t touch others. And now Louise and Jenny. . . with a husband and father who would be dead and buried. . . alive. . . for a very long time.

  Judge Cornelius Collins returned to the courtroom. Nervously, Bill tried again to catch Jack’s eye, almost to reassure him. After all, they were in this together. Partners in crime. But Jack’s eyes remained fixed in the distance, like a caged tiger.

  The judge cleared his throat noisily before speaking. ‘I find it hard to understand this crime,’ he said. ‘On one of the world’s busiest streets, these two men, Sutton and Bassett calmly took their time and carried out a robbery, while thousands of people passed the door outside without noticing anything was wrong. Their victims were, not only the insurance company who will have lost hundreds of thousands of dollars, but the staff at the jewelry store, who were terrified of the loaded guns these two carried. The porter made a positive identification of Sutton, and Bassett named him in his confession. What I find hard to believe is the fact that these two men spent a considerable amount of time at the store, robbing it, while behaving as if they were at a tea party. It was not the Wild West, but a family owned store on Broadway, and these sort of robberies must not be allowed to continue. I therefore sentence you both to thirty years. ‘

  There was a kerfuffle in the courtroom as the press dashed out, eager to phone their copy to the newsdesk.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sutton,’ said Vitale. ‘Of course, we’ll appeal. ‘

  Before being taken down, Jack turned towards Bill and looked him straight in the eye. He didn’t say anything but Bill could read his mind. It was an apology; a desperate plea for forgiveness. Bill gave him a feeble, half-hearted grin. Not much of a consolation for someone facing a thirty year stretch, but it was all he could manage.

  They sent Jack Bassett to Dannemora Penitentiary and Willie the Actor, as Bill had now become known, back to Sing Sing.

  Chapter Eight

  August, 1931

  Through the wire mesh that separated them, Bill gazed with longing at Louise. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, over and over, like a mantra. It was all he could think of saying, and he began to wonder if he was losing his mind. Louise gave him a sympathetic smile, though tears glistened in her eyes, sparkling like the diamonds that had brought him so much trouble, brought him to this prospect of thirty years of hell. Never again would he make love to Louise; and never, like other normal fathers, would he see his daughter growing up. Eventually, like a clockwork toy winding down, he ended his apologies with a feeble, ‘I wish I could turn back time. ‘

  ‘So do I, Bill,’ said Louise. ‘But that’s not possible. ‘

  . Bill shook his head feebly. He had longed for this visit, but was now finding it awkward. He was no longer a part of her world and had become a stranger. The division between them was widening, and he knew he was helpless to keep her from drifting away from him for good. Pretty soon, he would be dead to her. She would be a widow, grieving for a while, then he would become a distant memory.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ he managed after an uncomfortable hiatus. ‘I wish you could have brought Jenny. ‘

  She shook her head. ‘Not a good idea, Bill. ‘

  ‘I know, but. . . if only I could have seen her once more. It might keep me going. Give me hope. ‘

  ‘As long as she’s a child. . . ‘ Louise began awkwardly, then blushed and avoided looking at him.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Bill, who knew what she was going to say. ‘She mustn’t know about me. Not while she’s of school age. Other children can sometimes be very cruel. ‘

  Louise looked up and smiled at him. ‘I’m glad you understand. Maybe when she’s a lot older, I’ll tell her about you. Maybe I’ll tell her what a devoted and loving father you would have made. I know you’re not a bad man, Bill. I just wish I could understand what made you do it. ‘

  ‘I wish I could understand that myself,’ he said, and shrugged helplessly.

  Sighing, Louise said, ‘I know I should have visited you before, but I couldn’t stop crying. All night and every day. I just couldn’t come to the court like that. I didn’t want the newspapers to see me in such a state. I had Jenny to think of. ‘

  Bill smiled, knowing that however soft and gentle Louise was, she was also a tower of strength, and he was comforted by the thought that his daughter would have a mother of whom she could be proud.

  She returned his smile for a moment, then dropped her head. When she looked up again, her eyes were sharp and focused. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  He leaned forward so that his head was almost touching the partition. ‘W
hat do you have to be sorry for?’

  ‘Thirty years is a long time, Bill’

  ‘There’s my appeal,’ he said. And even as he said it, he realized how weak it sounded. How much hope was there?

  ‘I can’t face thirty years of visiting you in this way. I’m sorry. ‘

  It was like a stone falling into a deep well. He heard the distant splash as his hopes for any future vanished.

  ‘You mean you won’t be coming back,’ he said, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t. ‘

  ‘For Jenny’s sake. ‘ he prompted.

  ‘Yes, for Jenny’s sake,’ she replied.

  Two weeks after Louise’s visit, Bill lay on his back in his cell. In his raised hand he held a photograph of Jenny, and he stared at it for ages, his arm growing tired, so that every so often he would drop his arm back onto the bed, and drift into a reverie about his wife and daughter, imagining the perfect life that might have been. Following her visit, Louise had written to him, enclosing the snapshot of Jenny, snug in her baby bonnet, staring at the camera intently. In her letter Louise gave Bill snippets of domestic and social news, as if his crimes had never been committed, and he was now a distant relative with a need to be updated on family matters. She said she was now living with her mother, and Bill was comforted by the thought that his daughter had devoted a grandmother as well as a loving mother to look after her. But however soothing these thoughts of Jenny’s upbringing were, the thoughts inevitably turned sour as he was forced to dwell on his own predicament, and the wheel turned full circle as he was brought to the point of deep depression. He was reminded that this small cell would be his home for the next thirty years. And he knew that if he had been given a sentence of ten, or even fifteen, years, he might have been prepared to do his time as a model prisoner. But there was no way he could face a never-ending thirty year stretch. He would be over sixty by the time the gates opened for him. Up until that time, this lousy little cell would be his entire world. No, there was no way he was going to remain here as a guest of Uncle Sam. However, in the two years since Bill had been at Sing Sing, there had been major changes in security. A new thirty-five foot high concrete wall had been built around the prison, and he was incarcerated in a new cell block that was considered to be escape proof. Four locked steel doors lay between Bill’s cell and the yard outside. He realized the outlook was bleak, unless his appeal to the Appellate Division was successful. If not, he realized he needed a contingency plan, and brightened considerably once he put his mind to working out a way of escaping from this hell-hole.

  Chapter Nine

  November,1932

  During their exercise break in the yard, Johnny Eagan, wearing a large padded glove, and casually tossing a ball in the air, walked over to where Bill stood leaning against the wall by the dining hall. Eagan was tall and lean, blonde-haired and blue-eyed and, apart from a crooked nose broken in a boxing tournament, was considered to be quite good looking. He once had a reputation as a good all-round sportsman, but became something of an “also ran”, due to his fondness for liquor. As soon as he opened his mouth to speak, Bill detected the harsh sweet smell the liquor on his breath.

  ‘Okay. ‘ Eagan said. ‘Let’s play a little handball. ‘

  He handed Bill a glove and they both walked along the wall to where a handball court was marked out. Although he was wary of forming an alliance with a guy who had a reputation as a drinker, if ever he was to escape from Sing Sing, Bill knew he had to have Eagan’s assistance. Eagan was the prison repairman and had access to most places in the penitentiary. And, like Bill, he was serving a long stretch for robbery and had little to lose by attempting an escape.

  ‘Careful!’ Eagan cautioned as Bill slid on the glove. ‘You don’t want to cut yourself. ‘

  Inside the middle finger of the glove, Bill felt the hacksaw blade jabbing into his palm. He closed his fingers around it, glanced over his shoulder to make sure no guards or other inmates were watching, and keeping the glove close to his stomach, he slipped the blade out and into his shirt. It lay cool against his skin, lodged between the waistband of his pants. He slipped the glove back on as Eagan began knocking the ball against the building. With barely a glance in his partner’s direction, Bill spoke like most cons did, hardly moving his lips and out the side of his mouth.

  ‘You told me,’ he said, returning Eagan’s serve, ‘you were off the sauce, Johnny. Two years you said. ‘

  Bill knew that certain jailers were prepared to sell hard liquor to those prisoners with connections on the outside, willing to make a payment. Then there were some prisoners talented enough to build small stills in which to distil raw spirits. Inside the pen alcohol was readily available for the right price. And if Eagan had now slipped back off the wagon, it was worrying.

  Deliberately missing Bill’s return, Eagan stooped to pick up the ball and mumbled, ‘It was only a small drop, Bill. Nothing to get excited about. Can’t a man have a drink on his birthday?’

  Bill stared at the wall as he replied, ‘Happy birthday, Johnny. Try and stay sober for the rest of the week. ‘

  ‘Will do. ‘

  They began playing handball again, holding a conversation without looking at each other. From a distance, guards would barely see their lips moving.

  ‘Thanks for the blade,’ Bill said. ‘Getting over the wall’s going to be the biggest headache. It’s more than thirty foot. . . ‘

  Eagan interrupted him. ‘I’ve located a couple of ladders in the cellar below the dining hall. We can lash them together. ‘

  ‘I estimate we should be through those bars in about four days,’ Bill said. ‘We go on the night of the fifth. ‘

  ‘What about the car?’

  ‘It’s all arranged. Patterson was released yesterday, and he’s got a guy on the outside willing to arrange it. It’s going to cost, so we’ll need to do a bank once we get out. ‘

  ‘How about those doors, Bill? Think you can pick your way through the locks?’

  ‘I had a very good tutor,’ Bill replied, Doc Tate slipping briefly into his thoughts. ‘One of the best in the business. He taught me everything he knew. ‘

  Five nights later, just before midnight, a guard making his routine inspection shone his flashlight into Bill’s cell. Bill feigned sleep as he felt it shining like bright sunlight through his closed lids. Then as soon as he heard the rattle of keys and the door clanging shut as the guard left the tier, he rose hurriedly and rearranged the blankets so they formed an outline of his sleeping form. He was already dressed and he drew his hacksaw blade out from under the pillow and slid it into the already sawn-through bar section of on the cell door. There was one small section to saw through. He worked quietly, so that no other convicts would hear, and was through the small section of steel in less than a minute. He grabbed the bar and pulled it away. He had fourteen minutes left before the guard returned. They routinely did their rounds every fifteen minutes. Bill had timed it over the last three months and they never varied their routine. Had they made random checks, then he and Eagan would have stood little chance of escape. But it was because of this loophole, and because this cell block was considered escape proof, that gave them at least a slim chance of escape. If only Bill could pick his way through at least three locks on the steel gates. But first he had to get Eagan.

  He breathed in and squeezed his way through the narrow gap between the bars of his cell door. A small sliver of jagged steel scraped against his stomach and caught the cloth of his shirt. There was a moment when he was halfway through when he felt he couldn’t move either way, trapped and helpless, and he experienced the whimpering panic of a cornered animal. He breathed in again, and with one final vice-tight effort squeezed between the bars. He was through. He then shoved the section of steel bar back into place, before walking stealthily towards Eagan’s cell, keeping well aw
ay from the other cells in the tier, in case any other convicts heard him. When he reached Eagan’s cell, his accomplice, although slimmer then himself, appeared to be struggling to squeeze through. Bill grabbed him round the shoulders and tugged. He heard him gasp as he stepped out into the corridor. Silently, they both made for the first steel door at the centre of the tier and Bill got to work with the lock pick. The clicking of the tumblers sounded loudly intrusive and Bill hoped one of the other convicts didn’t get up from bed to find out what was going on. A sudden cough from one of the cells startled them and Bill was sweating now as he concentrated on turning the tumblers within the lock.

  Click. Less than thirty seconds and it opens. He has passed his old mentor’s test with flying colors.

  Bill felt Eagan breathing sharply, shallow and tremulous, as he pushed open the door. They hurried through, carefully closing it behind them, and walked quickly to the next steel door leading to the dining room. Right away Bill got to work on the lock with the slender pick and his sensitive fingers. This proved to be harder than the first door. He listened intently for the tumblers and, like a dentist jabbing at a stubborn tooth, he prodded and poked, but nothing was happening. As the minutes ticked by, the fear and impatience mounting in his accomplice increased his own body heat and the sweat ran from under his arms. He could smell his own fear, an odor of rotting garbage, like the lousy prison food.

  Eagan had been counting seconds in his head. ‘Five minutes,’ he whispered.

  Ignoring it, Bill gave the lock all his concentration.

  Don’t think about anything. Just concentrate on the tumblers. Take your time. Easy does it. Keep listening. Shut out all other sounds. Shut the rest of the world out. Concentrate.

  Suddenly the lock clicked loudly in Bill’s ear. He pushed open the door, feeling the relief surging through him as they entered the dining hall. Eagan led the way across the hall to a door at the far end. This was an ordinary door with a commonplace lock and Bill had this one unlocked in less than thirty seconds. They both knew they had to work extremely quickly, because they had no sure way of knowing how long it was until the guard returned to do his rounds. They could only estimate the time they had taken and Bill thought they probably had six or seven minutes left.