Willie the Actor

by David Barry

  ‘I’ll only ask you this once,’ he said. ‘Where did you get the plaster of Paris to make the dummy?’

  ‘Jerry O’Hagan,’ Bill replied.

  For a moment the warden looked nonplussed. He hadn’t figured Sutton for an informer.

  ‘You telling me O’Hagan helped you?’

  Bill shook his head emphatically. He had already worked this out with Jerry, so as not to get his friend in trouble if the plan went sour.

  ‘I lied to him,’ Bill said. ‘I asked him for some paints and plaster of Paris to make sculptures. Said I was interested in art. ‘

  The warden’s eyes narrowed. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  Bill looked him in the eyes. ‘It’s true. I’m a friend of Jerry. I wouldn’t do anything to get him into trouble. ‘

  ‘He get you the grappling hook and hacksaw?’

  ‘No, sir. Just the artistic stuff. Like I said, Jerry had no idea. . . ‘

  ‘Never mind that,’ the warden snapped. ‘I want to know who gave you the other items. ‘

  Bill stood up straight, hands behind his back, and stared into the distance.

  ‘You’ll make it easier on yourself if you give me their names. ‘

  Bill continued staring ahead, making it quite clear that he had no intention of informing on them.

  The warden sighed impatiently. ‘I’m not going to waste any more time with you, Sutton. Two years in the isolation block and loss of privileges. Okay! This meeting is over. Get him out of my sight. ‘

  Chapter Seventeen

  June, 1940

  Over the clatter of his typewriter, he heard Dr. Schwarz sighing deeply, and he knew the psychiatrist was troubled. He stopped and looked across his desk at the doctor, who was shaking his head slowly in disbelief. Schwarz, in his mid-thirties, handsome and broad-shouldered, with friendly, brown eyes and a clear complexion, was an avuncular man with an easy, bedside manner.

  ‘You had no choice,’ Bill said, referring to a prisoner that that had been certified by the doctor as insane, and sent to Fairview State Hospital, where he would spend the rest of his days in the company of some of the most dangerous lunatics.

  ‘It always depresses me though,’ said the psychiatrist. ‘One stroke of my pen and off they go to that. . . that. . . ‘ He pursed his lips as he searched for an apt description of the asylum.

  ‘Like I said,’ Bill cut in, ‘you had no choice. He was schizophrenic and they were dangerous multiple personalities controlling him. I know it’s not a decision you made lightly. ‘

  Schwarz smiled at Bill. ‘And what about you, Bill? You’ve never felt stir-crazy violent rages, have you?’

  ‘I might have done if it hadn’t been for books. They kept me sane.’

  During Bill’s two year stay in the isolation block, the warden had allowed him as many books as he cared to read, and also a typewriter to continue his touch-typing lessons. Bill appreciated that Warden Smith was a reasonably fair man, and he managed to survive the solitary years by escaping into the world of fiction. And, because he still nurtured the dream of one day escaping to the outside world, he continued to improve his Spanish. Then. after his term was served, the warden gave him the job of assisting Dr. Schwarz.

  ‘I think it’s more than that,’ said the psychiatrist. ‘I don’t think violence is in you. ‘

  ‘Maybe not,’ agreed Bill, thoughtfully. ‘But I still rejected the accepted rules in society and became a parasite. Why was that?’

  The psychiatrist stared openly at Bill, deliberately remaining silent, knowing that his assistant was capable of providing his own analysis. Dr. Schwarz had never known a prisoner like Bill Sutton. His intelligence was remarkable, and since coming to work for him, he’d taken a keen interest in psychoanalysis, and had read up on Freud, Jung, and any other books on psychology and psychiatry he could get his hands on.

  ‘I guess,’ Bill began, tentatively, ‘my existence never had purpose. I needed a challenge. I think maybe I was insecure, and I needed money to give me a false feeling of security. But that still doesn’t explain why I robbed those banks. I’ve read so many books in your office, and none of them could give me an answer. But now I’ve spent thirteen years of my adult life behind bars, I wonder what would happen if, just supposing, I was released. You think, doctor, I could adjust and become a normal member of society and go straight?’

  Bill noticed the cloud of doubt in the doctor’s expression as he thought about this.

  ‘Only you can answer that,’ he said.

  Bill looked down at the typewriter keyboard. It hadn’t been a satisfactory answer; not the one he wanted to hear.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dr Schwarz said, ‘but I can’t tell you yes, you could become an honest member of society. That’s your decision, Bill, and you know it. ‘

  Bill knew the doctor didn’t think he could change, and for the first time he felt irritated by Schwarz’s opinion. He respected the doctor, but now, more than ever, he felt the urge to escape and put it to the test. Maybe if he managed to live in the free world, he could go straight, hold down a decent job. Then one day let Dr. Schwarz know he was wrong. Was this a fantasy? he asked himself. Or could he find a way to get out of Eastern State Penitentiary?

  The doctor was staring intently at him, and Bill felt as if he could read his mind.

  ‘You think a country can go insane?’ Bill asked.

  Dr. Schwarz waited for him to elaborate.

  ‘I always dreamt that one day I might go to Europe. But now the swastika’s flying in nearly every civilized country. Even Paris. Romantic city like that.

  It’s madness. You think the whole of Germany could be certified?’

  Bill realized he’d been babbling, and Dr Schwarz was eyeing him knowingly. He seemed slightly amused, like a father having caught his son out in a minor misdemeanor.

  ‘Bill,’ he said, ‘don’t think about escaping. Not unless you want to go back into solitary. ‘

  Bill could feel himself blushing. ‘You’re wrong about me,’ he mumbled unconvincingly.

  ‘But I’ve noticed some depression lately. ‘

  Bill shrugged. ‘I had bad news. I don’t think I told you. ‘

  The psychiatrist remained silent, waiting for Bill to elaborate.

  ‘I wrote to my father. Months ago. Someone must have opened the letter. It came back with my father’s name crossed out on the envelope, and someone had substituted it with the word “Deceased”. ‘

  Bill stared at the typewriter keys. There was a long, awkward silence. From the corridor outside came the sound of marching boots and the rattle of keys.

  ‘How did you feel about that?’ Dr Schwarz asked.

  Bill shrugged again. ‘I’d better get on with this report,’ he said, and continued typing furiously.

  Chapter Eighteen

  October, 1940

  Over and over, information gathered across seven long years rippled through his brain. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about the prison, the materials that had been used in its construction, how wide the walls were, how deep the foundations, where the sewers were located, and thousands of other details, much of which would prove to be invaluable for planning an escape. He’d always known the information was readily available, almost for the asking, as if the prison authorities wanted the cons to know how futile an escape attempt would be. He also thought this was a weakness, a flaw, because armed with information, there was always a loophole in any system, and he thought he’d found it. At times he wondered if he was crazy, and if it would work. Digging a tunnel beneath the ground until they were on the outside seemed impossible, far-fetched. But the more he thought about it, the more the idea took him over, so that it became an obsession. There were certain cells only thirty feet from the outside wall, but these cells were inspected regularly. He’d
have to choose one of the end cells, furthest from the outside wall, that needed a tunnel of at least ninety feet, and wouldn’t arouse any suspicion, as - face it - he was thinking of a near-impossible undertaking. One man he knew in one of these cells on the ground floor was an expert forger by the name of Clarence Kliney, an affable man he’d been sounding out for some time now. And Kliney was known to be a model prisoner, never in any trouble, so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself as a potential escapee. He felt the time was ripe to approach Kliney with his proposition, and went to visit him during a yard-out period. Going out into the yard wasn’t mandatory and convicts could choose to remain in their cells during the recreation period, or even congregate in the corridors outside.

  ‘Bill!’ said Kliney enthusiastically when Bill approached his cell. ‘Come in, come in. ‘

  Kliney ran a hand through his ginger hair, then gestured to a chair. Bill sat down and looked up at Kliney, wondering if he could trust him. He was a warm guy, and looked like a stern but approachable high school teacher. His friendly manner seemed genuine, but as Bill well knew from his own frauds, all it takes to earn some credibility is a little acting skill. But he had a gut instinct about Kliney, and decided to go with it. Risk the proposition.

  ‘Ever thought about getting out of here?’

  ‘Never stop thinking about it. But will I make it in my lifetime?Or do I go out in a wooden box?’

  ‘I think it’s time we took the matter into our own hands. ‘

  A glint came into Kliney’s eyes and Bill saw hope in the man’s soul take wing. He knew he’d found his first recruit.

  ‘I want out,’ Kliney said. It was a no-frills statement, bald but sincere.

  ‘It’s going to be tricky,’ Bill warned.

  ‘I don’t care about that. Anything’s worth the risk to get out of here. ‘

  ‘I don’t get it. A model prisoner. No previous attempts. Why the risk now?’

  Kliney pursed his lips and gave it some thought. ‘Just had enough, I guess. And if I could remain free for just a year - just one glorious year, that’s all I ask - and be at liberty to walk into a restaurant and order what I like, or watch kids playing in the park, go to the movies when I like. . . I think the trade would be equitable. ‘

  Bill smiled understandingly, and the pact was made. They both knew it was a bond and neither would go back on their word. It was like a marriage - for better or worse.

  ‘So what have you got in mind?’ asked Kliney.

  Down to business. Bill tapped the wall of the cell behind him. ‘This wall is five feet thick, but I reckon once we’ve gotten through five or six inches, it’ll get easier. I suspect we’ll find soft, crumbling concrete that shouldn’t be too difficult to penetrate. ‘

  Kliney’s eyes were bulbous, like a man parodying astonishment.

  ‘Let me get this straight: you plan to dig your way through to the yard outside? Then what?’

  ‘No,’ said Bill. ‘Dig directly down - I reckon about thirty feet. I know the prison wall goes down twenty-five feet below ground. And it’s fourteen feet thick at the base, and made of stone not concrete, so we’ll have to burrow under it. ‘

  ‘How far from here to the wall?’

  ‘Ninety feet. ‘

  Kliney gave a long low whistle of amazement.

  ‘Well,’ said Bill, ‘you think it’s hare-brained?’

  Kliney chuckled. ‘I think it’s so audacious, it could work. ‘

  ‘It’s an enormous undertaking, Clarence. ‘

  Kliney nodded thoughtfully before speaking. ‘What about the hole in the wall? How we gonna cover it up?’

  ‘I’ve given it a great deal of thought. We need to make a plaster-board frame to cover the hole. You’ve got pictures on the wall. You can add to the collection. We remove the pictures, start digging, cover the hole, then stick the pictures back over it - I don’t think any guard would give it a second look. It’ll always look familiar and normal. ‘

  ‘And what do we do with all the plaster and earth?’

  ‘Stick it in our pockets, carry it away from the cell and flush it down the toilets. The biggest problem will be the recruitment of labor. We’ll need another five or six men, at least. That’ll be the hardest part, finding the guys we can trust. ‘

  ‘And I’m no engineer,’ mused Kliney, a small frown furrowing his brow, ‘but to build a tunnel, doesn’t it take shoring up? I mean, like a mine. We’ll need timber. ‘

  ‘There’s a guy I’ve been sounding out in the woodworking shop. Guy by the name of Freddy Tenuto. I’m certain he can be trusted, because. . . ‘

  ‘I know him,’ Kliney interrupted. ‘He’s doing time for murder. I’d be wary of using a hot-headed guy like that. ‘

  ‘Relax, Clarence,’ Bill said. ‘We’re limited in our choices. And none of us are here because we’re model citizens. ‘

  ‘I suppose,’ Kliney conceded. ‘And it can’t have been first degree murder, otherwise they’d have sent him up the river to Sing Sing and fried him for sure. ‘

  Kliney talking tough-guy was out of character and an amused smile tugged the corners of Bill’s mouth. That’s what a stretch in the pen does for you, he thought. Learn the lingo and blend in with the rest of the inmates.

  Kliney caught Bill’s amused expression. ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked. Then, having realized what he’d just said, he blushed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  April, 1942

  It took six months for the tunnel to reach the outside wall. Six months of back-breaking work, digging, scraping, crawling. Due to lack of oxygen in the tunnel, two men worked for a half-hour, after which they reached a point of total exhaustion, then another two took over. After nine weeks work on the tunnel, the main sewer was reached, and any earth removed could be deposited into the putrid water. Things speeded up considerably after this.

  Prior to the building of the tunnel, Bill had recruited eight men. It took six months of careful vetting, to avoid picking informers. Six months of calculating the odds on an expression, the shifty look of a stool pigeon, the guy who would shop his own mother, someone smarmy and amoral. Pick the wrong guy and the whole scheme was blown. But Bill was smart enough to realize that his first instinct was usually the most accurate, and once having adopted this method, he thoroughly checked out his man, dropped hints about escaping, and eventually managed to recruit his team. Not a single convict proved to be false. And each man worked in the various shops and managed to steal the tools that were needed for the job.

  Bill was working a shift with Peter Van Sant, a dour man, dark like his moods, who could never adjust to life in prison. The magnitude of his hatred of the regime that kept him behind bars often reached boiling point, like a volcano about to erupt, and in yard-out periods he’d often pace like a jungle cat, staring at the guards and machine guns malevolently, and convicts who observed him knew it was only a question of time before he flipped. But once he began working on the tunnel, his demeanour changed. The small chink he could see, the glimmer of freedom, renewed his life-force. He proved to be one of the most reliable and hardworking prisoners on Bill’s team.

  Although it was cold and damp in the tunnel, and they worked in their underwear, both men were sweating with the effort of their digging. Bill put down his shovel and wiped the sweat from his eyes with his arm.

  ‘Another fourteen feet,’ said Bill, ‘and we should be on the outside.’

  Van Sant grunted, conserving his energy. None of the men wasted it on speech, since they only had a half-hour’s energy for the work that was going to take them to the land of milk and honey. To a man, they fantasized at night, saw themselves vanishing into the heartland of America, driving west to escape to the land of plenty and sunshine, where nothing would ever touch them. Freedom.

  Van Sant knew the half-hour was nearly over. He rais
ed his pick and summoned up one final effort. Crack into stone and solid earth. A fountain of water spurted into the tunnel, a powerful spray of freezing water, flooding the tunnel.

  ‘Fuck!’ yelled Van Sant. ‘We’ve hit an underground spring. ‘

  In seconds they were drenched in freezing water. Bill saw the last seconds of his life coming down like a fast curtain, and his mind was surprisingly clear. What did he feel? Fear? Nothing at all it seemed. Just resignation. As the cold water engulfed them, rising upwards, and threatening to reach the roof and cut off their air supply, it struck him that he was returning to how it all began. Back to the womb. His life unwinding. Running backwards to the beginning.

  ‘Turn round!’ shouted Van Sant. ‘Grab my arm. Take a deep breath - now. We can make it back to the cell. ‘

  If it hadn’t been for Van Sant’s positive action, Bill realized he would probably have given up at this point. He managed to turn in the confined space, stuck his head at the roof of the ceiling, took a deep breath, then with Van Sant’s help he pushed himself back along the tunnel towards “Kliney’s Hole”, as the drop into the tunnel had become suggestively known.

  They reached the end of the tunnel and Van Sant pushed Bill ahead of him up the hole. As soon as he reached the top, Bill gave the lightest of taps on the plaster-board, and Kliney, who was sitting with his ear close to the board, caught the eye of one of the convicts keeping watch outside the cell, and jerked his thumb at the wall. The convict nodded that it was all clear, and Kliney removed the pictures and the board. Then he assisted Bill and Van Sant as they fell into the room. He saw from Bill’s expression that something was seriously wrong.