Inmate 1577

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 opportunity 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 cyclone 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.

Running faster than was advisable down the steep sidewalk, MacNally struggled to slow his pace as he approached its end. He stopped, his shoes slapping against the pavement, and peered right, down the wide roadway. Directly ahead stood the Quartermaster warehouse, abutted by the three-story Powerhouse building, which contained the generators that provided the island with electricity.

Seeing no patrols, MacNally crossed the road, with Shoemacher maintaining his flank, their escape kits cradled across their shoulders.

To the left of the building’s second floor entrance, a set of metal stairs rose to the flat rooftop. They quickly scaled the steps-the clanging causing MacNally to take two steps at a time to minimize the footfalls-then ran toward the back of the Powerhouse. He was hoping there was a way down, as they no longer had their makeshift rope.

MacNally stopped at the edge. Five feet below them, a metal vent led from the side of the Powerhouse building to the adjacent smokestack. He swung his legs over the side, then lowered his feet till they met the ductwork. The wind was aggressive and challenged his ability to maintain his balance. Not knowing how old or sturdy the six-foot horizontal structure was, he inched across it, arms extended at his sides as if traversing a high wire.

He reached the smokestack and hugged it, then stretched as far as he could around its right side, reaching for the metal grab bars that ran along its length from the ground as far up into the sky as he could see.

He climbed down, then removed the kit from his shoulder. As Shoemacher followed his partner’s movements, MacNally looked out at the dark water. He heard it crashing against the rocks more than saw it, but he knew it was there; he smelled the salt, felt the dampness on his raw cheeks.

They were standing atop a cement slab that sloped down, away from its center.

“This is it,” Shoemacher said. “The Caponier. Almost home.”

“We’re almost in the water. Home’s still a ways off,” MacNally said.

Ten feet or so below them lay the choppy waters of the Bay. To their left, the Powerhouse smokestack rose skyward, into the darkness. And to their right sat the short and narrow path that abutted the water’s edge-their entry point into the ocean.

Directly behind them stood a back room of the Powerhouse, where the large boiler tanks were located.

Shoemacher turned his back into the wind, and his jacket caught the gust, ballooning out around him. “That water’s gonna be a bitch. Sure we can do this?”

“We aren’t going back, I can tell you that much. I’m not going back. You want to, your choice.”

“Hell no.”

“Then I’m gonna get out of the wind and start blowing up the gloves.” MacNally took both sacks and stepped into the boiler room. “Watch out for patrols.”

MacNally dropped to his knees and pulled out the raincoat devices he had sewn. As he put the first glove to his mouth, he heard a man shout.

“Hold it! Don’t move-put your arms behind your head and get down on your knees.”

MacNally knew that voice. Officer Jack Taylor. He instantly broke out in an aggressive sweat. His heart started racing, and he nearly whimpered anger and frustration into the night air. But he fought to keep his emotions muted.

What to do?

“Where’s MacNally?” Taylor yelled.

“Who?” Shoemacher asked.

“Don’t fuck with me, boy. You’re in a whole lotta trouble.” A second’s hesitation, then, “MacNally! Where the hell are you?”

Taylor’s voice rode away on the wind, but MacNally knew he did not have much time. Taylor was only feet away, on that sloping cement slab where he had been standing only a minute ago.

Could he reason with Taylor, explain why he was doing this? No-hacks have a job to do, and that’s to keep prisoners in line and prevent them from doing what MacNally was attempting to do.

There was no way out. If he surrendered, he would be thrown back in the Hole. Dozens of years would be added to his sentence. When he did get out of Seg, he would likely not be granted work privileges again. The thought of a lifetime behind bars in a cell, twenty-four hours a day, some of it in darkness with little human contact… It was not something he could live with. He had nothing to lose.

MacNally slipped his hand inside the sack and pulled out the knife, then straightened up and put his back to the doorway. He heard Taylor key his radio.

And that’s when he struck.

MacNally stepped out of the room and plunged the knife into Taylor’s chest. The officer stiffened, dropped his handgun, released his radio, then looked at MacNally with wide eyes. Shock or fear, MacNally couldn’t tell.

Taylor fell to his knees, gasping for breath, his hands grappling with the knife handle, unable to generate enough strength to pull it from his body. He fell onto his side and went still.

“The fuck did you do?” Shoemacher’s disbelief was as genuine as Taylor’s had been. “Are you out of your mind?”

Perhaps. And perhaps not. As Voorhees had once told him, life was about choices, and he had just made one. Good or bad, he didn’t yet know, for his goal of reuniting with Henry was something that he valued above all else. It was all that mattered. But righting the wrongs he had done-including the one lying at his feet-that would have to be reconciled at a later date.

There was, however, one thing that could not wait for future evaluation and analysis. And that was the man standing five feet away: Reese Shoemacher. MacNally was amped up, huffing rapidly, puffing vapor into the chilled wind, which whipped its away around his neck. He reached down and lifted Taylor’s.38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from the ground.

Shoemacher had gone into the room to grab his flotation device. As he stepped back onto the Caponier, he said, “You’ve lost it, man. I’m gettin’ out of here.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” MacNally said. “I’m not going back.” He stepped closer to his partner and pulled the trigger, sending a round into the man’s chest. And another. Shoemacher slumped forward, then fell face forward to the cement.

There could be no witnesses to Taylor’s murder. If the failed escape of ’46 that Clarence Carnes had related was an indicator of what would be done to him, should he and Shoemacher be caught, MacNally’s killing of an officer would surely earn him a trip to San Quentin’s gas chamber across the Bay.

MacNally’s eyes darted around at the two bodies. He had to cover his tracks.

Fingerprints.

Then get the hell out of here.

He pulled the denim shirt out of his khakis and wiped the knife handle clean. Then he dragged Shoemacher’s stilled body toward the weapon, pressed the man’s fingers around it, and then did the same with the revolver, using Taylor’s right hand. Need be-and he hoped it didn’t come to this-his story was set in motion, and it would be bolstered by the evidence: MacNally was in the Powerhouse room preparing their plunge into the water when Taylor surprised Shoemacher, they struggled, and Taylor got off a couple of shots as Shoemacher plunged home the knife.

MacNally ran back into the Powerhouse and finished inflating his flotation device. He stepped out-and saw an officer. He reached back to throw a punch, but was struck from behind with a crushing blow to the head. It stung-his hearing winked out-and his vision went momentarily blank. MacNally went down hard to his knees.

“The fuck have you done?” a voice yelled.

“He killed Jack.”

“Son of a bitch. Who is it?”

“Negro’s Shoemacher. This asshole’s 1577. MacNally.”

MacNally shook his head, then cricked his neck to get a look at the men who were standing over him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shoe moving toward his face. He threw up a hand, but missed. The foot did not.

The first kick to his head knocked him onto his back. The next one, and the ones after that, seemed progressively further away, the pain growing duller and more distant.

Until, eventually, he felt nothing at all.