The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

33

CLIMBING THE INNER stairs, Lee and Morgan pushed through a second glass door into an office paneled in whitewashed oak. A blond secretary looked up from her desk, frowning at the hobo look of them. At the same moment, Storm appeared through an inner door waving them on past her to his office.

Storm was shorter than Lee, a solid man who looked to be more muscle than fat. Square face, creases at the corners of his gray eyes, the top of his head as bald as a mirror above a thick fringe of brown hair. His gray suit coat was off, hung neatly over the back of his desk chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his sinewy arms tanned, his pale blue tie loosened crookedly.

This room, too, was paneled in white-stained oak, with shelves of law books along one wall behind the plain oak desk. Two walls were hung with black-and-white photographs of rugged mountains, snow-covered peaks, and close-ups of rocky escarpments. A U.S. flag and a California State flag stood together in one corner. The windows of the fourth wall were open to the yellow-tinged fog. Storm nodded toward four easy chairs grouped around a conference table, and took a chair himself rather than retreat behind his desk. He sat quietly waiting, looking them over, taking stock of them.

Lee had not given his name on the phone; he’d said that Storm would understand why when they met. Now as he introduced themselves, the lawyer’s eyes hardened with recognition.

“Our names were in the L.A. papers?” Lee asked.

“They were. You haven’t seen the papers?”

“We’ve been traveling,” Lee said.

Storm waited, quietly watching Lee.

“I don’t know how we can convince you of this,” Lee said. “In Atlanta, Morgan was doing life plus twenty-five for a robbery and murder he didn’t commit. We went over the wall in order to correct that injustice. It would be pretty stupid for us to break out, come clear across the country, and then make ourselves known to a lawyer without a good reason—an honest reason. We’d be crazy to pull a stunt like that unless we’re straight.”

“And unless you have a plan laid out,” Storm said. His hands were relaxed on the chair arms, but Lee could feel his tension. “As I recall,” he said, looking at Morgan, “you were convicted for the bank robbery, killing a guard, and badly wounding one of the tellers.”

“Wrongly convicted,” Morgan said. “I know who robbed the bank and killed the guard. He’s now in Terminal Island on an older, land-scam charge committed in San Diego. The other four men had already been indicted when they picked Falon up.”

“I know the case,” Storm said. He rose and stepped to his desk. When he touched the intercom, they both jerked to attention. They eased back when he said, “Nancy, try to reschedule my next appointment, and hold my calls.” He picked up a yellow legal pad and a pen and returned to the table. He watched them carefully as Morgan told his story. Only when Morgan finished did Storm speak again.

“So Falon, who committed the murder, is now a short-termer at T.I. on another charge. You plan to turn yourselves in, where you can get at him before he goes into court on the land scam charge. You think you can make him talk, make him provide new evidence.”

Lee nodded. “We mean to try.”

“You understand how risky that is. And that, ethically, I should not be a party to your plan,” Storm said. “Also, Falon may not be kept at T.I. for long. He could be shipped off somewhere else. T.I. is still mainly a naval discipline barracks, has been for about three years. The Bureau of Prisons has a small section they use for civilian prisoners, men with federal convictions waiting to be transferred to a permanent facility. And they do keep a few short-termers. They might possibly keep Falon, depending on how crowded that part of the facility is. But you two . . . It isn’t likely you’ll be there long.”

He looked at Lee. “They might keep you, Fontana, to finish out your sentence, or they might send you back to McNeil. But you, Blake . . . That’s a medium-security institution, they won’t want a man with a brutal murder conviction. I’d say they’ll ship you right on out, maybe back to Atlanta or maybe Leavenworth.”

“We’ve got to do this,” Morgan said. “Even if we’re in T.I. only a few days. It’s my only chance, the only chance I’ve had to get close to Falon. I was locked up before I knew there was a robbery and murder, I’ve been behind bars ever since.”

Storm shook his head. “You know that’s coercion. You understand I shouldn’t be a party to this. You think in that short time you can corner him, make him tell you where he hid the money? Those are pretty long odds. Slim chance you can even get near him.”

“Slim, maybe,” Lee said. “But it’s what we mean to do. This is our only chance to get to him, where he can’t get away.”

“Why are you in this, Fontana?”

“It’s something that needs doing,” Lee said. “The only real evidence will be the money and maybe the gun. The money has to be stashed somewhere, and the most likely place is Georgia. We’re guessing he hid it right after the robbery. If he knew, then, that the feds were getting close on the San Diego case, he’d want to ditch it fast before they came nosing around.”

“And,” Storm said, “there were no witnesses who could identify Falon at the bank? They saw only a man in a stocking mask?” The way Storm was looking at them, Lee thought the lawyer was going to refuse them. “You know the matter of coercion itself could tilt things the wrong way.”

“If he bangs us up,” Lee said, “how can he claim coercion? He could have attacked us, who’s to say? If we can find where the money is—hopefully with his prints on it—that’s hard evidence. That’s what we’re after.”

Storm sat back, watching them. Lee, despite his own wariness, saw a keen challenge in Storm’s gray eyes. “You know,” Storm said, “you’re putting me in a compromising position. What if you kill him? That makes me an accessory.”

“We won’t kill him,” Lee said. “A dead man can’t tell us anything, and he can’t confess later. We just plan to scare him real bad.”

“You’re very confident,” Storm said. “You turn yourselves in, Warden Iverson calls Atlanta, tells them he has their escapees, what do you think will happen? They’ll make the connection to Falon, even if it takes a couple of days. As soon as Iverson puts it together he’ll lock you down and ship you out of there, before he has a mess on his hands.”

Storm moved to his desk again and dropped the pad on the blotter. “There’s also the matter of your escape. You’ll be charged and tried separately for that. I’m sure the brass in Atlanta didn’t like you climbing their wall.”

Lee grinned and shrugged. “If we can make Falon talk, maybe we won’t be charged with escape. Anyway, with the time Morgan’s looking at, what are a few years tacked on? He won’t be any worse off than he is now. As for me, I’ll take my chances.”

Storm stood looking at them, his square face solemn. “You walk into T.I., what are you going to tell them? Iverson asks you why you turned yourselves in, what are you going to say?” Lee and Morgan just looked at him. Storm sighed. “You better have a story ready that doesn’t involve Falon. And you’re not to mention me. Iverson and I are on good terms. Let’s keep that relationship, we’re going to need it.”

“Then you’ll take us on,” Lee said.

Storm shifted his weight, put his hands in his pockets. “I’ve never committed to anything quite like this.” He watched them rise. “How are you going to pay me?”

Morgan pulled the six hundred dollars from his pocket. Lee said, “Is that enough to get started, get the trial transcript, make some inquiries, talk to Morgan’s Atlanta attorney?”

Storm nodded. He laid the money neatly on the yellow pad.

“Here’s Quaker Lowe’s phone number and address,” Morgan said, handing Storm a battered slip of paper. “When you call him, he’ll let Becky know we’re safe. She’s had a long wait, not hearing from us, a long time to worry. I’d like to know,” he said softly, “if my wife and our little girl are all right. Can you get a message to me?”

Storm smiled. “I’ll be in touch.” They shook hands. “Once you’re inside,” he said, “you’ll each be allowed two calls a week if you’re in good standing. They’ll keep a record of the numbers.”

Lee smiled. “We’ll let you know as soon as Falon talks.”

Storm walked them out, through the outer office past the blond secretary. She watched them with curiosity, turning away only when Storm glanced at her.

Out on the hot L.A. street again, at the covered bus stop, they read the schedule tacked inside. They had half an hour before the bus arrived that would circle out past T.I. They settled down on the wooden bench to wait, not talking, not looking forward to the next step. They were both edgy, afraid they’d be shipped out again before they had a chance at Falon, a chance to get him alone.

The bus ride toward the ocean was hot, the humidity worse inside than on the street, the sky hazy and yellowish. Hot, sulfurous air blew in through the open bus windows. Smog, a passenger said. The result, the thin-looking woman told them, frowning, of too many cars and too many factories. They rolled through Florence sweating, passing row after row of little box houses, then some shops and billiard rooms along Gardena’s main street, then more box houses crowded together. They listened to the other passengers complain about the heat, telling each other this wasn’t a typical California winter and that they wished they’d get some rain. Not until they crossed a bridge leading to the main gate of Terminal Island did they feel the cool breath of the Pacific. They drank in the smell of the sea, but then came the ripe stink of the commercial fishing boats that nosed farther along the shore. The bus jolted to a stop in front of the federal penitentiary, jerking them hard.

Lee stumbled up and led the way down the steps. They alighted directly in front of the broad gray prison, on the walk that led to the main entrance. Here on the ocean the sky was clear and blue, the smog blown inland behind them. Overhead, wheeling gulls screamed, flaunting their winged freedom. Behind them the bus departed with a motorized fart. This was the first time Lee, in all his long life, had ever asked to be locked behind bars. First time he’d ever entered a federal prison out of choice. “Come on,” he said. “We either hike on in or run like hell.”