Death Row Breakout (10 page)

Down below, those in the TV room heard nothing over the sound of the program, but the dayroom convicts playing chess and dominos heard the screams and looked up – but all they could see were vague figures in struggle. There was one last cry as they broke his fingers and he fell, hitting a railing and turning over and over until he hit a bench that broke his back – and the concrete floor that fractured his skull so fluids leaked out.

Seconds later, Eddie and Scott flew out from the bottom of the stairs, both panting and sweating. Convicts were pouring out of the TV room to see what had happened. Dupree, shaking, sidled up to Eddie.

“What the fuck happened? Where the fuck did you go?”

Dupree lowered his gaze in shame. “I dunno. I lost it.”

Eddie shook his head and ignored the man beside him. His heart was beating fast. The body was over there, twenty feet away, face turned toward Eddie, with blood seeping from eyes and nose. Convicts were silent, staying away from it, some eyeing Eddie. Scott had moved away to the TV room doorway. Eddie started moving toward the stairs. There would be a call for lockup, and guards with clubs. They might go crazy and beat convicts – but not up the narrow stairs and tiers.

The corridor door opened and the veteran guard with his green twill uniform came in. A minute later, he ran out and locked the door. The convicts laughed – until the goon squad came in with night-sticks.

The Officials threw up curtains around the body so the convicts in the surrounding cells could not see it, as if their gaze would somehow defile it, or perhaps give them ideas that they had power. Killing a convict is a minor affair; killing a guard is sacrilege. None had been killed in the entire prison system for two decades. Flashbulbs popped, men in suits from the District Attorney’s office came in. During the night, a trio of guards unlocked the convicts and took them for questioning.

Some came back. According to the Night Movement Sheet they had been out of the cell-house. Others sat all night on benches outside the Captain’s office. The Captain’s name was Moon. He was small and looked young, and he loathed convicts because he could see a look in their eyes that he recognized but could neither define nor articulate. He was also smart about Civil Service examinations, and was Captain of the Guards before thirty.

Captain Moon would have wagered that Eddie was involved, but was less certain who had helped him murder the young rookie. He would never admit it, but nine years working in prison had instilled racism in him.

Captain Moon didn’t lock anyone up during the night. They weren’t going anywhere. He was waiting for the “snitch” letters that came in with the mail. Convicts wrote them out and put them in an envelope on the bars to be picked up with the regular outgoing mail. They were sorted in the Mail Room. Seven letters identified Eddie, Scott and Dupree.

“Lock ’em up,” said the Captain as he signed the Order. The next day the District Attorney filed a complaint charging them with 187 California Penal Code, Murder, and 4500 California Penal Code, assault with intent to do great bodily harm. Conviction carried a mandatory death sentence with no alternative. The wheels of justice were starting to grind.

On a bright, late Indian summer morning, Sally Goldberg sat in the breakfast nook of her home in the Berkeley Hills, overlooking the East Bay. She spread strawberry preserves on a croissant and poured her espresso. She munched on one, sipped the other and looked at the headlines of the
San Francisco Chronicle
.

The telephone rang in the adjacent room. Sally looked at her watch. It was not yet 8:00am. She would let the answering service handle it. Instead she heard her husband: “Hello… Yeah, Charlie, she’s here,” her husband appeared in the breakfast nook doorway with his hand over the telephone receiver. “Charlie Connelly,” he said, handing her the phone. She licked a bit of jam from her thumb and took the receiver.

“Hi, Charlie. What’s up?”

“Did you see the
Chronicle?
”

“I was just starting to when the phone rang.”

“Look at the top of page three, the young blacks. They were indicted for murdering that correctional officer down in Anselmo County. Anselmo County gives out the death penalty like the Salvation Army gives out Christmas candy.”

“So?”

“One of their mothers called the office. Name of Georgina Johnson. Her son is Eddie. She wants us to take the case.”

“Pro bono?”

“Ninety percent. She’s got a little money. I don’t think we should take it… the money, I mean.”

“You do think we should take the case?”

“At the very least we should look into it.”

“You mean I should look into it.”

“I looked at your calendar. All you’ve got today is an arraignment in the Solano case. Neal has a nine ninety-five hearing in the same court. He can handle both with no sweat.”

“Okay. Wait while I get a pencil and paper.”

She wrote the information, on a yellow legal tablet. Two hours later she turned off the highway where the sign read:
Anselmo Correctional Institution Next Exit
. Before reaching the prison she passed through the community of neat tract bungalows built by the State for its employees. They were in pristine condition, with lawns like gold greens and flowers in riotous profusion, obviously kept up by the inmate gardeners visible here and there. A STOP sign with a speaker-phone was beneath a gun tower.

The speaker crackled. “State your business.”

“I’m an attorney here to see an inmate. I called ahead.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sally Goldberg.”

“One moment.”

The static came on. “Park over to the left where it says ‘Visitors’. Come back here, and someone will meet you. The Captain wants to see you.”

Sally parked as directed. When she came back, a guard with Sergeant’s insignia on the collar of his shirt was waiting for her. He had her produce her Bar Membership card and driver’s license and had her walk through a combination metal detector and x-ray device. She knew the drill from previous prison interviews and had brought nothing that would make them suspicious. The Sergeant escorted her through the electric gates and up the walk toward the administrative wing and Captain’s office. They were in sight of two housing wings and, although Sally was not pretty, her skin having been scarred by acne, which she hid by liberal use of cosmetics, she had a trim body and nice legs. From the cell-house windows came the calls: “Ahh, Mama! Lookin’ good, girl!” “Jimmy boy, check out this foxy bitch on the stroll.” “I got her, bro’.” “Naw, you ain’t got her. You
wish
you had her.”

The Sergeant led her into the administrative wing. It had the clean sheen more likely found in a hospital than a prison. The Sergeant held open a door marked
Business Manager
, explaining that the Captain’s office was in the high security area. “We don’t usually allow women in there.”

A white inmate was behind a desk in the business manager’s waiting room. “Is the captain here?” asked the Sergeant.

“He’s waiting for you,” then to Sally, “You are –”

“Sally Goldberg.”

The inmate opened the inner door. “Miss Goldberg, Cap’n Moon.”

Captain Moon motioned her in and told the Sergeant to wait outside. “Sit down,” he said to Sally, indicating a chair across from the desk.

Sally sat down.

Captain Moon looked at her. He already knew that she was affiliated with Charles Connelly, a lawyer, probably a commie, who had gotten an acquittal for a Black Panther, for killing a Bay Area policeman. He convinced the simpletons on the jury that it was self-defense.

“So you want to see Eddie Johnson.”

“Yes I do.”

“I checked his files. You’re not his attorney of record, and there’s nothing indicating he’s requested to see you.”

“His mother called our office.”

“That doesn’t comply with procedure. You have to be his attorney of record, or he has to file a request to see you. I can’t understand why you’re interested. He is profoundly unlikable – vulgar, a bully and a hater of white people. Now he’s murdered a young officer, and I hope we can put him in the gas chamber.”

Sally had more to say, but she knew it would be as futile as spitting in the wind; this man wasn’t going to let her in.

“I guess I’ll have to see a judge and get a court order.”

“That’s what you’ll have to do.”

“See you in court, Captain.”

“I suppose so… but I hope not.” Captain Moon touched a buzzer, the door opened and the escort appeared. Sally departed.

Instead of driving back to the Bay Area, Sally spent the night in the downtown
Ramada Inn
. She was waiting in the shade of a pepper tree outside the courthouse when the prison van turned into a narrow alleyway beside the building. Good. It was more than an hour until Court convened at 10:00am. That would give her plenty of time to confer with her new client. A correctional officer exited the van and rang the doorbell. Several deputy sheriffs came out wearing ten-gallon Stetson hats with American flag shoulder patches. Two more correctional officers stepped away from the van and unlocked the rear. The prisoner’s leg-irons were removed so they could step down. One was gangly tall, another dark-skinned and small, while the last was about six feet in height, brown-skinned and handsome. He managed an aura of arrogance despite the handcuffs chained to his waist. Sally sensed that this was Eddie Johnson. With guards pressed around them, they entered and the door closed, the click of the lock loud as it turned.

Sally started to follow and was about to press the bell, but then stopped and lit up a non-filter Camel. There was a knot of tension in her belly and her hand trembled perceptibly. She had to smile, for this display of tension was unusual for her. She had met all kinds of people in all kinds of situations without a nervous reaction.

Sally mashed out the cigarette, thinking that she had to quit, and rang the doorbell. The door had a barred observation window, and this was what opened. The face that appeared was round, with hanging jowls, thinning hair pressed against the skull, and small eyes. “What can I do for you?”

Sally had her bar membership card in hand. “I’d like to see my client.”

“Who’s that?”

“Eddie Johnson.”

“Johnson, huh. Wait here.” He closed the window. Sally waited.

When the window opened again, she could see two men. One wore a correctional officer’s uniform. “You want to see Johnson?” he asked.

“That I do. I’m his attorney.”

“What’s your name?”

“Here.” She handed over the bar card and the window closed again. When it opened, the correctional officer handed the card back. “He says he doesn’t have an attorney.”

“His mother retained me. Look, I talked to the judge yesterday afternoon. He said I could see him today.”

“He didn’t tell anybody about it.”

“Lemme see him. He’ll straighten this out.”

“He isn’t here yet. Better catch him when he comes in.”

Sally took the card back. She knew better than to argue with such men. They had such minor status and power that when they could inflict a petty tyranny they seldom failed to do so. Moreover, she was an attorney championing a killer of their tribe member, and therefore, their enemy. Sally walked around the courthouse to the other side. Parking spaces were reserved by name or title. County Clerk, Sheriff A. Fernandez, Municipal Court Judge, Patricia Johnson, Judge of the Superior Court, A. Drury. Drury’s space was next to a blank door. The Judge would be inside within seconds. She didn’t want to miss him, so she waited next to the wall despite being baked in the hot morning sun as the minutes ticked away. Nine am came and went, then 9:15. Court convened at 10:00a.m. Damn! She would have so little time.

At 9:30, a dusty Buick pulled in, and Judge Drury got out.

Sally fell in step with him. “Your Honor.”

“Yes.” He kept walking.

“I saw you yesterday about seeing Johnson.”

“I remember. What’s the problem?”

“I need your authorization.”

“Come on.”

He led her through the courtroom. It was empty except for the Court Reporter and a Bailiff in the uniform of a deputy sheriff. The Judge told the Bailiff to take Miss Goldberg to the holding cells and let her see Mr Johnson until the court call.

The Bailiff led her down a narrow, windowless corridor behind the courtrooms. The corridor ended at a gate of bars, beyond which the floor was concrete and the walls were barred cages called bull-pens.

Instead of opening the gate, the Bailiff banged on the bars with a heavy key. From the other end, a deputy stuck out his head and waved. A moment later the deputy and two prison guards appeared with Eddie in handcuffs between them. Sally noticed that he did not affect the ghetto swagger common to most young blacks. He walked as erect as a West Point cadet. The deputy unlocked a cell and entered. A minute later, he motioned the Bailiff to bring Sally.

Eddie had one hand cuffed to the chair across the table.

“Okay,” said a prison guard. “No touching and no passing anything across the table. If you have to exchange papers, hold them up so the officer can make sure nothing is hidden within. Got it?”

“I know the drill,” Sally said.

“Then have a seat. You break it off when they call for Court.”

Sally sat down across from Eddie. The gate was locked and a deputy stood outside where he could watch but not hear what was being said.

“They said my mother sent you,” he said.

“Yes, she called us.”

“Did you take money from her?”

“No, of course not. I’m here because Huey Newton asked us to look into it.”

“I don’t know him except from the newspapers. Why would –”

“Because you’re on the same side. We’re all on the same side.
We
want some serious changes in America.”

“I don’t remember your name in Huey’s case.”

“Charley Kelly handled the courtroom work. He’s my partner. Here –” she held up a business card scissored between fore and index fingers. The guard at the gate nodded and she handed it over. Eddie looked it over. “Kelly, Romney and Goldberg.”

“I’m Goldberg. We’ve got a couple of other attorneys who are associates but not partners.”