The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape (10 page)

Lowe was a florid, square-faced man, big and rangy. Wide hands, like a farmer, his suit and white shirt limp from the heat, an active-looking man who seemed out of place in his cramped office. But his blue eyes showed a keen intelligence and, deep down, an easy wit. From the moment she sat down facing him across his desk she had liked him. “He took in what I had to say, all the details of Falon's setup. I told him about the witnesses, recalled as much of the testimony as I could.

“He said he was booked solid with court cases but he'd do his best to rearrange his schedule, said his assistant would handle some of the court work. He seemed . . . as if he
wanted
to help. I didn't get that from the other three.

“He said that if he could take the case he'd come up to Rome within the week and go through the court records.” She laid her hand over Morgan's. “He really listened, Morgan. He . . . I think he might really care about how you've been treated.”

She knew there was only a slim chance that Lowe would have time for them, but it was all they had. She prayed with every breath that he would make the time; she didn't let herself think that Quaker Lowe would let them down.

Snuggling close to Morgan she knew that the longer they were apart the more difficult it would be to talk, the more different their lives would become, the less they would have to share. Morgan absorbed into the regimen of prison life, she struggling to keep them financially afloat, trying to keep Sammie safe, trying to appease an aunt who didn't want them in her house. The one thing they had to share, besides Sammie herself,
was
the appeal.

When she told Morgan they'd be moving to Atlanta, that Aunt Anne had invited them, he knew she was leaving out half the story but he didn't push her. He said he was
glad she'd be near and wouldn't have to make the long drive, and he left it at that. This wasn't pleasant for either of them, this tiptoeing around a subject; it made her feel as stiff as a stranger. Nor did she mention Sammie's continuing dreams of the cowboy—those parts of the dreams Sammie was willing to share with her.

She longed to tell him the dream from the previous night, which Sammie had shared; she wanted Morgan's response. But somehow, she was wary of that response. It was two in the morning when Sammie sat straight up in bed, wide awake, not screaming with fear but instead solemn and demanding. “Mama! Mama!”

Becky had turned on a light and drawn Sammie close. The child wasn't afraid, she was quiet and composed, her dark eyes serious. “He's here, Mama. The cowboy is here. He's in the prison, he's behind the wall with Daddy.”

Becky had visualized the thin, leathery old man Sammie had once described. She hadn't known what to make of the dream, this one couldn't be real. Yet she never took Sammie's dreams lightly; they were not to be brushed aside.

“He came to help Daddy, help him get out of that place, help him come home again.” Becky told herself this
was
a fantasy, how could it be anything else? It was nothing like Sammie's dreams of the believable though painful events one might expect from life, the death of Sammie's puppy, the courthouse fire.

But what about that last terrible nightmare where Morgan was locked in the Rome jail? They had known that was a fantasy, dark and impossible. And that nightmare had come true in all its terror and ugliness. Now, sitting close to Morgan, she knew she had to tell him, to share one more disturbing vision.

She described Sammie's waking, so different from other nightmares. “She woke so alert, more certain than with anything she's ever experienced. She kept repeating, ‘He's here.
He's here to help Daddy. The cowboy's here to help Daddy get away, help Daddy prove who robbed that bank and then Daddy will go free.'”

Morgan said nothing, he sat looking at Becky trying to take a matter-of-fact approach. Over the years Sammie's predictions had made a believer of him, but how could this dream ever be based in fact? This fanciful idea was impossible. He said, “I haven't noticed anyone like Sammie described. No thin wrinkled old con who walks bowlegged. Maybe this time, maybe it
is
just a dream.” But somewhere in Morgan's heart a web of hope had begun to gather, a shadow of promise to weave itself into his thoughts, ready to spring to life.

M
ORGAN WENT ABOUT
his prison routine in the days that followed, putting aside the small hope he'd found in Sammie's dream. This time there was no substance, her idea of escape was wishful thinking. He settled into life behind bars as best he could except for the group counseling session. He didn't need counseling, he needed justice.

The courts had locked him up for the rest of his life, but why force him to listen to a bunch of bickering inmates air their petty complaints? Or to the sanctimonious platitudes of the fresh-faced counselor who led the others in their pointless rankling? He didn't want to share his pain.

The problem was, the day the counselor started working on him he ended up bellyaching just like the rest of the group. Afterward he felt cheap and ashamed. He'd let it all out, the unfairness of the jury, the uncaring judge and U.S. attorney, the incompetence of his own lawyer. He'd gone on about being used, manipulated like a rat in a lab experiment. The counseling he got, in front of the whole group, only made it worse. At least the counselor had gotten him
a job in the automotive shop, but only because they needed skilled men. Now, thankful for that good luck, he crossed the prison yard on his way to another “shrink” session, for another hour of misery.

I
T WAS JUST
one o'clock when Lee found the group counseling room and stepped inside. A gray metal desk stood across the room, arranged so the group leader sat with his back to the wall facing three rows of folding chairs, all empty. The young counselor looked up from his paperwork, then glanced at a list. “Lee Fontana?”

Lee nodded. The first one there, he took a seat in the middle so he wouldn't have men pushing by stepping on his feet. The young man was all of twenty-some, a college type with an almost pretty face, a deep tan, a blond crew cut. He wore a V-necked red sweater with turned-up sleeves over a starched white shirt. He gave Lee a charming smile, introduced himself as Tom Randall, and returned to his loose-leaf notebook. He didn't look up again until a broad-shouldered black man entered. He looked Lee over and slid into the chair next to him. Lee hoped he wasn't going to be talkative, he wasn't here to be social.

But the man's smile drew Lee, his eyes alive with intelligence and humor. He was middle-aged, square faced and clean-cut, with flecks of gray through his short hair. He extended his broad, lined hand. “Andy Trotter,” he said in a polished British accent.

“Lee Fontana.” Lee shook the man's hand. “You're a Brit? What are you doing in here?”

Trotter grinned and pulled a bag of Bull Durham from his shirt pocket. “Born right here in Georgia. But I spent most of my childhood in Jamaica with my granny, she made sure I could speak the King's English. Smoke?” He extended the makings.

Lee shook his head. As Andy rolled a cigarette quickly and neatly, three more men wandered in. Two of them were the dregs of prison population, scruffy, edgy types. Lee could smell the body odor of the frazzled, dirty one before he sat down at the end of the row. The man's hair was greasy, his eyes darted restlessly, and he couldn't keep his hands still, his twitching fingers rubbing and fidgeting. This fellow didn't need counseling, he needed to dry out. The man who took the chair next to Lee held himself rigidly, staring straight ahead to avoid eye contact. His thin red hair was combed straight back over a premature baldness, his mouth and chin dwarfed by a large beaked nose.

The third man, who came in behind them, was younger, clean-cut, probably in his late twenties, an honest-John citizen type. Lee watched him with interest, wondering what he was in for. Open, friendly face like that, he'd make a great con artist. Only when their eyes met did Lee see his deep, embedded anger.

The young man grinned at Andy, received a smile in return, and took the seat on the other side of him. When Andy made introductions, when Morgan Blake reached across to shake Lee's hand, Lee saw something else in his look. Not the buried anger now, but a spark of surprise, a puzzled frown as he studied Lee. A surprise and confusion he found hard to conceal. What was that about? Around them more men drifted in jostling, scraping chairs along the floor as they settled down.

Morgan Blake's look lasted only a minute, then was gone. Turning away he gave his attention to Tom Randall. With only two chairs vacant, Randall closed his notebook, glanced at his watch, and looked up at the group. In the open doorway, Sam Delone sauntered in, his blond pompadour catching light from the overhead bulb, his cold eyes scanning the group. His gaze settled on Lee.

The counselor looked Delone over. “Glad you could join us, Delone,” he said coolly.

“Sorry,” Delone said. “Those dummies in the laundry took forever, farting around slow as hell.”

Randall introduced Lee to the group. Ralph Smee was the one with greasy hair and nervous eyes; he barely flicked a glance in Lee's direction. Red Foster stared straight ahead over his big nose and didn't acknowledge Lee. Sam Delone lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “I'm afraid Gramps and I have already met.”

“Who wants to start?” the counselor said, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. “Anything where you think the group, in an exchange of ideas, can be of help.”

Delone flicked his burnt match onto the linoleum. “Why the hell can't they hire someone in the kitchen who knows how to cook? Those dumb bastards can't even cook an egg without pounding it into leather.”

Lee tried not to smile, but Delone caught his look. “You think that's funny, old man?” Turning, he fixed his gaze on Trotter. “And what are you grinning about, darky?”

“Perhaps,” said Andy slowly, “Mr. Randall has something more important in mind than your gourmet sensitivities.”

“And maybe,” Lee said evenly, “you ought to be more careful what you call people.”

The counselor adjusted his sleeves again. “These sessions are not for petty gripes, you men know that. How about you, Blake? You settle into the automotive shop okay?”

Morgan Blake nodded. “Yes, sir. I appreciate getting the job.”

“Have you heard anything on your appeal?”

Lee saw Blake's jaw tighten. “Not yet,” Blake said, “but my wife's found a new attorney. One who might really try.”

Sam Delone snorted.

“I didn't rob that bank,” Blake snapped at him, “and I didn't kill anyone.” He looked hard at the counselor. “The courts don't want justice, all they want are bodies to fill up their prisons, any scapegoat they can lay the blame on.”

Lee watched Blake with interest. If he was lying, he was pretty good.

But Lee had seen plenty of scams in his time, a man could fake anything if he practiced long enough.

Delone ground out his cigarette with his heel, glaring at the counselor. “Ralph, here, he has the same problem, don't you, Ralphy? Tell us, Ralph, how you didn't rape that little girl, up at Stone Mountain. Tell us how the park ranger and that girl made it all up just to get at you.”

Smee darted a hasty look at Delone and laughed raggedly.

Delone said, “You see, Blake, everyone in here is innocent.”

Lee leaned back, watching the group and watching the ineffective young counselor. Morgan Blake said no more, but sat quietly, his hands tense, his face flushed.

“Anyway, Blake,” Delone said with mock sympathy, “there's always parole. Don't forget parole. You might be old by then, as old as this old fart here,” he said, glancing at Lee. “But maybe you'll have some time left, a year or two to spend with your little wife and family.”

The counselor tried to take things in hand, shooting Delone a look to shut him up, then looking at Morgan. “You haven't told us your whole story, Blake. Would it help to talk about it?”

Blake was silent. Randall nodded encouragement. “How long is your sentence?”

“I'll be eligible for parole in twenty-three years,” Blake said reluctantly, and Lee could see that he needed to talk. “Fifteen on the life term, eight on the twenty-five-year jolt.” He had turned, was talking to Lee and Andy, glancing up at the counselor only to be polite. “For the next twenty-three years I'll get to see my little girl grow up, from right here behind the bars. I'll be here on visiting days to talk with her, to help with her problems, to help shape what kind of a young woman she'll be. When I get out, she'll be grown and married. My wife will be over fifty years old.”

Blake seemed, once he got started, to need badly to spill it all out. He looked deeply at Lee, again that puzzled look that made Lee uneasy. “My life, their lives, are down the drain because of a crime I didn't commit. But what do the courts care? No one in law enforcement, no one in the courts will listen.”

“Even if you lose your appeal,” the counselor said, “you know you can try again.”

“What good is a second try?” Morgan said. “The first jury didn't believe me. If we lose an appeal, why bother with another? The witnesses who lied in court, they'll keep on lying.” Morgan flushed deeply. “If I were guilty I'd figure I had it coming, I'd figure I had to get used to prison. But I'm not guilty and every day I'm in here is hard time, unfair time. I don't know how to get used to it.”

Andy stubbed out his cigarette, his broad, dark hands catching the light. His look at Morgan was gentle and patient. “The reality is, you are here. You cannot change that, not until the appeal. You can only take each day as it comes. You are fortunate, you know, to have such a loyal and loving wife working to help you, and to have your little girl to visit you, to hold her and love her, even here in the prison setting.”