The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape (35 page)

The restaurant was plain, the pine paneling shiny with
varnish, the gray linoleum dark where traffic was heaviest. The wooden booths were nearly all empty, only a few early diners: a family with three small noisy children smearing catsup on each other, an old man in a canvas jacket with a torn sleeve, leafing through a stack of newspapers.

“Maybe some warm milk,” Becky said, sliding into a booth. Sammie sat across from her huddled into herself, pushing away the menu the thin waitress brought.

Becky looked at Sammie a long time. “Your daddy's free. This should be a celebration.”

“But tomorrow . . .”

“They won't get a long sentence on the escape charge.”

“But that Falon . . . Now, tonight, they're all back in prison together. He already tried to kill Daddy, there in the courtroom. What will happen tonight?”

Becky reached to take her hand. “He'll be in jail tonight, not in T.I. He'll be away from Daddy and Lee. And maybe, when he's sentenced . . . Maybe Falon will be in prison for the rest of his life,” she said hopefully. She hated that Sammie had to suffer the long day of testimony, the fear, the waiting not knowing what would happen. She started, then laughed when Misto appeared on the back of the booth behind Sammie. He was visible for only a moment, lying along the wooden backrest nuzzling Sammie's neck. When the tomcat vanished again, Becky knew he was still there, the way Sammie was grinning, the way Misto's unseen paw rumpled the collar of her blue dress.

“He wants me to eat, but I'm not hungry.” Misto appeared again, hardly a smear of color along the top of the booth, his tail lashing as he pestered at Sammie, his invisible paw teasing a long strand of her hair and tangling it. He didn't leave her alone until she picked up the menu. “I'll have the fries,” she told Becky. “And orange juice.”

Becky shrugged. Watching Sammie stroke what appeared to be thin air, she was so thankful for Misto; the little
spirit loved Sammie, he cheered Sammie in a way neither she nor Morgan could offer: a playful little haunt, concerned and possessive, driving back the darkness that pursued and terrified Sammie.

When their orders came, Becky wasn't sure
she
could eat, her stomach twisting with nerves. She felt such dread that Falon would be released in only a few years, would be free again to come after Morgan. That didn't make sense. Why would Falon get a shorter sentence than Morgan had received? But still, she worried. Adding sugar to her tea, watching Sammie pick at her fries, she wanted to get Sammie into a warm bath and then bed, to have a hot shower herself and crawl in beside her. She'd like to sleep forever and knew she wouldn't sleep, wouldn't stop thinking about tomorrow, couldn't stop her restless mind from demanding answers that wouldn't come any sooner by lying wakeful.

Strangely, she did sleep, and so did Sammie, a deep sleep huddled together, Misto pressed warm against Sammie's shoulder. Morning came too soon, Becky didn't want to get up, didn't want to return to the courtroom, yet she was anxious to be there, to get it over with.

In the plain little restaurant they managed to get down some cereal and milk, then headed for L.A. When they entered the courtroom everyone was standing. Becky, watching Judge Crane emerge from his chambers, tried to put her confidence in the big, sunburned man. But when Brad Falon was led in, handcuffed between two deputy marshals, fear again turned her cold. The fact that Falon had lost, the fact that he'd been convicted of the murder and all charges, didn't ease her fear of him.

Falon's attorney, James Ballard, approached the bench neatly dressed in a pale gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie, his bald head reflecting the courtroom lights. Presenting his closing statement he nodded seriously to Judge Crane. “Your Honor, my client begs your compassion. He has already
endured threats and severe emotional stress in prison, at the hands of other inmates,” he said, glancing around at Morgan. “Surely the court will agree that with the trauma he has endured at this time in his life, he should receive only a minimum sentence, that he would not be helped by a longer term. That when he did become eligible for parole, the few years remaining would be meaningless to him, he would be a broken man without purpose.”

Judge Crane waited patently for Ballard to finish, then let silence fill the courtroom. At last his look cold as stone, he leaned forward to better observe Ballard.

“How much trauma, Mr. Ballard, did Morgan Blake experience when he was imprisoned for a robbery and murder that he did not commit? How much hope for justice did Morgan Blake have?”

Judge Crane leaned back, watching Ballard. “How much hope did the bank guard have when he was murdered in cold blood?” The judge looked so intently at Ballard that Ballard backed away. The judge said no more. He looked around the courtroom, then dismissed Ballard, and summoned Falon to the stand.

Shackled, Falon faced the bench, trying to look mild and submissive. Twice he moved in a strange sidestep and, with his cuffed hands, scratched at his puffy hair. Each time the deputy marshals crowded nearer. The judge watched Falon, puzzled, as Falon fidgeted and tried to be still; it was some time before Judge Crane spoke.

“It is the judgment of this court that defendant Brad Falon be sentenced to twenty-five years on the charge of armed bank robbery. To life imprisonment without parole on the count of first-degree murder, and twenty-five years for assault and attempted murder. These sentences shall run consecutively, not concurrently.”

A ripple of voices; a catch of breath from Becky as she looked across at Morgan and half rose, wanting to go to him.
Above them Misto drifted unseen over the heads of the deputies and the judge to crouch high on the windowsill watching the drama play out, watching this one perfect moment, in the endless human tangle, play out the way it should.

In the gallery Becky held herself back from running through the gate and throwing her arms around Morgan; Sammie's small hand squeezed her fingers so hard Becky flinched.
Life plus fifty years.
Falon would never be out again to harm them. Barring some change in the law, he would die in prison just as he had meant Morgan to die, behind prison bars.

As Falon was led from the courtroom he looked back belligerently, straight at Becky, arrogant and threatening. Becky watched him coldly. But when Judge Crane looked over at Lee and Morgan, her heart started to pound again.

Morgan took the stand first, and then Lee. The questioning didn't take long. Both men admitted they had escaped from Atlanta. When, at the judge's question, Lee explained in detail how they had gone over the wall, again there was amusement or perhaps challenge in Judge Crane's eyes. When Reginald Storm made his final statement, his voice was soft and in control.

“Your Honor, Mr. Blake and Mr. Fontana did escape. For the express purpose of coming across the country to turn themselves in at Terminal Island, where they knew Brad Falon was incarcerated, where they knew he wouldn't be able to evade them.

“Morgan Blake wanted the truth from Falon, he wanted to see Falon duly tried for the crimes that he committed, for which Morgan had been convicted.

“That has now been accomplished. Blake and Fontana committed no new crimes coming across the country. They lived on the money Mrs. Blake earned and borrowed. They had a destination and a goal. Their efforts, against all odds, have corrected a grave injustice.”

Becky's arm was around Sammie, squeezing her close.
Judge Crane asked both Morgan and Lee if they had anything further to add. Neither did. When the judge leaned forward, looking down from the bench directly at Lee, Becky couldn't breathe.

“Mr. Fontana, can you tell me why, at Terminal Island, all of a sudden after so long a time, Brad Falon decided to reveal where the stolen money was hidden?”

Becky saw Lee swallow. “At first,” Lee said, “we tried to talk with Falon, tried to reason with him. But reasoning didn't work very well. It made Falon so mad that he went after Morgan, he hurt Morgan bad, I didn't know whether he'd live or die. After Morgan was taken to emergency, I found Falon,” Lee said, “and I used a little force on him.”

“How much force, Mr. Fontana?”

“Enough to scare him,” Lee said quietly.

The judge nodded. He didn't press the question. When he glanced up at the defense attorney, Ballard was blank faced and quiet. Becky expected him to pull open Falon's collar and reveal the red marks Lee's cable had made. Ballard didn't, nor did Falon attempt to exhibit the injury. Maybe they knew it wouldn't make any difference, that this judge wouldn't go soft over Falon's pain.

Judge Crane looked back at Lee and Morgan, ready to sentence them. Becky couldn't breathe. She took both Sammie's hands in hers; they were ice-cold.

“Escape is a serious charge, gentlemen. It is not dealt with lightly by this court. However, the statement that Mr. Storm has made on your behalf, and the circumstances of the situation, must be taken into account.”

U.S. Attorney Heller approached the bench. The thin, pale man made Becky uncertain. He was not prosecuting Falon now, he was concerned with Lee and Morgan, with their escape from prison. When she looked at Morgan she could see sweat beading his forehead around the white tape.

Heller's narrow back was rigid, where he faced the bench.
“
Your Honor, Mr. Fontana and Mr. Blake have confessed to breaking out of Atlanta Federal Prison. Their attorney has stated that this was for an admirable cause.” The thin, dark-haired man stood silent for a moment, then, in a reedy voice, “The United States Attorney, Your Honor, declines to press charges. We will not seek prosecution in this case.”

Becky felt limp. At the witness table Morgan and Lee were very still, watching Heller. As if they couldn't believe his words, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the downside.

“I move, Your Honor, that in light of the present trial of Brad Falon and the jury's verdict of guilty, Morgan Blake's conviction for murder, robbery, and attempted murder be overturned in its entirety. That it be wiped from the books. With the perpetrator in custody and duly sentenced, Mr. Blake should be left with a clean record. I move that he be released from all charges. That, as of this hearing, Morgan Blake be divested of any criminal record.”

Morgan put his face in his hands. Lee's arm went around Morgan's shoulders, hugging him. Judge Crane looked down at them.

“Mr. Blake, Mr. Fontana, it has been only a matter of days since you turned yourselves in at Terminal Island. Since that time, you have been waiting, hoping for this hearing. I sentence each of you only to the time you have already been held in custody awaiting trial. As of this moment, Morgan Blake, you are a free man.” He nodded to Heller, dismissing him from the bench.

“As for you, Mr. Fontana,” Judge Crane said, “you are a riddle. I have your record. I see what you have done in the past, and I can guess there are many crimes for which you were never apprehended. But there is another side to you. You took a grave personal risk to help Morgan Blake. As far as I know, you had nothing to gain by that risk. Now you have a little time left on the term you are serving. And time
will be added on for your escape from Atlanta. I rule that both be added to your parole, that you finish your sentence on the outside. With the hope, Mr. Fontana, that this time you will stay out of trouble.

“You will both be returned to the prison long enough to get whatever personal belongings you left there and attend to the paperwork to transfer you out. Mr. Blake, you will have to be released by the medical staff. And Mr. Fontana, you will be interviewed by a probation officer before you leave. Then you're free to go, you'll be on your own.” Judge Crane looked them over. “Mr. Blake, your wife and child are waiting for you.”

Morgan and Lee thanked Judge Crane. He smiled and nodded and shook hands with them. The look in his eyes was satisfied, a look that said justice had been done despite the bizarre and questionable manner. Lee would always wonder, even years later, what had gone on between Judge Crane, Reginald Storm, and Falon's attorney, that Lee's use of force on Falon had not been further pursued.

When Morgan turned away, Becky and Sammie ran through the gate, they were in his arms, Becky crying against him. Lee thanked Reginald Storm and, stepping aside with him where they could talk in private, he removed the Blythe money from his pocket, counting out the bills. Storm pushed them back at him.

“When you first came to my office, Lee, you gave me a six-hundred-dollar retainer.” He took the folded bills from his pocket. “Every year I do a couple of cases pro bono, cases that I find particularly interesting or rewarding, that move me in some way.” Storm grinned. “Looks like I'm starting early, this year. This money is yours and the Blakes'. This one's on me, Fontana.”

Lee stared at him. “We can't take this. You did a fine job for us, you saved Morgan's life. You can't—”

Storm shook his head. “I
can.
This is my decision. I en
joyed every minute. As to the six hundred,” he said, “I can sell you the Chevy for that, if you want it. Save you looking for transport, and save me the bother of advertising and selling it, now that I have the Buick.”

Lee didn't know what to say. He'd need transportation, at least until he could pick up a good saddle horse and a packhorse. But more important than the car or the money, Lee truly liked this man. Reginald Storm was one of the few people who'd touched his life in a way he wouldn't forget. “There's no way in hell to thank you,” Lee said, handing back the six hundred. “And I sure could use the car.” He watched Storm remove a slip of paper from his pocket, lean over a table, and sign it.

“You can fill out the rest,” Storm said, handing it to Lee. Turning, he nodded to the deputy marshals. He shook Lee's hand, stepped over to say good-bye to Morgan and to give Becky and Sammie a hug. Then he moved away out of the courtroom, not looking back.