The Last Mountain Gorilla (4 page)

“That how she gonna get you out?” Willie asked. “Boy, you really are the escape artist.”

A whistle sounded, giving the men fifteen minutes to return to their cells for a count.

Everyone stared at Johnson, as if he was going to disappear right in front of their eyes. When he got to his feet and started toward the door, the other felons gathered around him, preventing him from walking freely.

Willie jumped ahead and turned to face him. “You better not be leaving here alone, Mr. Escape Artist.”

“I don’t have much choice,” Johnson said, like he meant it. He stepped around Willie and the group of cons stood there and watched him walk through the doorway, head down, shoulders sagging.

* * *

Ray Ballentine stood in his cell across from Mark Johnson’s, watching him like he was watching the Discovery Channel. Trying to glean whatever he could from the old pro. The escape artist crouched behind his cot, cowering, as if he couldn’t be seen there. Ray knew someone of Johnson’s skill didn’t waste a motion, every move worked towards an escape.

Ray heard the click of heels on the tiled floors. A guard stopped in front of Johnson’s cell. “The warden wants to see you, Mr. Johnson.”

Johnson curled his knees to his chest. “No,” he said. “I’m not going.”

Ray watched wide-eyed as the guard drew his weapon on the old man. “You’re coming with me, one way or another.”

Brilliant, thought Ray. The man was being forced to leave his cell at gunpoint. Ray tried to remember the warden’s office. He’d only been there once, but from what he remembered, it was mostly administrative employees. An easy place to escape from.

The guard fumbled around with a key with his free hand until he managed to unlock the door. Johnson retreated further into the corner of his cell, barely visible. Ray danced around his cell trying to find the best angle to witness the escape.

The guard carefully slid open the old man’s cell door and stood with both hands on the gun, stalking Johnson as if he were a lion about to pounce on his prey.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” the guard sneered. “I’m taking you to the warden’s office with or without a bullet in your belly.”

Johnson slowly got to his feet.

“That’s right,” the guard said, backing away from the cell, “keep it coming.”

Johnson actually appeared reluctant to leave. He sauntered past the guard, then glanced over at Ray and winked. He winked at Ray and Ray couldn’t control himself. He was no longer bitter at the con. The old man was on the move and Ray laughed loudly, not even trying to hold it in. His laugh echoed up and down the stark corridor.

* * *

Jack Staten’s office had the clean shine of a perfectionist. He’d been warden for ten years and kept visits with prisoners to a minimum, seeing only those who needed attention. Maybe a face-to-face meeting to effect a change of attitude. Staten stood behind his desk and pointed to an empty chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Johnson.”

Across from him a woman sat with her arms folded, working hard not to look at Johnson. Her legs were crossed and her top foot made tiny swirls of impatience.

“You know Miss Ward,” Staten said, smiling cordially.

Johnson nodded.

Staten leaned back in his leather chair and flipped through Johnson’s file. Occasionally he would peer over the chart at Johnson, then back at the file as if he was making comparisons in his head. Finally, after a long pause, he said, “I seem to have a problem on my hands, Mr. Johnson.”

The graying man sat stoic, unaffected by Staten’s remark.

“Where were you born, Mr. Johnson?” the warden asked.

Johnson hesitated a moment. “Lexington, Kentucky?”

Staten shook his head. “No, sorry.” He shuffled through some papers and stopped when he seemed to find an interesting page. He made low humming sounds while he read another section in Johnson’s file.

“How about your parents?” Staten asked. “What are their names?”

This time Johnson gave the question serious thought. After almost a minute of silence, Staten looked over at Johnson incredulously. “Your parents, Mr. Johnson. Surely you know their names.”

Johnson shrugged. “Mary and John?”

Staten offered a phony smile. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Johnson slumped in his chair.

Staten continued reading the file, his index finger skimming across the lines of information until it stopped near the bottom of the page. “What caliber weapon did you use to kill Officer Welch?” Staten asked, his finger frozen in place.

“A forty-five?”

Staten sighed, dropping the file on his desk and leaning toward the prisoner. “Mr. Johnson, I think you understand why you’re here, don’t you?”

Johnson shrugged.

The warden’s phone rang and he picked it up. With a puzzled expression he said, “Thank you,” then hung up. He walked around his desk and opened his office door.

“Excuse me for a moment please,” Staten said, then he left the room. Johnson could hear him give instructions to a guard who entered the office and closed the door behind him.

Johnson glanced over his shoulder and made brief eye contact with the woman next to him. Their eyes repelled each other like mutual poles of a magnet. He stood and walked to a large window overlooking the yard, feeling the gaze of the guard with every step. He noticed the landing on the other side of the window, a second floor balcony with a lounge chair, a table and an umbrella. In the distance he could see the dense forest where an escapee could disappear in a matter of minutes. The view must’ve looked like paradise to a prisoner who was bound to spend the majority of his life behind the electrified fences of Kradko. Unlike him.

“Quite a view, eh?” Staten’s voice startled him.

Johnson turned to see the warden holding a manila file.

“Sorry about the interruption,” Staten said. “I had to sign some paperwork for a new prisoner.” He walked to a side door adjacent to his desk and opened it. He gestured toward the opening to the balcony and said, “I’d like you to see something, Mr. Johnson.”

Johnson stepped out into the sunlight and stood next to Staten on the balcony. Below them a massive steel gate swung open revealing a black panel van with white lettering that said ‘U.S. Marshal’ on the side. The van drove slowly on the gravel road until it reached the prisoner reception area. Two guards waited for the van to stop, then pulled open the back doors to the vehicle.

A dark-haired man in his late fifties with handcuffs and shackles dropped from the back of the van. Staten pointed to the new prisoner. “That is Mark Johnson. The Mark Johnson that robs banks and kills people for a living. The Mark Johnson who was born in Cleveland, Ohio and used a twelve-gauge shotgun to murder Officer Welch. He’s also known as the Escape Artist, because of his elusive nature within the prison system. Unlike you,
that
Mark Johnson has never been a CEO for a large telecommunications company. We’ve compared fingerprints and mug shots. The only thing you two share is the same name. After that, all similarities end.” He squinted. “How did you get here?”

Johnson shrugged.

Staten folded his arms. “You’re going to have to explain this sooner or later. Why don’t you just come out with it? Tell me what’s going on here.”

Johnson began to pace in a tight circle. He rubbed his hands together like a compulsive gambler looking for a little luck. “I was working eighty-hour-weeks for months on end,” he said. “The stock price kept tumbling regardless of what I did.”

“Everyone experiences burnout,” Staten said. “Certainly you could afford a vacation.”

“Oh, sure, I spent a week at Pebble Beach a few years ago. Do you want to know how many holes of golf I got in?” He held up two fingers. “I was on the cell phone from the moment we teed off. After the second hole I was cordially asked to leave the course by my golf partners. These are guys I’ve known for twenty-five years. And when I left I was mumbling to myself what jerks they turned out to be.”

“We all get wrapped up with work,” Staten sympathized.

Johnson stopped to face Staten with open palms. “You have to understand, I’m responsible for over twenty thousand employees. There weren’t any resorts without CNN or cell phone coverage, and if I was near a TV I was compelled to see the stock quotes. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t have the self-control to avoid calling the office. That’s when I saw the story.”

“The story?”

“One morning I’m reading the paper and I see a story about a guy named Mark Johnson who had just escaped Leavenworth a month ago. I read about his penchant for escapes and how they weren’t going to mess around with him any more. As soon as he was captured they were going to toss him here, in Kradko Maximum Security Prison. Well, this is only thirty miles from home, so I figured—why not? I went down to the police station and turned myself in. After all, who’s going to ask questions? The police get their man, and I get my solitude. Everybody wins.”

Staten rubbed the side of his face, a grin threatening to break out. “This is the damnedest situation I’ve ever encountered, Mr. Johnson. You can’t just check into prison to get away for a while. This facility is for serious criminals. We can’t have you taking up precious space.”

Staten ushered Johnson back into his office where Julia Ward was standing with her hands on her hips. “You’ve gone too far this time, Mark.” She looked at Staten, “Last summer for vacation, he borrowed a sailboat off the coast of Maine without telling a soul where he was. It took me three weeks to track him down.”

She tapped her foot. “I’m just your secretary, Mark. I can’t go around searching the globe for you twice a year. This has to stop.”

Julia Ward plopped down on a chair, folded her arms and looked away from her boss.

Johnson approached Ward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re absolutely right, Julia. I took drastic measures this time. It was a mistake.”

There was a knock on the door and a guard entered holding a large box.

“Those would be your clothes and possessions, Mr. Johnson,” Staten said. “I’ve instructed the guards to escort you and Miss Ward to her vehicle. You can change your clothes in the hallway rest room.”

Johnson nodded.

“Even if there were laws broken, I’m not going to press any charges,” Staten said. “But please, Mr. Johnson. Do yourself a favor and get some help.”

Johnson seemed to stand taller when he approached Staten with an open hand. “I want to apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you.”

Johnson went to the door, opened it and sighed. He made one sweep of his arm. “Let’s go, Julia, we have work to do.”

Johnson looked out the window at the isolated grounds with fondness and said, “It’s such a nice view from up here.”

Staten sighed. “Mr. Johnson, the next time you need to escape, try Alaska. I hear there are entire regions of land without any cell towers.”

Johnson gave him a big CEO smile. “Thanks, Warden.”