by Jack Finney
Jiminez shook his head. "Three years is a long time."
"Then do something about it! Trim it down! Get out of here in eighteen months!" Allingham stared at him, then went on quietly, "Cut out this crap, Jiminez. Cut out this fighting, and settle down and do your time; get yourself a parole and get out of here. You're an intelligent man; get smart, get yourself a clean bill for a while, go up before the board, and get out." He shrugged. "Or keep on coming in here and stay three years; we'll feed you, long as you want to stay."
When Jiminez left, Allingham said, "Well?" looking at the others.
"No isolation," the Captain said. "Seven days is the most we ought to give him for this, and that wouldn't bother him; he's tough. Thirty days' loss of privileges; he won't like that."
"What about this job request?" said Fengle.
"You can't give him a job! We got five hundred men in the Yard never had a job assignment, and not a mark against them. Pretty soon the word'll get around the only way you get a job here is get yourself in trouble first. Anyway" — he shook his head, smiling a little — "he's conning us. He doesn't want a job in the mess hall, or the quarry either. Or Navy cleaning. This sanctimonious wheelin' and dealin' talk — " He snorted disgustedly, but still smiling. "He hasn't reformed; that's just what he would do. Only he thinks he's conning us into a job as a runner or laundry distribution, something like that. And in two weeks he'd be running some damn kind of racket again, wheelin' and dealin', just like he says; that's what happened his last job. Let him build up a clean bill, and then talk job; and we'll put him somewhere where there's no wheelin' and dealin' to be done." He grinned. "He's a pretty good boy." Then he looked down at the paper on his desk, and the smile faded. "Jarvis," he said to the guard in the doorway, and the guard turned and called my name.
I walked in and stood before the desk. "Jarvis," said the Captain, looking down at his papers, "we got some news for you, you and a couple dozen other guys from your block. It's about the officer who was hit on the head up on your tier Thursday." He sat back in his chair suddenly, watching my face.
"Yes, sir." I nodded.
"It didn't kill him, didn't fracture his skull, though it might have. Didn't give him anything but a concussion and a few stitches. Knocked cold, is all; he's all right now." He sat there looking up at me, and I didn't say anything. I knew the guard was all right, this was old news; this wasn't why I was here and I knew it. "Just thought you'd like to have the official word he's okay," the Captain said. "You were up on that tier at the time."
"Yes, sir. I'm glad he's all right."
"Hope we'll get the guy who did it, I suppose."
"Yes, sir."
"Then I got more good news for you — we will." He picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk then sat looking at me. "Didn't look as though we would for a while," he said pleasantly. "Most of the men were out of the block at the time. But there were a couple dozen loafing around there, including you. Could have been any of you hit the guard up on the tier; we don't know who. And I thought maybe we never would find out; nobody'd say he saw it. But things are looking up now — Here." He held out the papers in his hand and I took them.
There were three pieces of paper stapled together, the top one an envelope stamped airmail, special-delivery, and addressed in pencil to The Warden, San Quentin Pententury, Calif. It was canceled Green River, Wyoming, Saturday. Under the envelope lay a small piece of rough-textured, blue-lined paper covered with penciled handwriting, with a green-ink time-received stamp on it, 9:31 a.m. yesterday, Sunday. I glanced up at the Captain.
"Go ahead," he said, "read it."
I read it. It was short and to the point, and was signed: Yrs, Ralph Hafek. It said he'd been lying on his bunk up on the third tier, East block, Thursday, when the guard was hit. It said he'd seen the man who did it and could identify him. He'd said nothing at the time because he was due out on parole Friday morning and was afraid he'd be held on as a witness if he admitted seeing the assault. Then, home in Wyoming, he'd told his parole officer who advised him to testify. He didn't know the man by name but could pick him out if he saw him. If they, the prison, would pay his round-trip fare — he had no money himself — he'd come up and point out the man.
I looked at the third sheet; a white, flimsy carbon copy of a letter. It was written yesterday, addressed to the Department of Corrections, and signed by the Warden. It quoted the letter I'd just read, requested that the state authorize and issue a check in payment of the man's railroad fare, and ended by emphasizing the importance of finding the man who struck the guard.
I looked up at the Captain. "Yes, sir?" I said and I laid the papers on his desk.
He grinned suddenly. "This Hafek's on parole. If he picks out our man it could help him a lot and he knows it. But the stroke of a pen could send him back here to finish out his term, and he knows that, too. So he's not fooling around; he'll pick out our man. Glad, Jarvis?"
"Yes, sir."
"So are we. We had a phone call from Sacramento this morning; payment's authorized, and the check will be in the mail tomorrow. We'll airmail it soon as it gets here, and we've already phoned Hafek's parole officer; Hafek will leave after work Friday, and be here Saturday morning. Still glad?"
"Yes, sir."
"How come?" He leaned forward, staring up at me intently. "You didn't like that guard; you had trouble with him."
I shrugged. "We each had our beefs. Doesn't mean I hit him, though, if that's what you mean."
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I don't know as a man could exactly blame you if you did. I been asking around," he said, and his eyes and voice seemed genuinely sympathetic, "and that guard was riding you, wasn't he?"
I shrugged.
"I hear that he was," the Captain said gently. "That he started calling you the 'Big Shot.' Then he changed it a little; began pronouncing it with an i." Allingham and Fengle smiled faintly "They tell me you were bragging a little bit, Jarvis. About your education and all." He nodded approvingly. "A lot more education than that guard has. And about your job prospects outside and the girl you're going to marry." He nodded. "It's understandable. And that guard had no call to ride you like that. No fun to be laughed at, is it, Jarvis?"
I shrugged. "Didn't bother me any."
"Not enough to get mad and maybe slug that guard when you caught him alone?"
"Hell, no," I said. "I'm not crazy."
"And yet you look worried." His voice was very soft and quiet. "You're pale, Jarvis, really quite pale — did you know that? You look worried; and maybe you should be. Because you know what the punishment would be in your case, don't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, let me remind you just the same. So you'll know how lucky you are — if you didn't hit that guard." He picked up a little brown loose-leafed book from his desk and opened it. "Section 4500 of the California Penal Code," he said, leafing through the pages. "You know about Section 4500, Jarvis?"
"Yes, sir; you don't have to read' it."
"Don't like the sound of it, that it? Okay." he tossed the little book to his desk. "But you are pale, Jarvis; I'm not fooling you. All right. See you Saturday morning, when Hafek arrives. Unless you got something you want to tell me right now?"
"No, sir."
"Then that's all; we got no charge sheet on you today. For a change. Just thought you and the other guys in the block when the guard was hit ought to hear the good news. And think about it. You assigned?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where?"
"Furniture factory."
"Then get back to it," he said bleakly. I turned and walked out.
I was shriveled up inside; I could hardly see, walking back to the furniture factory. I thought I might actually faint; and when I got there I didn't know what I was doing. I knew I had to escape from San Quentin prison — in the next four days. I had to; and I didn't know how. I'd seen this coming, and now the thought of Ben and Ruth outside right now getting ready to help kept me going.
3
At noon I went to the Yard as close to running as we're allowed. I waited inside near the gate till I spotted my cellmate coming along, then I walked up to him and said, "Al, skip lunch, I've got to talk to you" — an inmate at Quentin doesn't have to show up for a meal if he doesn't want it. Al took a look at my face and nodded, his mouth quirking; he didn't like missing a meal but he knew I was serious. We found a place in the sun and sat down on the asphalt paving in the big Yard enclosed by the mess halls and three of the cell blocks, our backs against the peach-colored East block wall.
"Al," I said fast, wasting no time, "What do you know about escape?"
He glanced at me, then grinned a little. "Just about what you do; only you learned the hard way, didn't you? Five, six months ago."
"That's right," I said shortly.
"Hid out in — where? Navy Cleaning Depot, wasn't it? Found you in about an hour?"
"Yeah."
"Well, then, you know what I know about escape; nothin'."
"Yeah, yeah," I said, "you don't know anything; I know. But you must have seen a fair number of tries around here. And some must have worked." I pulled out cigarettes, gave one to Al, took one myself and lighted them.
"Oh, yeah," Al said then and dragged on his cigarette. "I seen more guys than you try to make it out in my time here. Hidin' out like you done, just hopin' they won't be found till the hunt dies down, and they can maybe make it over a wall at night. And nailed up in boxes, lyin' on top of a truck motor; one guy tried it wearin' a priest's outfit."
His voice a gentle murmur, carrying no more than a few feet, he continued, "Years ago, four or five guys got into the Warden's house, and they had guns; nobody ever did find out how. It was the old house, not the new one now, and the parole board was meeting; they used to meet there. The cons took them out, all of them, and into their own cars parked outside the house, then out the main gate; the guards had to let them through. But they were chased, of course, and the cons killed the Warden and shot some of the others. They got all the cons back that same day; killed some, and hung the others later; used to hang them here, then. Crazy," he murmured. "Crazy men, killing the Warden. Crazy ever takin' hostages; I never heard of anybody makin' it that way, not permanently." He fell silent, thinking about it. In some ways Al was like an old man.
"Crazy," I agreed softly. Then gently prompting him, I said, "But some guys must use more sense."
"Sure, some." Al inhaled on his cigarette, nodding his head. "Used to be a sort of wall down on the waterfront, ran out into the Bay a few yards; all that was left of an old pier. Most stuff come into the prison on barges once and they had a lot of piers; nowadays it's all trucks. This con — he was on the waterfront detail — looked at this wall and sees that if a guy got down behind it on the west side, hunched down in the water, eleven tower couldn't see him. And between him and twelve tower there was just a little rise of ground; they couldn't see him from there either. He'd found a little blind spot. Wall's gone now; they pulled it down right after. So this con waits, watching, and pretty soon he sees that every day a tug comes by the prison towing a string of barges. One day he gets down by his wall, and when the tug gets close, he swims out. They might have seen him in the water, but they didn't; he swims quiet and gets onto the barge, figuring to swim ashore the other side of the Bay; had it all planned out. Only the barges jackknifed that day, swung around alongside the tug; and time they got straightened out, it took a couple hours. The con was missing at count and one of the first things they did, they take the launch out to the barges and pull him off."
"Too bad," I murmured. "He deserved to make it."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess he did. Most of them don't, though." Al laughed quietly. "Five, six years ago when the jute mill burned down, they had scrap-metal dealers in, buying the old steel, hauling it out in trucks. This con, he was helping load a truck, gets a sudden idea; doesn't stop to think, he just does it; gets into the truck down underneath some of this old burned-out steel. They finish loading the truck, and out it goes. The guard counts his crew, a man's gone, and they phone the bridge, Golden Gate Bridge; the truck's going back to the city. They stop the truck at the bridge; the Quentin screws arrive in a car; and it takes half a dozen men an hour and a half to get that con out of there. How he ever would have got out himself, tons of steel on top of him, he never stopped to figure. Probably been killed, squashed flat, when they unloaded the truck.
"It's hard, Arnie; out of here it is." Al was well into it now. "Even with a lucky break that you got no right to hope for; like this con I was telling you about. Priest comes in; long black robe, buttons at the neck; one of those round black hats with the big brim. He hangs them up somewhere, this con sees them, puts them on, walks out through the east gate, nodding, smiling at everyone, practically blessing them, and he's halfway down the walk by the water to the main gate. Lucky so far, the break of a lifetime, but somebody looks out a window in the administration building, sees a priest with blue-denim pant legs hanging out of his robe, phones the main gate, and that's that." He chuckled derisively. "You see what I mean? You see a chance, take it, and maybe you're wrong, and it was no chance at all, like the guy in the trunk underneath the scrap steel. And a real chance, like the guy on the barges or the guy in the priest's robe — not one guy in ten thousand ever gets a break like that; you could spend your life here and never see one. And even when you do, just like those guys, bad luck can still get you. Man's got no right to count on luck; might as well try climbin' right over the wall and hope the guard drops dead just before he shoots."
"Al, listen," I said. "How do you make it out of Quentin?"
For several moments he didn't answer then he said, "I don't know, Arnie, and I've thought about it. So has every con here, and every screw, too, for that matter." Then he said quietly, "Once in a while it's been done; it's been figured. A con got out last year. One day he's just gone, missing at count, and that's all anybody knows to this day. But get it through your head, it's just short of impossible. Some of these kids" — he shook his head — "the tough, hot kids. You can saw out a bar, you know, in the front of the cell any time you want. Get some emery paper from the machine shops or valve-grinding compound from auto repair. Then unravel a sock, get a supply of thread. Smear vaseline or soap or toothpaste on a thread, scrape the emery off the paper, and run the thread through it. Then saw through the bar with the threads; it's easy; you can do it in less than a night. Everybody knows it, cons and screws both; and so what? Cost a mint to equip Quentin with chilled-steel bars. But so what? These tough, hot kids — just fish, a lot of them, been here a few months — and they cut out of their cells every now and then; and then where are they? They just get the bulls edgy; the bulls got to hunt them out, and how do they know what the kids are carrying? Damn fool kids can get killed and some do. Or they find them half an hour after the short count, hiding out in the cell block, or the Yard or somewhere. You want to get out, out means the other side of the wall."
"How, damn it, how!" I threw my cigarette on the asphalt and stamped it out under my heel. "How do you make it to the other side of the wall?"
Al laughed softly, just a snort of air through the nostrils. "You don't," he said. "I been tryin' to tell you. I'm tryin' to tell you what you're up against; you ain't figured it out yet. This place is a hundred years old, more than that. You're in a place where men have been working and thinking over a hundred years how to keep you in it. Long before you was born there been guys, and damn smart ones, figuring how to keep you right where you are. Ways there used to be to get out, they been corrected. And they got it worked out now awful damn tight; so tight I don't know how to beat it. System's simple. Places you could walk out, they got a wall. Just a wall's all that's between you and outside. But you can't dig under it in Quentin; you hit water right away. You can't go over it; there's men on top with guns who won't let you. And inside, there's a place you got to be every minute right around the clock from your first day to your last and they got it wor
ked out to see that you are. I don't need to tell you: you're missing, they know it, and hunt you right down. It ain't like the movies, Arnie. Oh, hell" — he shrugged — "I ain't talking about walking off the farm or out of the camps. I mean in here where they really aim to keep you."
He put a hand on my arm to shut me up before I could speak and leaned toward me, bringing his face close to mine. "So here's what I been gettin' at, Arnie. You want to know what you got to do to beat that?" His voice just a murmur, he said, "You got to do what ain't possible. Short of crazy, blind luck like I said. All the ways you see, just looking around, they ain't ways at all; they got you stopped long ago, they got it all figured long before you did. What you got to do — only thing you can do — is figure how to do the impossible; that's one thing they ain't guarded against." He leaned closer, whispering, "What I mean, there's walls all around you. But there's nothin' across the top outside, nothin' between you and blue sky. Because it's impossible for a man to fly, impossible to go straight up, so they don't guard against that. What you got to do's figure out how to fly, how to go straight up. Or like this; there's guards on the wall; try throwing up a rope, they see you. If you was invisible, though, they couldn't. But that's impossible so they ain't guarded against it. So you got to figure how to be invisible. Or anything else that just can't be. How do you walk through a wall? How can you be in two places at the very same time? How do you disappear right under their eyes? How do you hide where there just ain't a place a man can hide in? I ain't talking foolish. They know what's possible, long before you ever heard of San Quentin. You got to figure how to do the impossible."
He was quiet for a moment then he said softly, "Most cons in Quentin are in for a couple years more or less; they don't need to worry about escape. And the rest, the long-term cons, most of them are like me. We just do our time, we don't knock our heads against the walls, we don't know how to do what ain't possible. But you got to get out, I know that; you got to. But kill somebody, hurt somebody, or take hostages along, and they'll get you for sure even if you make it outside. Wait for the lucky break, and you can wait forever; you ain't got time to wait. Try it foolish, only try what's possible, and the place is ready for that and you get caught or killed trying. No, you got to figure how to do the impossible; that's all you can do, Arnie."
