11
ESCAPE!
Nothing compares to a hot, muggy day in Mississippi.
Wednesday, July 23, 1969, was a classic day of summer heat in the Magnolia State, and it was the first of three possible days for our escape. I was grateful for the heat and the humidity, as it covered any nervous perspiration I was generating. I needed to be seen doing my business-as-usual routine. Inwardly, I was on edge, but was buoyed by the pleasant thought that this would be my last day in prison. Soon I would be free—and eventually active in the Cause again.
The escape would be dangerous. There was no avoiding the risk that we might get captured and/or shot. I was tense. But I was also confident in my skill, planning, and competence. I had anticipated possible problems, planned appropriately, and did not doubt that we could succeed—if all went as planned.
Several times that morning I pushed my chair away from the desk and walked down to Louis’s office to check in. A little later, I went to Malcolm’s desk in the patient ward. These visits were short because the doctor sent patients to me for tests throughout the day. We could not afford an extended discussion or the attention it might attract. All of us tried to be inconspicuous, but it seemed as if the hours would never pass. As morning gave way to afternoon, the tension and excitement increased. I waited expectantly for the newspaper to arrive.
It was close to 5:00 p.m., and the newspaper hadn’t been delivered. Time stood still. We continued to wait, but still no paper. We were ready to move as soon as it got dark, but until we saw the paper, we had no way of knowing whether anyone would be there to pick us up. If we escaped and got to the rendezvous point and they were not there, we would surely be recaptured, if not killed. Our predicament was critical. If the paper was not delivered soon, we would have to switch to another night. We anxiously waited.
On a normal day, a trusty assigned to a paper route delivered newspapers for subscribers at all the camps, homes, and administrative buildings on the farm. Finally, he came with the two or three copies that were delivered to the hospital. Louis asked to look at one and came by my office with it under his arm. I saw it, got up quickly, and followed him to his office, where we nervously scanned the classifieds.
The ad was there. They would be waiting for us.
Now we were ready for the final countdown. Louis immediately went to the head cook, a trusted friend, and got the keys to the kitchen, which had been locked up since suppertime. He sneaked into the kitchen unobserved and got three large butcher knives, one for each of us. We concealed these beneath our clothing just a few minutes before we were scheduled to be locked into our dormitories along with everyone else. Malcolm and I were in one dorm, and Louis was in the other.
The dorms were hot and stuffy. The air conditioning was poor in the crowded room—six double bunks in a space of about fifteen square feet. Now I was sweating freely. I kept glancing at my watch. A minute seemed like an hour.
Looking out the window, I could see the shadows growing long in the humid stillness of the evening. Although the heat was stifling, it was a beautiful summer evening in the Mississippi Delta as the sun sank below the horizon.
Freedom was calling. That was even more beautiful.
Around 8:00 p.m. the night watchman, who would normally unlock the door to our dorm and come give medicine to those scheduled to get it, came. When the door opened, Malcolm and I were waiting. We flashed the butcher knives at both the portly watchman and the trusty who assisted him and quietly told them that they would not be hurt if they cooperated with us. The sight of the large, ugly knives struck terror into both men, who assured us they would do as we said if we would not hurt them. We then crossed the hall and let Louis out of his dormitory, locking both dorms behind us and taking the night watchman with us.
We took the watchman’s keys from his pocket, then tied up both men with wide adhesive tape that we had secured in advance from the emergency room. So far everything was perfect. Even the other prisoners in our dorm were unaware of what had happened. We quickly went to the front hall of the hospital, where the intercom system and night watchman’s desk were located. This was the most critical and dangerous stage of the whole operation. Failure here would doom us.
First, we called our trusty friend in from the front tower. Louis had already told him that this would be the night. He came right in as if everything was normal, and we tied him up with tape. Next, we called in the only other guard in the front area of the compound. Because it often was difficult to distinguish voices over the intercom, he also came in unsuspecting. This was not too unusual. Guards were often summoned in from their posts. Louis hit him over the head from behind, momentarily stunning him. After he regained his balance and composure, he saw the knives and offered no resistance. Louis and Malcolm then tied him up also.
With everything secure inside the compound and no guards to stop us, the three of us openly and casually walked out the gate to the parking area, got into the watchman’s car, and drove off. About a mile down a dirt road that cut through a cotton field, we reached an irrigation creek where the bridge was washed out, which we had known about in advance. We were more than a mile from the rendezvous point and could go no farther by car. Our intent was to leave the watchman’s vehicle behind to decoy prison officials into thinking we were afoot in the general vicinity, diverting their attention to the wooded areas nearby instead of the highways on which we would be traveling.
After years and years of chasing escapees through the same terrain, officials had the art of pursuit down to a science. As soon as our escape was discovered, the alert would go out to all prison personnel, highway patrolmen, and sheriff’s deputies in the area. Prison officials would immediately move out in radio-equipped cars and pickup trucks to preassigned checkpoints in an effort to seal off the area. Since the delta was so flat and had so few trees, men at key positions with binoculars, walkie-talkies, and rifles could command a wide view. They often spotted escapees running through the fields. Moreover, the prison’s pack of well-trained bloodhounds would immediately be on the trail. It was absolutely essential that we quickly reach the getaway car and clear the area as quickly as possible.
Every minute was important. Success or failure would be determined by how quickly we reached the rendezvous point a mile away. We were soaked in sweat from the sweltering heat and high humidity. We waded across the creek, a distance of some thirty feet in waist-high water. Because of the soft, muddy bottom, it was slow going. Each step sank us to the ankles in thick, gummy mud.
Once clear of the creek, we ran through fields of young cotton plants. Our eyes burned as sweat combined with the cotton dust trickled into our eyes. None of us had exercised much in the previous months, and it showed. We had run about half a mile when we began tiring. Louis and Malcolm had fallen behind, and I was exhausted. My stomach muscles ached. My soggy shoes and trousers seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. We slowed to a more moderate pace. It seemed as if we would never reach the rendezvous point ahead. Life and death hung in the balance.
My chest ached and my heart beat wildly. Yet somehow I kept going and encouraged the others that we were almost there. Finally, we saw the rendezvous point ahead of us.
It had taken longer than planned to get there. We didn’t see anyone waiting. Had our rescuers not come after all—or had they left already? For the first time in the escape, actual fear struck my heart. I called out their names as loudly as I could. No answer.
Again, I called. Still no answer.
I hadn’t planned for this. A wave of panic swept over me.
Then suddenly, out of nowhere, our rescuers emerged from a clump of woods where they had been concealed, listening to the monitoring radio in the car. They were extremely anxious.
“Hurry! Somebody saw you leave the hospital, and the alert has been on the air for at least ten minutes.” That meant vehicles were already on the way to seal off the area.
Every second was vital.
We piled into the getaway car. There was
a virtual arsenal in the car—multiple pistols, several automatic rifles, even a sack of hand grenades. We were each given a gun.
And then we were off, heading down the dirt road that would take us to the highway. We could hear the prison radio frequency crackling with directives and responses. Everything seemed to be going well. The search team had taken our bait with the watchman’s car, concentrating their manpower in that area. Meanwhile we were putting valuable distance between us and them.
Suddenly a pair of headlights appeared in the distance behind us, moving at a high speed. We had to assume it was one of the prison vehicles. We sped up. But it was gaining on us.
Our driver accelerated even more, which was a dangerous move. Driving fast on dirt roads is tricky. It’s easy to lose control. It would be a terrible wreck. Somehow the car held the road and stirred up so much dust that we lost the prison vehicle.
We reached a main highway about five miles south of the prison. From here we headed to the city of Greenwood. As we continued to monitor the highway patrol and prison frequencies, we learned that officials were still searching the prison area. But before we reached Greenwood, officials started blocking off roads. So, when we came into the city, we traveled through residential areas instead of using main thoroughfares.
As a precaution, Malcolm, Louis, and I got out of the car and hid in some brush while our friends checked the highway for roadblocks. About thirty minutes later they returned for us and we drove on to Canton, Mississippi, about seventy miles farther south. We repeated the same hide-and-seek precaution there. We arrived at the hideout at about 2:00 a.m., exhausted but safe.
We were free. My plan had worked! Less than one year after being sent to one of the most notorious penitentiaries in the United States, I had planned and led a successful breakout. I was exultant.
My euphoria would be short-lived.
12
MAXIMUM SECURITY—AGAIN
News of my prison escape was quickly picked up by the news media around the Southeast, and instantly flashed to Meridian, where police chief Roy Gunn “freaked out,” according to his friends. Fearing I was on a mission of personal retribution and revenge against him, Chief Gunn activated the entire city police force. He assigned half of the officers to protect his house around the clock.
The Roberts brothers, Raymond and Alton Wayne, who had set me up to be ambushed by the Meridian police, asked Chief Gunn for police protection, but he replied that he didn’t have the manpower. So both of the Roberts brothers went into hiding.
Our hideout was an old, unoccupied farmhouse and barn on a large tract of land situated in a heavily wooded area about two miles from the Jackson municipal airport, known as Hawkins Field. Because the barn was farther from the road, we set up operations there. It was an old structure with straw scattered around the floor. A faint smell of old hay hung in the air. In some spots you could see daylight between the wooden siding boards.
We unloaded all our gear and weapons into the barn. Our rescuers left, returning the next night with hot food and more supplies. Louis, Malcolm, and I each took turns standing watch while the others slept.
When day broke, we prepared some breakfast. We had ample supplies of surplus army C rations and smokeless cooking fuel. I scouted out the general area to determine the proximity of roads, houses, water supplies, and so forth. The remainder of the day was uneventful, and when not standing watch, we slept or discussed the next phase of the escape. Louis would go to California and Malcolm would go to New Orleans. I wanted to immediately resume my activities for the Cause, but I would have to go into hiding for a while somewhere far away.
That night, one of our accomplices brought us some hot food. He was accompanied by a woman I had never seen before. I wasn’t happy. It was an inexcusable breach of security.
“Who is this woman? Why did you bring her here?” I demanded.
“She’s my fiancée, and she’s totally trustworthy. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” he replied.
I was furious. I had a very bad feeling about the “fiancée.” But there was nothing more I could say.
We got down to the business at hand. We discussed arrangements to get Malcolm and Louis on their respective ways. With them gone, I would feel much better. Then I would be able to make plans for my own departure. As I listened to the radio, I smiled. Each radio news broadcast had less to say about our escape.
The next morning was the third day since our escape from Parchman. The sweltering summer heat and humidity continued. We had no running water, no showers or toilets. I was feeling grubby from not bathing. I was worn-out from lack of sleep. We decided to move out of the barn and set up a tent in some heavy underbrush nearby. It reduced the chances of anyone either stumbling upon us or trapping us in the barn.
I stood watch throughout the heat of the afternoon and into the muggy evening. About 7:00 p.m. Louis came up to relieve me. He was half an hour early. I walked back to the tent, checked the monitoring radio, and immediately fell into a deep sleep. I had been asleep in the tent for maybe five or ten minutes when I was jolted awake by the loud staccato booms of gunfire. I sat up in a daze. We were in the middle of a pitched gun battle.
Malcolm looked at me in utter bewilderment. As we gathered our senses, we realized the gunshots were coming from out near the road where Louis was standing watch—about seventy-five feet away. Malcolm and I raced out of the tent and took cover behind a fallen tree. Despite being armed with automatic weapons and hand grenades, neither of us fired a shot. We were too confused. The assault team had achieved total surprise.
Out of nowhere a helicopter appeared and hovered overhead. Just as suddenly the shooting stopped.
“This is Roy Moore with the FBI,” announced a voice over a bullhorn. “Shadoan is dead and you are surrounded. I am giving you one chance to surrender.”
The police were armed with rifles, shotguns, submachine guns, and grenade launchers. To flee was impossible. Resistance would have been fatal. We had no choice but to surrender.
We came out of our hiding place with our hands high in the air. We were at once rushed by at least twenty FBI agents and state police. They ordered us to strip naked, placed us on the ground, and searched us thoroughly. We quickly dressed, and our captors tied our hands behind our backs with plastic zip-tie strips. They marched us right past Louis’s bullet-riddled body.
One of the agents made me stop and look. He pointed and said, “See what you caused!” It was a horrible sight.
He was right. Had Louis Shadoan not followed my lead on this escape attempt, he’d still be alive. Had he not been so generous as to relieve me half an hour early, the bullet-riddled body would have been mine.
With that thought burning in my brain, Malcolm Houston and I were loaded into FBI cars and began the 140-mile trip back to Parchman.
* * *
The caravan of FBI cars pulled into Parchman late that night. Malcolm and I were both taken to the administration building for interrogation by prison officials, FBI agents, and state investigators. They wanted to know the details of how we escaped and who had helped us.
Malcolm was taken into one room and I was taken to another. Apparently, he agreed to answer questions, because they talked with him for quite some time.
When my interrogation started, I just repeated, “I have nothing to say.” After a few repetitions, I was unceremoniously loaded into a prison car for the drive to the maximum-security unit. As we approached the well-lit compound, with its high, barbed fence and foreboding guard towers, I knew that this dismal place was going to be my home for a long time. The electric gate slowly opened, and we drove into the compound. The guards took me into the building and untied my hands. The heavy steel door clanged shut behind me with a solemn, final thud.
I felt as if I had been sealed in a tomb.
I had to strip naked once again and allow the prison guards to thoroughly examine me for contraband. They gave me fresh underwear, then escorted me to the cellblock and my new cell
. I would spend the next three years of my life in a six-by-nine-foot space.
Since my last stay in maximum security, the number of inmates being held for “safekeeping” had increased considerably and now consisted of an entire cellblock.
Conditions were similar to those in death row. We were locked in our cells all the time except for two showers a week. We ate two meals a day in our cell, were allowed to buy snacks, and could have radios, books, and magazines. The biggest difference was the noise. Death row was mostly quiet and subdued. In safekeeping, noise was nearly incessant, incoherent, and frankly, nerve-racking. Some prisoners would shout from one end of the cellblock to the other to talk. Others would blast their radios.
On one occasion, several inmates retaliated against the noise of others and began a “noise war” that lasted for a couple of days. Because this war affected everyone, even quiet prisoners became involved in the back-and-forth. Some would loudly rattle their cell doors. Others would turn up the volume on their radios. Still others would shout or scream. In various ways, different ones would periodically make loud noises to assure that no one could sleep. At last, probably because of fatigue, they called a truce. Loud talk and loud radios continued on a sporadic basis throughout my stay in that cellblock.
Noise was not the only problem. Mississippi summers are hot and humid. We had no air conditioning, only a ventilator fan. Although the fan was better than nothing, it only produced a slow, tortuous movement of the hot air. As the temperature rose during the day, the cells heated up like an oven until late at night. Often it was so hot that I couldn’t get to sleep before 10:00 or 11:00 p.m.
Consumed by Hate, Redeemed by Love Page 10
