by Joe Corso
“I let it drop for the moment. Then later, quite by accident, I found out about the old abandoned Gila Bend prison in the desert. I was poring over reports of prisons we were considering closing when I came across a folder misplaced among a lot of other folders. This folder contained a hand written list of prisons that were shut down in the 1900’s. That’s when I discovered that one of those old closed-down prisons was the Gila Bend prison. According to the report buried in that folder, the prisoners from Yuma Territorial Prison built it in 1909. After the Second World War, the prison was ordered closed by the state of Arizona. After I read about it, it had the same effect on me as Dutch Henry’s gold. It, too, became an obsession with me and I was determined to see it for myself. Knowing about this prison really lit a fire under me and I just had to see it. So one morning, I had my pilot fly me to the site by chopper. Man, was I surprised when I finally saw it, because it had almost been completely reclaimed by the desert. I hollered over the roar of the rotor blades, motioning at the ground, telling the pilot that I wanted him to land near the site. After we landed, I took my time walking amongst the ruins, trying to figure out how much of the prison was still hiding under the sand. Well, there was only one way to find out, so as soon as I got back to my office, I issued an order for the prison to be reopened. What was surprising was, when I contacted the department of prisons, no one had ever heard of this prison - and they’re in the prison business.
“I hired a firm from the Arizona list of verified vendors to remove the sand covering the prison. I made up my mind that as soon as I received the call telling me the prison was once again completely inhabitable - if you can call living in that environment inhabitable - I was going to take the old man to see it. A few months later, I received that call. I was told the prison was once again ready to accept prisoners. The morning prior to flying out to see the prison, I showed the old man pictures of the hellhole in the middle of the Gila desert where he would spend the rest of his life if he didn’t tell me what I wanted to know. But, he was a selfish bastard and he still refused to tell me anything. I couldn’t believe how unreasonable he was. I knew then that there was only one thing left to do. He had to see the prison for himself.”
“What happened then?”
Wilson smiled a knowing smile, and then continued telling his story. “I thought I finally got into the old man’s thick head because he seemed to soften a bit when he asked me to give him a month to think about it. I met with him a month later and I asked him if he was ready to tell me the location of his mine. He just laughed and said, ‘I’ll never tell you where my mine is, so do your worst. I’m not telling you jack shit.’
“That’s when I had him arrested on a trumped up charge and had him put in that hell hole. Like I said, he’s been in there quite a while now, and whenever I visit him he still won’t tell me the location of his mine. I’m convinced the man is nuts, because whenever I ask him about his mine - he just laughs at me.”
McCormack listened with interest and with a mirthless grin, he asked, “And that’s where you’re putting this Hardin kid?”
“Yep. No one will ever see or hear from him again. He’s lost to the ages now. He’ll die in that prison. I have a skeleton crew working there. It’s hot as hell but the work is easy, because they have two prisoners to take care of, and they only work until twelve noon, so they don’t mind putting up with the heat. They’ll see to the kid’s needs just like they do with the old man. You know, make sure he gets his three meals a day, water, a shower once a week, and a new prison outfit every six months.”
All this talk of gold mines reminded Holland of something and before the thought flitted from his mind, he asked McCormack, “How did the gold mine you traded the old lady for work out for you?”
“It worked out great, better than I thought it would. We hit the mother lode, and with today’s gold prices we’ll take a billion dollars out of that mine, so just make sure that boy remains in that prison.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
William Hayes sat at his desk and read, and then re-read the local papers with disbelief. The major gold strike in Mohave County near the mountains in an old reactivated gold mine was headline news all over the country. He put the paper down, thinking of what he had just read. Gold found in that old abandoned mine on the property he gave to the Hardins? Who would have known there’d be any gold left in that played out mine? Not him, that was for sure. So, he thought about the question he just asked himself. Who could have known there was gold in the mine other than the person who bought the property from Mrs. Hardin? Only one man, he concluded, would gain the most if John W was out of the picture, because then it would be an easy matter to negotiate a deal with his unsuspecting mother, and that person was Jack McCormack. Hayes hastily opened his bottom desk drawer, took out a leather business card folder, and searched for a particular card. He found it on the second page.
Hayes read the name above the gold embossed badge on the business card to make sure he had the right card. Jason Sweeney, Private Detective. He picked up the phone and dialed the New York City number. After a short conversation with Sweeney, he hired him.
Jason’s father, Horace Sweeney, was a private detective. He was a good one during the 1960’s. During those tumultuous years, he opened his own detective agency. When Jason was old enough, he went to work for his father. On the day that he reported to work, he was surprised to see the name in large gold leafed lettering on the door: Sweeney and Son. Jason discovered he had a natural aptitude for investigative work. Over the years, he and his father built the business into a major detective agency. Then the day came when his father announced he was retiring and Jason would assume control of the company.
Hayes logged on to the agency’s website and read Sweeney’s references, then he made a few discreet inquiries and was pleased to find Sweeney’s past customers highly recommended him. He was told Sweeney was honest and he was like a bulldog when it came to his assignments, because he was always successful. Hayes spoke to Jason briefly, then he wired him the deposit Jason required, to start searching for the information Hayes requested on Jack McCormack, and McCormack Industries.
McCormack was a self made millionaire many times over. Hayes wanted to know how he made his fortune. He instructed Sweeney to locate the whereabouts of John W. Hardin, who was imprisoned three years ago in Arizona. Hayes told Sweeney that Hardin was originally sent to Florence Territorial Prison to begin his sentence but since then he’d vanished without a trace. Hayes overnighted Sweeney all of his accumulated trial information, including copies of all the newspaper articles he collected over the three years that John was imprisoned. Three weeks later, Hayes received a phone call from Sweeney. Sweeney told him that he was flying in tomorrow to see him. He asked Hayes to meet him at the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport at the Delta terminal at 11:30 a.m. Without hesitation, Hayes said he’d be there.
Business was terrible at the Hayes Real Estate Office. What was once a growing business was now experiencing a dramatic downturn. The business slowdown occurred after John had been imprisoned. Letters had poured into the office from concerned customers who were used to the smiling, affable young man who advised them about what properties to look at, and which properties to stay away from. The customers who bought from young Hardin were always satisfied with the service he provided. His customers could not - would not - believe he was guilty of the horrible crimes with which he was charged. He was no drug lord and everyone knew it. God knows he couldn’t tell one drug from another if you handed them to him and his customers knew it. It was a horrible miscarriage of justice and they were positive that when the truth came out, he would be released. But, over time, the letters slowed down until they trickled to a stop. It was as if John W. Hardin, distant relative of the famous shootist, never existed, because no one asked about the young man any longer.
A year passed, then another, and then John’s mother took sick and died; some said of a broken heart. She had kept in touch with Mr. Ha
yes, always wanting to know if there was anything new about her son. The answer was always the same. “Sorry, Mrs. Hardin, no one will tell me anything concerning your son. I don’t even know what prison they took him to. I’ve checked every prison in the state and I’m told he is not in any of them. He must have been taken to a Federal prison because he is not in any Arizona prison, at least none that I know of.”
She thanked him and told him she’d check back in a month. A month passed and she hadn’t called. Then two more months passed and still no word from her. Hayes was concerned about her so he decided to drive out to her home to see if she was all right.
Abigail Hardin lived in a remote section of the Grand Canyon Subdivision facing the Pennsylvania Peaks. Her property was situated between the Grand Canyon and Flagstaff. She had no neighbors around her. All she had was the manufactured mobile home she lived in, which sat directly under the power lines that passed overhead and that was the reason she had electricity. The power company agreed to drop a line straight down but they wouldn’t supply electricity anywhere else. She got used to the water she had trucked in. If she had money, she would have dug a well. But it cost a small fortune and meant drilling down five thousand feet to reach water. So instead, she just rationed her water carefully and lived frugally.
Hayes tapped on the front door. There was no answer. He spotted her old pick-up truck sitting behind the house, so he knocked again - this time harder. Still no answer. He decided to ring the door bell. Nothing. He knew she was home because her truck was still here. It was a ten mile walk to town and he knew she wouldn’t do that, not when she had her truck sitting here. He walked over to the truck, saw the key in the ignition, stepped in, and turned the ignition on. The truck started right up. So it wasn’t dead. His thoughts turned to the woman in the house and a dreadful feeling washed over him. He knew what he had to do but hated doing it because he was certain of what he would find when he entered the house. He walked back to the front door and turned the door handle, but it was locked from the inside. He took out his cell phone and dialed 9-11. When the operator answered, he told her what he suspected. He asked her to send help, and said he didn’t want to break into her house without having a police presence with him. The dispatcher told him to remain where he was and not do anything. A cruiser would be there in twenty minutes. A sheriff pulled alongside Hayes’s car a half hour later. A young police officer got out of his cruiser and walked over to Hayes.
“I’m Officer DeLong. You must be Mr. Hayes?”
“That’s correct, officer. I hope I’m wrong, but I believe something terrible has happened to my friend, Mrs. Hardin. I wanted to break into her house, but I didn’t want to do it without a police presence, you understand?”
“Yes I do. You did the right thing. Now let’s see if we can get into the house without damaging anything.”
The officer tried the door again. It was locked. They walked around the house, looking for an open window. Because the house was five thousand feet above sea level, the windows were almost always open, unlike the homes at a lower sea level like in Phoenix or Scottsdale. Delong found an open window and pushed the screen in.
“Look, young fella,” Hayes said. “I’m kinda old to be climbing in windows. That’s for a much younger man than me and one who’s in better shape, like you, to do.”
The deputy smiled, seeing the logic in what he said. “Okay, I guess I’m elected. Give me a boost up to the window.” The officer put his foot into Hayes’s cupped hands and Hayes pushed him up to the window. The young officer pulled himself through the window and into the mobile home. He stuck his head back out the window. “Go to the front door. I’ll open it for you.” When the deputy opened the door, he shook his head sadly and said, “You better stay outside. I don’t think you want to see this. She’s been dead for quite a while now. She’s bloated and the stench of death is overwhelming. Let’s go out to my car and I’ll radio for an ambulance.”
CHAPTER NINE
They descended two levels down a spiral staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, they faced another metal door similar to the one above. A guard chained John’s hands behind his back. Then he took his arm and led him down a long walkway lined on either side with empty cells until they came to a cold, hard metal door in the rear of the dreary cell area. The guard took a key from his key ring and opened the heavy metal door. He led John along a dark passageway until they got to the cell marked “11A.” John couldn’t figure out why they marked the cell “11A” when there were only eight cells on the floor.
While the guard struggled to open the cell door because of the rusty hinges, John looked at the miserable cell in which he was being housed. It looked very old, almost like it was built in the late eighteen hundreds or early nineteen hundreds. He was thankful for the new cot placed in the cell, but he still couldn’t understand why he was being locked up in this terrible place. The hinges of the door to the cell apparently hadn’t been oiled for at least a century, because the door squeaked and groaned, fighting hard to stay closed as the guard struggled to open it. He guessed that the men who dug the prison out of the desert must have forgotten to check the cell doors, never thinking that some sand might still be in the lodged in the hinges. The guard was breathing heavily from the exertion of opening the cell door when he told John to get in.
After he stepped into his cell, he turned to the guard. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
The guard frowned. “The Captain ordered us not to talk to you, but since we’re alone, go ahead and ask your questions and I’ll try to answer them.”
“Do you know why they put me in this place?”
“No! Next question.”
“Will I be fed and clothed and can I take a shower once in a while?”
“You’ll be fed three meals a day.” The guard leaned close and whispered, “The meals may not be very tasty, but if you eat, you’ll stay healthy and staying healthy is important down here.” Then in case anyone was listening, he said in a commanding voice, “You’ll get clothes twice a year. And with the new rules, you’ll get a shower once a week. Any more questions?”
“Yes. Will I be able to get some exercise?”
“Probably not,” he said, but then he leaned close and again whispered, “But I’ll see what I can do for you. I’m as much a prisoner here as you are, so I’ll do what I can for you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Look, I don’t know what you did, but it must have been something terrible to get put in here.”
“What if I told you that I didn’t do anything wrong. That I was framed.” John W looked at the guard’s face and could tell that he didn’t believe him. “Yeah, I know. You’re thinking that’s what all prisoners say. But it’s true. I don’t know what I did to get put in here.”
The young guard heard stories like this from just about every prisoner he came in contact with. He turned to leave but John stopped him.
“One last thing. Can you find out how my mother is doing?”
The guard nodded his head and said in a low voice, “Well, I don’t think I’ll ever get a chance, but if I do, I’ll see what I can find out. It’s the least I can do. It just ain’t right for a man not to know how his mother is doing.”
“Thank you. I didn’t expect to find any kindness in this place. I see I was wrong. There still are people with a heart left in the world and it appears I may have found one.”
The guard looked sympathetically at John and said in a low voice, “There’s not hardly any kindness in this place, but since you will be here for a long time, I don’t see the harm in helping you a little if I can. Just don’t expect me to do anything against my orders because I won’t do it. I’ll see you die first. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Good. Just so we understand one another. Now I have to go, so make yourself comfortable. You’ll be here a long time.”
“Wait!”
“What now?”
“I don’t
know your name?”
“Lee. My name is Lee.”
“Lee what? What’s your last name and where do you live?”
“It’s Lee Flowers and I live in Tucson.” The guard smiled and said, “Now don’t plan on coming to see me anytime soon. You hear.” As he turned to go, he said, “See you tomorrow morning before I go off duty.”
“Good night Lee. See you tomorrow.”
Lee never showed up the next morning or the morning after. In fact, Lee never showed up again. One morning, as his food tray was being passed through the opening in the solid steel door, John crouched down and asked the guard, “Where’s Lee, what happened to him?”
“He was fired because he asked about your mother. Now don’t ever talk to me again and don’t ask me any more fool questions because I won’t answer you. I’m no jerk and I’m not going to get myself fired because of your stupid questions. Now eat your food and be quiet.” The food tray door slammed shut, cutting off all the light in the little cell. The only light in the cell came from a shaft extending from the upper floors. John figured it was a design flaw but in the middle of the day, the light was welcomed when it lit up the cell for a little while.
John thought to himself, whoever was brought to this cell never returned to the upper level. This was just a feeling, but it felt real enough to him. John had no illusions of escaping from this place. Even if he did escape, how would he ever get back to civilization? He’d die in the desert without water or food or he would die from the sun. No, he had to place his hope in Mr. Hayes and his mother to get him out of this terrible place.
Day, weeks, months, and years passed by slowly. John kept his hopes up for the first few weeks but as the months turned into years, he lost all hope of ever getting out. He marked the days with a fork that a guard had forgotten to take. As best he could figure, he had been in this cell for almost five years. He had given up trying to exercise and was lying with his back to the wall when he heard a scraping sound. He thought it was a rat, but the scraping continued, so he got up from his cot and went to the section of wall where the scraping was coming from and tapped the wall - and he received a tap in return. When he was a kid, his father took him to see the movie The Count of Monte Cristo. He thought how ironic it would be if the prisoner tapping back was an old monk with a fount of knowledge to impart and a fortune to leave him. He laughed at the thought. That only happens in the movies. But friendship and companionship - well that happens in real life - so he started scraping the grout from around the stone with his fork along the spot where the scraping noise was coming from.
