John Grisham - The firm

Why are we hiding? Ray asked himself. Are those guys up there with the guns on our side? He would like to know before he made any dramatic moves.

The guard pointed to the exact spot on the wall where James Earl Ray and his gang went over. A rather famous spot, studied and admired by most of the inmates at Brushy Mountain. Most of the white ones anyway. "In about five minutes, they'll throw a ladder up there. The wire has already been cut on top. You'll find a heavy rope on the other side."

"Mind if I ask a few questions?"

"Make it quick."

"What about all these lights?"

"They'll be diverted. You'll have total darkness."

"And those guns up there?"

"Don't worry. They'll look the other way."

"Dammit! Are you sure?"

"Look, man, I've seen some inside jobs before, but this takes the cake. Warden Lattemer himself planned this one. He's right up there." The guard pointed to the nearest tower.

"The warden?"

"Yep. Just so nothing'll go wrong."

"Who's throwing up the ladder?"

"Coupla guards."

Ray wiped his forehead with his sleeve and breathed deeply. His mouth was dry and his knees were weak.

The guard whispered, "There'll be a dude waiting for you. His name is Bud. White dude. He'll find you on the other side, and just do what he says."

The floodlights swept through again, then died. "Get ready," the guard said. Darkness settled in, followed by a dreadful silence. The wall was now black. From the nearest tower, a whistle blew two short signals. Ray knelt and watched.

From behind the next building, he could see the silhouettes running to the wall. They grabbed at something in the grass, then hoisted it.

"Run, dude," the guard said. "Run!"

Ray sprinted with his head low. The homemade ladder was in place. The guards grabbed his arms and threw him to the first step. The ladder bounced as he scurried up the two- by-fours. The top of the wall was two feet wide. A generous opening had been cut in the coiled barbed wire. He slid through without touching it. The rope was right where it was supposed to be, and he eased down the outside of the wall. Eight feet from pay dirt, he turned loose and jumped. He squatted and looked around. Still dark. The floodlights were on hold.

The clearing stopped a hundred feet away, and the dense woods began. "Over here," the voice said calmly. Ray started for it. Bud was waiting in the first cluster of black bushes.

"Hurry. Follow me."

Ray followed him until the wall was out of sight. They stopped in a small clearing next to a dirt trail. He stuck out a hand. "I'm Bud Riley. Kinda fun, ain't it?"

"Unbelievable. Ray McDeere."

Bud was a stocky man with a black beard and a black beret. He wore combat boots, jeans and a camouflage jacket. No gun was in sight. He offered Ray a cigarette.

"Who are you with?" Ray asked.

"Nobody. I just do a little free-lance work for the warden. They usually call me when somebody goes over the wall. Course, this is a little different. Usually I bring my dogs. I thought we'd wait here for a minute until the sirens go off, so you can hear. Wouldn't be right if you didn't get to hear 'em. I mean, they're sorta in your honor."

"That's okay. I've heard them before."

"Yeah, but it's different out here when they go off. It's a beautiful sound."

"Look, Bud, I—"

"Just listen, Ray. We got plenty of time. They won't chase you, much."

"Much?"

"Yeah, they gotta make a big scene, wake ever'body up, just like a real escape. But they ain't coming after you. I don't know what kinda pull you got, but it's something."

The sirens began screaming, and Ray jumped. Lights flashed across the black sky, and the faint voices of the tower guards were audible.

"See what I mean?"

"Let's go," Ray said, and began walking.

"My truck's just up the road a piece. I brought you some clothes. Warden gave me your sizes. Hope you like them."

Bud was out of breath when they reached the truck. Ray quickly changed into the olive Duckheads and navy cotton work shirt. "Very nice, Bud," he said.

"Just throw them prison clothes in the bushes."

They drove the winding mountain trail for two miles, then turned onto blacktop. Bud listened to Conway Twitty and said nothing.

"Where are we going, Bud?" Ray finally asked.

"Well, the warden said he didn't care and really didn't want to know. Said it was up to you. I'd suggest we get to a big town where there's a bus station. After that, you're on your own."

"How far will you drive me?"

"I got all night, Ray. You name the town."

"I'd like to get some miles behind us before I start hanging around a bus station. How about Knoxville?"

"Knoxville it is. Where are you going from there?"

"I don't know. I need to get out of the country."

"With your friends, that should be no problem. Be careful, though. By tomorrow, your picture will be hanging in every sheriff's office in ten states."

Three cars with blue lights came blazing over the hill in front of them. Ray ducked onto the floorboard.

"Relax, Ray. They can't see you."

He watched them disappear through the rear window. "What about roadblocks?"

"Look, Ray. Ain't gonna be no roadblocks, okay? Trust me." Bud stuck a hand in a pocket and threw a wad of cash on the seat. "Five hundred bucks. Hand-delivered by the warden. You got some stout friends, buddy."

WEDNESDAY morning. Tarry Ross climbed the stairs to the fourth floor of the Phoenix Park Hotel. He paused on the landing outside the hall door and caught his breath. Sweat beaded across his eyebrows. He removed the dark sunglasses and wiped his face with the sleeve of his overcoat. Nausea hit below the belt, and he leaned on the stair rail. He dropped his empty briefcase on the concrete and sat on the bottom step. His hands shook like severe palsy, and he wanted to cry. He clutched his stomach and tried not to vomit.

The nausea passed, and he breathed again. Be brave, man, be brave. There's two hundred thousand waiting down the hall. If you got guts, you can go in there and get it. You can walk out with it, but you must have courage. He breathed deeper, and his hands settled down. Guts, man, guts.

The weak knees wobbled, but he made it to the door. Down the hall, past the rooms. Eighth door on the right. He held his breath, and knocked.

Seconds passed. He watched the dark hall through the dark glasses and could see nothing. "Yeah," a voice inside said, inches away.

"It's Alfred." Ridiculous name, he thought. Where'd it come from?

The door cracked, and a face appeared behind the little chain. The door closed, then opened wide. Alfred walked in.

"Good morning, Alfred," Vinnie Cozzo said warmly. "Would you like coffee?"

"I didn't come here for coffee," Alfred snapped. He placed the briefcase on the bed and stared at Cozzo.

"You're always so nervous, Alfred. Why don't you relax. There's no way you can get caught."

"Shut up, Cozzo. Where's the money?"

Vinnie pointed to a leather handbag. He stopped smiling. "Talk to me, Alfred."

The nausea hit again, but he kept his feet. He stared at them. His heart beat like pistons. "Okay, your man, McDeere, has been paid a million bucks already. Another million is on the way. He's delivered one load of Bendini documents and claims to have ten thousand more." A sharp pain hit his groin, and he sat on the edge of the bed. He removed his glasses.

"Keep talking," Cozzo demanded.

"McDeere's talked to our people many times in the last six months. He'll testify at the trials, then hit the road as a protected witness. He and his wife."

"Where are the other documents?"

"Dammit, I don't know. He won't tell. But they're ready to be delivered. I want my money, Cozzo."