Shirley Murphy - The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

Answering the door, Caroline led Sergeant Trevis through to the kitchen, where they wouldn’t wake Sammie. She set a cup of coffee and a plate of brownies on the table before him, and coffee for her and Becky. Trevis took off his cap, laid it on the table beside his field book. The tall, lean officer had just had a haircut, leaving a pale line against his fading tan.

Becky described Falon’s attack on the bridge and, at Caroline’s insistent look, she told Trevis about the break-in, and that Falon had attacked her earlier behind the drugstore.

“You filed reports in both cases? And identified Falon?” Trevis looked doubtful. He knew she hadn’t given Falon’s name, the department had already talked with Atlanta.

“I filed a report only for the break-in. I said I didn’t know who the man was,” Becky told him.

“Why?” Trevis asked.

“I was afraid. That when they released him, if he knew I’d given his name, he’d be all the more dangerous.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“I was afraid for Sammie.” Trevis’s look puzzled her. “What else would there be?”

“There’s nothing between you and Falon?”

She stared at Trevis.

“I didn’t tell her,” Caroline said. “She hasn’t heard the gossip.”

Becky looked from her mother to Trevis. “What gossip?”

“There’s a story around town,” Trevis said, “that you’re seeing Falon. That you and Falon planned the bank robbery, that the two of you set Morgan up, wanted him sent to prison, to get rid of him. Some folks say you’re living with Falon, in Atlanta.”

She looked at him in silence. Her closest friends couldn’t think this. She found it hard to believe that Morgan’s automotive customers, or even the bookkeeping clients who had let her go, would believe it, and certainly not the members of their church.

Yet nearly the whole town seemed to have bought into what the jury believed, to the lies, under oath, on the witness stand. So why wouldn’t they believe this? “Does everyone think that?” she said softly

“Where are you living?” Trevis said.

“With my aunt, Mama’s sister. But if you talked with the Atlanta police, you already know that. How long . . .” she said, “how long have people been saying this?”

“Not everyone—” Trevis began.

“How long?”

“The stories began shortly after the trial.”

She looked at her mother. “Why didn’t you tell me? Is this part of why I lost my accounts, not just Morgan going to prison, but these lies?” She didn’t know much about the rest of the world, but gossip, in a small Southern town, was a cherished commodity, a traditional and beloved pastime.

“For a long time,” Caroline said, “I didn’t hear the stories, no one said anything to me. I suppose they knew I’d be furious. No one treated me any differently, except maybe for a look or two, as if some people felt sorry for me. I didn’t hear this story until you’d moved to Atlanta.” She put her hand over Becky’s. “When you had so many other troubles, I couldn’t add one more ugliness, there seemed no point in it.”

Across the table, Sergeant Trevis busied himself with his coffee and brownie. Becky said, “The police, all of you, believed Morgan was guilty. So when you heard this, you believed that, too.”

“We didn’t believe Morgan was guilty,” Trevis said.

“You acted like you did. You were terrible to him.”

“We are not supposed to voice judgment.”

“You showed judgment,” she snapped. “You’re supposed to be fair. The way you treated Morgan, the way you acted, you believed he was guilty from the minute you hauled him out of the car that morning, after he’d been drugged. You thought he was drunk when you know he doesn’t drink. You thought he killed the guard and robbed the bank. Afterward, when Morgan was in jail and Falon broke into my house, the officer who came was unforgivably rude.”

“Sometimes,” Trevis said, “when we have to keep a professional distance, we seem—gruff, I guess.”

She just looked at him.

“Some of us were wrong,” Trevis said. “Becky, we want Morgan to get an appeal.” He looked at her evenly. “To be truthful, I don’t know what made us so surly. We were all caught up in something, some violent feeling that I can’t explain, that was not professional.” Trevis’s face colored. “Like a bunch of little boys torturing a hurt animal. You’re right, we weren’t fair to Morgan.

“Not until after the trial was over,” he said, “after Morgan was down in Atlanta, did we seem to come to our senses, realize how ugly we’d been, how grossly we let him down. Becky, I don’t believe the story about you and Falon. I went to school with Falon, I know what he’s like.” He was quiet, then, “I do have some good news.” Trevis grinned, his tall frame easing back in his chair. “There’s a warrant out for Falon.”

“What, for the break-in? Not for the bank robbery?”

“No. He’s wanted in California. The warrant came in this morning. That’s why I got over here so fast. Seems he was involved in a series of real estate scams out there, and fraud by wire. The bureau traced him from California to Chattanooga, to some large bank accounts there under fictitious names, and then traced him here.”

“Then when you find him, he’ll be in jail? He’ll be locked up where he can’t reach us?”

“If you didn’t kill him, on the bridge,” Trevis said with the hint of a smile. “If we can find him, he’ll be transported by the U.S. marshal’s office to California, he’ll be held in jail there to await arraignment and trial.”

She wanted to hug Trevis. She couldn’t stop smiling.

“The U.S. attorney in L.A. seems hot to move on him,” Trevis said. “There were five men involved. The other four have been indicted. With any luck, Falon should be in federal court in L.A. fairly soon.”

“And if he’s convicted?” Becky said. “Oh, he won’t be sent back here, to prison in Atlanta?” He won’t be imprisoned with Morgan, she thought, where Falon would hurt or kill him.

“If he’s convicted in California, there’s no reason to return him to Georgia. Terminal Island, maybe, that’s the closest to L.A. where he’d be tried.”

“How long would he be there? How long would he get?”

“On those charges, the maximum might be thirty years, the minimum maybe twenty. With parole and good time, maybe half that.”

“Ten years at least,” she said softly. “Ten years, free of Falon.”

“If he comes out on parole,” Trevis said, “and is caught doing anything out of line, he’ll be revoked and sent back.” He swallowed the last of his coffee. “If you file a complaint now and amend the complaint you filed with Atlanta, give them his name, then the probation department will have that information. That means, if he comes out on parole they’ll do their best to keep him away from you. Have you heard anything on the appeal? Quaker Lowe has been up from Atlanta several times, reading the reports, talking with the witnesses.”

“He’s working hard on it, Trevis.”

Trevis rose. “He’s a good man, good reputation.” He came around the table and hugged Becky. That startled her. His closeness was caring and honest, this was the Trevis she knew. In that moment, she felt as soothed as Sammie must have felt when Grandma wrapped the plaid blanket around her.

23

I N THE NIGHT-DIMcellblock, rain beat down on the high clerestory windows, sloughing across their steel mesh. Lightning flashed, bleaching the cells below as pale as bone. Lee paced his own small cubicle fighting the ache in his side. It had eased off some, until a bout of coughing brought the pain stabbing sharp again. Pain and the cold had kept him up most of the night. He thought Georgia was supposed to be hot and humid. He’d asked the guard twice for another blanket. At last, on his third round, the man had brought it, grumbling as he shoved it through the bars.