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

42

A S L EE ANDMorgan entered the U.S. marshal’s limo for the drive back to Terminal Island, Becky and Sammie headed for the little motel near the prison, to the room Reginald Storm had reserved for them. Storm had loaned them a car, in a concern for them that extended far beyond that of most lawyers. He had picked them up at the airport in the little green coupe, said he’d just bought a new car and hadn’t yet sold the Chevy. His new Buick had been waiting for him, parked at the motel, and he’d handed her the keys to the Chevy. The car was comfortable and clean and was mighty welcome, to get around the streets of L.A., where she’d never been. Now it purred right along to the little restaurant beside their motel, where they’d have an early supper. Becky couldn’t stop worrying over what sentence Falon would get, and how much time Lee and Morgan would have to serve for breaking out of Atlanta. As they pushed into the steamy café, into the smell of fried meat and coffee, Sammie said, “I can’t eat, Mama. I’m not hungry.”

The restaurant was plain, the pine paneling shiny with varnish, the gray linoleum dark where traffic was heaviest. The wooden booths were nearly all empty, only a few early diners: a family with three small noisy children smearing catsup on each other, an old man in a canvas jacket with a torn sleeve, leafing through a stack of newspapers.

“Maybe some warm milk,” Becky said, sliding into a booth. Sammie sat across from her huddled into herself, pushing away the menu the thin waitress brought.

Becky looked at Sammie a long time. “Your daddy’s free. This should be a celebration.”

“But tomorrow . . .”

“They won’t get a long sentence on the escape charge.”

“But that Falon . . . Now, tonight, they’re all back in prison together. He already tried to kill Daddy, there in the courtroom. What will happen tonight?”

Becky reached to take her hand. “He’ll be in jail tonight, not in T.I. He’ll be away from Daddy and Lee. And maybe, when he’s sentenced . . . Maybe Falon will be in prison for the rest of his life,” she said hopefully. She hated that Sammie had to suffer the long day of testimony, the fear, the waiting not knowing what would happen. She started, then laughed when Misto appeared on the back of the booth behind Sammie. He was visible for only a moment, lying along the wooden backrest nuzzling Sammie’s neck. When the tomcat vanished again, Becky knew he was still there, the way Sammie was grinning, the way Misto’s unseen paw rumpled the collar of her blue dress.

“He wants me to eat, but I’m not hungry.” Misto appeared again, hardly a smear of color along the top of the booth, his tail lashing as he pestered at Sammie, his invisible paw teasing a long strand of her hair and tangling it. He didn’t leave her alone until she picked up the menu. “I’ll have the fries,” she told Becky. “And orange juice.”

Becky shrugged. Watching Sammie stroke what appeared to be thin air, she was so thankful for Misto; the little spirit loved Sammie, he cheered Sammie in a way neither she nor Morgan could offer: a playful little haunt, concerned and possessive, driving back the darkness that pursued and terrified Sammie.

When their orders came, Becky wasn’t sure she could eat, her stomach twisting with nerves. She felt such dread that Falon would be released in only a few years, would be free again to come after Morgan. That didn’t make sense. Why would Falon get a shorter sentence than Morgan had received? But still, she worried. Adding sugar to her tea, watching Sammie pick at her fries, she wanted to get Sammie into a warm bath and then bed, to have a hot shower herself and crawl in beside her. She’d like to sleep forever and knew she wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow, couldn’t stop her restless mind from demanding answers that wouldn’t come any sooner by lying wakeful.

Strangely, she did sleep, and so did Sammie, a deep sleep huddled together, Misto pressed warm against Sammie’s shoulder. Morning came too soon, Becky didn’t want to get up, didn’t want to return to the courtroom, yet she was anxious to be there, to get it over with.

In the plain little restaurant they managed to get down some cereal and milk, then headed for L.A. When they entered the courtroom everyone was standing. Becky, watching Judge Crane emerge from his chambers, tried to put her confidence in the big, sunburned man. But when Brad Falon was led in, handcuffed between two deputy marshals, fear again turned her cold. The fact that Falon had lost, the fact that he’d been convicted of the murder and all charges, didn’t ease her fear of him.

Falon’s attorney, James Ballard, approached the bench neatly dressed in a pale gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie, his bald head reflecting the courtroom lights. Presenting his closing statement he nodded seriously to Judge Crane. “Your Honor, my client begs your compassion. He has already endured threats and severe emotional stress in prison, at the hands of other inmates,” he said, glancing around at Morgan. “Surely the court will agree that with the trauma he has endured at this time in his life, he should receive only a minimum sentence, that he would not be helped by a longer term. That when he did become eligible for parole, the few years remaining would be meaningless to him, he would be a broken man without purpose.”

Judge Crane waited patently for Ballard to finish, then let silence fill the courtroom. At last his look cold as stone, he leaned forward to better observe Ballard.

“How much trauma, Mr. Ballard, did Morgan Blake experience when he was imprisoned for a robbery and murder that he did not commit? How much hope for justice did Morgan Blake have?”

Judge Crane leaned back, watching Ballard. “How much hope did the bank guard have when he was murdered in cold blood?” The judge looked so intently at Ballard that Ballard backed away. The judge said no more. He looked around the courtroom, then dismissed Ballard, and summoned Falon to the stand.

Shackled, Falon faced the bench, trying to look mild and submissive. Twice he moved in a strange sidestep and, with his cuffed hands, scratched at his puffy hair. Each time the deputy marshals crowded nearer. The judge watched Falon, puzzled, as Falon fidgeted and tried to be still; it was some time before Judge Crane spoke.

“It is the judgment of this court that defendant Brad Falon be sentenced to twenty-five years on the charge of armed bank robbery. To life imprisonment without parole on the count of first-degree murder, and twenty-five years for assault and attempted murder. These sentences shall run consecutively, not concurrently.”

A ripple of voices; a catch of breath from Becky as she looked across at Morgan and half rose, wanting to go to him. Above them Misto drifted unseen over the heads of the deputies and the judge to crouch high on the windowsill watching the drama play out, watching this one perfect moment, in the endless human tangle, play out the way it should.

In the gallery Becky held herself back from running through the gate and throwing her arms around Morgan; Sammie’s small hand squeezed her fingers so hard Becky flinched. Life plus fifty years. Falon would never be out again to harm them. Barring some change in the law, he would die in prison just as he had meant Morgan to die, behind prison bars.

As Falon was led from the courtroom he looked back belligerently, straight at Becky, arrogant and threatening. Becky watched him coldly. But when Judge Crane looked over at Lee and Morgan, her heart started to pound again.

Morgan took the stand first, and then Lee. The questioning didn’t take long. Both men admitted they had escaped from Atlanta. When, at the judge’s question, Lee explained in detail how they had gone over the wall, again there was amusement or perhaps challenge in Judge Crane’s eyes. When Reginald Storm made his final statement, his voice was soft and in control.