But for Morris, the Anglins, and MacNally working on top of the cell block with tools, prying, screwing, at times banging-that noise was like a world-class symphony; it was, in a sense, music to their ears.
By now, MacNally, Morris, and the Anglin brothers had all dug out the concrete around their cell vents and constructed faux grilles out of cigar box interiors and binder covers, slathered with mint green paint courtesy of West’s access to the A-Block storage area. They had also sculpted dummy masks from Portland cement powder, soap flakes, magazine pages, wire, and electrical tape.
Fellow inmate Leon Thompson taught Morris how to mix oil paints to create facial pigment tones, and Clarence Anglin had collected hair from the barber shop, where he worked on a daily basis. When inserted in bed, these surprisingly realistic masks, with the covers drawn up to the “chins,” gave the illusion the men were asleep during the night counts. As a result, MacNally, Morris, and the Anglin brothers had been able to work all hours of the night on top of the cellhouse, removing the blower mechanism.
Once done, however, they discovered yet another challenge: a steel grate with cross bars blocked the opening.
“Now what?” Morris asked. He swiped with a shirt sleeve at the perspiration that poured down his face. It was sweltering in the small space with the tarps blocking the airflow through the cellhouse.
MacNally peered up at the grille. “Take too long to cut through those bars. But look here.” He moved his body, careful not to fall off the disassembled blower housing he was perched on-and pointed. “Rivets along the edge. If we can get a flat slotted screwdriver in the opening, we can pry ’em off.”
Morris nodded. “I should be able to do that.”
“Get to work on that. I’m going back down to my cell.”
Morris and MacNally had made progress over the course of two nights, defeating several of the rivets with the screwdriver. It was difficult, painful work. Their wrists were sore but they had no complaints: their goal was now within reach.
Morris had also purchased a concertina-a bellows-type accordion-that he was certain they could use, at the water’s edge, to inflate the two rafts they had constructed.
Now, during the early morning hours of June 10th, nearly all their escape materials were assembled atop the cell block, beneath the blower vent, hidden by the tarps that were-miraculously-still permitted to hang from the ceiling.
MacNally and Morris returned to their cells, replaced the fake grilles, and crawled into bed.
Morris whispered to Anglin, who passed it on to his brother in the adjacent celclass="underline" “All set. Should have the thing out tomorrow night.”
MacNally checked his clock: it was 3:00am. He closed his eyes, thinking of the escape, of all the things he had missed during his incarceration: Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 points in an NBA game; an astronaut orbited the Earth in a space capsule; and a massive wall was erected in Berlin, dividing the region and causing political and social upheaval. While he’d heard or read about each of them, he felt strangely detached, as if they were news items rather than historical events he had lived through.
Shortly before MacNally drifted off, his thoughts turned to Henry-which, above all, made him feel the most content. Everything else in life that he had missed certainly served as motivation to avoid imprisonment. But seeing-and holding-his son was a reason to risk his life breaking out.
The morning whistles blew, and MacNally dressed quickly. Despite being tired due to months of sleep deprivation while working nights atop the cellblock, he felt invigorated by the thought that in fourteen hours, he would crawl out of his cell through the wall vent, and never return.
Sunday morning breakfast went quickly, and as he walked into the recreation yard to relax, he took a long look at the city and Golden Gate Bridge. Though these sights normally brought sadness, today they infused him with energy. He would be amongst the masses in a matter of hours-in disguise and existing without money-but he would be free and on his way, somehow, to finding his son.
MacNally locked eyes with Morris, and then they headed toward each other to review the fine points of their plan one final time.
But as MacNally made his way toward the baseball diamond, he was shoved from behind as his ankle was hooked-and he went tumbling to the pavement. He quickly twisted his torso and saw a man he had seen around-Billy Duncan-a bitter, mean con who had a reputation for fighting. A baseball bat was dropped by MacNally’s right side as Duncan pulled out a shiv and stabbed it toward him.
MacNally grabbed the bat and swung from the ground, not going for the knife but for Duncan’s knees.
With a smack! across the bone, the big man crumpled, but not before lunging for MacNally and sticking the shiv into his thigh. MacNally cried out in pain and struggled to move-but the heavy Duncan had landed atop him and started beating him with his fist. On the second blow to MacNally’s face, his hearing became muffled with an intense ringing-and the heads and torsos of the surrounding inmates went blurry.
MacNally threw up his arms, blocking follow-on blows, but he was in no condition to hit back. His head slammed against fist and pavement until-
Whistles sounded, followed by
two gunshots
The nearby cons hit the ground as several officers ran toward MacNally and Duncan. When they arrived, MacNally’s jacket was soiled with spattered blood and his jeans were soaking in thick, oozing fluid from his thigh wound, where the sharpened-spoon-handle shiv was still protruding.
Duncan was pulled off MacNally and handcuffed by two guards. MacNally was lifted to his feet, searched for weapons, and then rushed to the hospital.
MACNALLY AWOKE VARIOUS TIMES, fading in and out before falling back asleep. At one point, he became aware of the fact that he was lying on a bed in a larger cell, a segregation unit in D-Block. He rotated his head to the right, saw the sun setting beyond the barred windows, then flittered off once again into a painkiller and concussion-induced slumber.
SHOUTING, OFF IN THE DISTANCE. His brain was slow to respond, and his eyes were shut. No-the people were not actually far away; as he regained consciousness, things became clearer. Voices were loud, urgent in their tone. Men were running-no, not men. Hacks.
Thumping overhead, coming closer…vibrating the penitentiary windows…then retreating. Helicopters.
MacNally lifted himself off the bed and a wave of dizziness struck him like a blow to the back of his head. He fell back toward the mattress, but threw out a hand to catch himself.
A sharp pain stabbed at his thigh-and his lips were swollen and cracked. And then he remembered. Billy Duncan. The fight. He was in Seg-he looked up at the windows and saw morning light.
The escape. No-please. No!
“They long gone,” a voice emanating from the adjacent cell said. “Left without you, asshole.”