She knew there was only a slim chance that Lowe would have time for them, but it was all they had. She prayed with every breath that he would make the time; she didn’t let herself think that Quaker Lowe would let them down.
Snuggling close to Morgan she knew that the longer they were apart the more difficult it would be to talk, the more different their lives would become, the less they would have to share. Morgan absorbed into the regimen of prison life, she struggling to keep them financially afloat, trying to keep Sammie safe, trying to appease an aunt who didn’t want them in her house. The one thing they had to share, besides Sammie herself, was the appeal.
When she told Morgan they’d be moving to Atlanta, that Aunt Anne had invited them, he knew she was leaving out half the story but he didn’t push her. He said he was glad she’d be near and wouldn’t have to make the long drive, and he left it at that. This wasn’t pleasant for either of them, this tiptoeing around a subject; it made her feel as stiff as a stranger. Nor did she mention Sammie’s continuing dreams of the cowboy—those parts of the dreams Sammie was willing to share with her.
She longed to tell him the dream from the previous night, which Sammie had shared; she wanted Morgan’s response. But somehow, she was wary of that response. It was two in the morning when Sammie sat straight up in bed, wide awake, not screaming with fear but instead solemn and demanding. “Mama! Mama!”
Becky had turned on a light and drawn Sammie close. The child wasn’t afraid, she was quiet and composed, her dark eyes serious. “He’s here, Mama. The cowboy is here. He’s in the prison, he’s behind the wall with Daddy.”
Becky had visualized the thin, leathery old man Sammie had once described. She hadn’t known what to make of the dream, this one couldn’t be real. Yet she never took Sammie’s dreams lightly; they were not to be brushed aside.
“He came to help Daddy, help him get out of that place, help him come home again.” Becky told herself this was a fantasy, how could it be anything else? It was nothing like Sammie’s dreams of the believable though painful events one might expect from life, the death of Sammie’s puppy, the courthouse fire.
But what about that last terrible nightmare where Morgan was locked in the Rome jail? They had known that was a fantasy, dark and impossible. And that nightmare had come true in all its terror and ugliness. Now, sitting close to Morgan, she knew she had to tell him, to share one more disturbing vision.
She described Sammie’s waking, so different from other nightmares. “She woke so alert, more certain than with anything she’s ever experienced. She kept repeating, ‘He’s here. He’s here to help Daddy. The cowboy’s here to help Daddy get away, help Daddy prove who robbed that bank and then Daddy will go free.’”
Morgan said nothing, he sat looking at Becky trying to take a matter-of-fact approach. Over the years Sammie’s predictions had made a believer of him, but how could this dream ever be based in fact? This fanciful idea was impossible. He said, “I haven’t noticed anyone like Sammie described. No thin wrinkled old con who walks bowlegged. Maybe this time, maybe it is just a dream.” But somewhere in Morgan’s heart a web of hope had begun to gather, a shadow of promise to weave itself into his thoughts, ready to spring to life.
10
MORGAN WENT ABOUT his prison routine in the days that followed, putting aside the small hope he’d found in Sammie’s dream. This time there was no substance, her idea of escape was wishful thinking. He settled into life behind bars as best he could except for the group counseling session. He didn’t need counseling, he needed justice.
The courts had locked him up for the rest of his life, but why force him to listen to a bunch of bickering inmates air their petty complaints? Or to the sanctimonious platitudes of the fresh-faced counselor who led the others in their pointless rankling? He didn’t want to share his pain.
The problem was, the day the counselor started working on him he ended up bellyaching just like the rest of the group. Afterward he felt cheap and ashamed. He’d let it all out, the unfairness of the jury, the uncaring judge and U.S. attorney, the incompetence of his own lawyer. He’d gone on about being used, manipulated like a rat in a lab experiment. The counseling he got, in front of the whole group, only made it worse. At least the counselor had gotten him a job in the automotive shop, but only because they needed skilled men. Now, thankful for that good luck, he crossed the prison yard on his way to another “shrink” session, for another hour of misery.
IT WAS JUST one o’clock when Lee found the group counseling room and stepped inside. A gray metal desk stood across the room, arranged so the group leader sat with his back to the wall facing three rows of folding chairs, all empty. The young counselor looked up from his paperwork, then glanced at a list. “Lee Fontana?”
Lee nodded. The first one there, he took a seat in the middle so he wouldn’t have men pushing by stepping on his feet. The young man was all of twenty-some, a college type with an almost pretty face, a deep tan, a blond crew cut. He wore a V-necked red sweater with turned-up sleeves over a starched white shirt. He gave Lee a charming smile, introduced himself as Tom Randall, and returned to his loose-leaf notebook. He didn’t look up again until a broad-shouldered black man entered. He looked Lee over and slid into the chair next to him. Lee hoped he wasn’t going to be talkative, he wasn’t here to be social.
But the man’s smile drew Lee, his eyes alive with intelligence and humor. He was middle-aged, square faced and clean-cut, with flecks of gray through his short hair. He extended his broad, lined hand. “Andy Trotter,” he said in a polished British accent.
“Lee Fontana.” Lee shook the man’s hand. “You’re a Brit? What are you doing in here?”
Trotter grinned and pulled a bag of Bull Durham from his shirt pocket. “Born right here in Georgia. But I spent most of my childhood in Jamaica with my granny, she made sure I could speak the King’s English. Smoke?” He extended the makings.
Lee shook his head. As Andy rolled a cigarette quickly and neatly, three more men wandered in. Two of them were the dregs of prison population, scruffy, edgy types. Lee could smell the body odor of the frazzled, dirty one before he sat down at the end of the row. The man’s hair was greasy, his eyes darted restlessly, and he couldn’t keep his hands still, his twitching fingers rubbing and fidgeting. This fellow didn’t need counseling, he needed to dry out. The man who took the chair next to Lee held himself rigidly, staring straight ahead to avoid eye contact. His thin red hair was combed straight back over a premature baldness, his mouth and chin dwarfed by a large beaked nose.
The third man, who came in behind them, was younger, clean-cut, probably in his late twenties, an honest-John citizen type. Lee watched him with interest, wondering what he was in for. Open, friendly face like that, he’d make a great con artist. Only when their eyes met did Lee see his deep, embedded anger.
The young man grinned at Andy, received a smile in return, and took the seat on the other side of him. When Andy made introductions, when Morgan Blake reached across to shake Lee’s hand, Lee saw something else in his look. Not the buried anger now, but a spark of surprise, a puzzled frown as he studied Lee. A surprise and confusion he found hard to conceal. What was that about? Around them more men drifted in jostling, scraping chairs along the floor as they settled down.
Morgan Blake’s look lasted only a minute, then was gone. Turning away he gave his attention to Tom Randall. With only two chairs vacant, Randall closed his notebook, glanced at his watch, and looked up at the group. In the open doorway, Sam Delone sauntered in, his blond pompadour catching light from the overhead bulb, his cold eyes scanning the group. His gaze settled on Lee.