“One other thing.” MacNally looked from Dollison to the FBI agent. “Did they make it?”
Dollison held MacNally’s gaze a long moment, then said, “They’re not on the island. Whether they made it to shore, we don’t know.”
IN THE ENSUING WEEKS, MACNALLY would learn that all three men had made it off The Rock, as Dollison had said. The remnants of their life jackets were located floating off a beach in the Marin headlands, three miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge, along with one of the wooden paddles and two partially deflated life jackets, their canvas laces still tied-indicating they were discarded by the wearers; if they had failed while being worn, the preservers would still be attached to the bodies.
A waterproof wallet that Clarence Anglin had fashioned from raincoat material, containing a list of phone numbers and photos of relatives, was also found. MacNally laughed. Anglin had told his brother to construct two of them, one containing a number of pictures and an identical list of family contacts; he planned to drop the copy over the side of the raft to lead officials to conclude that they had drowned; the hope was that they would suspend their search. Morris had suggested they dump their life preservers when they made it ashore, lending credence to the authorities’ drowning theory, which he figured would inevitably develop.
Perhaps more importantly, MacNally also had determined that Billy Duncan had been working on Anglin’s behalf when he had him start the fight that put MacNally in the Hole. With Anglin long gone, Duncan no longer needed to hide his motives. He said that he had owed Anglin a favor dating back to their time while serving out robbery sentences at Raiford State Prison.
And he now surmised that Anglin had been working with Harlan Rucker in setting him up for getting caught. Rucker had also done time at Raiford-but why Anglin had something against MacNally, he did not know.
As he gathered information, in a subsequent interview with the FBI agents, he learned that the second raft had never been completed-and that the raft they had found was only designed for three men, four if they sacrificed safety. The triangular design described by the agent conflicted with the style the men had discussed constructing; perhaps the Anglins and Morris had never intended to take him along. He might never know for sure, but it did not matter. His best guess said that the Anglin brothers and Frankie were free.
And MacNally was still behind bars.
He was released early from the Hole, for “good behavior,” he was told. After spending three months in segregation, leaving his cell only once a week for a visit to the yard and two showers a week, his only psychological escape was through reading. But it was not much solace to a man who sat in a cement room with only a 25-watt lightbulb and two enemies-that he knew of-close at hand.
He had withdrawn into himself, anger simmering like a frying burger left in a pan too long: well done, charred beyond recognition, and brittle to the touch.
MacNally was setting his new kit of supplies on the shelf when Clarence Carnes rolled the library cart up to his cell. He handed through a new Popular Mechanics issue, atop which was a postcard.
“What’s this?” MacNally asked as he took the magazine.
“Can you read that scrawl?” Carnes asked.
“Gone fishin’,” MacNally said. He looked up, his mouth agape. “Son of a bitch. The bastards made it.” It was their prearranged code phrase, a signal that one or more of them had reached land.
“Looks like it.”
Carnes slipped the postcard back in his pocket. “Except maybe Frankie. Word is a body was found floating off the island a week after the escape. Some freighter saw it and said it matched Frankie’s description, down to his clothes.”
MacNally sat down on his bed. “They fucked me over, Clarence.”
“I know that. And I also know they were cons, and cons do shit like that. You’re in goddamn prison, Mac. Accept it.”
“I’m here. I understand that. But I don’t accept it. Someday I’m gonna have my revenge.”
Carnes chuckled loudly. Too loudly. He stifled his outburst, glanced down Broadway, then said, “If it makes you feel better thinking like that, good for you. But you’re here for a long, long time.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Carnes eyed him, then looked off as an officer passed. When it was safe, he said in a low voice, “Don’t do anything stupid. If you drown, or get shot trying to get over the wall, it ain’t gonna do your boy any good, now, is it?”
“It’s not like I’m doing him any good being locked away in here.”
Carnes studied MacNally’s face, then nodded slowly. “You have any idea on how you’re gonna do it?”
The whistle blew, signaling the beginning of music hour.
“I had three months to think about it,” MacNally said. “If there’re two things I’ve got plenty of, it’s time and ideas.”
The sound of horns squealing and blowing echoed in the cavernous cellhouse. MacNally stood and moved close to the bars.
“I know a guy,” Carnes said. “I owe him for something. He’s got a big head start on planning something. And you know I’ve heard a lot of plans over the years. Had some myself, too. But this one…sounds like it could work.”
“Can he be trusted?”
“Always consider the other guy’s needs, Mac. He needs a partner. That’s his motivation. Till you get to the water’s edge, you’ll have value to him. I think you’ll be okay.”
“Name?”
“Reese Shoemacher. One of the negroes.”
“I don’t care if he’s purple, as long as he doesn’t screw me. What’s his plan?”
“He’s been assigned to the Culinary Unit for about a year now, so he spends a lot of time down in the kitchen basement. Mostly unsupervised time. Says he’s gonna go out the basement window. Been working on the bars for nine months with string, wax, and scouring powder-”
“A flexible file,” MacNally said. He nodded slowly. The scouring powder acts as an abrasive and when you wrap the cord around the bar, then keep pulling it back and forth, you cut through the steel.
“That’s the idea. Fills in the groove with soap and grease before he gets off his shift to hide it.”
“Why does he need a partner?”
“Most guys don’t escape alone; you need lookouts, help getting over fences, carrying your kit. Shoe was gonna go with another negro, Leonard Williams, but Williams’s supposedly got something else cookin’. I happen to know Shoe’s got a big hole in his plan-like what he’s gonna do once he gets in the water. And you’ve got experience with flotation devices.” Carnes grinned.
“Let him know I’m in.”
“I’ll bring you two together tomorrow, on the yard.” Carnes grabbed the handle of his cart, then winked at MacNally as he pushed off toward the next cell.
