September 16, 1962
Alcatraz
The morning after his discussion with Clarence Carnes, Carnes introduced MacNally to Reese Shoemacher in the recreation yard. They talked about the progress Shoemacher had made in cutting through the bars, then, having finished their business, moved off their separate ways: Shoemacher to play dominoes with the other negroes, and MacNally to sit and think, alone.
MacNally closed his eyes and took a deep breath of salty, damp San Francisco air. The uncharacteristically sunny day gave him much needed light, and an equally uncharacteristic lift to his spirits.
He sat on the top step, his back against the penitentiary wall, symbolic in so many ways that he dared not explore it too deeply.
And then a man called his name. MacNally opened his eyes and saw a short, squat individual he had never before seen. He was not an inmate, as he was dressed in a black suit. As he approached, MacNally saw a roman collar. A priest-and he was now standing in front of him, blocking the sun.
“I was told I should come talk with you.”
“That right?” MacNally said, turning his gaze away, toward the Bay. “And who told you that?”
“Warden Dollison. You apparently made an impression on him. He said he was concerned about you and felt you could use a friend.”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“That’s precisely why you could use one.” He extended a hand. “Ralph Finelli.”
MacNally examined the offer but did not accept it.
Rather than walking off, Finelli sat down beside him.
MacNally looked at him, his bewilderment likely showing on his face.
“I’m a seminarian,” Finelli said, “at Mission San Francisco de Asis.”
“You mean, like a sky pilot?”
Finelli smiled. He was obviously familiar with the prison term for a priest. “Not yet. But soon.” He tilted his head and regarded MacNally. “You have a great deal of anger. And heartache. I can see it in your face, the way you hunch your shoulders. It’s tearing you up inside.”
“All due respect, Father. I’m not interested in religious discussions.”
“Call me Ralph. And I’m not here to proselytize or talk with you about religion. I’m just here to listen, lend some advice if that’s what you need, and to guide you through a difficult time.”
“After what’s happened to me the past few years, I can’t say I believe in God.”
“I’m only here to help,” Finelli said, palms out. “That’s it.”
“I need to get out of this place, to see my son. He’s living in some kind of orphanage. Can you help me with that?”
Finelli grinned broadly, as if MacNally had said something ridiculously humorous. To an outsider, it may have seemed like just that.
“I’m afraid that’s beyond my powers of assistance. What’s your son’s name?”
MacNally clenched his jaw. He did not want to talk about Henry, unless it meant blazing a path for reuniting with him. But perhaps this man could help him in ways he did not yet understand. “Henry.”
MacNally told him about his wife’s murder, the fact that Henry witnessed it, the trial, and his subsequent difficulty in holding down a job. But more importantly, he talked about the guilt of not being there for Henry’s formative years, of losing total contact with him, of longing to see him. He had to admit that his chat with Finelli was therapeutic. It lifted his spirits, as if the emotion of what had been building during his time in the Hole had been tamed by their ninety-minute talk.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Finelli said. “I’d like to talk with you some more. And I’ll see what I can do about locating your son for you. Why don’t you write a letter to him tonight? I’ll make sure it gets to him.”
“You can do that?”
Finelli bobbed his head. “Normally, I’d write it myself and send it on your behalf. But I can tell this means a great deal to you. And I’m a pretty persistent fellow when I need to be. Besides, that’s why people like Father Raspa and I are here. The way I see it, if I can’t make a difference in the lives of you men, my job is largely meaningless.”
The whistle blew. MacNally gave him a nod, then rose from his seat. As he lined up to return to the cellhouse, he started composing the letter to Henry in his head.
HE WROTE SEVEN PAGES. It flowed like nothing he had written before: a heartfelt apology for doing the things that resulted in their separation, an accounting of what he had been through, of advice for his son on how to deal with adversity, and a plea to never allow himself to fall victim to influences that could land him in a place like Leavenworth or Alcatraz.
MacNally folded it in half, then half again, and brought it with him to the yard the next day. Finelli was already there, in the same location, waiting for him.
He handed over the letter, which Finelli took and slipped into his pocket. “All prison communication is supposed to be screened. But rest assured…the staff will not be reading this. I’m willing to trust that you don’t have any escape plans sketched out amongst these pages.” Finelli grinned.
MacNally looked out at the men in the yard, the ones playing shuffleboard in front of him and those to his right, choosing up sides for a baseball game on the grass diamond. “I have been thinking about it, Father.”
“About what? What’s it?”
MacNally glanced around, then leaned closer to Finelli’s ear.
