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Authors: Gayle Lynds
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said, “Theosopholis apparently made friends here, but we couldn’t find a one who’d admit to hearing about any escape plans.”
She gazed at the security officers again. “Is that right? Was he a friendly guy?”
A man to her right inclined his head. “He was a talker, and he liked TV. There was a group of them that watched every night, nine to eleven, talking the whole time. It was like a religion.”
“He mentioned getting out a lot,” said a second. “He’d been plea-bargained down to manslaughter, so he had a chance to get parole next year. It was stupid to bust out now, but no con’s a brain trust, or he wouldn’t be here. He can forget parole for another ten years at least.”
“I never thought he and Tice were friends,” said a third man.
“Yeah, ‘friends’ is pushing it,” the second guard said. “Still, Theosopholis was one of the few inmates who made an effort with Tice.”
“They didn’t have to be friends,” the first man said logically. “They’re both felons doing heavy time, and they ended up here. Plus their cells are next to each other. For a breakout, that’s plenty of reason to partner.”
The six nodded in unison.
“What about Tice?” she asked. “Who were his friends?”
The guard on her far left snorted. “Hell, Tice was never going to have friends in any joint. The other inmates hate traitors. They can be rapists or serial killers—doesn’t matter. To a man, cons consider themselves loyal Americans. They hassle anyone who so much as passes the time of day with Tice or Ames or Walker.” Rick Ames and John A. Walker were also doing natural life at Allenwood. Walker was the notorious former U.S. Navy communications officer who recruited his family to spy for the Soviets.
Another of the men explained, “The reason Theosopholis got away with it was because he was well liked—and he was a bruiser. Muscles like San Quentin.”
“What did all of you think of Tice?”
Lieutenant Oxley peeled away from the wall. For a moment, exhaustion filled his face. Then his eyes shot fire. “Finks like him should be shot, like the Soviets did to the people he ratted out. Just my personal opinion.”
The security officers looked at one another and nodded agreement.
“Can’t believe you’re still standing, Oxley,” one of the guards observed.
“I was on duty last night, too,” he told her, “but just a couple of minutes in their building—a long time before the escape.”
At the end of the table, the FBI special agent unsnapped his cell phone from his belt and walked off, listening into it intently.
She asked the men, “What did Tice do to pass the time?”
The guard on her right answered. “He clerked in the law library seven and a half hours a day, five days a week—one of our best jobs for prisoners. He worked out in the gym and in the yard almost every day. And he jogged.”
She looked at Lieutenant Oxley. “I’ll want to talk to the other prisoners and staff and see Tice’s and Theosopholis’s cells.”
“Of course,” he said.
“I’ve got news.” The FBI man was striding back, his expression purposeful as he rehooked his cell phone to his belt. As everyone focused on him, he announced, “We’ve got Theosopholis!”
“No shit!” one of the security officers said.
“Thank the Lord,” said another. “How’d you do it?”
“Not the way we wanted,” the FBI man cautioned. “Some hikers found an abandoned car on a fire road in Virginia and called the state police. Turns out it was a Geo Prizm stolen from the Wal-Mart lot in Lewisburg sometime early this morning. The police found Theosopholis inside the trunk, dead.”
“Murdered?” Elaine asked instantly.
He gave a brisk nod. “Stabbed to death with a shank made out of a wood ruler. Enough letters were on the back that they could just make out ‘USP Allenwood.’ ”
“The library,” she said. “Jay Tice.”
7
Along the North River, North Carolina
On the muddy bank,
She gazed at the security officers again. “Is that right? Was he a friendly guy?”
A man to her right inclined his head. “He was a talker, and he liked TV. There was a group of them that watched every night, nine to eleven, talking the whole time. It was like a religion.”
“He mentioned getting out a lot,” said a second. “He’d been plea-bargained down to manslaughter, so he had a chance to get parole next year. It was stupid to bust out now, but no con’s a brain trust, or he wouldn’t be here. He can forget parole for another ten years at least.”
“I never thought he and Tice were friends,” said a third man.
“Yeah, ‘friends’ is pushing it,” the second guard said. “Still, Theosopholis was one of the few inmates who made an effort with Tice.”
“They didn’t have to be friends,” the first man said logically. “They’re both felons doing heavy time, and they ended up here. Plus their cells are next to each other. For a breakout, that’s plenty of reason to partner.”
The six nodded in unison.
“What about Tice?” she asked. “Who were his friends?”
The guard on her far left snorted. “Hell, Tice was never going to have friends in any joint. The other inmates hate traitors. They can be rapists or serial killers—doesn’t matter. To a man, cons consider themselves loyal Americans. They hassle anyone who so much as passes the time of day with Tice or Ames or Walker.” Rick Ames and John A. Walker were also doing natural life at Allenwood. Walker was the notorious former U.S. Navy communications officer who recruited his family to spy for the Soviets.
Another of the men explained, “The reason Theosopholis got away with it was because he was well liked—and he was a bruiser. Muscles like San Quentin.”
“What did all of you think of Tice?”
Lieutenant Oxley peeled away from the wall. For a moment, exhaustion filled his face. Then his eyes shot fire. “Finks like him should be shot, like the Soviets did to the people he ratted out. Just my personal opinion.”
The security officers looked at one another and nodded agreement.
“Can’t believe you’re still standing, Oxley,” one of the guards observed.
“I was on duty last night, too,” he told her, “but just a couple of minutes in their building—a long time before the escape.”
At the end of the table, the FBI special agent unsnapped his cell phone from his belt and walked off, listening into it intently.
She asked the men, “What did Tice do to pass the time?”
The guard on her right answered. “He clerked in the law library seven and a half hours a day, five days a week—one of our best jobs for prisoners. He worked out in the gym and in the yard almost every day. And he jogged.”
She looked at Lieutenant Oxley. “I’ll want to talk to the other prisoners and staff and see Tice’s and Theosopholis’s cells.”
“Of course,” he said.
“I’ve got news.” The FBI man was striding back, his expression purposeful as he rehooked his cell phone to his belt. As everyone focused on him, he announced, “We’ve got Theosopholis!”
“No shit!” one of the security officers said.
“Thank the Lord,” said another. “How’d you do it?”
“Not the way we wanted,” the FBI man cautioned. “Some hikers found an abandoned car on a fire road in Virginia and called the state police. Turns out it was a Geo Prizm stolen from the Wal-Mart lot in Lewisburg sometime early this morning. The police found Theosopholis inside the trunk, dead.”
“Murdered?” Elaine asked instantly.
He gave a brisk nod. “Stabbed to death with a shank made out of a wood ruler. Enough letters were on the back that they could just make out ‘USP Allenwood.’ ”
“The library,” she said. “Jay Tice.”
7
Along the North River, North Carolina
On the muddy bank,
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