CHAPTER 9
The escape plot they hatched came straight out of a dime novel.
First, Sara stepped up her frequency of hospital visits with Lindy, establishing a pattern. Often, she brought food or books to him and his infirmary cellmate Randy, a fellow mutineer also afflicted with hepatitis.
The day Lindy saw Sara approaching their cell carrying a decorated cake his heart skipped a beat. “It’s Lindy’s birthday,” she explained to the guard, breezing by him, holding her creation out to be admired. “I hope he’ll be surprised,” she added and quickly walked along the corridor to his cell.
Surprised? Lindy barely suppressed a gasp. Although they had speculated about an escape, and had tentatively decided on a method, the two mutineers were stunned as she cheerfully entered the confined space singing Happy Birthday at the top of her voice.
Feigning a lack of appetite, she only stayed a short time, leaving the cake intact for them to enjoy later. They exchanged conspiratorial glances as she kissed Lindy goodbye. She then she asked the guard to escort her out, leaving the two astonished cellmates alone with their potential cake to freedom.
With the guard occupied, they cut the cake open with a plastic knife and were excited but terrified to find an 8-inch hacksaw blade in the gooey center. She’d done it. With hearts pounding they hid the potential instrument of escape under a mattress and waited for the lights out signal.
Later, Lindy on a call to his mother described how the mission had been accomplished.
“Here was our plan Ma,” he began. “Our small concrete hospital cell had a barred window to the outside. From it we could see Highway 101 connecting the Golden Gate Bridge to the city of San Francisco. We figured if one bar over the window could be removed somehow, it might be possible to squeeze through and make a break for a car that would be waiting near the highway at an appointed time. It seemed to be a crazy idea, but Ma,” he exhaled with a tinge of desperation still in his voice, “it was so weird. The possibility of maybe getting caught didn’t seem as scary as being confined in prison for 15 years or more.”
He continued with his incredible story.
The sawing of the bars could only happen after lights out. The guards weren’t as vigilant when prisoners slept. From the first night, they established a routine. One of them would saw at the bar while the other stood looking out the cell door, watching for the patrol guard to make his pass. In five-minute intervals, in between the guards’ march, the blade gnawed at the steel barrier. To cover up the rasping sound, the one not sawing would beg the guards to turn up the radio. If the radio wasn’t on or the watchmen wouldn’t cooperate, to mask their efforts both mutineers sang at the top of their lungs every song they knew and some they didn’t. Ironically, often the guards turned up the radio just to drown out the sounds of their off-key voices.
The five-minute on-and-off regime continued through the night. Each morning, to conceal the rasp marks left by the previous evening’s accomplishment, they would mix some dirt off the floor with soap and boot polish, filling in their handiwork to make the bar look whole.
“Every time the guards would come around our cell,” Lindy told her, feeling the tension all over again, “we were sure they would be on to us. We knew we only had one chance to get it right,” he took a long breath. “If we got caught, it was not out of the realm of possibility we could be executed or at the very least be given a life sentence. But the ball was rolling, we couldn’t chicken out at that point. Not only were we in a constant state of paranoia and high alert from the fear of being caught, we were still sick and sleep deprived from being up all night.”
His mother, hanging on every word, in a state of disbelief, breathlessly asked, “Then what?”
He finished the rest of the story.
After a tortuous week, the first cut through the bar was complete. Two cuts out of the bar, one towards the top, one near the bottom, would hopefully leave a space just big enough to squeeze through.
It was then that Randy told Lindy he wasn’t going after all.
Although Randy was fearful of spending fifteen years at hard labor in prison, he confessed he’d been persuaded by a priest and their attorney, Hallinan, that eventually the charges would be dropped. They convinced him that staying to be a chronicler of events from inside would be of more use to the antiwar cause. However, even if he wouldn’t be going with him, Lindy was assured, he would continue to help him with his plot to freedom.
Lindy continued telling his mother, “I didn’t know what to do. I thought I had a partner and when I didn’t, I was scared shitless. But the thought of spending fifteen years at hard labor was so horrific I knew I had to try it alone.”
“We sawed every night. It took two weeks to sever two parts of the middle bar,” he explained. “Sometimes we felt like we were in a movie. By the time the job was done I’d scraped all the skin off my thumbs. And still I wasn’t really sure if I could go through with it.”
Finally, the night arrived. Sara would be waiting at midnight with a car parked just outside the hospital grounds. When the cut bar was dismantled, it became obvious squeezing through the rough opening would be tight. Very tight.
“So, after Randy and I pulled the bar apart, it kinda felt like I left my body.”
His mother, listening to this farfetched tale, held her head in her hands trying to imagine the drama he was relating. “This is unbelievable. Then what?”
Randy later related that he helped stuff his brave cellmate through the opening between the bars. To wriggle through, rail thin Lindy had to remove all his clothes. Still, the remains of the rough-sawn bars scraped large gashes on his scrawny shoulders and hips as he wriggled through and dropped to the ground. Randy watched, holding his breath, heart beating wildly, as Lindy sprinted naked across the grass, illuminated by the highway lights, obviously scraped up, garments bundled under his arm. When Lindy disappeared into the darkness Randy exhaled.
“It was so scary, I just kept envisioning my escape would have a happy ending,” Lindy stopped his telling, took a deep breath and chuckled. “And Ma, it did, just like in the movies.”
Finishing up, he chronicled that still terrified, listening for sounds of sirens, he jumped into the waiting car and off they sped into the bright city lights. The getaway ended at an apartment in the Haight district where his benefactors joyfully connected him with others involved in the resistance movement. Outside, all together, they literally danced in the streets.
Much later, Randy related what happened after Lindy’s daring flight to freedom.
After pushing him through the jagged hole, Randy wedged the bar back in place and carefully soaped up the gaps.
Sad to lose a pal, but thrilled they had pulled it off, his thoughts turned to stalling the discovery of his missing cellmate. The longer the guards didn’t know Lindy was gone, the better the chances of his success. Stuffing Lindy’s bunk with blankets and pillows might buy more time, and after doing so Randy crawled in his own bunk and fell into a fitful sleep.
Next morning when the loudspeaker blared the wake-up call, a guard, looking in the cell, saw a prisoner apparently still asleep. Opening the door, he kicked the bunk, yelling, “Get up.” Nothing. Yanking the covers back, he realized the bed was empty. Baffled he asked Randy, who sat calmly on his bunk,“How many men were in this cell?”
“Just one, me,” came the reply. Looking confused, the guard stomped out the door, flagging down another guard. They both came back to the cell mumbling, not believing their eyes. The roster listed two prisoners. The cell looked undisturbed. Chattering in whispers, the guards pondered what to do. Randy sat on his bunk smugly watching them stew. They couldn’t figure out what had happened and brought in another guard who frantically wandered around looking under bunks and inside and around the meager furniture, as if a live body could be discovered in a drawer. Finally, he reached up and shook the bars. Upon pressure, the flaw was revealed. All three of them cried out and, slack jawed, headed for the door to sound the alarm. The guards were so dismayed when they hurried out of the cell, they left the door wide open.
Later, realizing the oversight, they came back, found Randy still just sitting on his bed, and moved him to a more secure enclosure.
The War Resistance group that sprung Lindy from the Presidio also arranged to help him flee the country. Even before his escape, details were in place. Within a matter of days he was smuggled, newly disguised with dyed hair, a paste-on mustache and tweed coat, along with forged identification, to Canada.
Arriving in the middle of the night at the border’s small station manned by a sleepy patrol officer, they braced themselves for the final test.
Three tense bodies watched the officer scrutinize each passport, one by one, and stack them up. With nothing more than a cursory glance he handed them back and waved them on.
The trio’s breathing didn’t return to normal until they pulled into a small town just over the Canadian border. Dropping him off on a dark street corner, they exchanged hugs, kisses and high fives. Waving goodbye, as the car headed south, the smugglers congratulated each other on a job well done.
Lindy bowed and threw air kisses, watching them pull away down the dark road. Fumbling for the Canadian dime his getaway partners had given him and the scrap of paper with his sister’s phone number, he searched for a phone booth.
Huddled under a dim light in the cubicle, near the cluster of buildings called town, he dialed, fingers crossed she was home.
“Hello,” Carol answered.
Almost faint with anticipation, he quickly caught his breath hearing her voice. “Oh, thank God. It’s me sis. I’m in Canada and I’m free,” he croaked. “Can you believe it?”
“Oh boy bro, this really is like out of a movie. Where are you?” she asked, amazed to get yet another surprise call.
“In British Columbia, just over the U.S. line. I’m calling from where some angels dropped me off with three hundred dollars in Canadian cash and a new I.D. saying I’m Professor Harvard Taylor. I’m on the run, an official fugitive,” he lamented, his voice catching, as the gravity of his situation began to bear down on him.
Carol felt weak but giddy. After feeling so hopeless about his situation, all of a sudden she was elated. “What will you do? Where will you go?” she said, her voice now filled with excitement.
“Not real sure, but you don’t need to worry about me cause friends I met in prison and others in the resistance movement gave me contact information to help figure things out now that I’m here.” He answered her with a note of confidence in his voice he wasn’t sure he felt.
“A couple of them told me about a commune on a beautiful river about three hundred miles north of where I am. Sounds like heaven, so maybe that’s where I’ll head. It’s got lots of gardens, Ma would like that. I’ll write or call when I can.” He could hear her trying to keep her breathing steady. “Don’t fret. I’m fine. I survived The Presidio. Keep the faith, as Pop used to say. Tell Ma I love her. Love you too.”
And with that he hung up just before his bravado gave way to racking sobs that shook the four fragile glass walls enclosing him.
When would he ever see his family again?
Carol, this story needed to be told...it reads like a novel only better bc it’s true!
This is an amazing story! can't wait for more!