This Bank Robber's Life: The Life and Fast Times of Patrick "Paddy" Mitchell

© Copyright 2002, Patrick Paddy Mitchell

All rights reserved

Second printing 2015

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-6822212-6-6

Like the vast bulk of people, we will pass from this earth without making any mark more lasting than a plowed furrow.

Charles Frazier (Cold Mountain)

The more we live a life governed by conventional norms of proper behavior, and the nicer and more responsible we force ourselves to be, the further we drift from the essence of our true self, one that’s ruled by passion and instinct. Give in to your deepest longings and become an outcast; conform utterly, and endure a potentially dispiriting, suffocating life….

John F. Kennedy, Jr. (George Magazine)

A human being has a natural desire to have more of a good thing than he needs.

Mark Twain

Author’s Note

This book is my autobiography. All words (written or spoken), while not exact, are to the best of my recollection. In some cases, those I wrote about have requested I not use their real names, which I’ve tried to honor. Others, whose names they may have wished I had not mentioned, have been because I thought it appropriate to do so. Some details that would provide identities have also been changed.

Acknowledgements

To those who helped - it seemed to me, at one point, that I would never be able to finish this book. My manuscript, which I had written and rewritten a half dozen times, sat in abeyance for months until a fellow named Ray Hurley arrived at these prison gates. One day I gave him a short story excerpt from my manuscript to read. The next day he returned it and asked for another - then another. He complimented me on them, said they were great and volunteered to work with me to get it shipshape and to a publisher. What he accomplished in two months, I would have had trouble doing in two years, with luck.

And one BIG thank-you to Elizabeth Saunders, who spent endless hours and huge efforts to design both the wonderful cover to this book, and my website. I cannot in words describe what a tremendous help you have been Beth, and I thank you with all my heart. You are an incredibly talented and generous person.

Another HUGE thanks to three very special ‘Saints’ who have helped me to no end in so many ways, Lynda and Ron Warman, and Joyce Grierson. Someday, somehow, you will all be rewarded for your kindness, That I promise! Thank-you, I could not have done it without your help.

Ray also arrived that day with a cellmate by the name of Robert DeLong, who happens to know more about writing, editing, spelling and grammar than anyone I’ve met. He volunteered his services. And before you could say Bob’s your uncle, my manuscript was finished and on its way to a publisher. My agent and lifelong friend, Jimmy Allen, and his wonderful wife, Sharon, have helped and encouraged me to no end; thanks to both.

My son, Kevin, who I owe so much to, I’d have to live another lifetime to make it up to him. Thanks son!

A few others I would like to thank for putting up with, helping and encouraging me: Alan Strong, George Kalomeris, Dan Jenson, Jim Carey, Bobby King and Pat MacAdam.

***

For

Richard

When you are old enough

***

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter One. Denver, Colorado June 1986

Chapter Two. Florence, Arizona

Chapter Three. Up to My Old Tricks

Chapter Four. How It All Began

Chapter Five. Heading to Prison

Chapter Six. The Great Escapes

Chapter Seven. In Search of Greener Pastures

Chapter Eight. On the Road Again

Chapter Nine. Heading South

Chapter Ten. Arizona… Again

Chapter Eleven. Leaving Arizona … On a Wing and a Prayer!!

Chapter Twelve. Cecil and Johnny

Chapter Thirteen. Florida - Again

Chapter Fourteen. Lynn

Chapter Fifteen. Paradise Found

Epilogue

Prologue

Be forewarned, this book is not a literary masterpiece. I do not profess to be a writer. It’s written in simple terms; no ten-dollar words, no fancy prose or metaphors, and certainly no poetry. But I can assure you, if you read on, you’ll find it one hell of a tale.

I began scribbling my life story more than twenty-five years ago (1976), in a prison cell at Millhaven Penitentiary, in Ontario, Canada. I was thirty-four years old, serving a twenty-year prison sentence (figuring my life was pretty much over) and thought I’d better get busy and write my memoirs. Three years and almost six hundred pages of scribbling later, I found a need to destroy all that I had written.

In 1984, this time locked up in an Arizona prison cell, I began to scratch out another manuscript. A couple of years later, a need arose to destroy those several hundred pages as well.

Not being the kind of guy who gives up easily, I took up the task a third time in 1989 while on a beautiful mountaintop location on an island in a far off archipelago. Eventually, a need arose for me to destroy several hundred more pages.

Still, I was not deterred. As fate would have it, I found myself in yet another prison cell in 1994, this time at the Federal Penitentiary in Atlanta, Georgia, with pencil in hand, scratching away. And, once again, it was all to no avail.

Now I’m incarcerated at the Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. The year is 2001, and I don’t foresee any cause arising for me having to destroy this one final attempt to write my life’s story.

I wish this were about some heroic deed that I had performed, or some great, lifesaving medical procedure that I’d discovered, but it’s not. Neither is it a book about braggadocio. It’s about a life that was lived much differently than most; one which I believe should be recorded for posterity. Now, where to begin?

Chapter One

Denver, Colorado June 1986

Why would you want to make this into such a big deal? Kincaid asked. I just walk up behind the jerk, put a bullet in his ear, you pick up the bag and we walk out that side door. The nigger’s waiting for us in the hot car, picks us up, and drives us back to the apartment. What could be easier than that? he asked with a shrug of his shoulders.

We were sitting on a bench inside a big mall in Lakewood, a small city on the outskirts of Denver, watching a Wells Fargo courier picking up the weekend receipts from two large department stores. He was straining from the weight of all that money he was carrying in his canvas bag.

The only way I could miss this turd is if he has a steel plate in his head. He’s a sitting duck! he said, grinning, showing yellow, rotten teeth, his breath so bad it made me wince and turn away.

Well? he asked. He was foaming at the mouth and his spittle sprayed and landed on my cheek.

Cecil Kincaid was a stone-cold killer, and he could be a scary guy when he got up in one’s face. His eyes were bloodshot and bulging because of an overconsumption of alcohol the night before. I had to pretend to be just as tough and ruthless as him, which wasn’t always easy. I remember my mother often warning me to be careful what I pretended to be, because I might become the person I was pretending to be - and I would never want to become like Cecil Kincaid.

Well? he asked again, this time with that Archie Bunker look that he reserved for his son-in-law, Meathead.

What to say to someone who just uttered a statement like he had? I was temporarily lost for words. I couldn’t show any weakness with this guy. If he ever thought he could get the upper hand and cow me, I’d be finished. He was like a shark; if he smelled blood, he’d move in for the kill.

Cecil, I said calmly, you can’t just walk up to somebody who’s not threatening you, who’s only doing his job, and who may have a wife and four kids, and kill him. You must be fucking crazy.

Oh! Well, excuse me, so now I’m the crazy one? I’m looking to take down this one fucking guy who I can get the drop on, no fuss, no muss, he looked at me incredulously (Archie at Meathead), and you, who’s completely sane, want me to join you in robbing a bank; take over the whole place with that little pea shooter of yours, bounce over counters, terrorize fifty people, half of them probably armed? He stopped for effect, the spittle at the comers of his mouth white and foaming, eyes bulging. Jesus H. Christ! You’ll either get us all killed or back behind The Walls doing ninety-nine fucking years. And you think I’m crazy!

I had to stand my ground, my stare frozen, trying not to show any intimidation. We’ll do the bank on Monday, as planned, I said, holding my glare. I prayed inside that I could bluff him. After what seemed like a lifetime, he blinked, threw up his hands and turned away.

You’re the boss! he said.

I was going to have to fight Cecil someday, and one of us would have to die. I could never lay a beating on this nut and then ever think of closing my eyes again to sleep peacefully. But he had let me win this one, so no one had to die today.

Chapter Two

Florence, Arizona

I had met Cecil two years earlier behind The Walls of the maximum security state prison in Florence, Arizona. It was reputed to be one of the toughest lockups in the country. We lived four doors apart in the same cellblock. He didn’t look like the kind of guy one might want to befriend, and I went out of my way to avoid any contact with him for several weeks. However, we couldn’t help but run into each other several times a day, and inevitably, after a while, we became acquainted.

He lived like a caveman. Each cell had a small window that let in a few rays of sunshine that helped assuage the misery of prison life; Cecil kept his covered with a piece of cardboard, leaving his cell dark and dank.

He was serving a life sentence for first degree murder, having missed the death penalty by the skin of his teeth. He was serving life, without any possibility of parole for twenty-five years. For good measure, the judge tacked on another ten years for armed robbery to be served when he finished his life sentence. In other words - forever!

The story he told about his crime changed every time he told it. But the facts are these: he got involved in a card game and lost several thousand dollars to a well-known Phoenix businessman. Later that night he kidnapped the guy he’d lost to, took him to the desert, robbed him, shot him in the head, and left his body for the buzzards. Kincaid then stole the guy’s car, drove it to Brownsville, Texas, and sold it to his nephew. Then he bragged about the murder to half a dozen people. He was arrested shortly after, had two different trials, found guilty and sentenced to infinity!

Cecil was the biggest liar in the history of mankind. It was not in his makeup to ever tell the truth, even if it were to his benefit to do so. He would lie about the most trivial things; like the weather, the time of day, or what he’d had to eat. He’d get quite upset if someone questioned his truthfulness. No matter how conspicuously he had been caught red handed in a lie, he would never admit that he had. He would tell ten more lies to try and weasel out of the original one, and appear highly insulted that his veracity was even questioned.

If lying was his only fault, because of the prison setting (where a lot of people tend to exaggerate), it could be overlooked. But that was only one of the several flaws associated with Cecil. He was also one of the dirtiest persons I had ever met. It seemed that he disliked bathing. Even after a basketball game in a 110-degree temperature, he wouldn’t take a shower. He held some bizarre belief that showering too often was unhealthy, that it killed the body’s natural bacteria that was needed to fight off other bacteria, or something like that. He showered about once a week.

He was six feet tall, weighed 165 pounds, and didn’t have an ounce of fat on his body. His hair was bright red and receding and he was covered with freckles. In fact, nobody called him Cecil; everyone knew him by the nickname Freckles. His fingers were ochre-colored from chain smoking and his nails were too long for a man and always dirt encrusted. In the more than two years that I knew him, I never once saw him brush his teeth. They were chipped, yellow stubs that looked like the plastic pegs used to keep score in the card game, cribbage. All he ever talked about was ESCAPE!

I was there, serving an eighteen-year sentence for an armed robbery at a department store called Diamonds that I attempted to knock off in December of 1981. I also had two federal sentences of ten and twenty years (running concurrently), to serve when the state time ran out. Those sentences were for two bank robberies out of Hot Springs, Arkansas, and San Diego, California, in 1980. And, if by some miracle I lived long enough to finish those, there was a seventeen-bagger awaiting completion for me in Canada (my native country). I had escaped from prison there in 1979. So you can see that our options were limited; we were both doing forever and we both dreamed about escape.

The majority of any prison population would love to escape. Most talk about it all the time. They even join little cliques and spend months and even years planning their departures. But only the smallest percentage of prisoners ever attempts one, and of course an even smaller percentage ever succeed. I had succeeded in the past, and I was willing to try again. Kincaid had heard talk through the prison grapevine about my past adventures and I never tried to stem the talk; it doesn’t hurt to have that type of reputation in prison. Others look up to the convicts that have the balls to escape.

Kincaid approached me on the subject. From first impressions, Cecil was the least likely person I would consider taking with me on such a venture. He had been in the joint for more than a year before I arrived and I felt him out about what he had discovered and his thoughts on a way out. The few ideas he did have all involved violence, hostage taking, and mayhem. Things of that nature were not my cup of tea. I was a trickster and liked to dupe people, not hurt them.

There were three main factions at the prison: whites, blacks, and Mexicans. The whites were in the majority and they were (somewhat) represented by the Aryan Brotherhood, a white-supremacist group that hated anyone that wasn’t pure Aryan and didn’t have blonde hair and blue eyes. Most whites were not card - carrying members of this group, but it was wise to be nice to these people and not to do anything to attract their attention or ire. They were mostly big, tattooed weight lifters who sat around all day hating everything. They believed their sole purpose in this place was to protect any white person who could be set upon by the blacks. And the blacks were prone to such things. If they spotted a weakness in a white, they would try to extort him for money, property, or sex. The Aryans would fight or even kill for you in this regard. That is, of course, if you were worthwhile. They would not go to bat for you if you were a snitch or rapist or baby killer. They had some principles. If they did come to your assistance, it was usually at a cost to you. Most times, it was at the cost of your soul.

The next largest contingent was the blacks. They were under the dominance of the Muslims. These were scary looking guys who shaved their heads, dressed alike and wore dark sunglasses all the time, day and night, indoors and out. Their concepts about right and wrong were suspect. They would protect one of their own regardless. It didn’t matter to them whether the guy they were protecting had blown up a building and tried to kill 10,000 innocent people, or robbed someone’s cell, or was in prison for rape. It just didn’t matter - if he was converted to Islam, they would kill for him. One example of the extent to which they would go: we had a black guy on the yard who was serving a zillion years for raping an eighty-year old Catholic nun. He hadn’t just raped her. Over a period of several hours he beat her near to death and did some of the most atrocious things to her that you could possibly imagine. He liked to brag about it on the compound. He was an animal and should have been chopped into pieces, shit upon, and flushed down a toilet, but he had converted to Islam upon his arrival at the prison gate. He was one of them, so they protected him.

The third faction was the Hispanics, mostly Mexicans, and they were under the control of the Mexican Mafia. They were the minority but they were the most dangerous. Life was quite cheap to these chaps. They would kill for very little reason - like a $25.00 debt, or for an accidental bump, or a misunderstood comment or look.

There was also a smattering of American Indians, and they were mostly allied with the Hispanics.

Each group had their own turf within the prison. They had their separate areas in the chow hall and the weight pits, and even the big recreation yard had its imaginary boundaries that kept us all separated from one another. If an Aryan saw a white sitting in the black section of the chow hall, he would warn him that it would not be tolerated, and so on.

The only place where the races could freely mingle without any problem was in the chapel. If you belonged to the Christian group it was tolerated. There were even a couple or three tables in the chow hall where Christians of all races could congregate. This was only because of the warden’s edict: Anyone who harms a practicing Christian is in big trouble and will rue the day he was born!

I joined the church. I don’t mean that facetiously. I was raised a Roman Catholic and always had a strong belief in God. Whenever possible, I attended mass on Sundays and I seldom ever close my eyes and fall asleep without saying a small prayer. Unfortunately, a lot of guys fake it in prison and run around with a Bible or Koran in their hands for protection. I’ve never needed protection from anyone in my life. I was quite capable of taking care of myself. It was at the Christian services that I met a fellow named Johnny Stuart. He was a twenty-three year old African American who was serving a twenty-two year sentence for the non-violent crimes of breaking and entering and car theft. In prison argot he was what could be called a ghetto-nigger, but you or I wouldn’t want to call him that to his face. He was one tough hombre, 22-0, with 22 knockouts on the yard. He could run ten miles; lift 300 pounds, and played basketball and tennis better than most. His vocabulary consisted of about 100 words, half of which were vulgar. His favorite was motherfucker, and he did his best to use it in every sentence he uttered. He didn’t walk in a conventional manner, but rather strutted like a peacock. He was a handsome and elegant looking fellow, always smiling through snow white, even teeth. We became good friends and often walked and talked in the yard, and on occasion shared a marijuana cigarette. I intentionally lent him money a few times to see if he would pay me back. He always did. It’s a good test of a man’s character in prison to lend him a few dollars and then see if he returns it. Most will stiff you and consider your kindness a weakness. You can usually tell what these people are made of for a rather small sum, like five or ten dollars. That’s what many will sell their integrity for. Not all, mind you. There are some very honorable people in prison who are not for sale at any price.

All Johnny Stuart wanted to talk about was escape. After looking the place over for a few months, I determined there was no way we could beat the joint by trying to get over, under, or through the walls. They were thirty-five feet high, six feet wide and every 200 feet or so there was a guard tower and a guard with a high-powered rifle who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot any would-be escaper off the wall. A new cellblock had been built a few months before my arrival and I figured if the place had a flaw, it should be there. Part of the wall had been torn down to accommodate this new structure, and now the cellblock had become the barrier. The wall went around the whole complex, which measured about a mile and a half in circumference, then connected to the building, which was ten feet taller than the wall, with a guard tower at each end. But the new building came with a basement, and the only door that led to it was outside the compound, which led right to the parking lot. And as luck would have it, Johnny, Cecil and I all lived in this new building. Best of all, Johnny lived and was an orderly on the first floor, just twelve inches of concrete and re-bar from the basement.

Guess I was living right! I ran my plan by Johnny. He wanted in. We never even considered Cecil at the time. Over the next several weeks, I spent many hours studying the bottom tier, looking for the easiest way into the basement. Finally I found it. Between each cell was a small room they called a pipe chase. These rooms were about four feet wide and six feet long. Each cell had a toilet and sink, and the pipes to those ran through these pipe chases. In the chase, instead of there being twelve inches of concrete and re-bar on the floor, there was only a steel grate embedded in the concrete. It was there for drainage in case of flooding. The grate was three feet by two feet, and if we could cut through that, we could drop into the basement. This, of course, was not as simple as it sounds. There would be many obstacles to overcome. The first hurdle would be getting past the door leading into the chase; it was made of steel and always locked. And not by any little Mickey-Mouse type of lock, but by one of those big, foreboding, high-security prison locks that needed a six-inch long brass key to open it. Even if we could beat that door, we’d need hacksaw blades to cut through the hardened steel grate. There are not a lot of hacksaw blades available in maximum security prisons. They’re as scarce as hen’s teeth. We would also need a flashlight, and only guards on night duty had those. A length of rope would be necessary to lower us into the basement, but there is very little rope in prison. And we’d need a whole lot of good luck going for us.

When planning an escape, the primary concern is that no one knows your business. The guards are tough enough to beat, but the most treacherous are the other inmates. There are more snitches per square foot in prison than on the street. Believe me, from what I have seen, not much honor exists anymore in prisons in the good of U.S. of A. Forget about any code of honor. A good percentage of inmates would rat on their own mothers if they thought it would knock a year or two off their sentences. (There are, of course, some prisoners that would die before they would ever rat on anyone. I’ve met many.) I knew we’d have to be careful in regards to who we approached about the equipment needed. One word to the wrong person and I’d find myself sloughed up for the next several years in a place even harsher than my present one: C.B.6 may be the meanest place on earth. I won’t go into details about that place; it might give you nightmares.

Rather than risk my own well being, I decided to bring Cecil into our plan, so we could use him as the front man to go after the materials we needed. He might have been a lot of negative things, but I didn’t think he would ever snitch. Anyway, he could have probably told on the whole prison population and not gotten a day knocked off. His sentence was carved in stone. His only way out was via the escape route. But he was terribly lazy and wanted to sleep 18 hours every day. He was not very ambitious. I don’t think he would have been able to figure a way out on his own. If someone snitched on him, we’d have felt bad because he would have to spend a few years in C.B.6. I had to rationalize that Kincaid would be more at home there than Johnny or me; he could sleep his eighteen hours a day, because they only let inmates out for one hour of exercise three times a week. And the two showers per week they allotted wouldn’t have too much effect on him either. All that would be a little tough on a guy like me. He was our man to put his ass on the line to seek out the needed materials. It took a month or two, but Cecil succeeded in collecting the things we needed. He knew someone who worked in the plumbing shop who could get a look at the key to the pipe chase and draw a picture with the shape of the teeth.

He acquired a piece of brass, and after much trial and error, we fashioned a key that opened the door. The hacksaw blades weren’t easy to come by, nor were they cheap at $100 each, but he managed to obtain four of them. We made a flashlight and wove a rope out of bed sheets. Prison personnel have an old adage that is probably included in their manuals: Put two convicts on top of 100 foot tall telephone poles, a hundred yards apart. One con has a book of matches and the other has cigarettes. You could bet money that within a short period of time both of them will be smoking.

When we had all the equipment needed to begin the project, Johnny decided that he’d rather not cut the grate on the tier where he worked and lived. If the guards stumbled onto what was happening, he’d be the number one suspect, and would likely be busted for it. He decided to do the cutting on an adjoining tier, where the inmate cleaner wouldn’t know what was going on. Hopefully, if our scheme was busted, he’d be able to talk his way out of it. But if not, Johnny reasoned, Better the white Aryan brother go to the hole than me. The guy was one of the higher-ups in the brotherhood.

Johnny went to work on the grate. He worked for an hour or two every day while I covered for him on his job. If anyone came looking for him, I could make some sort of excuse. If I couldn’t, then Cecil was nearby and could go and knock on the door (three times) to get him out. Everything went great for the first few days. He had cut through several metal strands, and he could see rays of light coming under the door that we knew led to the parking lot. We were walking on air and we could smell freedom.

This might sound awful mean, but it was never our intention to take Cecil with us when we left. Johnny hated him and he wasn’t a favorite of mine. We didn’t want to be responsible for turning this violent character loose on society. I knew the laws. I also knew Cecil wouldn’t hesitate for a second to kill someone for the flimsiest of reasons. And we would be just as accountable for that crime. No, we felt that the best thing for all concerned was that Cecil remain behind those 35-foot walls of that maximum security prison.

We agreed that when we left we would take a good friend of ours by the name of Nathan. We would send Cecil some money and apologize for leaving him. I intended to get back into the bank robbing business when we got out, and I could never imagine divvying up a million dollars with Kincaid nearby, in possession of a gun. We would have to sleep with our eyes open. I was sure this guy could kill us in our sleep, without batting an eye.

One morning, a couple of weeks after our project began, every cell door on my tier opened except mine. I pushed the button on the speaker in my cell that connected me with the guard in the control tower, and informed him that my door had failed to open.

I’ve been ordered not to let you out, Mitchell, he said. S.I.S. (Special Investigations Service) ordered you kept locked down pending investigation. I’m sorry, he added.

Investigation for what? I asked.

I don’t know. They’ve been here all night carrying on an investigation. They have all the orderlies locked down. You’ll know what it’s all about soon enough, he answered.

Within an hour, I heard all the unwelcome details. The cops had discovered our escape plot. Someone working on the air conditioner in the basement, stumbled on a hacksaw blade lying on the floor under the grate that Johnny had been cutting. Upon further probing of the pipe chase room, they discovered the grate had been cut almost through and found several more hacksaw blades, a flashlight and a rope. The plan was dead. They had me, Johnny, and four other orderlies locked up until further notice. BIG trouble.

Later that day I was taken down to S.I.S. headquarters and grilled about what I knew. Obviously, I knew nothing. Who, me? It happened nowhere near my living unit or job site. Why would I even be considered? They released me from lock- down later that day. The following day they released Johnny and three others. The only one they kept locked up was a fellow named Jerry Martin, the Grand Dragon of the Aryan Brotherhood.

Johnny and I skated, but the guy who was arrested for cutting the grate had noticed me in that area a few times. On one or two occasions he asked me what I was up to, because he knew I was completely out of place being there. So when he got busted for attempted escape, he didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure things out. To his credit, he must not have mentioned my name or I would have been locked up too. In prison all it takes is another con’s word to get another one locked up.

That wasn’t the end of this episode, though. Several days later, a kite (prison argot for a note) was pushed under my door. It read, We know that you were behind the escape attempt that Jerry Martin is locked up for. Jerry has sent word confirming this. Now here is what you are to do. You’re to go to Major Terry and tell him that you are the one who cut the grate, and owns the equipment found in the pipe chase, and that Jerry had nothing to do with it. If you don’t do so by tomorrow at noon, you’ll be killed. Get off the yard, asshole. The AB.

The AB is the Aryan Brotherhood, and these were very dangerous people. Now, I’ve never been known for my bravery; then again, I’ve never been known as a coward either. I’ve always been a little something in-between. But I was no fool. There was no way I could take this bunch on and win anything from it. Then again, I could never see myself confessing to the authorities; nor ever running myself into P.C. (Protective Custody). That was where they kept the known snitches, baby killers and rapists, as well as those people who ran up debts and couldn’t pay them. They also kept those whose characters were so weak they could be extorted for money or sexual favors. Certainly not the sort of place for someone like this humble scribe, eh?

I weighed up the whole situation for about 30 seconds. Because I was the tier orderly, my cell was left opened when the others were locked. I walked out onto the tier and stood in the middle and yelled as loud as I could, Listen up everyone! Someone put this kite under my door. I held it up. I was pumped and my eyes were bulging, my face contorted in anger. Whoever did this is a fucking coward. You’re a punk cocksucker with no balls! And if you have any, you’ll meet me in the yard when they open up. And bring your shit (knife), because one of us is going to die tonight!

I went back to my cell and stretched and did pushups, pumping up my nerve. When the unit opened for dinner we could either go to the chow hall or go directly to the yard. I went to the yard and waited, scared but willing; praying I wouldn’t be killed or have to kill.

When Nathan’s unit opened for dinner, he went to the chow hall and was told about my performance. He came to the yard without eating and wanted to know what it was all about. I asked him to stay out of it. If it had been fifty people coming to my assistance, it might have made a difference, but one other would just make it two of us in trouble. He wouldn’t hear of it. He said if I had a problem he’d stand with me. He read the note, and then he talked me into going back to the chow hall with him. He said he knew these people and would talk with them. Nathan wasn’t a big guy, maybe six feet tall, weighing 180 pounds, but he was in good physical condition and wasn’t afraid of anyone. He approached the leader of the AB who was sitting at his reserved table. I didn’t want to disrespect him by barging up to his table, so I stood back a few feet. I could hear the conversation.

What kind of a cowardly act is this? Nathan asked, slipping the kite onto his table.

I shuddered a bit; I would have used a little more diplomacy. The guy read the note and casually handed it back to Nathan.

This didn’t come from us. It’s not authorized. I’ll look into it and get back to you, he said, cutting off any further discussion on the matter, while turning back to his meal.

Nathan looked at me with a questioning look that asked, Do you want me to pursue it?

I gave him a quick twist of the head that answered, Come on, let’s leave well enough alone. We returned to the yard, and by this time Johnny was there with a couple of his big brothers looking mean. I didn’t want that. This was not a racial thing. I explained that to him and he said he’d stand by anyway, just in case. I stayed out until the yard closed, but no one approached me.

For the next couple of days I stayed alert. On the third day I went into my orderly closet to fill a pail with water, and while I was bent over the sink, two big guys came in behind me, blocking off the door. This looked like it! I watched their hands for knives, they didn’t have any, but their fists were clenched and they looked like they meant business. These two were not full-fledged members of the AB. They were fringe players, hangers-on, not ranked on the prison yard’s pecking order. In fact, they were the two garbage area orderlies, who cleaned up the garbage containers. It was a dirty, grungy job, and they always looked the part.

We have a message for you Mitchell, one said. It’s from Jerry Martin. He’s in the hole because of you, and you’re going to have to pay some compensation over it.

They ran their rap by me. The more they talked, the more I realized this had nothing to do with compensation, or their friendship with Martin, or integrity. It was an out and out extortion attempt. It’s an old ploy in every prison. I was wise to it. They had me trapped inside this small room, and they’d overpower me if I tried fighting them there. I was a svelte 170 pounds, and their combined 450 pounds could overwhelm me most days.

I played along with them telling them how bad I felt and that they were right. I told them I’d put some things together for Jerry, and get them over to him. I was cut off.

It doesn’t work that way Mitchell. What you are going to do is this: I’ll give you an address and you’ll send $500.00 there. If it’s not there in seven days, your ass is ours! he growled.

I didn’t know exactly what he meant by that last part; whether they were going to kill me or fuck me. But I wasn’t afraid of these guys. I was actually relieved that they’d shown themselves and they were who they were. I always could fight pretty good, especially when I was fighting for my life. I decided to go along with them until I could get into a better position.

Yeah, just give me an address and I’ll take care of that right away, I said.

They seemed to relax. I guess they didn’t think it was going to be so easy.

I’ll meet you in the yard tonight and give you the address, one said, and they both left smiling.

After dinner that night, I headed to the yard with Nathan in tow. I told him that I was going to confront these two head-on. He insisted on joining me, and I welcomed his assistance. I asked him to just stand back and if something broke out, for him to take care of one of them. He agreed. They stood in the yard near the weight pits. Nathan walked to the weight lifting area, picked up a bar, and began twirling it. He waited about thirty feet from where I approached them.

How you doing, Paddy? one asked, peering nervously at Nathan on the periphery.

Pretty good, I replied, moving to within a couple of feet of them, showing no fear.

Did you bring the address? I asked.

Yeah, one said, reaching into his pocket, extracting a piece of paper and holding it out towards me, his hand shaking noticeably.

I took it from him, and staring directly in the eyes, crumpled it up and dropped it on the ground between us.

I’ve changed my mind. I’m not sending any money, I said, acting tough. You got a problem with that?

I wasn’t a bit afraid of these guys. I wasn’t looking for a fight, but if I had to, I would. I ran ten miles most days, and I lifted weights and did push-ups and pull-ups. I was in top shape and could give a good accounting of myself. My opponents were big-bellied weight lifters; they both smoked and wouldn’t have the wind to stand up to Nathan and me.

Hey! Look man, one blurted, we were just doing this for Jerry. None of this has anything to do with us. If you don’t want to do it, I got no beef with you about it. You’ll have to take it up with him when he gets out.

I let him save some face. He wasn’t doing anything for Jerry Martin. It was an out and out sleazy extortion attempt. If I had sent that $500 they would have come right back at me again in a couple of weeks for more. Once you show any kind of weakness in these joints, you’re dead. They’d have come at me from all directions if I had paid that money.

The only reason I agreed to your proposal this morning was because you had me backed into that room. Don’t ever try that stunt again, I said, taking a half step towards the one. Our faces were only inches apart.

I’m not changing my mind. I never intended to send you any money. I was just hedging my bets. I didn’t know if you were armed this morning. You didn’t intimidate me, I said, wanting to get my point across. If I pushed them too hard, they’d be compelled to fight, and I didn’t want that.

Look, let’s just forget about it, okay, the bigger of the two said. It wasn’t a question. He stared hard at me.

I stared hard back. We both held that position for several seconds.

All right! Let’s forget about it, I said, holding my gaze for a few more seconds, and then breaking it off. I gave him that.

Okay gentlemen, you both have a nice evening, I said with a half-smile, then turned and walked back to where Nathan stood.

Let’s go for a run, pal, I said with a wink and a grin. I felt good. My heart was pumping fast, adrenaline flowing. I was glad that it was over without any bloodshed - mine, especially. I thank God for giving me the kind of genes that couldn’t be intimidated by the likes of those two. I’ve never made any claims to being heroic, but right is right, and wrong is wrong! I’ll always live by what I believe is right. It could have cost me my life that day, and may yet someday in the future. But I’d rather be dead with my principles intact than live as a coward.

Neither Johnny, Cecil, nor I were every busted for the cut grate incident. But the plan was dead and I couldn’t find any other way out of this place. I filled out an application to try and return to Canada via the Prisoner Exchange Program. I filed, and then waited three months for a reply. I was denied.

That was a gloomy period for me. It looked like I’d be spending the next decade or more right here in the Arizona desert behind those grey prison walls. But the fat lady wasn’t finished singing, and this old trickster hadn’t played his last card. There was still breath, and as long as there’s that, eh!

I have always had a firm belief in God, and always believed in prayer. There has never been any doubt in my mind that prayers are answered, if the person is sincere and the request is reasonable. I began to do some serious praying down on my knees, making all kinds of promises . But surely, Lord, You don’t want me to spend the rest of my life in prison. Please, please open a window somewhere, Lord….

A month or so later I was called before the Classification Board. Every prisoner had to appear in front of this board once a year. A group of state prison employees sit around a big table and review your record over the past year, looking at what you have done to improve yourself, your work record, and whether or not you have had any disciplinary problems. They check the length of your sentence, whether you attempted to escape, detainees from other jurisdictions, and many other things, to determine whether you are ready to be shipped to another institution that provides lower security.

Needless to say, I had done nothing but try to escape, smoke marijuana, and arrange the gathering of illegal equipment. I hadn’t snitched, hadn’t kissed any asses, and hadn’t taken any educational courses. I had a long sentence, an escape on my record and an I.N.S. hold because I was a foreigner. I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of being transferred to lower security. I shouldn’t have had the temerity to ask God to intervene; it would be an unreasonable request. However, while sitting in the hall waiting my turn to go in, I did mumble a small prayer that if it was His will I’d certainly appreciate anything He could do for me.

I was in and out of the room in ten minutes. My counselor praised me to the other members. He said I was a hard worker, always kept my cell clean and tidy, was polite, stayed out of trouble; he went on and on. I couldn’t resist a surreptitious glance around the room, to see if there was someone else in there that he was talking about. Who, me? Nothing about my detainees or previous escape was mentioned. I was approved! Within fifteen days I was transferred to the South Unit, a medium security wing outside the walls of the main prison. It was like being released on parole.

Chapter Three

Up to My Old Tricks

All prisons are bad. None are good. But when you are released from maximum security, there’s no describing the feeling. Security lessens, the guards appear to be nicer and more relaxed, the air seems cleaner and tensions diminish.

From the South Unit, I could see cars driving down the road. Off in the distance I could see trees, horses and cows in the fields. The compound was made up of about a dozen buildings. Six of those were Second World War surplus Quonset huts used as housing for approximately 600 inmates. They were all named after desert plants: Yucca, Mesquite, Saguaro, Cholla. There were no cells, just all open space, and each inmate owned an eight-by-ten area, with string roping off each man’s space. Inside this area, one had a bed, a locker, and if he could afford to buy them, a television, a stereo, and a fan. We were in the middle of a vast desert where for about six months of the year the temperature reached somewhere in the neighborhood of 115 degrees daily, and these units were not air conditioned. It was like living in an oven.

There was a big chow hall at one end of the grounds. There was a big recreation yard with a running track, softball field, weight pits, boxing ring, basketball, tennis and handball courts. At the furthest point, nearest the highway, were the administration building, the chapel, and the visiting room. This area was closed off to the general prison population by a twelve-foot chain-link fence. Although an inmate could travel there (the gate wasn’t kept locked), if he was stopped and questioned he had better have a legitimate reason for being there or he would be written up for being out of bounds.

Six guard towers surrounded the complex. It was considered medium security, which had to do with the interior. The exterior’s security was quite maximum. In the sixteen years this unit had been in existence, there had never been a successful escape. Several convicts had been shot off the fences over those years. Other methods such as tunneling, disguising, and hiding in garbage trucks had all been tried and thwarted.

In my travels around the compound over the next several days, I found it to be just as secure as the place I’d come from. But I figured that I was here through the grace of God, and I didn’t believe He had allowed me to come so I could spend the next twelve years on this God-forsaken desert, 3,000 miles away from family and friends in Canada, enduring 120 degree temperatures. No, I knew there was a way out of here and I was determined to find it.

If there was a weak link in the security, I figured it had to be in the newest part of the prison. That would be in the administration, visiting, and chapel areas. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. I made some inquiries about finding a job in that fenced off area. They were the only buildings inside the compound that were air conditioned, so naturally everyone in the joint would have liked to work there, and my just arriving made me low man on the totem pole. The visiting room had wall-to-wall carpet, vending machines, microwave ovens, nice restrooms with big mirrors (those are things we don’t have inside the prison) and, best of all, the orderlies were in a good position to smuggle goods (like drugs) back into the prison. Only three people were needed to clean the visiting area, and prison policy called for hiring one white, one black, and one Hispanic. So the chances of my getting a job there were slim-to-none.

I approached the guard in charge, Sergeant Quick, and asked if there were any job openings. There was one, but only a crazy man would seek it out. It was August, when the temperatures hovered around 115 degrees every day, and someone was needed to sweep about a quarter mile of sidewalk within the enclosure every day. That same person would be required to water and take care of plants, pick up garbage and cigarette butts. The pay was about ten dollars a month. No one else wanted the job. I jumped at it. For the next two months I swept, watered, planted, cleaned windows and picked up garbage and cigarette butts, stretching a ninety minute a day job into three to four hours per day. Every time my immediate boss, the warden, or the major would come out of the administrative building to travel to the compound, they would comment on what a great job I was doing and how hard I worked

Let me point out that I was doing all this with one thing in mind: escaping! But I wasn’t laughing at those people behind their backs. The warden, Joe Martinez, was one of the nicest men I ever met. Not just in prison, but anywhere. Major Gallagher always had a kind word for me or any other inmate he encountered. He was a fine, fine, gentleman. I couldn’t find a nicer man than my boss, Sergeant Quick. These were all decent and caring men. I liked them. I’ve been to a few prisons in my time and never met better people than them.

About four months into my job, the guards busted the three visiting room orderlies attempting to smuggle a pound of marijuana into the compound, and locked them up. The next morning I was at my job site earlier than usual, before the bosses arrived at 8 a.m., and already soaking wet with perspiration. I knew they would need to hire one white cleaner for the visiting room , and I was willing to get down on my knees and beg, if need be, to get that job. I was sure it was my way out of there. When Sergeant Quick arrived at eight o’clock sharp, I intentionally got in his way.

Good morning Sergeant, I said, as he tried to hurry by.

You’ve got this area looking great, Mitchell. You’re doing a good job here. Keep up the good work, he said.

Yeah, but I have to start really early, though: This heat is killing me, I said. Sure would like a job in a nice air conditioned building. If you’re ever looking for a good man to clean the visiting room, keep me in mind. I’d do a good job for you, sir.

"Well, it just