He came to comfort the convicts;
instead, he became a prisoner of mutineers who
were ready to kill and did
sentences for robbery and armed assault.
The office was hardly big enough for three persons, yet
for the next agonizing hours 10 of us would face life and
death in this room. The prisoners' moods ranged from
black rage to sympathy for our plight. Fenton was clutch
ing my arm in a viselike grip. With his other hand, he
pressed a blade of shears against my ribs. .
I admit I felt fear but, strangely, not for my own safety.
I kept wondering what would happen to my wife and chil
dren without me. I turned to Fenton: "If you have to cut
me, I hope you will maim me rather than kill me. I have a
family. They need me."
Fenton chuckled. There was no humor in it, though.
Vaughn, I noticed, had a crude knife. I believe Maher
had been armed but had dropped his weapon on the plat
form. Now, however, he smashed a table and re-armed
himself with a splintered leg.
Vaughn was starting to close the office door when I saw
a guard, Albert Valley, sidle along a wall toward us. He
was armed only with a billy but obviously planned to rush
our captors. I watched his every move but before he could
spring, the convicts spotted him.
"Don't do anything, Valley," one shouted. "We'll knife
'em if you do."
Valley hesitated. "Get Moriarity," was the next com
mand from the rebels. Capt. James Moriarity was well
liked by most inmates; the mutineers would try to bargain
with him. Valley left reluctantly.
The room was tense and hot. There were only three
chairs, so most of us stood. I called Fenton's attention to
the fact that his hand was bleeding. Several of us offered
handkerchiefs to bind the wound. He accepted gratefully,
and for a moment, tension eased.
When moriarity arrived, the mutineers laid down
their ultimatum. They wanted a getaway car, with a
police escort in front and behind. They would take some of
us with them as hostages. The gates were to be opened, and
the escort would take them to the main highway. There the
hostages would be released.
"You know I can't do that," Moriarity protested. "Not
even the warden can."
"Well, get somebody who can !" Maher screamed. He had
become increasingly nervous, and J thought how lucky we
were that lie had lost his knife in the scuffle with Becker.
He might have used it right then. He grabbed the tele
'phone. "Give me a line to the governor," he screamed wildly.
But the telephone was dead. "You'll just have to wait,"
Moriarity told the desperate men. To the hostages, that
sounded like a death sentence.
At one point in the long wait I asked Fenton what made
a man turn to crime, "I guess a criminal mind," he replied
laconically. "As for freedom well, that's relative."
I agreed readily. "Christ is the universal freedom giver,"
I said. "Freedom is in the minds and souls of men. I have
a father-in-law who spent months in a Communist concen
tration camp, and he said he was free even then."
Krake spoke up. "Christ can give you freedom even while
you are in prison true freedom such as no man or govern
ment can give. He said: 'Whomsoever the Son sets free
shall be free, indeed.' "
"I tried that stuff for a while, but it didn't work," Fenton
replied. Maher peered sullenly out the broken window.
Vaughn remained in deep silence.
Bargaining continued but to no avail. Assistant Warden
Walter Craven even laid down the most courageous of
offers. "Boys," he pleaded, "let me come in there in place
of those hostages. They haven't done you any harm."
They howled down the suggestion. But Craven never
left his post outside the door after that, and he remained
a symbol to us that we were not alone in our danger, that
brave men were helping us.
BUT Now fear began to grow in the arrogant menace of
the mutineers. It was obvious that prison authorities
would not bow; that they were preparing to rush the
chapel. Still another thought haunted the convicts: had
they murdered Becker? They would accept only the word
of the Catholic chaplain, so Father Roman Brenner left
the bargaining group and went to the hospital.
When he returned, his face was set in grim lines. "I am
sorry," he said. "Becker is dead." Singing a hymn, Becker
had been carried to the hospital; he died 30 minutes later.
We hostages exchanged quick, fearful glances. The muti
neers had committed the ultimate crime, murder, and now
had nothing to lose in their gamble for freedom. Our lives
were insignificant now.
But Fenton's keen mind saw another possibility. He
called for Richard A. McGee, director of the penal system,
who had rushed to the scene. "What about Section 4500?"
Fenton asked. This section of the California penal code
makes death mandatory for a lifer who commits murder.
Warden Robert Heinze brought the besieged men a copy of
Section 4500 to study.
Our lives depended upon McGee's decision. If he prom
ised not to prosecute under this section, the mutineers could
at least escape the gas chamber; if McGee refused well,
nobody could guess. Maher crouched on the desk like a
tiger at bay. Vaughn stood anxiously at the door. Fenton
waited, with me at his side.
"I will recommend to the district attorney," said McGee,
"that you not be prosecuted under Section 4500. But noth
ing more."
"Well, fellows?" Fenton said quietly. He himself re
versed his shears and tapped the blade on the palm of his
hand. A vote to give up! Maher hesitated. After a moment,
Fenton reached out and took Vaughn's knife. Then Maher
handed over his table leg. After 3Vi hours, the chapel siege
ended wordlessly.
Reporters asked us later if we would go back to Folsom.
Certainly we will. For even in prison, men can find freedom.
The only truly imprisoned men are those who have not
found the freedom of Christ, and this is the freedom we
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