Caught

I went to Washington D.C., but I have no memory of how I got there after crashing the sail boat on the east coast of Florida. I must have stolen a car because there was no way I would attempt to hitchhike through Savannah so soon after the escape. Wish I could remember. My memory is like that at times. I can remember significant events most of the time, but I often forget other things. I'm beginning to believe that memory loss is God's gift to the old. I wish I could remember all the time spent with my family and forget everything else.

What I do recall is why I went to Washington. During my brief stint in the Virginia prison system I'd met Bradley B. (last name withheld to protect my guilty friend). Bradley came to our wedding in Ohio. Had circumstances not required I ask my step-father to be my best man, Bradley would have had that honor. Bradley wasn't a bad guy, but he wasn't always a good guy either. Like myself, Bradley wasn't a guy who would ever hurt anyone, but he wasn't adverse to removing funds from those who could afford the loss. Bradley was a con man. He was tall and handsome. He had a way of talking that convinced you he was Ivy League and cultured. He was easy to trust. His long-time girlfriend, Ann (last name withheld to protect the innocent) was a federal government lawyer who lived at Watergate. Ann was a white lawyer and Bradley a black criminal. They were a perfect pair except for their many difference.

The reason I went to Bradley was that I needed a driver's licenses and passport. Bradley was the only one I knew who could arrange such things and the only one I trusted enough to go to. Bradley definitely had the right contacts to make this happen. So we met in D.C. and spent the day together. Ann was home that week so we couldn't go there. She happened to work for a particular government agency involved with criminal fugitives, so Bradley thought it best Ann didn't know I was in town. I agreed. We both trusted Ann, but didn't want to put her in such a position. So we drove around D.C. in Bradley's car all morning with him making regular stops for phone calls. (Pre cell phone days.) Though Bradley had the right government contact to get me the perfect identity, that contact was a woman who was upset with my friend at the moment. I could understand this as I was beginning to get upset with him myself. Eventually she agreed to meet him for lunch. For this he had to dump me. Bradley explained that Washington, D.C. had the most law enforcement per square mile of any city in the world, so he was concerned about me running around the city on foot without ID. He suggested I ride the subway for a few hours while he meet with his contact.

For two hours I toured the D.C. underground via train. When I got bored I would pop out and play tourist or grab a sandwich, then go back underground. After three hours of this I called Bradley at home and caught him there. His primary contact was giving him grief so he was looking on the street for another. He told me to hang tight then call back that evening. Then he would meet me and take me somewhere safe. I didn't care for this idea. I didn't like his going to a street contact he didn't know for my ID and I didn't like the idea of his taking care of me by finding me a safe place to stay. I trusted Bradley, but to my core I am the definition of the Lone Wolf. I don't run in a pack. When I run, I run alone. As a precaution, after talking to Bradley I went back into the subway and decided to get off the train at the fourth stop. It was a purely random thing. I had no idea where the fourth stop would be.

It was the Pentagon. I knew this before leaving the train, I knew this might not be the best place for me, but having already made up my mind to be random I exited there. Besides, I'd never seen the Pentagon so thought it would be interesting. I rode the longest escalator I've ever seen to the surface and saw the Pentagon for the first time. I didn't think they did tours, and wouldn't have done one if the did, but I did walk with a crowd toward the entrance. As I walked by the Pentagon's large parking lot I was drawn to a line of parked motorcycles. One of them was a nice Honda 750 all decked out with Windjammer wind screen and hard sided saddlebags. It also had a for sale sign. While I stood there admiring the Honda someone walked up behind me and said, "How would you like to own that bike." Smart mouth that I am I answered, "I was just thinking about that," and I was. I'd been thinking about stealing it.

"Want to take it for a test ride." I heard keys jingle. I turned around to see an Army Colonel in dress uniform with a sheaf of papers in one hand and keys to the Honda in another. I asked him how much he wanted for the bike and then a couple of appropriate questions. The type of questions a serious potential buyer might ask. He unlocked his full face helmet from the bike lock then handed it to me along with the keys. He suggested I take it around the parking lot. That was a safe bet as it was a large parking lot bordered with a foot high curb. The only way out was through a gated exit with armed guards.

I rode the bike slowly around the edge of the parking lot, putting as much distance as possible between the owner and myself while looking for a way out of the secure parking lot. On the far side, next to the raised road I found my exit. A water drain in the parking lot's security curb made an opening just wide enough to get the big Honda through. Past the opening was a controlled access highway with a fence, but fifty feet away the fence had been torn down by what appeared to have been an accident. I negotiated the Honda through the small opening then up the shallow embankment, across the grass then through the torn section of fence. I looked back at the Colonel and saw papers flying over his head. I felt bad about the theft, but I did like the bike. Carpe Diem.

I drove south into Virginia. When I stopped for gas I called Bradley and told him there was a change in plans. I asked him to keep working on the ID and I'd call him in a few weeks. I drove a few more exits and called Mary. I asked if she was ready to roll and she said she was. It would take her two hours to wrap things up then she could go. I told her to drive to Virginia Beach. "How will I find you," she asked. "Just go to Virginia Beach," I said. "I'll find you." She had a ten hour drive plus a two hour delay. I had a three hour drive. That would give me nine hours to set things up and wait for her. I stopped outside of Richmond and bought a tent, sleeping bag, backpack, and binoculars, then continued on down I-64 towards Tidewater. East of Williamsburg I found a country road that ran next to the interstate with a wooded area behind it. I went down that road and found a good place to pull into the woods. I went in deep enough that the bike couldn't be seen and parked it. I found a place where I could hide in the woods and still get a good view of I-64's east bound traffic, then went back to the bike, pitched the tent and went to sleep.

Seven hours later I woke, packed up the gear on the bike, then took position to watch the traffic. If everything went as planned Mary would drive by my position in 90 minutes. Sooner was possible, which is why I was set up early. I doubted Mary would have left Ohio when she planned. My wife was consistently late. This time was no exception. Two and a half hours after the time she should have passed my location I spotted her car. With my binoculars I could see the fatigue on her face. It had been a long drive and I am sure a stressful day for her. I doubt my cryptic, "I'll find you" helped any. After getting a positive ID on my wife I used the binoculars to study every car behind her. I looked at the driver and passenger of every car that passed for exactly two minutes after she passed. None looked suspicious and I doubted anyone would follow her from more than two miles back. Satisfied she was alone I got on the bike and hurried to catch up with her.

It took longer than I expected to catch up with her, but I managed it before she crossed the tunnel into Norfolk. Still looking for a tail I followed from a distance. If a car or driver looked even remotely suspicious I rode up next to it and looked down into the car for signs of cop accessories. When I was positive she wasn't being followed I pulled up next to her at a red light and taped on her window. My wife gave me a dirty look then looked straight ahead. I remembered she couldn't see my face because of the full face helmet, so I raised the visor and knocked again. She was shocked to see me sitting there on the big motorcycle. The light had changed so I told her to follow me. We found a secluded camp ground and set up house. Mary, Emily, and I.

The camp ground was a secluded spot south of Virginia Beach, just off a tidal marsh with a saltwater channel running near our tent. There were a couple of canoes for guest to use so we spent a good deal of time exploring the salt water marshes and even went out into a wider bay once. Though this was a far more pleasant experience, canoeing through a salt water marsh reminded me of the Georgia swamp where I had been tortured so severely. I still wore physical wounds from those memories, but what I was experiencing with my wife and child was so idyllic as to overpower the bad memories for ever. It is ironic that I would find peace in a swamp so soon after my escape into a different swamp. That six weeks was heavenly. Unfortunately, that heavenly experience was book-ended by hell.

After six weeks our money ran out and Mary needed to return to Ohio, so we broke camp and went our separate way with plans to meet again as soon as possible. I headed for Illinois for potential work, driving the Honda.

I've always believed it's an unnecessary risk to switch plates on a stolen vehicle. The reason being that once away from the area the vehicle was stolen, the only way a cop is going to know its stolen is to run the plates. Back then he had to call the plates into his dispatcher, so it wasn't done without reason. So if you stole a plate and put it on your stolen vehicle then it would come back stolen too. All you've really done is take an unnecessary risk by stealing a license plate. Trust me, that's not as easy to do as you'd think. So when I stopped at the western most service plaza on the Ohio Turnpike for coffee the stolen Honda 750 still wore its original plates. This would have been fine except those plates were issued in Washington, D.C., which proved to be the exception to my rule. While I sat in a cafeteria drinking coffee, relaxing my sore muscles, a rookie Ohio State Trooper spotted the D.C. plates on the Honda and was curious as to the owner. He was curious because he'd never seen D.C. plates on anything. So he called it in and got a hit. They didn't realize the stolen Honda was being ridden by an escaped prisoner, but they did know it was stolen, so he called for backup.

When I walked out the door with helmet in hand two shotgun armed Ohio State Troopers sprung their trap, and a well laid trap it was. I wasn't armed, but did take a second to look around for a way out. There was none, so I raised my hands in surrender. It was June 18, 1979. I'd escaped from Georgia two months earlier.