Saga of a Guy Who Flipped From Poky
“I walk alone,” the voice on the phone told me, more as an apology than as a boast. “With me, it’s habit. I guess I never learned any other way.”
The voice was a man’s and a drawl. It continued: “Funny I should be calling somebody like you for help after all these years of going it alone.”
The time was about 3:45, yesterday afternoon.
“What do you need?” I asked.
“I need-” he started, and stopped. “Is this phone tapped?”
“No.”
| “You won’t trace it, or call anybody, until I’m through talking?””No.”
“I’ll trust you,” the man said. Then, for a long minute, he said nothing. Finally, he began again. “I just flipped. That’s the only way to explain it.” “Explain what?” “Why I broke out of jail. It was about eight o’clock, after dinner, and I was just sitting there on my bunk and I started thinking about my kid. I just flipped.” Now the conversation was coming easy. “He’s three, and I got this weird idea that he’s run out in the street and be hit by a car. Silly things. Things like that were going through my mind.” “How did you escape?” I asked. “Domestic troubles,” he continued, ignoring the question. “When my wife came to visit me, I told her to get a divorce. It would be better for the kid — and now we’ve got another one, a baby girl — if he never remembered me. “That’s what I told her. I told her I was no good. That’s what happens to me sometimes. I get off on a negative kick.” “What were you doing time for?” I said. There was a sigh. “This’ll get you. Robbery, second degree. They gave ma a year. With good time, I could have been out in March. So I ran away. “I ran straight home and saw the kid. I was afraid he would have forgotten me, but he didn’t. I wasn’t there thirty minutes when he turned to his mother and said, ‘This is Daddy.’ ” The caller continued to unwind. He was 33, he said. He’d had one felony conviction for first degree robbery. He got five-to-life for it. He came out in April of ’55, and not too long afterwards, he married.
“It was my fault. It’s been my fault all along. Like this escape. They trusted me, made me a trusty. So I took off.” I asked him from where. “Montrose substation. My kid — he talks real good now. When I saw him the last time, he barely talked.” “What’s your name?” I asked. He answered without a hesitation. “Elias Smith. Elias like the Biblical Elias. Elias Smith Jr.” “What are you going to do?” This time, he paused. “I wish I knew what they’re going to do with me.” “You’re ready to go back?” I pressed him slightly. “It’s one-to-ten years for escape,” he sighed. “When I left my wife last Monday, I told her I’d turn myself in. I promised. And she said she’d wait for me. That was all I wanted to hear. “I started to turn myself in, but I got confused. Now it’s Wednesday and I’m still confused. You’re not tracing this call, are you?” he asked again. He Got Confused
“No,” I assured him. “All right,” he said doubtfully. He told me where he was calling from. “Now,” he added, “two favors. You call them for me, would you? And give me 10 minutes for a cup of coffee.” I waited 10 minutes, then called. Half an hour later, a sheriff’s deputy called me back to report that Elias Smith Jr. was a man of his word. |
“I got a good job. I worked,” he said. “I thought everything was going to be all right. Then I goofed.
ladailymirror.com 