Free Sutton by J. R. Moehringer Page B

in twenty-six minutes. Eddie is first, followed by Happy, then Willie. Willie would have been first, but he slowed halfway and briefly toyed with the idea of letting go, sinking forever to the bottom. They stand on the dock, dripping, gasping, laughing with pride.
    Now comes the problem of getting back. Eddie wants to swim. Willie and Happy roll their eyes. We’re walking, Ed.
    Willie’s first time on the Brooklyn Bridge. Those cables, those Gothic brick arches—beautiful. Daddo says men died building this bridge. The arches are their headstones. Willie thinks they died for a good cause. Daddo also says this bridge, when first opened, terrified people. It was too big, no one thought it would stay up. Barnum had to walk a herd of elephants across to prove that it was safe. Part of Willie is still terrified. Not by the size, but the height. He doesn’t like heights. It’s not a fear of falling so much as a queasiness at seeing the world from above. Especially Manhattan. The big city is intimidating enough across the river. From up here it’s too much. Too magical, too desirable, too mythically beautiful, like the women in Photoplay . He wants it. He hates it. He longs to conquer it, capture it, keep it all to himself. He’d like to burn it to the ground.
    The bird’s-eye view of Irish Town is still more unsettling. From the apex of the bridge it looks slummier, meaner. Willie scans the chimneys, the ledges, the grimed windows and mudded streets. Even if you leave, you never escape.
    We should take the BQE, Photographer says .
    No, Reporter says, stay on surface streets .
    Why?
    Buildings, stores, statues—there’s stuff on the streets that might jog Mr. Sutton’s memory .
    While Reporter and Photographer debate the best route to their next stop, Thirteenth Street, Sutton rests his eyes. He feels the car stop short. He opens his eyes. Red light .
    He rolls his head to the right. Tumbledown stores, each one new, unfamiliar. Is this really Brooklyn? It might as well be Bangkok. Where there used to be a bar and grill, there’s now a record store. Where there used to be a record store, there’s now a clothing store. How many nights, lying in his cell, did Sutton mentally walk the old Brooklyn? Now it’s gone, all gone. The old neighborhoods were just cardboard sets and paper scenery, which someone casually struck and carted off. Then again, one thing never changes. None of these stores looks to be hiring .
    What’s that, Mr. Sutton?
    Nothing .
    Sutton sees an electronics store. Dozens of TVs in the front window .
    Stop the car, stop the car .
    Photographer looks left, right. We are stopped. We’re at a red light, Willie .
    Sutton opens the door. The sidewalk is covered with patches of frozen snow. He steps carefully toward the electronics store. On every TV it’s—Willie Sutton. Last night. Walking out of Attica. But it’s also not him. It’s Father. And Mother. He hadn’t realized how much his face has come to look like them both .
    Sutton presses his nose against the window, cups his hands around his eyes. On a few screens closer to the window is President Nixon. A recent news conference .
    Reporter walks up .
    Did you ever notice, kid, how much presidents act like wardens?
    I can’t say as I have, Mr. Sutton .
    Trust me. They do .
    Have you ever voted, Mr. Sutton?
    Every time I took down a bank I was voting .
    Reporter writes this in his notebook .
    Tell you one thing, Sutton says. I’d love to have voted against President Shifty Eyes here. Fuckin criminal .
    Reporter laughs. I’m no Nixon fan, Mr. Sutton—but a criminal?
    Doesn’t he remind you of anybody kid?
    No. Should he?
    The eyes. Look at the eyes .
    Reporter moves closer to the window, looks at Nixon, then back at Sutton. Back at Nixon. Now that you mention it, he says .
    I wouldn’t trust either of us as far as I could throw us, Sutton says. Did you know that Nixon, when he worked on Wall Street, lived in the same apartment building as Governor