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of thing that ends up with a guard grabbing some poor, sidling slob's arm and growling,
'Where do you think you're going, you happy asshole?'
Henley said he'd class maybe sixty of them as more serious attempts, and he included the
'prison break' of 1937, the year before I arrived at the Shank. The new administration
wing was under construction then and fourteen cons got out, using construction
equipment in a poorly locked shed. The whole of southern Maine got into a panic over
those fourteen 'hardened criminals', most of whom were scared to death and had no more
idea of where they should go than a jackrabbit does when it's headlight-pinned to the
highway with a big truck bearing down on it Not one of those fourteen got away. Two of
them were shot dead - by civilians, not police officers or prison personnel -but none got
away.
How many had gotten away between 1938, when I came here, and that day in October
when Andy first mentioned Zihuatanejo to me? Putting my information and Henley's
together, I'd say ten. Ten that got away clean. And although it isn't the kind of thing you
can know for sure, I'd guess that at least half of those ten are doing time in other
institutions of lower learning like the Shank. Because you do get institutionalized. When
you take away a man's freedom and teach him to live in a cell, he seems to lose his ability
to think in dimensions. He's like that jackrabbit I mentioned, frozen in the oncoming
lights of the truck that is bound to kill it More often than not a con who's just out will pull
some dumb job that hasn't a chance in hell of succeeding ... and why? Because it'll get
him back inside. Back where he understands how things work.
Andy wasn't that way, but I was. The idea of seeing the Pacific sounded good, but I was
afraid that actually being there would scare me to death - the bigness of it
Anyhow, the day of that conversation about Mexico, and about Mr Peter Stevens ... that
was the day I began to believe that Andy had some idea of doing a disappearing act. I
hoped to God he would be careful if he did, and still, I wouldn't have bet money on his
chances of succeeding. Warden Norton, you see, was watching Andy with a special close
eye. Andy wasn't just another deadhead with a number to Norton; they had a working
relationship, you might say. Also, he had brains and he had heart Norton was determined
to use the one and crush the other.
As there are honest politicians on the outside - ones who stay bought - there are honest
prison guards, and if you are a good judge of character and if you have some loot to
spread around, I suppose it's possible that you could buy enough look-the-other-way to
make a break. I'm not the man to tell you such a thing has never been done, but Andy
Dufresne wasn't the man who could do it Because, as I've said, Norton was watching.
Andy knew it, and the screws knew it, too.
Nobody was going to nominate Andy for the Inside-Out programme, not as long as
Warden Norton was evaluating the nominations. And Andy was not the kind of man to
try a casual Sid Nedeau type of escape.
If I had been him, the thought of that key would have tormented me endlessly. I would
have been lucky to get two hours' worth of honest shuteye a night Buxton was less than
thirty miles from Shawshank. So near and yet so far.
I still thought his best chance was to engage a lawyer and try for the retrial Anything to