Read Sutton Online

Authors: J. R. Moehringer


BOOK: Sutton
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Copyright © 2012 J.R. Moehringer

Permissions below are for excerpts reprinted from previously published material in the following chapters:

Chapter One:
On the Road
by Jack Kerouac, Penguin Classics

Chapters One, Thirteen, Nineteen, Twenty-One, and Twenty-Two: “Francesca” by Ezra Pound, from
, copyright © 1926 by Ezra Pound, © Estate of Ezra Pound. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp. and Faber and Faber, Ltd.

Chapter Nine: From COMPLETE POEMS OF HART CRANE by Hart Crane, edited by Marc Simon. Copyright 1933, 1958, 1966 by Liveright Publishing Corporation. Copyright © 1986 by Marc Simon. Used by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation.

Part Two Opener: From SOLDIERS’ PAY by William Faulkner. Copyright 1954 by William Faulkner. Copyright 1926 by Boni & Liveright, Inc. Used by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation.

Chapter Twelve: © Bertolt Brecht, Ralph Manheim and John Willett,
Threepenny Opera
and Methuen Drama, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.

Frontmatter map © 2012 by David Cain

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011.

The Library of Congress has catalogued the original print edition of this book as follows:

Moehringer, J.R.

Sutton / J.R. Moehringer. — 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-4013-2314-1

1. Sutton, Willie—Fiction. 2. Brigands and robbers—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3613.O3346S88 2012



eBook Edition ISBN: 978-1-4013-0477-5

Hyperion books are available for special promotions and premiums. For details contact the HarperCollins Special Markets Department in the New York office at 212-207-7528, fax 212-207-7222, or email [email protected].

Cover design by Laura Klynstra

Cover photograph (top) by Richard Jenkins

Cover photograph (bottom) by Byron Company / MCNY

Author photograph by ABC / Donna Svennevik

First eBook Edition

Original hardcover edition printed in the United States of America.


For Roger and Sloan Barnett, with love and gratitude


After spending half his life in prison, off and on, Willie Sutton was set free for good on Christmas Eve, 1969. His sudden emergence from Attica Correctional Facility sparked a media frenzy. Newspapers, magazines, television networks, talk shows—everyone wanted an interview with the most elusive and prolific bank robber in American history.

Sutton granted only one. He spent the entire next day with one newspaper reporter and one still photographer, driving around New York City, visiting the scenes of his most famous heists and other points of interest in his remarkable life.

The resulting article, however, was strangely cursory, with several errors—or lies—and few real revelations.

Sadly, Sutton and the reporter and the photographer are all gone, so what happened among them that Christmas, and what happened to Sutton during the preceding sixty-eight years, is anyone’s guess.

This book is my guess.

But it’s also my wish.

I have said it thrice: What I tell you three times is true



Also by J.R. Moehringer

Map: New York City, 1969

Author’s Note

Part One










Part Two








Part Three










Readers Group Guide

An Interview with J.R. Moehringer

About the Author



He’s writing when they come for him.

He’s sitting at his metal desk, bent over a yellow legal pad, talking to himself, and to her—as always, to her. So he doesn’t notice them standing at his door. Until they run their batons along the bars.

He looks up, adjusts his large scuffed eyeglasses, the bridge mended many times with Scotch tape. Two guards, side by side, the left one fat and soft and pale, as if made from Crisco, the right one tall and scrawny and with a birthmark like a penny on his right cheek.

Left Guard hitches up his belt. On your feet, Sutton. Admin wants you.

Sutton stands.

Right Guard points his baton. What the? You crying, Sutton?

No sir.

Don’t you lie to me, Sutton. I can see you been crying.

Sutton touches his cheek. His fingers come away wet. I didn’t know I was crying sir.

Right Guard waves his baton at the legal pad. What’s that?

Nothing sir.

He asked you what is it, Left Guard says.

Sutton feels his bum leg starting to buckle. He grits his teeth at the pain. My novel sir.

They look around his book-filled cell. He follows their eyes. It’s never good when the guards look around your cell. They can always find something if they have a mind to. They scowl at the books along the floor, the books along the metal cabinet, the books along the cold-water basin. Sutton’s is the only cell at Attica filled with copies of Dante, Plato, Shakespeare, Freud. No, they confiscated his Freud. Prisoners aren’t allowed to have psychology books. The warden thinks they’ll try to hypnotize each other.

Right Guard smirks. He gives Left Guard a nudge—get ready. Novel, eh? What’s it about?

Just—you know. Life sir.

What the hell does an old jailbird know about life?

Sutton shrugs. That’s true sir. But what does anyone know?

Word is leaking out. By noon a dozen print reporters have already arrived and they’re huddled at the front entrance, stomping their feet, blowing on their hands. One of them says he just heard—snow on the way. Lots of it. Nine inches at least.

They all groan.

Too cold to snow, says the veteran in the group, an old wire service warhorse in suspenders and black orthopedic shoes. He’s been with UPI since the Scopes trial. He blows a gob of spit onto the frozen ground and scowls up at the clouds, then at the main guard tower, which looks to some like the new Sleeping Beauty’s Castle in Disneyland.

Too cold to stand out
, says the reporter from the
New York Post
. He mumbles something disparaging about the warden, who’s refused three times to let the media inside the prison. The reporters could be drinking hot coffee right now. They could be using the phones, making last-minute plans for Christmas. Instead the warden is trying to prove some kind of point. Why, they all ask, why?

Because the warden’s a prick, says the reporter from
, that’s why.

The reporter from
holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. Give a bureaucrat this much power, he says, and watch out. Stand back.

Not just bureaucrats, says the reporter from
The New York Times
. All bosses eventually become fascists. Human nature.

The reporters trade horror stories about their bosses, their editors, the miserable dimwits who gave them this god-awful assignment. There’s a brand-new journalistic term, appropriated just this year from the war in Asia, frequently applied to assignments like this, assignments where you wait with the herd, usually outdoors, exposed to the elements, knowing full well you’re not going to get anything good, certainly not anything the rest of the herd won’t get. The term is
. Every reporter gets caught in a clusterfuck now and then, it’s part of the job, but a clusterfuck on Christmas Eve? Outside Attica Correctional Facility? Not cool, says the reporter from the
Village Voice
. Not cool.

The reporters feel especially hostile toward that boss of all bosses, Governor Nelson Rockefeller. He of the Buddy Holly glasses and the chronic indecision. Governor Hamlet, says the reporter from UPI, smirking at the walls. Is he going to do this thing or not?

He yells at Sleeping Beauty’s Castle: Shit or get off the pot, Nelson! Defecate or abdicate!

The reporters nod, grumble, nod. Like the prisoners on the other side of this thirty-foot wall, they grow restless. The prisoners want out, the reporters want in, and both groups blame the Man. Cold, tired, angry, ostracized by society, both groups are close to rioting. Both fail to notice the beautiful moon slowly rising above the prison.

It’s full.

The guards lead Sutton from his cell in D block through a barred door, down a tunnel and into Attica’s central checkpoint—what prisoners call Times Square—which leads to all cell blocks and offices. From Times Square the guards take Sutton down to the deputy warden’s office. It’s the second time this month that Sutton has been called before the dep. Last week it was to learn that his parole request was denied—a devastating blow. Sutton and his lawyers had been so very confident. They’d won support from prominent judges, discovered loopholes in his convictions, collected letters from doctors vouching that Sutton was close to death. But the three-man parole board simply said no.

BOOK: Sutton
2.17Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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