The Art of the Heist by Myles J. Connor

camaraderie at the jail. My friendship with Bergeron and the fact that my father was also a cop had served to further endear me to the staff. Up to that point I’d returned their goodwill by being a model prisoner, so the guards were understandably disturbed to see me so violently agitated.
    A few hours into my tirade the guard captain, an old Irishman, cameto my cell to inform me that he had called my father and my attorney, John Irwin, and that both men were on their way to see me.
    “Myles,” he said, “for whatever it’s worth, no one here believes that stuff in the paper. We all know about your battles with the police and that this is their way of getting you back. Just realize we aren’t part of it. We’re not your enemies.”
    The captain’s speech had a calming effect. I knew he was right and that I was taking out my frustration on the wrong people by lashing out at the Charles Street staff. But I was still seething.
    When, half an hour later, I was taken from my cell to one of the conference rooms to meet with my father and John Irwin, I erupted once again, cursing the Boston police and the MDC, voicing my regrets over having let Deschamps and the others live. Eventually my rage ebbed and I realized the pain my words were causing my father. After all, he was one of them.
    “I can understand why you’re so angry and upset,” my father said when I finally let him speak. “But don’t be. I know you didn’t do these things.”
    “How can you say you know anything?” I asked. “It was in the goddamn paper. Even if you don’t believe it, everyone else will.”
    My father laid his hand on my arm. I could tell he was struggling with the accusations, wanting more than anything to believe it was all a lie. “Remember when you were brought into court shackled to that other fellow?”
    “Sure,” I answered, recalling my arraignment hearing.
    “And you remember those girls in the front row with Caselli and Hurley?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, that was your lineup. That girl had been brought in to pick you out as the person who assaulted her.”
    Though the fact that Caselli and Hurley had conducted their lineup during my hearing was disturbing, I was nonetheless comforted by this revelation. Surely, I thought, the identifications wouldn’t hold up in court. You can’t just point out a shackled prisoner to a bunch ofteenage girls and ask them if he’s a rapist. No judge in the world would allow this kind of testimony in his or her courtroom.
    My father and I talked for a while longer, and by the time I returned to my cell I was feeling better. I was innocent, after all, and still possessed the false confidence of all innocent men.
    John Irwin visited me several times over the next few weeks to discuss the details of my plea agreement. On his counsel, I eventually agreed to plead guilty to the several charges of assault with intent to murder—reduced from about ninety such charges—that had been brought against me in conjunction with the Back Bay shoot-out. In addition, I would also plead guilty to a handful of charges stemming from the contraband police had discovered during the raid on my Revere apartment. The charges included possession of a silencer, a pen gun, stolen goods, and counterfeit money. By all rights, I should have also been charged with possession of the explosive C-4, which the cops had found during the raid. But amazingly, they had failed to recognize the substance.
    In return for my guilty plea, Irwin surmised, I would likely face a sentence of anywhere from seven to fifteen years in state prison, this to run concurrently with the time I had yet to serve for the Maine burglary and the jail escape. It was hardly ideal, but it seemed to be the best I could hope for under the circumstances.
    Just days before my final court date and transfer to the state prison at Walpole, my attorney came to see me one last time. The prosecution had approached him with yet another offer.
    “If you plead