Canon City

---

(dramatic music)

(narrator)

Deep in the mountains of Colorado

is the Royal Gorge

of the Arkansas River,

tamed by the steepest

tramway in the world,

climbing up

from the depths,

past 1,550 feet of sheer

red rock to the canyon rim.

A suspension bridge

spans the gorge,

its roadways soaring

higher in the air

than the topmost tip

of the Empire State Building.

Near the Royal Gorge

is the town

that is the subject

of this true story,

a town that has seen

United States Cavalry,

mountain men,

beaver hunters,

Indian scouts, gold seekers.

Settled by covered-wagon

pioneers,

cowhands, miners,

by hunters,

trappers, and farmers,

it is today the home

of their grandsons

and daughters,

and a typical

Western community.

Caon City,

population 7,000.

Elevation, one mile and

63 feet above sea level.

A city of small homes

that is set in a beautiful

and rugged land of mountains

and canyons,

a land

that smiles in summer,

in winter, is often

grim with blizzards.

But within Caon City,

there is another city,

a grim place

of gray stone walls...

of watchtowers,

of armed guards...

the Colorado

State Penitentiary.

Established in 1868

as a territorial prison

by the Federal Government,

it became

the state penitentiary

when Colorado was admitted

into the Union in 1876.

It has been a going business

ever since

and a home for those

who like to have their

own way too much

and have taken forbidden

steps to achieve their aims.

All kinds are here--

murderers, kidnappers,

thieves, robbers,

embezzlers.

The warden

of a penal institution

has a grave responsibility--

absolute control

over the lives and futures

of hundreds of men.

To the tough-minded,

he must be tougher.

To those who show promise

and a desire to make good

again in society,

he must be understanding.

Meet Warden Roy Best.

How are you?

(narrator)

Fine, thanks.

Have a chair.

Thank you, I will.

Warden, tell me, what's the

population of this prison?

Uh, something over 1,200.

And how many of those

men are doing life?

It's better than 10%.

And what's the--

(barking)

Chris.

Has Chris got

a bad temper?

Well, he's allergic

to quick moves.

Then I won't make

any sudden moves.

I was about to ask,

what's the toughest job

in prison?

Well, naturally,

I think mine.

It must be

a heavy responsibility.

You don't show it.

Nevertheless,

it's always with you.

No doubt.

You must have

some inmates

with interesting

stories in here.

Well, we think we have.

Let's go and meet

some of them.

I'd like to,

very much.

(narrator)

These men, behind walls, disciplined,

subject to routine,

deprived of freedom,

wearing prison gray,

are still human beings--

sons and husbands

and fathers.

In spite of a few

who are untamable,

because of the many

who can be helped,

modern penology recognizes

man's need of work

and furnishes tools

and machinery.

Here in the knitting mill,

prisoners make socks

and underwear

for all inmates

and learn a trade that will

aid them after release.

And here in the prison

tailor shop,

inmates manufacture work

clothing and going-away suits.

Hey, that looks like

a good fit.

You'd never know

where it came from.

I'm getting out of here

next week.

Congratulations.

Where do you go?

To Denver.

My wife will

meet me at the train.

She's waited 12 years--

stuck by me,

in spite of everything.

Hey, look, when they

press the coat,

don't let 'em put

a crease in the sleeve.

(narrator)

Other inmates work in the stamping mill,

making state license plates

and road signs.

In the West,

when they say something,

they're not fooling.

Let's ask this old timer

a few questions.

What's your name?

Joe Bundy.

Been here long?

Oh, quite a piece.

Since 1897.

50 years.

Aren't you about due

for a parole?

They can keep it.

Where would I go?

Who'd want me?

That's the worst

punishment of all--

when nobody wants you.

Yep.

(narrator)

Here, inmates with special skills

and an artistic bent

work at making hooked rugs.

Let's talk to this boy.

What's your name, son?

Carlo Nova.

And how old are you?

14 years old.

What crime were you

convicted of?

Murder.

What's your sentence?

20 years to 30 years.

(narrator) Warden Best has

recommended this inmate for parole.

The man

has proven himself.

Our next stop

is the gymnasium.

Mr. Frady, you're

athletic instructor

for the prison,

aren't you?

Yes.

How long have you

been here?

I came here when I was 23,

convicted of murder.

And you got life?

I got death.

Four hours before I was

to die in the gas chamber,

the warden got my sentence

commuted.

I see.

And do you expect

to be paroled?

Yes, in '49.

I'm going

to show the world

that the warden made

no mistake

when he

gave me back my life.

(narrator)

In the afternoon, the work details

return from their labors

on Quarry Hill.

The prison day begins early

and ends early.

Although familiarity and

routine can breed contempt,

the authorities

never forget

that these men are here

against their will.

All prisoners are checked

for contraband

on their return from work.

This electronic frisker

sounds an alarm

whenever anyone carries

a metal object past it.

The robot guard gets alarmed

over anything metallic,

harmless or not,

and it can be set so fine

that it will announce

the nails in your shoes.

Immediately after chow,

the 1,200 inmates march

into the cell house,

and by 5 p.m.,

while it is still daylight,

are locked away in their

cells for the long night.

All over the prison,

in the other cell houses,

men are filing along

the galleries,

standing before

their cell doors.

On signal, the cell doors

are opened by the bar men.

These are inmate trustees,

and one bar man

handles each tier of cells.

Again, on signal, the bar men

close the cells.

These are the hardest

hours of each prison day,

when a man is left alone

with his thoughts

of what has been,

of what might have been.

As another round

of routine ends,

every man

behind these bars

is dreaming of only

one day--

the day of freedom.

This is Johnson,

a long-termer.

Perhaps the boat model is,

to him,

a symbol of the open sea,

of freedom to roam,

of hope.

His cell neighbor

is Sherbondy,

in for the

killing of an officer.

He was committed

when he was 17.

He's now 29.

(dramatic music)

How is the

new boat coming?

Great.

She'll soon be

ready to launch.

Is that all

you're building?

A boat?

Why?

I know when

something's going on.

Wise guy, huh?

You'll never make it.

I'm not in this alone.

We've got every

angle figured.

We can't miss.

That's what

they all think.

Look at Smalley,

Hathaway, Lavergne.

They tried it more

than once,

and they're still here.

Murray made it.

He was out

five years.

And they found him

and brought him back.

So, we don't make

the same mistakes.

Now, get this.

(footfalls)

(narrator)

Hope springs eternal, they say,

and never more so

than for those in prison.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes