Recently, I learned about Vicky White, an Alabama corrections officer who helped an inmate escape and became a fugitive, and was struck by the parallels between our stories. I couldn’t find the courage to look again, but I sensed his glance stretching into a steely stare as he said, “I’ll take this one.” A bit embarrassed, I blinked a couple of times, forcing my eyes back to my clipboard. My eyes settled for a prolonged moment on Manard until he glanced up at me.
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In a prison full of fearful, insecure men, his brash behavior sizzled. He methodically evaluated each one’s reactions, as if searching for hidden clues to health and demeanor. He checked mouths and eyes and slowly ran his fingers through their fur. His audacity as he examined each dog forced a smile to my face. When the time had come to choose a dog, Manard inspected each one, thoughtfully analyzing his choices. Hanging back from the initial throng, the lanky redhead occupied his own space. Several weeks later, I drove through gate one with another truckload of dogs for newly approved inmate dog handlers. 8, 2005, about two months before the escape. His dark sunglasses concealed just enough to set my mind to wonder, “Are those eyes the icy blue I’d expect on a redhead?” John Manard walks a dog on the grounds of the Lansing Correctional Facility alongside Toby Dorr, then Toby Young, on Dec. Everything about him, a testament to his character, unlike any other convicted killer I’d met while volunteering at the prison. I’d like to be your next handler.” I squinted one eye and shaded my other with my left hand. He offered his hand and with a deep drawl he announced, “I’m John Manard. He stopped directly in my path, eclipsing the blazing autumn sun, which created a dazzling crown of light. John’s casual stroll grayed the lines between carefree and careless, but I had no doubt that I was his target. With such a truly extraordinary and fulfilling purpose, I could not have been more oblivious to the insatiable gravity within me when John appeared from across the prison yard. Our market was families across the country who clamored for Safe Harbor Prison dogs. Toothy grins and wagging tails were my currency. In turn, the condemned dogs loved the men and instantly redecorated the spirit of the entire prison. Condemned men without worldly value brought dogs back from the brink of kill shelter inevitabilities. My kids were grown, beyond any need for me. Little did I know how intoxicating purpose could be. I jumped at the opportunity when the local prison suggested that I lead a dog rehab program. After landing on the “still breathing” side of cancer, I yearned for more.
Even there, I lived in the suburbs, neither in the city center nor the rural cornfields. Heck, I was even born and raised in the geographic center of the country, in a city not so big and not so small: Kansas City. My 28-year marriage yawned I felt like my husband hardly knew I existed. Middle-aged, middle class, middle of the scale in every category … white, female, politically unaware. In 2005, I couldn’t have been more average, the center of demographic medians in the United States. She served 27 months in prison for her role in the escape, and Manard remains in prison. Her story has been featured on “Dateline” and is the inspiration behind the upcoming Lifetime movie, “Jailbreak Lovers,” as well as Dorr’s new book, “Living With Conviction.” Dorr had been helping inmates train dogs to prepare them for adoption as part of a program she founded called Safe Harbor Prison Dogs. In 2006, Toby Dorr, formerly Toby Young, made headlines after she helped convicted murderer John Manard escape from Kansas’ Lansing Correctional Facility in a dog crate.
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