Midnight Return: Escaping Midnight Express

Midnight Return: Escaping Midnight Express by Billy Hayes

Revised Edition

Copyright © 2011, 2013 by Billy Hayes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a broadcast, magazine, newspaper, or other media.

The people in this book are real. However, in some cases names and other identifying characteristics have been changed.

Published by Curly Brains Press at Smashwords

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*Permissions and Credits:

The author gratefully acknowledges permission to include here the following letters (or portions of ) written to him by Harvey Bell [listed by date]: 12-74 (page 14), 9-75 (page 43), 1-76 (page 95), 4-4-78 (page 137-138), early 1978 (page 139), 10-2-78 (page 152-154), 2-29-79 (page 162), 3-17-79 (page 162-163), 5-12-80 (page 165-166), 5-18-80 (page 167), 6-10-80 (page 167-168), 7-19-80 (page 168-169), 8-8-80 (page 174-175), 12-1-80 (page 190).

*Photos:

Pages 2, 3, 128, 132 - Midnight Express, © 1978 Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., All Rights Reserved. Courtesy of Columbia Pictures; Page 80 - Photo by Harry Benson. All Rights Reserved; Page 87 - Courtesy of Barbara Belmont; Page 136 - Courtesy of Eric Morris; Page 141 - Courtesy of Jill Chastain.

* Note to ebook readers: The page numbers above refer to the trade paperback edition

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ebook ISBN: 978-0-9889814-2-3

Also available in trade paperback

Cover design and author photo: ad@centrum.is

Cover photo copyright © Grant Faint (www.grantfaint.com)

Interior design and layout by Lee Lewis Walsh, Words Plus Design (www.wordsplusdesign.com)

ebook editions: Lighthouse24

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

List of Illustrations

1. Madness and Magic

2. A Vast Abyss of Pain and Fear

3. From the Frying Pan

4. Sea of Dreams

5. Harvey Looks on the Bright Side

6. Escape from Imrali Island

7. Scrambling Back to Istanbul

8. The Scent of Freedom

9. A River in the Darkness

10. Harvey and the Warriors of Islam

11. Dream Come True

12. Coming Home

13. Peaceful Madness

14. Marc and Melissa

15. Floating Fantasy

16. A Difficult Visit

17. A Strange Bitter Taste

18. It Cuts Both Ways

19. Fever Dreams

20. Barbara

21. Marc and the Bizarrini

22. A Last Glimpse of Her Long Brown Hair

23. Regards to Constantinople

24. The Busy Bee Book Factory

25. Melissa

26. Bizarrini in the Rain

27. Hollywood Calling

28. Harvey Goes to the Madhouse

29. Give It Birth and Send It Out

30. Midnight Runs Over Harvey

31. A Head of Steam

32. Midnight Crashes on Istanbul

33. Celluloid Dreams

34. Escape to California

35. Give Me the Fucking Dime

36. Helping Harvey?

37. The Lemon Theory

38. Oklahoma Lady

39. Harvey’s Dilemma

40. Riding the Media Avalanche

41. Escape to Hawaii

42. Harvey Works His Plan

43. My Heart Blooms

44. Harvey Gets Desperate

45. Wedding Day

46. They Didn’t Like the Movie

47. Harvey Gets Hooked

48. Tennessee Williams

49. The Plot Thickens

50. Reunion and Redemption

51. The Midnight Express Experience

52. Full Circle

About the Author

Back Cover

For Wendy and her true heart.

In writing about my friend Harvey Bell’s ongoing trials and tribulations in prison after my escape, I was fortunate to have firsthand knowledge of many of the people and places around him. I was also able to speak with him and reference his own compelling letters, some of which are printed here. When Harvey read an early version of this book he wished me well with it; for himself, he mostly preferred to forget. We talk now and then, he plays his guitar less now but enjoys it more, and the world keeps rollin’ round…

Chapter 1

John Hurt, Peter Guber, Alan Parker, Alan Marshall, Brad Davis, and Billy Hayes at the Cannes Film Festival – May, 1978

Press after the Midnight Express world premiere screening, Cannes Film Festival – May, 1978

Chapter 4

Letter from Harvey – Christmas, 1974

Chapter 6

Map of escape route

Chapter 8

Newspaper coverage of Billy’s escape – Hürriyet, October 23, 1975

Chapter 10

Letter from Harvey – September, 1975 43

Newspaper version of Billy’s escape – Günaydin, October, 1975

Chapter 12

Press conference at Kennedy Airport; Bill Hayes, Billy, and Michael Griffith – October 24, 1975

Chapter 13

The Hayes family – Christmas, 1975

Chapter 16

Norman – c. 1964

Chapter 19

Dorothy Hayes and Billy – People Magazine, November 10, 1975

Chapter 20

Barbara and Billy – Christmas, 1975

Chapter 21

Marc and Billy

Chapter 33

Randy Quaid, John Hurt, and Brad Davis shooting a scene

Brad Davis and Billy meeting on the set – 1977

Chapter 35

Eric Morris – c. 1978

Chapter 36

Letter from Harvey – early 1978

Chapter 37

Don Chastain, Paris – 1978

Chapter 39

Letter from Harvey – October 2, 1978

Chapter 43

Wendy and Billy – 1980

Chapter 44

Letter from Harvey – May 12, 1980

Chapter 45

Wendy, Billy and Dr. Bill Hornaday – 1980

Chapter 48

Joan Hotchkiss and Billy in The Glass Menagerie – 1981

Chapter 49

Letter from Harvey – December 1, 1981

Chapter 51

Poster for The Midnight Express Experience lecture – 1984

Poster for the Neighborhood Group Theater production of The Cage – 1985

Madness and Magic

On a warm May night in Cannes, 1978, thunderous applause echoed off the ornate walls of the Palais des Festival. The crowd of tuxedoed men and elegant women rose to its feet, cheering and crying, as the last credits flickered across the screen and the huge chandeliers suddenly blazed with light. We’d done it! At the most prestigious film festival in the world, and before a normally jaded audience, Midnight Express was a triumphant success.

I was an emotional wreck. I huddled down in my seat, sweating and totally drained, unable to control the tears. My five years of prison life had just been portrayed on the screen. For two hours I’d sat trapped between the images before me and the memories behind me. I wanted to crawl under the seat and hide, but hands were hauling me up beside the actors, producers and director. I clung to the balcony railing as hundreds of cameras flashed and waves of applause swept the theatre. It was frightening yet fulfilling to know that the events of my life, through a book and now a film, had touched so many people. The air throbbed with their emotions. I felt directly connected to each person in the room—naked and vulnerable but somehow terribly strong. It was as if the power of the connections threatened to absorb me even as it filled me to bursting.

I was aware of the bitter irony of my situation as I wandered around the after-screening party thrown by Columbia Pictures in the ballroom across from the Palais. I smiled and laughed and accepted the congratulatory words of praise, all the while struggling to hide the confusion and guilt growing inside me. Rona Barrett, reigning queen of the Hollywood gossip columnists, cornered me for an on-camera interview.

Must be strange to watch a film about your own life, said Rona.

That’s for sure, I said.

Rona looked at my face. Looks like it affected you as much as the rest of us. How do you feel?

Sort of trapped—between the movie and the memories.

Well, your family must be so happy to have you home.

Yeah, it was hard for them, I said, staring down at the floor.

Not knowing and worrying, said Rona.

Right.

Do you feel guilty about that? asked Rona.

I looked up. Of course, it was one of the worst things about prison.

She smiled at me. Well, now it’s finished and the worst part is over. You’re a hero.

So how come I felt like a hypocrite? We finished and I bolted for the men’s room. It was crowded, with all the stalls occupied and strange snuffling sounds obvious even behind the closed doors. I was unzipped at the urinal when a dapper older gentleman sidled up beside me, glanced down, then gave me a wink. I quickly finished up. As I headed for the door, a smiling black man said something to me in French, shook my hand and casually pressed a vial of cocaine into my palm.

Outside, the party had intensified as more people poured in to share the celebration. Francis Ford Coppola talked shop with director Alan Parker. Producers Peter Guber and David Puttnam were answering questions for the press. I searched for a side exit, desperate to get away and be alone, but was caught in a circling net of exuberant well-wishers. My face kept smiling and my mouth spouted inane little responses while I scurried around in my head, feeling as trapped as when I was in prison. I didn’t want to talk to people, I wasn’t proud of myself, and I had grave misgivings about the film that was causing all this attention. In prison you avoided attracting attention, it was dangerous. Here I was at the center of it.

I had a quick flash of a baby rat struggling against the string I’d tied to his back leg. I was about to lose control when a young blonde woman with the face of an angel appeared at the edge of the crowd. She looked at me for a moment, her stillness setting her apart from the frenzied group, then moved steadily forward and held out her hand, asking me to dance. I stood there staring, then she stepped even closer and smiled up at me with such a certainty and gentleness in her blue-green eyes that folding her in my arms seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

We moved out onto the dance floor, swaying together with an ease that amazed me. She rested her head against my heart, and as we danced I became aware of a growing bubble that seemed to isolate us from the surrounding madness of the night. I thought about the madness of other nights and marveled at the strange workings of Fate…

A Vast Abyss of Pain and Fear

Sagmalcilar prison lay frozen and still, locked in the depths of a frigid November night. A ship wailed somewhere out in the harbor beyond Istanbul, and I carefully drew the file across the iron bar on the toilet window. It screeched like a fingernail on a blackboard.

It was 1974 and I was in my fourth year of a thirty-year sentence for smuggling two kilos of hash. I’d originally been sentenced to four years, but just fifty-four days from release the sky fell on my head when the high court in Ankara re-sentenced me. I was not a happy camper.

The screeching file froze Harvey Bell and me, our breath steaming the air.

Harvey looked around the corner at the huddled bundles of snoring men in the barracks-like cellblock—no one seemed to have heard. I tried to move the file slower, with heavy pressure. Harvey nervously coiled the nylon rope on his shoulder, his skinny body shivering beneath a cheap cloth coat. This was an insane plan—even if we got out the window and onto the roof, the guards in the towers would probably pick us off like flies—but Harvey and I both had thirty-year prison sentences, so sanity was becoming difficult to define.

Harvey Bell was a grinning wild man from Alabama who’d been caught driving a nifty green TR3 with 200 kilos of hash hidden beneath it. He’d spent three years in a small prison in central Turkey and was transferred to Sagmalcilar after a botched escape attempt had left him beaten, but not broken. He showed up one day and proceeded to turn life there atilt.

Yeeess! he’d shouted, as he entered the foreigners’ cellblock, a battered guitar in his hand. Where the hell are the Americans and who’s in charge of escape around here? Goddamn, ah’m so tired of fuckin’ Turks an’ fuckin’ Ah-rabs and fuckin’ Muslims.

I was the only American in a cellblock full of Arabs and Muslims, so I wasn’t thrilled to hear this scruffy madman bellowing about escape. I got closer and realized he’d managed to get himself drunk on the long trip here from Elazig.

Oh, man, it’s clean here, he drawled, a silly smile creasing his thin, ascetic face. I looked around at the dirt and scum, sniffed the putrid smell coming from the toilet, and made a mental note never to transfer to Elazig prison.

I informed him of his situation and advised him to keep his voice down, but the damage had already been done. That evening I had to intervene in a pipe-swinging confrontation between Harvey and a Jordanian car thief who’d taken grave offense to Harv’s comments about the Muslims. It wasn’t the most auspicious beginning to a relationship, but during the following year we became best friends, and like most guys in prison, spent our days plotting and planning escape attempts that we never carried out. There’s a vast abyss of pain and fear between planning an escape and actually trying it.

Harvey, like myself, had been an English major in college, and his gruff exterior hid a sharp, educated mind. We shared the books that passed through the prison, talked philosophy, and argued politics. He was a good ole boy who could quote Faulkner. Lib Arts degree oughta be good for sumpin, he’d laugh.

I made the mistake of telling Harvey about one escape plan— cut through the bars, climb onto the roof, then slide down the wall with a nylon rope I’d improvised from a volleyball net that had mysteriously disappeared one day after a game. I’d had the file hidden away for several years, a parting gift from Claude LeBrun, a Belgian diamond thief who’d been released. I’d never tried the plan, because the bullet percentage was way too high. Even if we managed to cut the bar without being spotted, the chances of getting down the wall past the machine gun posts were, as Harvey would say, thinner than frog hair split four ways.

But once Harvey heard I had the file and rope, he was unrelenting; and then one cold November afternoon a letter arrived from my mom:

November 15, 1974

Billy,

…here I am remembering about long ago. They say that’s a sign of growing old. I’m fine. Still the same. Life goes on, even with a little heartache every day for my oldest child so far away.

Love,

Mom

The letter devastated me. The pain my mother had to bear because of me hollowed out my heart. I picked up Harvey’s old guitar and began to play the few chords I knew. Harvey came by and began to softly sing some old Alabama blues. We found a simple beat and improvised a song that seemed to write itself:

Mmmm… got the blues, babe, Got those old Istanbul blues. Said, yeah, I got the blues, babe, Got those old Istanbul blues, Thirty years in Turkey, babe, Ain’t got nothin’ left to lose.

Busted at the border, Two keys in my shoes,

Said I was busted at the border, With two keys in my shoes,

‘An they gave me thirty years, babe, To learn the old Istanbul blues.

I said now Lord save me, save me,

Please save me from this pain. I said Lord come and save me, Come save me from this pain. An’ set me free Sweet Jesus,

I won’t never sin again…

The song wore down to a stop, then Harvey asked, How long you been here, Willie?

He knew the answer. Four years, I said.

How many summers?

Four.

We sat while he plucked some strings. Then he stopped and looked at me. "Four summers. They’re stealing our summers, man. And now here comes another fucking