Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [281]
The sun was to rise at seven, and Connelley planned to wait until daylight to make his move. In the meantime they waited. Crouching behind a tree beside Connelley stood Agent Johnny Madala, the onetime office boy, fighting his nerves. This wasn’t Dillinger or Floyd; they wouldn’t be catching the Barkers by surprise. Inside the shadowy house were gang members no doubt armed with Thompson submachine guns. They couldn’t get away, and they probably wouldn’t surrender. His mind drifted to Sam Cowley and Ed Hollis.
Finally, when the first rays of dawn seeped over Lake Weir, Connelley emerged from behind the guesthouse and took two steps toward the front porch. “Fred Barker, come out!” he shouted. “We are Department of Justice agents, and we have the house surrounded.”
Silence. Connelley repeated the command. If they came out with their hands raised, he announced, no one would get hurt.
Connelley stood in the yard. No sound came from the house. Minutes crept by. Another agent shouted for the Barkers to come out and surrender. A few men thought they saw furtive movements behind the window screens, but they couldn’t be sure. The only sound was the lake water, lapping against the dock. In the orange grove, Agent Bob Jones took a block of concrete and laid his rifle across it.
After a period of time he later estimated to be fifteen minutes, Connelley repeated his challenge: “Fred Barker, come out with your hands up! We have the house surrounded.” Once again, silence. Connelley glanced at Doc White, the smiling Cowboy who had shot Russell Gibson. White stood behind an oak tree to his left.
Five more minutes passed, and still there was no sign of life. Back in the trees, a few men wondered if the Barkers had already fled town; their car, a black Buick, was parked in the wood-frame garage beside the house, but that meant nothing. Connelley motioned to a pair of rookie agents, Alexander Muzzey and Tom McDade, to fire tear-gas guns. Both men raised their guns and fired, but the gas projectiles missed the windows, thumping against the side of the house and falling to the ground, where gas escaped and began filling the yard.
“Fred Barker! Kate Barker!” Connelley shouted once again. “Come out now with your hands in the air!”
Hiding behind a mossy oak to Connelley’s side, Doc White thought he heard a woman’s voice from inside the house.
“What are you gonna do?” the voice asked.
There was no answer he could hear. But a moment later the woman’s voice rang clear across the yard: “All right, go ahead!”
Lying on the ground beside the guesthouse, Connelley glanced at White. Both interpreted this to mean the Barkers were coming out to surrender. Connelley shouted, “Come ahead! Fred, you come out first!”
Just then a machine gun fired from a second-story window. Bullets chopped the sandy grass all around where Connelley lay and whizzed through the limbs of the orange grove, tiny green leaves fluttering down everywhere. Connelley rolled behind the guesthouse as Doc White fired his .351 rifle. The morning exploded in gunfire. All around the yard agents opened up on the house. White crouched behind his oak tree as bullets struck all around him. He was pinned down.
Seeing White’s predicament, Connelley rose and raced around the guesthouse, emerging on the far side, closer to the front porch. He raised his shotgun and fired, hoping to draw the fire from White. It worked. Machine-gun bullets chattered against the side of the guesthouse. Connelley dived for cover. So did White. Beside them three agents retreated into the trees.
For five minutes the gunfight raged. Shots seemed to be coming from all over the house, from bedroom windows at the north and south, and from the front door. And then, as suddenly as it began, the firing stopped. Connelley peered at the upstairs windows. He guessed the gang