Dorinda moved on to forgery, writing bad checks. In 1970, Dorinda repeatedly persuaded a store manager not to prosecute her for shoplifting, and when the five-and-dime decided enough was enough, she beat the charges-and then sued for malicious prosecution, winning a $2,500 settlement. She resembled a southern Angela Lansbury with curves, and she had a talent for attracting men-and for bending them to her will. She had hoped to go to West Virginia, but her lawyer told her that Pleasanton, just east of Oakland, was where women with a rap sheet like hers ended up.īy the time she was twenty-one, Dorinda had three children and had been married for five years to “the biggest jerk that ever walked the planet.” The marriage failed, and she wed another man, divorced him after a few months, and then married a third, collecting new surnames along the way.ĭorinda was attractive, though prosecutors would later insist that she wasn’t as irresistible to prisoners and guards as she boasted. Now she was headed for a fifty-year sentence in federal prison, which she assumed meant black-and-white uniforms, watchtowers, guards with machine guns. She had done six months at a state penitentiary in Georgia. Her many names marked the winding path that led her to a bus seat in shackles, riding through the California night in 1982. Samantha Dorinda Malone Fiegler McPherson Lopez was an only child from Cobb County, Georgia. He told Dorinda he had some financial experience. Ron had the steady, reliable face of a mailman. Dorinda knew one thing for sure: “Being with Ron was the best ten days of my life.” “I bet you’re gonna ask me a lot of questions no one’s ever asked me before,” she said to me before launching into her tall tale. Now that the story might finally have an ending, she was ready to tell it from the beginning. McIntosh, looked increasingly likely to get out of prison himself. But then, this spring, Dorinda’s telephone rang, and she answered it. “The only people who know me now,” Dorinda told me, “are people who know me now.”ĭorinda was one half of the most romantic jailbreak in American history, and for a long time no one in her life but Lisa and Abby knew it. Abby is a lot like Dorinda in that she likes to escape when the door is open, Abby slips out and Dorinda calls for her kitty to come back, the best she can do from her wheelchair. Dorinda tells it to her in fragments, before bedtime. BELA BORSODI & WALT ZEBOSKI/AP/SHUTTERSTOCKĪbby knows the story, too.
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