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Law enforcement should have immediately informed the Bell family that Clarence Border was no longer incarcerated.

But he was in prison in California, and the Bells lived in Oregon.

And while Clarence had abducted his children and shot a firearm at both of them, he had not been classified as the highest level of violent offender.

His case had not yet gone to court, and because he was going to roll over on the charges and had a major disability with his amputated leg, he had been given a break in prison placement.

So while the story hit the press that an inmate had escaped while on a medical examination at the Merced Medical Center, and a description of Clarence with a photo made the news around the state, no large-scale manhunt captivated the public in Oregon.

Major news sources were consumed with the fact that the current Miss America had been found naked in a donut-shop bathroom with the governor of Oregon.

The security tape of the incident had been posted online, and it was downloaded so many times that servers were crashing.

The nation’s rival donut chain had immediately come out with a specialty pastry that mocked the incident. The appropriateness of that new food item was also being discussed in the mainstream press—adding fuel to the salacious fire.

And that kept the heat off Clarence.

The pawnshop trade was simple.

It was all about waiting and watching.

Clarence saw the guy go into the store with the box, which he was certain held a weapon. And he waited to see him come out with the same box still in hand.

He could see a person’s intention by the slump of the shoulders. He knew what defeat looked like in a man’s posture. A deal gone south.

Clarence got out of the car that he’d stolen in Sacramento and headed across the parking lot. It looked like a case of great timing that the two men should run into each other.

Clarence spoke in a soft voice. He had such clean hands, and he wore a cashmere sweater. He kept his fingers from strumming too intently on his thighs.

He was going into the shop to buy a firearm, he said to the man, and he wondered what it was like in there.

The weapon was not for himself, he added. He had no idea how to even use one. It was for his mother, who was feeling afraid in her home. She would never use it. She would never register it. It would be a prop. She wouldn’t even leave the house, since her fall on the back stairs.

She’d given him money for the gun. He had her cash right here, in fact. He fanned out hundreds in his left hand.

The dejected man was happy to help.

It happened quickly, and both sides felt good about what they’d done. Wasn’t that the definition of a square deal?

When both sides are smiling?