But, Lord, what must go through a man's mind as the dashboard clock and odometer tick away the last hours and miles of his freedom? What could Ebbers and his wife have talked about on the final journey of their marriage? Did they listen to the radio? Stop for gas? At a cheap motel? (There are no conjugal visits in federal prisons--imagine knowing that you're done with that for good.) And where would you go for lunch, the last restaurant meal of your existence? Could you make it through the Fixins Bar at Roy Rogers without losing your mind?
And you just have to wonder how strong was the temptation to point the car South; flee across the border for another day, week, maybe years of freedom if he had planned it well enough. So what if they eventually caught him--what could they do, put him in prison?
Alternatively, why not follow Ken Lay's easy way out? A last dinner party with friends and family, prime rib garnished with 1500 mg of Seconol, and off to bed for the ultimate bail jump. Does a rational human being deliver himself up alive for a lifetime of bondage?
I have to say that the prospect of retirement, senescence, and death behind bars makes me almost sorry for Bernard Ebbers. But then I think of all those Worldcom pensioners whose post-65 plans didn't turn out as expected, either, and... not so much.