In The Place Of Justice Part 11

I doubted she could be the sort of foot soldier she seemed to imagine herself, since much of what might help me could be done only in Louisiana, and she lived in Chicago, far away from where any research, schmoozing, arm-twisting, or ongoing brainstorming might be done. Moreover, I could now see she didn't understand the peculiar social culture of the South and was a complete political innocent, which meant that even as smart as she clearly was, she lacked the necessary frame of reference to be an effective advisor, much less a soldier. But she was easy to talk to, fun to be with, and I figured that she might visit once or twice a year.

Several months later, Linda accepted a position on the English faculty at Loyola University in New Orleans, 140 miles from Angola. That dramatically altered her potential to contribute to my life. Not only could she help with some of my efforts to be released from prison, she could provide companionship as well. She brought a much-needed dose of normality to my life. Twice a month I could escape the madness of prison, its pettiness, the constant need for watchfulness, the game playing and posturing of inmates and employees alike, the bickering of small minds over small matters, the daily grind of whistles and counts and forced a.s.sociations. Twice a month I could sit at a picnic table, eat some barbecued chicken or pork chops, and talk to an intelligent, rational woman about anything and everything.

Linda arrived in Louisiana in the summer, a hectic time for The Angolite The Angolite. Tommy and I were canceling speaking engagements in an effort to stay atop things. I was in the middle of an investigation into the absence of any official program in the state's penal system to deal with the threat from AIDS, then a new and little-understood disease that was generating paranoia among both guards and prisoners. But what was generating the most media interest in Angola was the resumption of executions after a two-year moratorium, with such frequency that the state briefly became the execution capital of the nation. Four inmates-Benjamin Berry, Alvin Moore, Jr., Jimmy Gla.s.s, and Jimmy Wingo-were put to death in the electric chair during a nine-day period in June, followed by three more-Willie Celestine, Willie Watson, Jr., and John Brogdon-in July.

Covering the executions strained the Angolite Angolite's resources. We had to go to death row to talk to the condemned, research his legal case, talk to many of those involved, attend the all-day pardon board hearing followed by the death vigil, and then follow through with post-execution information gathering.

Determined to have a diverse staff (in part for the sake of credibility), I persuaded Ron Wikberg, an affable, blond-haired lifer and brilliant jailhouse lawyer, to join us. He had spent eighteen years in prison for the 1969 killing of a Lafayette store owner in a robbery that went bad. Like most of Angola's convicts, Ron did not partic.i.p.ate in prison evils: drugs, h.o.m.os.e.xual rape, gambling, or gangs. He was a workaholic; he had helped run the medical clinic during the prison's b.l.o.o.d.y years, and he was now keeping warehouse inventories straight at Prison Enterprises. A decent guy with a huge heart, he was always ready to volunteer his services for activities that benefited the prison community, whether prisoner or personnel. Ron saved for years until he could pay for a paralegal correspondence course, then provided free legal services to both employees and prisoners. His most notable accomplishment was winning freedom for "Cowboy Jack" Favor, a former national rodeo champion, whose imprisonment had resulted from a criminal conspiracy. He was intelligent, perceptive, a great researcher, and a good writer, with invaluable knowledge of the prison world. Since he had reported on legal developments for The Angolite The Angolite as a stringer after Billy stopped doing it, he knew what we needed in a staff writer. as a stringer after Billy stopped doing it, he knew what we needed in a staff writer.

I wanted Ron to do an insider's report from the inmates' perspective on the rash of executions and the impact it had on the world of the condemned. In the past, we had simply been able to go to death row and talk to anyone willing to talk to us. Now we were told by corrections headquarters that we were to be treated the same as commercial media, which meant we first had to obtain the permission of the attorneys, who were generally reluctant to approve our request because they feared their clients might attract media attention and thereby complicate legal efforts to avoid execution. I told Phelps that men on death row had asked to talk to us.

"The lawyers requested the restriction," he explained. "What if I, in the name of giving you an insider's view, were to allow you to view the actual execution. Would you watch it?"

I looked at him and shook my head. "Man, it messes me up every time I see those guys being led away," I said, "knowing they're gonna die, sometimes seeing the panic in their eyes."

"Why don't you turn away?"

"I can't. I've got to look at them, so they can see that I-if no one else-understand how they feel. It's never lost on me that there but for the grace of G.o.d go I."

"But if given the opportunity, would you watch the execution?"

I thought long before answering. "I don't want to watch someone die. They can dress it up in rhetoric, but they're killing a defenseless person against his will. It's a deliberate act of murder, done in as cold-blooded a fashion as is imaginable. I don't want to watch that, and I wonder about those who do."

Phelps smiled. "I haven't watched one, either-for pretty much the same reasons. Does that surprise you?"

It did. "But you're the one responsible for the human organization that kills the guy."

"Distance makes it manageable, and subordinates pretty much handle everything. We never have to worry about a shortage of curious volunteers to serve as witnesses. We get so many requests that in some cases it becomes a bit of a problem because many come from officials and politicians, and there are only a certain number we can accommodate."

Once settled into an apartment near Loyola University, Linda obtained the transcripts of my second and third trials (none existed of the first), including the voluminous appeals, and thus became the first person to read every doc.u.ment on file from my arrest to the present day. My revelation astonished her. "Look, I'm guilty," I explained during a visit, "and like most of these guys here, I'm not looking for excuses. I don't want to read the testimony; I heard it at trial. I'm ashamed of what I did, and I don't enjoy revisiting that."

"How much of the crime and the trials can you recall?"

"The overall crime, I remember," I said. "The actual violence-not very much. It happened so fast it was unreal, like a dream. I was so scared, and it was so dark that night that I could barely see-I have in my head murky, disconnected snapshots of what happened. But remember, I've wanted wanted to forget-and that goes for the trials. I paid little attention to most of the proceedings because I felt intuitively that they were going to kill me. I knew that the trials were just a formality." to forget-and that goes for the trials. I paid little attention to most of the proceedings because I felt intuitively that they were going to kill me. I knew that the trials were just a formality."

"You made it easy for the state to kill you, and so did your lawyers. They didn't challenge the evidence or even question the witnesses!" Linda said in disbelief. "They didn't even present to the jury obvious logical impossibilities or contradictions in the witnesses' testimony, or even hint that something was amiss in the state's case. What can possibly account for your lawyers' behavior?"

"Look, if they had suggested, in that 1961 Lake Charles courtroom, that the white woman might not be telling the exact truth, they could've started looking for someplace else to practice law, for one thing. Then, too, given the time and place and the mob that had gathered outside the jail the night of my arrest, and the crowd in the courtroom, I suppose they were afraid those people would just take me and lynch me if it looked like they were fighting too hard for me. Defending me couldn't have been a popular undertaking. In fact, I've wondered what the h.e.l.l those two lawyers could have done to deserve the punishment of being appointed to represent me, especially since they weren't even criminal lawyers."

"But you had other lawyers and two more trials," she said.

"True, but the white folks in Lake Charles had taken what I did and refashioned it into what they wanted it to be, and once everybody involved embraced the lies, exaggerations, and fabrications of the first trial, which they conveniently made no record of, they were married to it. It became the foundation for everything that transpired afterward. It's the original prosecutor, Frank Salter, who has been keeping this thing alive long after he was forced out of office for racketeering. He's the architect of this case, the biggest of his career, and I suspect that, with my attracting media attention and scrutiny, he doesn't want it unraveling."

"Well," said Linda, "let me tell you, if I had to use your trial transcripts as a play script, it would be virtually impossible for me to recreate that crime onstage the way the prosecutors and witnesses described it. I can see that much, and I'm not a lawyer. You're guilty of robbing that bank, taking those people out into the country, and killing one, no doubt, but not the way they say you did it."

I gave her a serious look. "That's bad enough," I said.

"Have you ever heard from any of the attorneys who defended you in any of your trials?" I shook my head. "Prosecutors, judges, anyone involved in any of the trials?" I shook my head again. "Any of the media from southwest Louisiana ever try to interview you?" No again.

"Don't you think it odd that as a prisoner who has achieved a lot and received plenty of national publicity for your accomplishments, not one of your former lawyers has attempted to reach out, send you a card, congratulate you, wish you luck-nothing? I think that's telling, and I'll bet it has to do with how your case was handled. Something was rotten in the state of Louisiana, and they were all party to it, willing partic.i.p.ants or not. To me, it sounds like what you've been hearing all these years has been the silence of the guilty." She also concluded that the justices of the Louisiana Supreme Court, with the cooperation of my lawyers, had judicially lynched me with their 1964 change-of-venue ruling, which allowed the state to retry me by setting aside the state law that forbade it. "It's the only conclusion you can draw," she said. "Your lawyers had won a judicial impa.s.se ruling from the trial court, stating essentially that you were beyond the state's ability to retry. So why in heaven's name would they join the DA in appealing that ruling to the Louisiana Supreme Court and ask for another trial?"

"They didn't," I corrected her. "I saw the brief they filed. They asked that the DA's request be denied."

"Are you sure they filed the brief you saw? Because in its ruling the court specifically points out that you joined the DA in his request," she said, "and I can a.s.sure you there's nothing in the files to contradict that. Either the files have been laundered or your lawyers lied to you."

"No, then the court lied," I said. "I have a stamped copy from the Louisiana Supreme Court of that brief. What they did to facilitate a second trial and get me another death sentence required the court to act contrary to law. So to give it the appearance of correctness they said they were doing it at my request." I paused, trying to recall things I had not thought of in decades. "Look, what I did was bad enough, but my recollection of the trials was that there was a lot of lying and rearranging of the facts to make the crime even worse than it was." I thought back.

"Well, there's only witness testimony," Linda pointed out. "There's no other evidence to speak of because the crime scene was washed away by torrential rain that night, leaving only the knife and scabbard the deputy found, and there were no fingerprints, blood, or anything to connect it to you. I find that especially strange since there should have been blood residue inside the scabbard if nowhere else."

"That was their knife, not mine," I said. "Of that I'm certain. They said they recovered the knife but couldn't find the gun. Well, I threw them both in the same place, and it wasn't where the deputy said he found the knife. I know know that much for sure." that much for sure."

"That's why no lab tests were done on the knife. It also explains why the knife disappeared after your first trial."

"Prosecutors wanted to introduce a photo of the knife at my second trial, and the judge asked if lab tests had been conducted on the knife after my arrest," I said. "They told the judge the knife had not been tested because it had rained all night, washing it clean. They lied. There was no rain."

"But, Wilbert, everyone everyone testified about the rain-victims, cops, FBI, everybody," Linda said. "Everyone said it was coming down so hard that it was difficult to drive through or even to see. How can you not recall it?" testified about the rain-victims, cops, FBI, everybody," Linda said. "Everyone said it was coming down so hard that it was difficult to drive through or even to see. How can you not recall it?"

I shrugged. "I don't know." I thought for a moment, then suddenly remembered: "Look at the newspaper photos of my being brought into the jail-you'll see the clothes I'm wearing are dry; my hair is dry."

"What happened to the clothes you had on that night? If you cut Julia Ferguson's throat, like the other teller, Dora McCain, testified, there should have been blood on your clothing."

"I don't remember cutting the woman's throat," I said. "But I do know there wasn't any blood on my clothes. Look at the picture in the newspaper. They took everything I wore, stripped me naked. Never saw my shoes and clothing again."

"Why would they all say there was torrential rain if there wasn't?"

I shrugged again. "I don't know. Look, I didn't testify, there were no witnesses for me, and my lawyers didn't challenge the prosecution, so they pretty much presented the case the way they wanted to. Especially about what happened when we got out in the country. Most of what McCain said I did out there is not true, but I can't disprove it."

"That's the reason for the rain," Linda said excitedly. "There was no evidence from the crime scene except for the knife that you believe was planted there. If they were going to spin this crime a different way, then they didn't want anything that might contradict what they said. The rain accounts for the absence of crime-scene evidence." She shook her head in disbelief. "But that would require everybody to lie. How did they pull that off?" the reason for the rain," Linda said excitedly. "There was no evidence from the crime scene except for the knife that you believe was planted there. If they were going to spin this crime a different way, then they didn't want anything that might contradict what they said. The rain accounts for the absence of crime-scene evidence." She shook her head in disbelief. "But that would require everybody to lie. How did they pull that off?"

"That would've been easy," I said. "I was black, had just robbed a white bank, and killed a white woman. In 1961, every white person in the South was expected to do what was required of them. Lying and fabricating evidence to aid the prosecution would have been considered their civic duty. You know, I still marvel at the fact that they didn't simply kill me on the spot."

I explained to Linda that however interesting her discoveries and a.n.a.lyses were, they were irrelevant. I was trying to regain my freedom through gubernatorial clemency, and there was that pardon board policy not to entertain clemency applications when an inmate disputed the facts of the crime. Since the board had recommended my release, I had most of the battle won; all I needed now was a governor to sign off on it. Phelps had promised that he would ask Governor Edwards after the fall elections, when he had nothing to lose, to commute my sentence as a personal favor.

Linda went to the Inst.i.tute of Human Relations, Loyola University's social-action arm, whose director, Ted Quant, was very interested in aiding my release efforts. The Rideau Project, the inst.i.tute's first effort to aid a single individual rather than a group, was created with the blessing of Loyola's president, Father James Carter. In one of her first roles as my "soldier," Linda, along with Ted, coordinated the external effort of our Angola Special Civics Project, the first formally organized attempt by inmate leaders to get friends and relatives of the state's eighteen thousand prisoners to vote as a bloc to influence the outcome of the gubernatorial election, which experts were predicting would be very tight.

The Louisiana pardon-selling scandal gave rise to the campaign b.u.t.ton ANYBODY BUT EDWARDS ANYBODY BUT EDWARDS and put the governor in a runoff with reform candidate Buddy Roemer, a dark horse from Shreveport whose primary appeal may have been that few people knew who he was. He got 33 percent of the vote and Edwards 28 percent, mostly black. Edwards withdrew before the runoff. and put the governor in a runoff with reform candidate Buddy Roemer, a dark horse from Shreveport whose primary appeal may have been that few people knew who he was. He got 33 percent of the vote and Edwards 28 percent, mostly black. Edwards withdrew before the runoff.

On his way out, Edwards granted a flood of sentence commutations for prisoners, including Tommy, who was freed during the Christmas holiday. Edwards granted thousands of clemencies in all during his three terms in office, including, news reports said, more than two hundred to murderers and more than twenty to inmates formerly sentenced to death. He had said publicly that I was a model prisoner who ought to be free, but he would not free me. "I gave it my best shot," Phelps told me.

During the election campaign, Roemer had promised to appoint criminal justice professionals to the pardon board and to award clemencies based on individual merit and fairness. It may have been political rhetoric, but it was at least a ray of hope for me.

The scope of the pardon board's corruption did not come to light until Edwards was about to leave office, when his executive counsel, C. W. "Bill" Roberts, reported that there were at least 464 clemency recommendations made by the pardon board that would never reach the governor's desk for action because the governor had not asked to see them. Historically, pardon board recommendations were automatically forwarded to the governor to be granted or denied. Edwards had instructed the board to retain recommendations in their files until called for by his office. Roberts said that the only recommendations Edwards reviewed and acted upon were those brought to his attention by influential preachers, politicians, and officials.

Edwards, popularly regarded as the champion of the black, the poor, and the oppressed, dealt a crushing blow to Louisiana's long-term inmates. Prisoners who believed clemency might be likely, given historical precedents, did not pursue litigation that might have resulted in their freedom. They had no idea the deck was stacked, so they continued to cling to false hope.

When it became clear that Roemer was not going to reappoint him, Phelps retired. On March 10, 1988, I went to his retirement party at corrections headquarters. I looked around for Dorothy "Dot" Henderson, the black chairwoman of the state board of parole, and found her sitting behind her desk in a s.p.a.cious office. We were chatting when a Baton Rouge attorney, Nathan Fisher, entered to see Henderson about clemency for a client. She made a phone call, told him it was done, and he left. "h.e.l.l, I didn't know you had that kind of power," I said, surprised. "So what are you gonna do for me?"

"I don't have the power it takes for you, but for almost anyone else, yes," she replied.

"If you can't get me out, at least take somebody else in my place-a gift," I said, seizing what I saw as an opportunity.

"Okay. Who do you want?"

Ron Wikberg was unearthing the ident.i.ties of the state's thirty-one longest-confined prisoners (I ranked twenty-second on the list) for a story. We were certain they would die in prison anonymity unless we brought their stories to light. We had just finished interviewing fifty-three-year-old Louis "Pulpwood" Ducre, into his thirtieth year of imprisonment, and fifty-seven-year-old Jack Lathers, thirty-one years behind bars, two model prisoners who had pardon board recommendations that could free them. Their names sprang to mind, and I told Dot about them. Within a few minutes and after two phone calls, the life sentences of the two men had been commuted, and they would be freed within a day or so.

To his credit, Roemer created Louisiana's first professional, non-political pardon board. Then he ignored all of the clemency recommendations they sent him. Six months after becoming governor, he granted his first commutation to a murderer, freeing Juan Serato, the key figure in the state police's sting operation that sent Howard Ma.r.s.ellus to prison. In explaining his decision, the governor said his criteria for clemency would include the nature of the crime, the amount of time served, prison behavior record, the inmate's rehabilitation, and prospects of support upon release. His rhetoric generated high expectations among Angola's poor and friendless long-termers whose only hope in life rested upon the system being fair. The governor then resumed ignoring all the clemency recommendations piling up in his office.

Three months later, Roemer's handpicked pardon board reviewed the recommendation of the previous board to commute my life term and forwarded it to the governor. It was done without public fanfare shortly after Thanksgiving. On December 7, 1988, Roemer plucked my recommendation from among all those awaiting his attention and denied it, despite my having served more than five times as many years in prison as Serato and having been called the most rehabilitated prisoner in America by Phelps and other Louisiana corrections officials. In announcing his decision to the media, he cited the nature of my crime and opposition from the victim and law enforcement officials in Lake Charles.

Roemer's action generated huge publicity. The Shreveport Sun The Shreveport Sun, which served the black community in his hometown, ran two stories critical of his action. The Shreveport Journal The Shreveport Journal, which served primarily white readers, said in an editorial that I had already served four times the national average for murderers and called Roemer's denial of clemency "a mockery of the corrections system, because Rideau has done everything the judicial system asked of him and much more."

Negative articles, features, editorials, and letters to the editor followed, which clearly annoyed the governor. In a Times-Picayune Times-Picayune feature story about me in December, former district attorney Frank Salter, now Dora McCain's personal spokesman, tried to counteract the negative publicity by exaggerating the nature of my crime: "[He] lined them up military fashion and attempted to execute the three of them," he told the feature story about me in December, former district attorney Frank Salter, now Dora McCain's personal spokesman, tried to counteract the negative publicity by exaggerating the nature of my crime: "[He] lined them up military fashion and attempted to execute the three of them," he told the Times-Picayune Times-Picayune. "He attempted to commit a planned ma.s.s murder."

Times-Picayune columnist James Gill wrote in January, "Of the 13 men on death row when Rideau arrived at Angola in 1962, 11 have been released and one has died. Only Rideau remains to be victimized for his achievements." columnist James Gill wrote in January, "Of the 13 men on death row when Rideau arrived at Angola in 1962, 11 have been released and one has died. Only Rideau remains to be victimized for his achievements."

Roemer allowed the holiday season to pa.s.s without granting clemency to a single prisoner in the state, the first governor since 1892 to do so. Indeed, during his first year in office, he had compiled the most dismal clemency record of any Louisiana governor-a fact not lost upon the 3,800 long-termers at Angola who lived for a sentence reduction to rescue them from prison terms they could not outlive.

Traditionally in Louisiana, which had always pursued a criminal justice philosophy of giving a second chance to offenders, even lifers knew they would one day rejoin society, provided they survived the brutal conditions of their imprisonment. Now, Angola was fast becoming the prison where men served the longest sentences in the world. Paralleling the growing sense of despair among inmates were budget cuts, staff shortages, and growing employee dissatisfaction, all of which were adversely affecting the quality of life behind bars. Inconvenience and frustration increased in almost every aspect of everyday life for the inmates: Fewer dollars meant smaller portions of lower-quality food at mealtimes. Fewer employees meant a reduction in recreation, club activities, and church services. Because it took longer for fewer workers to process and transport visitors, visits were shorter. We highlighted the problem in "Getting Our Money's Worth," published in our first issue of 1989, reporting that Angola's employee turnover rate had jumped from 26 percent to 60 percent under Roemer, while the national prison employee turnover rate had decreased to 15 percent.

Hilton Butler was an old-line prison guard who had been "rehabilitated" by Phelps and Blackburn. As deputy warden, he had created the outdoor visiting program for disciplinary-free inmates so they would be able to play with their kids. Upon becoming warden in 1987 after Blackburn retired, he overruled his security officials' objection to congregating five thousand prisoners in the rodeo arena for a concert by the Neville Brothers. When guards were tearing down our flyers during our attempt to influence the 1987 governor's race, he ordered employees not to interfere with our political activity. He approved annual religious Prison Fellowship seminars for death row inmates, conducted in a relaxed social atmosphere outside of death row, with guests. Inmate leaders wanted him to go public about the problem of hopelessness bred by the lack of clemency. But he was hesitant to buck his superiors in a high-profile way.

Butler's security chief, Mike Gunnells, who was not hesitant to speak his mind on the subject, told The Angolite The Angolite, "If the governor would take a close look at what's happening in the penal system, and if he'd help some of the people who deserve help, it would do a lot to improve the situation."

On March 8, Governor Roemer plucked out the board's recommendation of clemency for Ron Wikberg, a model prisoner, to deny. No reason was given.

Loren Ghiglione, president-elect of the American Society of Newspaper Editors (ASNE), flew to Louisiana on March 15 to meet with the governor and plead for my release. He left with Roemer's permission for me to fly to Washington, D.C., on April 13 to speak at the annual ASNE convention. Angolite Angolite supervisor Roger Thomas accompanied me. Years later, he would confess that he absolutely couldn't understand why I returned to Louisiana rather than walk off into freedom in D.C. supervisor Roger Thomas accompanied me. Years later, he would confess that he absolutely couldn't understand why I returned to Louisiana rather than walk off into freedom in D.C.

Although my outside travel had been approved routinely during the previous five years, I was now told that officials at corrections headquarters were concerned that I was going out too frequently. Speaking requests from Loyola, Dillard, and Xavier universities were denied.

A front-page story about me, "Free Mind Trapped in Convict Body," by Michael Kennedy in the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times in January 1989 had led Jonathan Talmadge, a producer for the ABC-TV newsmagazine in January 1989 had led Jonathan Talmadge, a producer for the ABC-TV newsmagazine 20/20 20/20, to investigate why I was still in prison. The night following my return to Angola from Washington, 20/20 20/20 aired "Why Not Wilbert Rideau?" Correspondent Stone Phillips characterized their report as "the story of how politics, a promise, and perhaps Wilbert Rideau's very prominence have kept him behind bars." He reviewed the crime, spoke with victim Julia Ferguson's daughter, told of my three trials, and reviewed the U.S. Supreme Court's aired "Why Not Wilbert Rideau?" Correspondent Stone Phillips characterized their report as "the story of how politics, a promise, and perhaps Wilbert Rideau's very prominence have kept him behind bars." He reviewed the crime, spoke with victim Julia Ferguson's daughter, told of my three trials, and reviewed the U.S. Supreme Court's Furman Furman decision, which had led to my life sentence. "He was released from death row at a time of violence in the nation's prisons," Phillips said. "Angola had a reputation as the bloodiest. Rideau was credited with helping bring peace to Angola as an articulate voice of moderation who earned the trust of inmates and of the keepers." Phillips talked to Peggi Gresham, Walter Pence, former warden C. Murray Henderson, and C. Paul Phelps. All testified that I was completely reformed. All agreed that my continued incarceration served no useful purpose. decision, which had led to my life sentence. "He was released from death row at a time of violence in the nation's prisons," Phillips said. "Angola had a reputation as the bloodiest. Rideau was credited with helping bring peace to Angola as an articulate voice of moderation who earned the trust of inmates and of the keepers." Phillips talked to Peggi Gresham, Walter Pence, former warden C. Murray Henderson, and C. Paul Phelps. All testified that I was completely reformed. All agreed that my continued incarceration served no useful purpose.

Phillips pressed former governor Edwards about the role opposition from law enforcement and victims' friends and families played in the clemency process. He asked about Donald Wayne Owens, a murderer and armed robber Edwards had freed after only thirteen years. He asked about former death row inmate Adam Mack, the brutality of whose crime surpa.s.sed even the most sensationalized version of mine. Edwards said he couldn't remember the cases but was sure local law enforcement had not objected. Wrong, said Phillips, flashing the local district attorney's letter of objection onto the screen.

But the real bombsh.e.l.l that 20/20 20/20 dropped was a secret promise that Edwards had made to bank teller Dora McCain that he would never free me, no matter what. Edwards admitted to it. dropped was a secret promise that Edwards had made to bank teller Dora McCain that he would never free me, no matter what. Edwards admitted to it.

Julian Murray, one of Louisiana's top criminal defense lawyers, who had represented me pro bono before the pardon board, explained to 20/20: 20/20: "No system of justice worthy of the name allows the victim or the victim's family to determine the punishment. We don't set up our system that way.... We set up a system of laws, not of men. We set up a clemency system, a pardon board system. And he went through all the steps. We ask for rehabilitation; we demand a certain amount of time. He's done all of those things. Then if he's going to be treated equally, he should be let out." "No system of justice worthy of the name allows the victim or the victim's family to determine the punishment. We don't set up our system that way.... We set up a system of laws, not of men. We set up a clemency system, a pardon board system. And he went through all the steps. We ask for rehabilitation; we demand a certain amount of time. He's done all of those things. Then if he's going to be treated equally, he should be let out."

Stone Phillips gave the final word to Governor Roemer: "Can I ever [release him]? I don't know. Am I willing to listen? You bet! Am I willing to learn? You got it! Can he do some things to talk about the damage he did, and what he can do to restore confidence? Certainly. Got more work to do, though." Phillips ticked through a number of my public service and public education efforts, showed video of me working with New Orleans judge Miriam Waltzer and her probationers, and asked, incredulously, "What more can can he do?" "His only chance to overcome what he did," Roemer said, "is what he might he do?" "His only chance to overcome what he did," Roemer said, "is what he might propose propose he he could could do so that those kinds of crimes would happen do so that those kinds of crimes would happen less less in the future, not more. Only in the future, not more. Only he he can address that." can address that."

I had no idea what Roemer was saying; I wasn't sure he did, either.

The Monday after the 20/20 20/20 report, Roger Thomas called to tell me that headquarters had just rescinded approval for an April 19 trip to Baton Rouge to cover a special prison ministry luncheon featuring Chuck Colson. I was given no explanation. report, Roger Thomas called to tell me that headquarters had just rescinded approval for an April 19 trip to Baton Rouge to cover a special prison ministry luncheon featuring Chuck Colson. I was given no explanation.

Roemer had appointed Bruce Lynn, a cotton farmer and banker with no experience in corrections, to replace Phelps as head of the state's penal system. Lynn called me on April 20 in response to my request. I asked if my recent trip denials represented a change in policy. "I had gotten several letters from people in Lake Charles, complaining about you going to Washington," he said, "and I just wasn't gonna let you go to that Colson thing in Baton Rouge while I'm catching flak about your other trip." He a.s.sured me that he had just approved an April 27 trip to New Orleans as part of the crime/dropout prevention program because that was "an educational kind of thing, something I can defend," he said, "but y'all going out to cover things like the Colson event is a different matter, and you might not always be able to do things like that."

I soon learned that Lynn had denied a request for me to attend a national death penalty seminar in New Orleans in May. The following morning, a week after the 20/20 20/20 report, Ron and I went to a parole board meeting to cover a hearing for the state's longest-confined prisoner, who had spent forty-one years in Angola. We were not permitted to sit in on the hearing. report, Ron and I went to a parole board meeting to cover a hearing for the state's longest-confined prisoner, who had spent forty-one years in Angola. We were not permitted to sit in on the hearing.

The American Society of Magazine Editors congregated at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City on April 26 to pay tribute to the best magazines of the past year. The Angolite The Angolite had been a finalist. Unlike in the past, no official went to represent us. It was now clear to all that had been a finalist. Unlike in the past, no official went to represent us. It was now clear to all that The Angolite The Angolite and its editor were out of favor. and its editor were out of favor.

Hopelessness is contagious. Governor Roemer's policies fed despair at Angola.

Francis "Corky" Clifton was a fifty-two-year-old lifer whose job it was to tend the prison's bloodhounds. He was a highly trusted inmate and a model prisoner, a rare trusty who lived and worked under comfortable circ.u.mstances without any supervision at all. The night after he watched the 20/20 20/20 report, he put five Moon Pies in his pocket and escaped into the Tunica wilderness. He had served twenty-seven years and had invested a lot of effort in the traditional means of earning his way out. Warden Butler, who had been working at Angola forty years, couldn't recall the last time a trusty like Corky tried to escape. After almost a week on the run, with no food or money and not wanting to steal, he surrendered. He explained that he ran off because he had given up hope of ever getting out of prison. report, he put five Moon Pies in his pocket and escaped into the Tunica wilderness. He had served twenty-seven years and had invested a lot of effort in the traditional means of earning his way out. Warden Butler, who had been working at Angola forty years, couldn't recall the last time a trusty like Corky tried to escape. After almost a week on the run, with no food or money and not wanting to steal, he surrendered. He explained that he ran off because he had given up hope of ever getting out of prison.

A rash of escapes, acts of desperation, suicides, and murders followed in the ensuing weeks. Steve "Poodle" Howard, a thirty-four-year-old trusty, took off, only to be captured several days later. Poodle, an exemplary prisoner, had served ten years of his life sentence and was active in Angola's civic and social organizations. Donald Fink, a fieldworker who had served twenty-one years on a life sentence, walked out of the farm line one noon. An armed guard on horseback yelled, "Where you going?" Fink hollered back, "I'm going home," and started running. A hail of gunfire brought him down. Fink's friends told us he had come to believe he had nothing to live for. Soon afterward, an inmate was stabbed and killed, the second murder of the month.

"In all my research and prison experience, I haven't run across any other point in time where we've experienced a similar rash of desperate acts by the kind of prisoners who don't normally do these kinds of things," Roger Thomas told us.

Federal judge Frank Polozola, whose court enforced, via inspections and reports, the 1975 court order to stem the violence at Angola, expressed concern about the state of the prison; he wanted action.

Deputy a.s.sistant Secretary of Corrections Larry Smith led a surprise shakedown of Angola on the morning of June 9 with a hundred guards borrowed from other prisons. They searched Camp C, where yet another murder had occurred the day before, but found only a two-and-a-half-inch handmade knife. A subsequent shakedown of the huge two-thousand-bed Main Prison complex produced six knives. Two hours after the outsiders withdrew, a Main Prison inmate was slashed across the face in a fight.

Ten days later, Terrance Metoyer, sentenced to eighty-seven years at Angola for armed robbery, was transported to Jefferson Parish to face more robbery charges. As he awaited his turn in court, he asked to use the restroom, where he overpowered the guard, took his gun, and fled in leg irons. Commandeering a truck, he eventually rammed into a police car. Instead of fleeing, Metoyer walked toward toward the police car, firing. He was shot three times; after surgery, he was returned to Angola. the police car, firing. He was shot three times; after surgery, he was returned to Angola.

On June 22, Judge Polozola declared a state of emergency at Angola, citing the four suicides, four murders, eleven escapes, and sixty-four stabbings there since Roemer had become governor. The judge ordered a full investigation of Angola to determine "whether the warden and others in charge of that prison are operating it in accordance with the Const.i.tution and laws of the United States and the state of Louisiana and the consent decrees approved by the court." Polozola appointed Ross Maggio, a longtime political adversary of Warden Butler, as the court's expert to oversee the investigation. Local U.S. Attorney Ray Lamonica and the U.S. Justice Department were also ordered "to conduct such investigations-civil and criminal-which may be warranted."

Polozola did not mention hopelessness, despair, or clemency as factors in the "crisis" at Angola, but because we had kept our media friends abreast of the growing problems, they had a frame of reference for what was actually happening. We urged them not to be distracted, to stay focused on the increased number of suicides and mindless escapes, acts of desperation. "Model prisoners do not commit suicide because of drugs, mismanagement, low employee morale, corruption, or any of the things Polozola is complaining of," I told the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate Morning Advocate. "They do so because of hopelessness, the same reason law-abiding citizens take their own lives. To suggest otherwise means there's some kind of political agenda."

The press interpreted my comments as criticizing the federal judge. One headline read: "Inmate Editor Declares Order 'Political.'" At a news conference, reporters alluding to my comments asked Governor Roemer if his not granting clemency might have contributed to the problem of inmate hopelessness at the prison. "I do not believe that is the problem," he said. "I think that is an excuse." He had no plans of changing his position on clemency. That night, a forty-one-year-old thief hanged himself at Angola.

We on the Angolite Angolite staff tried to keep the media focused on the governor's role in generating the hopelessness at the prison. We reached out to every media contact we had in Louisiana. staff tried to keep the media focused on the governor's role in generating the hopelessness at the prison. We reached out to every media contact we had in Louisiana.

In a brief visit to the Angolite Angolite office soon after his recent appointment, Maggio stepped through the door, smiled, and said, "Don't you know to duck when a lumberjack swings an ax at a tree?" office soon after his recent appointment, Maggio stepped through the door, smiled, and said, "Don't you know to duck when a lumberjack swings an ax at a tree?"

"Roemer and Polozola are trying to lead the public to believe these guys are killing themselves because of drugs and mismanagement," I said. "They're playing politics. Somebody's got to keep things in perspective."

"Judge Polozola doesn't play politics," he said. "You have to admit there are problems here."

"There are always always problems in this place," I said, preaching to the converted. "Are we talking about the ones Polozola wants to recognize and do something about, or the ones he wants to ignore or sweep under the rug?" problems in this place," I said, preaching to the converted. "Are we talking about the ones Polozola wants to recognize and do something about, or the ones he wants to ignore or sweep under the rug?"

"You want to be careful," Maggio said, his tone serious. "You could end up dying in here-from old age."

"From all indications, I can expect that anyway, so I really don't have much to lose, do I?" I said. But I knew he meant well and was trying to warn me.

"There might be an opportunity to help yourself," he said.

I knew that he was offering me the chance to join forces against Butler and earn favor with the powers that be. "Chief, did I ever tell you that when you were warden in 1976," I said, "I went on a speaking trip to Baton Rouge, only to discover that some of your enemies had arranged the trip to ask me to roll over on you? I refused then, just like I have to do now. I can't do what you want me to do if I want The Angolite The Angolite to survive." to survive."

It wasn't what he wanted to hear, but I hoped he understood.

Finally, on July i, Roemer commuted the sentences of nine prisoners. On July 6, he acknowledged on local television that perhaps he should have been less rigid with regard to clemency. On July 10, James "Black Mattie" Robertson, whose quest for freedom after forty-one years in Angola had been front-page news, was paroled. The highly publicized event was a morale booster for the inmate population. "I thought I was going to die here," an emotional Mattie told us at the front gate, where Butler saw him off before a crowd of media. "And I sure would've if y'all hadn't helped me and made the people on the outside know what was happening with me. I appreciate the parole board and officials giving me my freedom, but y'all the ones who really got me out of Angola-The Angolite and the other newspaper people who was working with y'all to help me." and the other newspaper people who was working with y'all to help me."

Ten days later, Jack Turner, sixty-eight, the inmate with the second-longest time spent at Angola, was paroled to a nursing home. He had been featured with Black Mattie and twenty-nine other inmates the year before in Ron Wikberg's article "The Long-Termers," which won honors from the American Bar a.s.sociation and ultimately resulted in the release of fifteen elderly long-termers.

An angry Polozola, in a July 14 hearing in his court, expressed displeasure not only with how officials had handled the issue of Angola but also with the larger corrections problem in Louisiana. He blasted the governor and the legislature for not resolving the prison overcrowding that necessitated placing more than four thousand state prisoners in local jails. He promised to address the problem. The idea that deserving men might be released to relieve overcrowding lifted spirits throughout the prison.

Angola inmates received another powerful dose of hope from a July 23 front-page Baton Rouge Sunday Advocate Sunday Advocate story reporting that Roemer had rethought his clemency policy and recognized that there had to be hope and room for rehabilitation in it. In a companion story, the pardon board announced that it was undertaking a review of all seriously ill and elderly prisoners who might be candidates for nursing home or family care and was considering a similar project aimed at long-termers. story reporting that Roemer had rethought his clemency policy and recognized that there had to be hope and room for rehabilitation in it. In a companion story, the pardon board announced that it was undertaking a review of all seriously ill and elderly prisoners who might be candidates for nursing home or family care and was considering a similar project aimed at long-termers.

We were all smiles in the Angolite Angolite office. Who would have believed it? But I reminded my colleagues that you don't cross swords with a governor or federal judge and walk away buddies. It was reasonable to a.s.sume that somewhere down the line, it would cost us. office. Who would have believed it? But I reminded my colleagues that you don't cross swords with a governor or federal judge and walk away buddies. It was reasonable to a.s.sume that somewhere down the line, it would cost us.