In The Place Of Justice Part 14

Rule-abiding inmates-always the majority-would typically strike only as a last resort. A strike means disrupted lives, lost visits, and canceled activities, not to mention retaliatory administrative action. Criminal and black-marketing inmates saw strikes as interfering with their illegal pursuits. Riots, unplanned and driven by pa.s.sion, are an entirely different thing. They are contagious. No one knew what morning would bring. the majority-would typically strike only as a last resort. A strike means disrupted lives, lost visits, and canceled activities, not to mention retaliatory administrative action. Criminal and black-marketing inmates saw strikes as interfering with their illegal pursuits. Riots, unplanned and driven by pa.s.sion, are an entirely different thing. They are contagious. No one knew what morning would bring.

Norris Henderson and Gerald Bosworth were influential Big Yard residents who worked in the prison's legal a.s.sistance program. They were model prisoners concerned both about the fate of the strikers and what was happening in the prison. Norris was my close friend and ally. After ten years in the federal prison system for bank robbery, the New Orleans native had been transferred to Angola in 1985 to serve life for murder (he would win his freedom years later through litigation). He was easily the most popular of Angola's prisoners. A proficient paralegal who stayed on top of developments in criminal law, he served as librarian of the prison's law library. He was involved in sports activities, was the leader of Angola's Muslims, the president of the Jaycees, and director of the Angola Special Civics Project. He was honest and generous to a fault. Gerald was a stocky, quick-witted, real-world Cajun lawyer convicted of murder who would eventually win a new trial and acquittal. Because of his professional legal abilities, he had become a major influence among white Main Prison inmates.

Norris, Gerald, Checo Yancy of the lifers' a.s.sociation, Ron, and I met and concluded that the key to ending the strike lay with the thirty-nine predominantly white welders who had objected to building the deathbed as a matter of principle. They didn't know yet that their demand had been met. They had good prison jobs that they did not want to lose, so pacifying them would end their strike.

Norris and Gerald took the lead in trying to resolve the strike with the inmates. Recruiting the a.s.sistance of their colleagues in the legal aid office, they visited with the strikers in general and the welders in particular. Both groups were willing to end the strike if they were exonerated and the welders kept their jobs. I phoned Whitley at his home to convey this information.

"I won't do that," Whitley said. "Violating a rule or regulation is one thing, but they disobeyed direct orders. They have to be disciplined for what they did. They should not have been ordered to build the gurney, but this is is prison, and I am not going to do anything that will feed the perception that it's okay for them not to obey orders." prison, and I am not going to do anything that will feed the perception that it's okay for them not to obey orders."

We conveyed this message to the inmate leaders. They eventually were given a deal that would find them guilty of disobeying orders but gave them a suspended sentence and no actual punishment. We turned in for the night feeling we had accomplished something good.

The general inmate population was released from their dorms Wednesday morning and instructed to report to work at their respective jobs following breakfast. Twenty-five additional fieldworkers who hadn't heard of the settlement now refused to work and were locked up. Everyone else went to their jobs. "What the twenty-five did this morning has nothing to do with the agreement made last night between the original strikers and your administration," I told Whitley. He agreed, and his disciplinary court officers began processing the cases of the strikers, who were released from the cellblocks beginning in the afternoon and continuing late into the night.

Everyone thought the gurney affair was Whitley's fault. That bothered me. I phoned United Press International and told them, off the record, that they should question the director of Prison Enterprises, Jimmy LeBlanc. When they did, LeBlanc acknowledged responsibility and said his department's behavior had been "a mistake." I also called James Minton, local bureau chief for the Baton Rouge Advocate Advocate, an honest, good reporter who covered Angola. We swapped information all the time. I suggested to James that he call the warden, who liked him, and ask certain questions about the strike, in particular if he thought it was morally right to ask Eddie Sonnier (whose brother had been executed) to build the gurney. I figured Whitley would answer honestly. James called me back later that afternoon to say, "Mission accomplished. See tomorrow's paper."

On July 25, the Advocate Advocate carried a front-page story in which Whitley acknowledged that asking the inmates to construct the gurney was "putting them in a bad position." It also reported that the gurney would not be built in the prison. It was perhaps the first time in history that a prison warden admitted that authorities had been wrong and the inmates right, and acted to remedy the situation-a candor so unprecedented it ultimately reaped him complimentary newspaper editorials and a profile in carried a front-page story in which Whitley acknowledged that asking the inmates to construct the gurney was "putting them in a bad position." It also reported that the gurney would not be built in the prison. It was perhaps the first time in history that a prison warden admitted that authorities had been wrong and the inmates right, and acted to remedy the situation-a candor so unprecedented it ultimately reaped him complimentary newspaper editorials and a profile in Time Time magazine. We immediately distributed thousands of copies of Minton's article throughout the prison. magazine. We immediately distributed thousands of copies of Minton's article throughout the prison.

But peace would not come so easily. The skies turned dark Thursday afternoon, threatening to soak the six hundred Main Prison inmates working in the fields. The field foreman radioed his superiors for permission to begin marching the inmates back to the Main Prison. Permission, which was granted routinely, was not given until after the rain began. Guards and inmate fieldworkers made the long march back, drenched and fuming. Whoever delayed giving permission had done it deliberately to aggravate the inmates and undermine the peace. The inmates' clothes were wet and they had nothing else to change into, since their second set of clothing had gone to the laundry earlier. The more radical inmates were urging them to strike Friday morning. Wilfred Cain, a close friend and inmate minister of the Church of G.o.d in Christ congregation, ran the prison laundry and a.s.sured me that if I could get Whitley to order the laundry opened, he would clean and dry the fieldworkers' clothes that night with a crew of volunteer workers. Whitley agreed, which calmed the smoldering dissent.

Because we on The Angolite The Angolite had unfettered telephone access to authorities, our office had, as in former crises, become an unofficial command central for the effort to restore the peace. As several inmate leaders sat around comparing notes with us, the phone rang. had unfettered telephone access to authorities, our office had, as in former crises, become an unofficial command central for the effort to restore the peace. As several inmate leaders sat around comparing notes with us, the phone rang.

"What demonstration?" Ron asked the caller. All eyes turned to him. He listened carefully and hung up.

"That was a TV reporter. She wanted to know if the inmates here were planning any action to coincide with the demonstration tomorrow." Sister Helen Prejean had apparently announced that Pilgrimage for Life, the anti-death penalty group she headed, would demonstrate at noon in support of the striking inmates. Sister Prejean was spiritual advisor to Eddie Sonnier, one of the freed strikers Gerald overheard telling other inmates about a demonstration, which implied Sonnier and the nun were acting in concert.

"Aw, man, we've just put this thing to rest," Checo said wearily. "We don't need outside agitation. It can have the reverse effect."

Then Whitley called. His security people were hearing word of a strike being called for the next day, and he also knew of the demonstration. He asked if I knew Eddie Sonnier. "Not personally," I replied. "I know his brother was executed, which provided the strikers moral standing. Before the strike, he was just another low-key prisoner."

"He can't be that low-key," Whitley said. "As soon as I let him out of lockdown, he called the State-Times State-Times and made himself the spokesman for the strikers, declaring 'a big victory for human rights.' At the same time, I hear that the nun who visits him says she's going to lead a demonstration. That's no coincidence. Didn't he agree to the deal to end the strike?" and made himself the spokesman for the strikers, declaring 'a big victory for human rights.' At the same time, I hear that the nun who visits him says she's going to lead a demonstration. That's no coincidence. Didn't he agree to the deal to end the strike?"

"He did, Chief," I said, "but if you're considering moving against him, I'd suggest you don't. Even if he doesn't keep his part of the bargain, it's important that the inmate population sees that you keep your your word. Besides," I said, "what he did could have all been perfectly innocent. I mean, he's been used as part of the strike rationale, so the media naturally want to talk to him. He might just be trying to capitalize on the situation to get a little personal attention." word. Besides," I said, "what he did could have all been perfectly innocent. I mean, he's been used as part of the strike rationale, so the media naturally want to talk to him. He might just be trying to capitalize on the situation to get a little personal attention."

"Well, that's possible, I guess. What do you make of the nun?" Whitley asked.

"Sister Prejean, like most activists, means well and wants to help the inmates, but she's operating on half-baked information," I said. I told him I didn't believe she was talking to the leaders, because they would've tried to dissuade her. I thought some opportunist with his own agenda probably had gotten her ear.

"Would it do any good if you called her and explained the situation?" Whitley asked.

"Warden, I don't know how she'd interpret that," I said. "She might see me as a sellout, an administrative lackey, trying to stop citizens from demonstrating their support for prisoners who've been victimized by prison authorities. I don't need her conveying that image of me to everyone she knows." I suggested he call her.

"Wilbert," he said. "Remember? I'm the guy who's supposed to be f.u.c.king over y'all, the one y'all struck against. How much credibility do you think I'm I'm going to have with her?" going to have with her?"

Copies of a front-page story from Thursday's Baton Rouge State-Times State-Times about Sonnier and outside support for the strikers by a couple of groups of anti-death penalty lawyers and activists were being circulated among the inmate population by Friday afternoon. Sarah Ottinger was critical of prison officials, while Clive Stafford Smith and David Utter of the Southern Center for Human Rights threatened legal action. Prejean, the article also reported, was to lead a demonstration in support of the inmates. about Sonnier and outside support for the strikers by a couple of groups of anti-death penalty lawyers and activists were being circulated among the inmate population by Friday afternoon. Sarah Ottinger was critical of prison officials, while Clive Stafford Smith and David Utter of the Southern Center for Human Rights threatened legal action. Prejean, the article also reported, was to lead a demonstration in support of the inmates.

This stoked the embers of the dying strike. Inmate radicals and opportunists trying to capture center stage cited the news article as evidence of public support and argued that it was outside outside pressure that had forced prison authorities to release the strikers from lockdown. They exhorted the inmates to stage a general work strike to show support for those partic.i.p.ating in Prejean's demonstration. Our allies in the leadership argued that Prejean's demonstration would be only about supporting the inmates who refused to build the deathbed, not about the general inmate population and issues affecting them. Anti-death penalty activists cared only about stopping capital punishment. pressure that had forced prison authorities to release the strikers from lockdown. They exhorted the inmates to stage a general work strike to show support for those partic.i.p.ating in Prejean's demonstration. Our allies in the leadership argued that Prejean's demonstration would be only about supporting the inmates who refused to build the deathbed, not about the general inmate population and issues affecting them. Anti-death penalty activists cared only about stopping capital punishment.

Although the twenty-five additional striking fieldworkers had been released from lockdown, their fellow workers, Norris said, were clamoring to push for as many concessions from the authorities as they could get. "They don't really appreciate the significance of what we've accomplished because the victory didn't translate into any material benefit for them. They want to piggyback some demands." He shook his head to emphasize his sadness. "And they're stupid stupid demands. They want to make the Man change their work hours, they want to be able to buy donuts demands. They want to make the Man change their work hours, they want to be able to buy donuts X X times a week, they want a different kind of peanut b.u.t.ter and biscuit at breakfast times a week, they want a different kind of peanut b.u.t.ter and biscuit at breakfast-stupid things. I had to remind one fool that he's in prison, not a luxury hotel." things. I had to remind one fool that he's in prison, not a luxury hotel."

Still, agitators played on emotions, resentments, us-against-them att.i.tudes, and, by Sat.u.r.day noon, the desire for a general prison-wide strike had been revived and was gathering momentum. The strike was tentatively scheduled for Monday morning. Tactical units from other prisons would arrive at Angola over the weekend in preparation for it, but would remain out of sight so as not to provoke the inmates. If the strike started, it was going to end badly.

Whitley warned me, "If someone named Norris Henderson is one of the people you're working with, you'd be wise to be very careful with him. Security has him pegged as a militant and the major instigator in this strike business." I told him that Norris had been working hard to stop the strike, at no small risk to himself, and that he now had a couple of bodyguards after a small group of black nationalists tried to put him in a dangerous predicament. "Chances are, that's who fed the false information about Norris to security."

Norris, Gerald, and allies among the inmate leadership spent the weekend cashing in their credibility, leaning on their relationships, and appealing, reasoning, and even negotiating with various individuals to back off the strike. Most inmates wanted the unrest to be over. By Sunday afternoon, the strike was called off.

There were no more disturbances during Whitley's tenure. He made it a point henceforth to cultivate a rapport and working relationship with all the inmate leaders. He would go to their offices, sit up in the middle of the night with them, discussing issues or just shooting the breeze. He wanted to solve problems and was open to new ideas, as long as they made sense. He made the inmate power structure a resource and its leaders allies in his management of the prison, enabling him to manage the prisoner population independent of his security force, which he needed only for its guard service and to operate the facility.

On September 12, 1991, Ron and I and a handful of reporters watched the prison maintenance crew remove the electric chair from the death chamber. A few hours later, we recorded the installation of the lethal-injection gurney in the middle of the chamber, which promised a less painful death for the condemned. Unlike electrocution, which required the head and portion of his lower leg shaved to accommodate electrodes, this method permitted the inmate to keep his hair and the dignity it represented. The gurney was built for $5,000 by a Baton Rouge contractor who preferred to remain anonymous.

If "Flash" Jones had been electrocuted to further Buddy Roemer's political ambitions, it was for naught. Roemer failed to make the runoff, placing third behind David Duke, a notorious white supremacist who got 32 percent of the vote, and Edwin Edwards, generally regarded as corrupt, who got 34 percent in the primary.

The runoff between Edwards and Duke was popularly dubbed "the race from h.e.l.l." It was a campaign marked by the infamous b.u.mper sticker VOTE FOR THE CROOK. IT'S IMPORTANT. VOTE FOR THE CROOK. IT'S IMPORTANT. The crook won the governorship with 61.2 percent of the vote. Duke won 55 percent of the white vote. That vote was a telling measure of racist sentiment in Louisiana in 1991. The crook won the governorship with 61.2 percent of the vote. Duke won 55 percent of the white vote. That vote was a telling measure of racist sentiment in Louisiana in 1991.

Since I expected to be freed by Roemer before he left office, I wasn't concerned that Edwards, who had promised never to free me, was returning to the mansion. But as Roemer's term was running out, he commuted the sentences of forty-seven men convicted of murder, among them repeat felony offenders and some formerly sentenced to death, and denied clemency to me.

Linda, who had eagerly antic.i.p.ated my release, was devastated, as was I.

In the after-hours solitude of my office and Guitar Slim's blues, I reflected deeply on my situation, and Linda's. I could not escape the conclusion that whether it was fair or unfair that I was denied clemency, I was in prison because of my own actions. Linda's only crime was compa.s.sion. We had a Sunday picnic visit scheduled; I knew it would be a dramatic one.

She had never looked more beautiful to me than when she stepped off the old cast-off school bus that delivered visitors to Butler Park. Her smile folded me into its warmth. We found a table and made out a store order for the pork chops and potatoes we would grill. Then we settled into our visit. She asked how I was holding up and wanted to figure out our next strategy.

"That's a long desert to walk through, Junior," I said. "You've blessed my life with love. You've struggled alongside me and lived for a dream. But the bubble has burst. You need to turn me loose, walk away, and go on with your life."

She gazed into the distance, fatigue and sadness in her eyes, then turned her smile on me. "Wilbert, had someone told me five years ago that so much of my life would revolve around a prison and a relentless struggle to get you out of it, I would have seriously recommended they seek professional help. But I made a promise to you back then that I would not walk away and leave you in here. Now, once you're free you can tell me to take a hike and I'll go. Until then, you've just got to put up with me trying to kick down the doors that are keeping you in. It's the only unselfish thing I've ever done, and although it's hard and sometimes painful, I'm not going to quit. I can't."

With Edwards back in office, my friends and supporters knew we would have to look elsewhere if I were ever to win my release. Hope came in the form of Gerald Bosworth, the real-world lawyer now serving time, who conceived a way to challenge the no-parole status of lifers in court. The trick lay in a basic truism about law, first told to me by Ginger Roberts-now-Berrigan: "The law is whatever a court says it is, so long as no one appeals." Many penal administrators regarded the hope generated by parole eligibility as the most effective inducement for encouraging good behavior in prisoners. We therefore wanted to test the limits of that view.

Lifer and Angolite Angolite staffer Gilbert Guzman won a favorable judicial ruling on the legal argument that when he was sentenced to life, his sentence did not expressly prohibit parole, as life sentences now did. He was paroled soon afterward. Then Kenneth "Biggy" Johnston, another lifer and a stringer for staffer Gilbert Guzman won a favorable judicial ruling on the legal argument that when he was sentenced to life, his sentence did not expressly prohibit parole, as life sentences now did. He was paroled soon afterward. Then Kenneth "Biggy" Johnston, another lifer and a stringer for The Angolite The Angolite, followed, using the same legal argument. Next, a local judge ruled in Ron Wikberg's favor on the same issue. Dorothy Henderson, who had returned to the parole board, won agreement from the family of Ron's victim, and he was quickly paroled. Three precedents for paroling lifers had been established without a single appeal from any agency. I was to be next. But instead of sending my case into the court alone, which Bosworth thought might attract opposition because of my high profile, he decided to join together all twenty-eight remaining inmates who would be eligible under this strategy. It was a grave mistake. New Orleans district attorney Harry Connick, alerted to the strategy by a parole board secretary, was adamant that one of the inmates from his city not be released. When we, as a group, won a favorable ruling in the district court, he appealed to the Louisiana Supreme Court, which reversed our victory. Another door slammed shut in my face.

The following spring, C. Paul Phelps died suddenly of a heart attack. Only weeks before, he had given Life Life magazine an interview for an eight-page feature about me, "The Most Rehabilitated Prisoner in America." He had so impressed writer George Colt with the openness and innovation he brought to prison administration that Colt wanted to follow up with a feature on Phelps. magazine an interview for an eight-page feature about me, "The Most Rehabilitated Prisoner in America." He had so impressed writer George Colt with the openness and innovation he brought to prison administration that Colt wanted to follow up with a feature on Phelps.

Warden Whitley had tracked me down so he could personally tell me of the death before I heard it elsewhere. It was a knockdown blow. At sixty, Phelps was still a young man, and he was one of the fixtures in my world. Not only was he the best friend I'd ever had, he had also been the big brother and even the father figure I never really had.

The family requested I serve as one of the pallbearers at the funeral. I wanted badly to go, to help carry the man who'd had the most impact upon my life to his final resting place and to say my last good-bye. Corrections officials would not let me attend; it was felt that the many dignitaries who were expected to be there, including former governors who had denied me clemency, would find my presence discomfiting. Linda attended the event in my stead. At the funeral hour, I took a walk around the yard, remembering C. Paul, nursing my loss and my sadness. I felt his presence, as if he were walking beside me. I could hear his great words of advice: "I don't care how other people play. I play fair, and if I can't, then I won't play at all." "Sometimes life shapes roles for us not of our own making." "You have a responsibility to act for others when you're the only person in a position to do so. It's how you handle it that separates the great from the mediocre." "Always aspire to greatness." "Always take the high road; never let your enemies drag you down to their level."

G.o.d, I would miss him.

One day I was talking with Sydney Deloch, an inmate counsel subst.i.tute-one of those prisoners trained in law whose job it was to a.s.sist inmates in legal matters-when he mentioned that a prisoner had won a reversal of his conviction from the federal district court in Baton Rouge because there had never been a black grand jury foreman in the parish where he was indicted and tried in the 1980s. That triggered thoughts of my own experience in 1961, when blacks didn't have any role in the justice system, except as defendants to be tried and punished. Linda went to Lake Charles to research their records on juries and jury foremen.

Old court doc.u.ments revealed without exception the method used to select grand juries in Calcasieu Parish in 1961. Five white jury commissioners sat around a table with specially confected cards that were coded W W for white and for white and C C for colored. According to the undisputed testimony of clerk of court Acton Hillebrandt, himself an ex-officio commissioner who joined in the selection, the commissioners would "thumb through the cards and select whoever they saw fit" to put in the jury pool. Linda researched a dozen grand jury pools up to and including the one created for me. There was an average of one black in each pool of twenty; roughly proportionate representation would have called for between three and four. The grand juries actually impaneled were even worse: six had no blacks at all, and the other six had a single black juror. for colored. According to the undisputed testimony of clerk of court Acton Hillebrandt, himself an ex-officio commissioner who joined in the selection, the commissioners would "thumb through the cards and select whoever they saw fit" to put in the jury pool. Linda researched a dozen grand jury pools up to and including the one created for me. There was an average of one black in each pool of twenty; roughly proportionate representation would have called for between three and four. The grand juries actually impaneled were even worse: six had no blacks at all, and the other six had a single black juror.

Ed Flood, the only black man selected for the 1961 grand jury pool and grand jury that indicted me, did yard work for Hillebrandt. Linda's research showed that was typical: The token blacks selected by the white jury commissioners were janitors and laborers known to them; these simple men were in theory supposed to stand up against the wealthiest and most powerful white men in the parish to ensure fairness.

Calvin Duncan, the most brilliant legal mind in Angola, did the legal research necessary for my case, which Linda took along with her findings to Julian Murray, the lawyer who had been representing me pro bono for years. Julian filed a writ of habeas corpus for me in 1994 alleging racial discrimination in the composition of the grand jury that had indicted me. The Calcasieu Parish district attorney did not challenge any of the facts. He argued that the white jury commissioners didn't intend intend to discriminate during the Jim Crow era; in fact, he said, by deliberately including a black in each jury pool, those officials had acted quite n.o.bly to inst.i.tute an early version of affirmative action. He also argued that I waited too long to file my claim and that I should have known better than to believe my lawyers in 1973 when they told me everything that could be done for me had been done, dropped my case, and wished me well. to discriminate during the Jim Crow era; in fact, he said, by deliberately including a black in each jury pool, those officials had acted quite n.o.bly to inst.i.tute an early version of affirmative action. He also argued that I waited too long to file my claim and that I should have known better than to believe my lawyers in 1973 when they told me everything that could be done for me had been done, dropped my case, and wished me well.

My pet.i.tion was allotted to magistrate Christine Noland, who handled prisoners' suits for Federal Middle District Court judge John Parker in Baton Rouge. Noland was generally considered by Angola's jailhouse lawyers to be the most conservative jurist in the district. Still, I was convinced my legal case was sound. So all I could do now was be patient and wait for the ruling that would set me free.

11.

Censorship 1995-2001 In prison, days inch along like snails, and years zoom past like rockets. Photos, new or old, remind you of your disappearing youth as the hours spent yearning and waiting for freedom drag by. Events make you feel your mortality and churn up your desire to "seize the day" before all your days have pa.s.sed.

Such was the case when my phone rang on September 18, 1994, and my friend Ron Wikberg, after two years of freedom, told me he was dying of cancer. The doctors did not expect him to live another month. Despite that, we had a good conversation. I reminded him of the legacy he was leaving with the excellent investigative articles he wrote for The Angolite The Angolite, some of which were collected in the anthology Life Sentences: Rage and Survival Behind Bars Life Sentences: Rage and Survival Behind Bars, which we coedited for Times Books, then a division of Random House, and some of which were collected in the textbook The Wall Is Strong: Corrections in Louisiana The Wall Is Strong: Corrections in Louisiana, which we coedited with Professor Burk Foster. Dying hadn't changed Ron's sunny nature or affected his love for his wife, Kay, and his friends or dampened his sense of humor. But he was years younger than me, and his dying hit me hard, as had Phelps's a year earlier. Ron's news came only months after Whitley told me privately that he would be leaving Angola in 1995. I felt surrounded by loss.

Whitley had been our best publisher since Phelps. There were few limits to what we could do, so long as we told the truth and held to professional standards. When corrections authorities in other states wouldn't honor our requests for information about their operations, we could rely upon Whitley or our supervisor, Dwayne McFatter, to get the data for us themselves. During Whitley's wardenship, The Angolite The Angolite enjoyed its heyday. enjoyed its heyday.

Paul Slavin, an ABC-TV producer, read Life Sentences Life Sentences and wanted me to do a show for his network. With Whitley's approval, ABC brought in equipment and people to teach us how to use it. and wanted me to do a show for his network. With Whitley's approval, ABC brought in equipment and people to teach us how to use it. Angolite Angolite staffer Michael Glover was trained as my cameraman, and we followed the prison's eleven terminal inmates around for months to get their perspectives on living and dying behind bars. "In for Life," a twenty-minute report that aired March 14, 1994, on the network's staffer Michael Glover was trained as my cameraman, and we followed the prison's eleven terminal inmates around for months to get their perspectives on living and dying behind bars. "In for Life," a twenty-minute report that aired March 14, 1994, on the network's Day One Day One newsmagazine, was introduced as the first report ever produced by prisoners to be broadcast nationally. It won a CINE Golden Eagle, awarded for excellence in television production. newsmagazine, was introduced as the first report ever produced by prisoners to be broadcast nationally. It won a CINE Golden Eagle, awarded for excellence in television production.

I was invited to do commentaries on prison issues as a correspondent for National Public Radio's Fresh Air Fresh Air. Whitley introduced me on the first show and said he felt the radio reports represented a good opportunity to educate the public about what prison is really like. As with the ABC project, I interviewed and recorded whoever I wanted for my reports, then shipped the tapes, unreviewed and uninspected, to Naomi Person, my producer, in Philadelphia.

The prospect of producing filmed news reports and doc.u.mentaries especially appealed to me. I realized from the response to the Day One Day One piece that I could have a bigger impact on educating the public and promoting prison reform through film than I ever could through print or audio. ABC-TV left their camera equipment behind for us, and I wanted to create a film production operation in Angola. The time I would have to devote to doing that, and acquiring broadcast outlets, meant I had to step down from my post at piece that I could have a bigger impact on educating the public and promoting prison reform through film than I ever could through print or audio. ABC-TV left their camera equipment behind for us, and I wanted to create a film production operation in Angola. The time I would have to devote to doing that, and acquiring broadcast outlets, meant I had to step down from my post at The Angolite The Angolite, which I'd held for nearly two decades. The magazine was my baby, and it was no small thing to me to turn it loose. But I had to do so quickly, before Whitley left, because a new warden might be reluctant to allow me to relinquish my high-profile editorship for fear the act would reflect poorly on him.

Whitley allowed me to name Michael editor (he would continue to be my cameraman) provided I stayed on as editor emeritus and pursued my film projects from my desk in the Angolite Angolite office. "Most of the inmates and the employees respect you, and n.o.body's gonna challenge the magazine's operations as long as they know you're still there," said Whitley, "whereas they might try Mike." office. "Most of the inmates and the employees respect you, and n.o.body's gonna challenge the magazine's operations as long as they know you're still there," said Whitley, "whereas they might try Mike."

I dove into my new job, writing to TBS, CNN, A&E, Discovery, HBO, and a host of other television companies, citing our award-winning work for ABC-TV. Aside from ABC, only CNN and TBS were interested. Thom Beer of TBS flew to Angola to meet with me and Michael, and with a.s.sistant wardens Richard Peabody and Dwayne McFatter, to hammer out working arrangements between us and his company.

Whitley had suggested we do a doc.u.mentary on the prison's rodeo, but I wanted to do one first about the next execution, which, given our special access, would make it a unique report and firmly establish our new venture.

In mid-January, Whitley formally announced he would be leaving in a couple of weeks and would be replaced by Burl Cain, warden of a small satellite prison. Cain arrived at Angola just as the prison's inmate leadership of more than a hundred men threw a surprise farewell party for Whitley, who was visibly moved by the tribute. "I cannot believe that the prisoners of a maximum-security inst.i.tution, with their own finances, have done a dinner to say good-bye to the warden," he told the gathering. "I've never heard of that being done before. And I can tell you, I really appreciate it." Cain, who didn't attend, ominously told a gathering of inmate leaders later that they had thrown a party for the wrong man: "If you'd been smart, you would've given a party for the new warden coming in instead of the old one going out. He can't do anything for you."

One of Cain's first acts as warden was to be the execution of Antonio James. I explained my new job to Cain and briefed him on my proposed television project, which I called "First Blood." I told him that Paul Slavin thought ABC-TV would be interested in it. Cain wanted to see a "treatment" or "script" of what I wanted to do. After reading treatments on "First Blood" and on a rodeo project, which I was going to film next in October, he enthusiastically approved both projects.

Michael and I followed Cain around with a videocam during the weeks preceding the scheduled execution as he went about familiarizing himself with the prison, selecting new uniforms for his administrative officials, learning his execution duties, moving into the warden's house, and fishing in the prison's biggest lake. Cain was a colorful personality, made-to-order for the camera. He was short, overweight, and talked like an old-time Southern Baptist preacher with a piney-woods tw.a.n.g. He had a certain good-old-boy charisma about him, and a knack for simplistic cornpone sayings and biblical quotes that made great sound bites. He was also a ham.

Cain a.s.sured me that we could film everything except the actual execution, which the law forbade. The state supreme court, however, halted the execution four hours before James was to die, and the project was shelved until a new execution date was scheduled.

Though Cain loved attention, he didn't fancy sharing the limelight. Shortly after he had become warden, Baton Rouge's WBRZ-TV featured the plight of Nicholas Carter, a local fourteen-year-old boy who would die without a bone-marrow transplant. I phoned reporter Margaret Lawhon, whose televised appeals had gotten a dismal response from Baton Rouge's black community, the youth's best hope for a suitable donor. I told her that Norris Henderson and I wanted to try to find a donor among Angola's five thousand predominantly black prisoners. I worked with Margaret, the medical personnel, and prison authorities while Norris recruited about fifty inmate leaders to help. Margaret got a local riverboat casino to donate $5,000 to cover the cost of bone-marrow testing of the inmates and suggested that Cain and Norris go to Baton Rouge to jointly accept the check on TV. Cain agreed, and Norris waited for him in the Angolite Angolite office at the appointed time, only to watch the warden accept the check on TV by himself. office at the appointed time, only to watch the warden accept the check on TV by himself.

Cain had a flair for endearing himself to people and making them feel like old friends. His pa.s.sion in life was politics and the pursuit of power, and, I think, acceptance. To that end he became acquainted with all manner of people-rich, poor, cla.s.sy, even outlaw motorcyclists.

As leader of a group of wardens of satellite facilities, he had persuaded gubernatorial candidate Edwin Edwards that they could deliver the 1991 vote of the prison employees-in exchange for the appointment of Richard Stalder, Cain's former deputy warden, as corrections chief. Intelligent, well educated, and personable, Stalder was a repressive administrator and heartless bureaucrat. Given to control and censorship, he was no fan of The Angolite The Angolite. After Edwards won, Stalder took office in 1992, and he let us know that he was displeased that we had never published anything favorable about the American Correctional a.s.sociation (ACA), whose standards he intended to employ as a way to wrest control of the state's prisons from federal judge Frank Polozola's oversight. Court supervision pretty much guaranteed that he got what he wanted from the legislature, but he had plans for the prison system and didn't want the federal courts telling him what to do.

I didn't have a high opinion of the ACA. Phelps had told me it was "about building bureaucracies, covering their a.s.ses against liability, and managing prisons with paper and pen ...and there's no evidence that their way is better than ours." In fact, the worst ma.s.sacre in modern times was in an ACA prison in New Mexico. And in another ACA facility, in Lucasville, Ohio, a riot had recently taken place.

As long as Whitley was warden, we didn't have to worry about Stalder. But Cain was his political benefactor and seemingly bulletproof, despite having arrived at Angola with a reputation for shady dealings. The Baton Rouge Advocate Advocate had just written about questionable dealings involving a chicken-processing operation that used inmate labor at his previous prison. Scandals and rumors of corruption would dog Cain more than any warden in Angola's history. had just written about questionable dealings involving a chicken-processing operation that used inmate labor at his previous prison. Scandals and rumors of corruption would dog Cain more than any warden in Angola's history.

Cain was about power, control, and money. His political power would enable him, as warden, to bring in unprecedented funds from the legislature, where his brother was a senator. If any reason could be found to build, repair, or replace something at Angola, money was designated for it.

Cain was like a king, a sole ruler. His favorite a.n.a.logy was, "I'm like the father, and y'all are like my children." He enjoyed being a dictator and regarded himself as a benevolent one. His subordinates loathed his going into the inmate population, because if a prisoner complained or asked him about anything, he'd order it corrected instantly. Disciplinary actions were undone on the spot, as were job a.s.signments. He wanted to be liked, and prisoners knew that.

He could also be a bully-harsh, unfair, vindictive. Subordinates who questioned his orders suffered instant demotions and transfers. Despite his spontaneous generosity to individual inmates, his idea of managing prisoners was to punish everyone for the act of one. That, he explained, was the way to "make everyone his 'brother's keeper.'"

The first significant moment that defined my relationship with Cain came one night shortly after he became warden. He took me for a ride in his Chevy Suburban out along the lonely levee that protects Angola from Mississippi River floodwaters. He wanted me to tell him who among the ranking employees were his friends and who were his enemies. I told him I wasn't a snitch. He wasn't pleased.

Matters didn't improve when I rejected his religious entreaties. A number of employees told me he wanted to bring me "to Jesus," because it would be a sensational coup for him. Once, when there was a big revival at Angola with media in attendance, Cain b.u.t.tonholed me and said, "Come on, Wilbert. Come into the service with me," to which I replied, "No thanks, Warden." I knew he just wanted to exploit me, and he knew I knew.

The new editor of The Angolite The Angolite introduced Cain to readers as "The Christian Warden," which was how he wanted to be seen. Under his tutelage, religion and moral transformation were to be the cornerstones of Angola's penal philosophy. Indeed, his wife was one of a group of visiting religionists teaching the Bible to some inmates at the start of his administration. After Cain was caught having s.e.x with his female a.s.sistant, his wife was never again seen at the prison. introduced Cain to readers as "The Christian Warden," which was how he wanted to be seen. Under his tutelage, religion and moral transformation were to be the cornerstones of Angola's penal philosophy. Indeed, his wife was one of a group of visiting religionists teaching the Bible to some inmates at the start of his administration. After Cain was caught having s.e.x with his female a.s.sistant, his wife was never again seen at the prison.

Cain, however, wouldn't let a little immorality get in the way of making Angola the focal point of an unparalleled religious crusade. He pressured inmates to partic.i.p.ate and forced their organizations to pony up money to support it. He acquired a dubious degree from an unaccredited Bible college in Shreveport, and threw open the prison gates to churches, evangelists, and their ministries. Eager for a toehold and, dare I say, their own legitimacy as saviors of the wretched, they embraced him with evangelical fervor, singing his praises.

When Cain arrived at Angola, he a.s.sured us and the outside media that he wanted The Angolite The Angolite to continue without censorship. "The magazine contributes so much to the prison's stability and security," he told the Baton Rouge to continue without censorship. "The magazine contributes so much to the prison's stability and security," he told the Baton Rouge Advocate Advocate. "I support what they're doing and I want them to keep doing the same job." We quickly learned that there was a wide chasm between what he said and what he did.

First, he prohibited prison employees from talking to the news media, including The Angolite The Angolite, without prior permission. All information had to come directly from Cain or his office. The reason for this, we were told, was to ensure the accuracy of information, not to censor it. But, of course, this gradually strangled our ability to gather information independently.

All Angolite Angolite phone calls to people outside the prison could now be approved only by Deputy Warden Sheryl Ranatza, who was placed in charge of phone calls to people outside the prison could now be approved only by Deputy Warden Sheryl Ranatza, who was placed in charge of The Angolite The Angolite and all media matters, the daily management of which she left to her too-young a.s.sistant, Cathy Jett. A recent criminal justice graduate, Jett was inexperienced, trusted no one, and was dedicated to covering her a.s.s and getting favorable publicity for Cain. She could not be reasoned with. Cain's administration was concerned only with outward appearances. and all media matters, the daily management of which she left to her too-young a.s.sistant, Cathy Jett. A recent criminal justice graduate, Jett was inexperienced, trusted no one, and was dedicated to covering her a.s.s and getting favorable publicity for Cain. She could not be reasoned with. Cain's administration was concerned only with outward appearances.

The Angolite's fate was made even more precarious because of another scandal involving Cain. In October 1995, William Kissinger, a trusty who worked as an inmate lawyer, wrote a letter to federal health officials about a canned-milk and canned-tomato operation Cain was running at Angola in which inmates would scrub the rust off outdated cans and relabel them for use on the open market. When Cain found out about the letter, he had Kissinger thrown in the Dungeon, transferred from his job in the law library to fieldwork on the farm lines, and moved from his trusty dormitory to one on "the wild side" where non-trusties lived. The matter ended up in federal court, where a judge told Cain not to hara.s.s the whistleblower. The can-relabeling plant was shut down, but the whole prison got the message that Cain would not tolerate anything negative being said about Angola, even if it was true.

Michael Glover was shaken by the Kissinger incident and believed The Angolite The Angolite would be shut down. I didn't think so, but we all recognized that we were reaching the point where we would no longer be able to do investigative exposes, the gold standard in journalism. Because of the Kissinger incident, everyone was reluctant to talk, even off the record. I felt that would be shut down. I didn't think so, but we all recognized that we were reaching the point where we would no longer be able to do investigative exposes, the gold standard in journalism. Because of the Kissinger incident, everyone was reluctant to talk, even off the record. I felt that The Angolite The Angolite could still serve our const.i.tuency well by doing whatever reporting we could, and a.n.a.lyzing things for them, while educating the outside world about life inside prison. I reminded the staff that the magazine had gone through rough times between 1981 and 1983, and we had survived by changing. We would do so again. could still serve our const.i.tuency well by doing whatever reporting we could, and a.n.a.lyzing things for them, while educating the outside world about life inside prison. I reminded the staff that the magazine had gone through rough times between 1981 and 1983, and we had survived by changing. We would do so again.

The end of 1995 brought more depressing news. Republican Mike Foster, who promised to end clemency for anyone convicted of a violent crime regardless of rehabilitation or the amount of time served, was elected governor. His ascension to power was a near-fatal blow to hope at Angola.

Foster reappointed Stalder, perpetuating the conversion of the corrections system into a self-serving political and money machine. Here's how it worked.

Louisiana had the nation's largest backlog of prisoners being held in local jails because of lack of s.p.a.ce in the state penal system. Since 1992, Stalder had been partnering with sheriffs-the most powerful political figures at the local level-to house state prisoners in their jails rather than build more state prisons. The effect of this was to merge the two systems into a vast inmate-warehousing jail complex that would funnel huge amounts of state dollars to sheriffs.

Local jails were lucrative power centers for local sheriffs, who generally could not get taxpayers to fund new jails. Stalder said he would "house forty percent of the capacity" of any new local jail with state inmates. That state money would allow sheriffs to borrow the rest. "This was how, in fourteen locations, new jails have been built," Stalder told us proudly after his first four years in office, adding, "There are ninety-five local facilities in which we house state inmates."

Stalder and Cain were thus creating their own prisoner-for-profit industry. Local facilities operated at minimal expense, leaving inmates devoid of virtually all health services, legal aid from trained inmate counsel subst.i.tutes, and educational, recreational, and work opportunities available in state prisons. The state paid the jailers up to ten times the rate paid by the local parish for a prisoner. The substantial profit paid for the new jail. The more jails there were, the more jobs the sheriffs had available to fill, which increased their political manpower and their chances for reelection. New or expanded jails also meant a greater need for private contractors to provide a host of services, including telephones for inmates, and clothing, cigarettes, and snacks sold in the jail commissary. The contracts were worth big money, and the bid requirements could be tailored to effectively eliminate all bidders but one, resulting in a grateful contractor at reelection time. Once local officials became dependent upon the state-inmate funding stream, they were locked into the Cain/Stalder power network, because Stalder had the power to withdraw inmates for almost any reason and, if he did, the affected sheriff would lose the state income he now relied on as well as the political benefits that flowed from it.

As architect of this expanded system, Stalder was caretaker for the political and moneyed interests feeding off the now-fattened corrections t.i.t. Those special interests transformed the corrections department from what had historically been the weakest state agency into a statewide political power base that would act to enlarge the penal system and keep Stalder and his patron, Cain, in control longer than anyone in the system's history. And it was an industry dedicated to physical expansion and increased political power, which meant there was no incentive to release inmates-the longer an inmate was incarcerated, the more bloated the prison population became, the more facilities were needed, and the greater the profits and political dependency of the local officials. Stalder's administration promoted incarceration by encouraging guards to increase the number of disciplinary citations, which hampered early release. The pardon and parole boards, now staffed with Foster appointees, became stingier in granting freedom, and formulated policies that reimprisoned probationers and parolees for mere technical violations. Needless to say, Louisiana quickly became the nation's number one incarceration state during Stalder's tenure.

In 1991, The Angolite The Angolite had discovered and exposed the state legislature's quiet, hitherto-unreported pa.s.sage of a rule that gave all state prisoners one year to challenge their convictions in state habeas corpus proceedings or be forever barred from doing so. The overwhelming number of inmates were unable to do so because they had no lawyers or resources. That law, along with Stalder's ascension to power, essentially extended the imprisonment of most state prisoners and pretty much buried the lifers and long-termers of Angola. Cain publicly p.r.o.nounced that more than 85 percent of those imprisoned at Angola would die there. had discovered and exposed the state legislature's quiet, hitherto-unreported pa.s.sage of a rule that gave all state prisoners one year to challenge their convictions in state habeas corpus proceedings or be forever barred from doing so. The overwhelming number of inmates were unable to do so because they had no lawyers or resources. That law, along with Stalder's ascension to power, essentially extended the imprisonment of most state prisoners and pretty much buried the lifers and long-termers of Angola. Cain publicly p.r.o.nounced that more than 85 percent of those imprisoned at Angola would die there.

Defending prisoners' rights had by this time come to be seen as disrespect for crime victims. The only fighters left standing in the prison reform movement were death penalty opponents, whose main aim was to subst.i.tute no-parole life sentences for capital punishment. Prison conditions, prisoners' rights or welfare, and clemency were not part of their agenda. Amid this growing desert of indifference, The Angolite The Angolite was essentially the only voice Angola prisoners had, and it was the target of a gradual muzzling. was essentially the only voice Angola prisoners had, and it was the target of a gradual muzzling.

At this juncture, we prisoners knew we had to look out for ourselves as never before. Because I had a half-formed idea of funding a quasi-welfare program for inmates, I was elected president of the bankrupt Pardon Finance Board, the oldest of the prison's thirty-plus inmate organizations. It was renamed the Human Relations Club and changed its philosophy and direction. We acquired a franchise for the club to sell Angola Prison Rodeo souvenir T-shirts to inmates and tourists to raise revenue. I recruited the civic-minded Checo Yancy to become my vice president, a.s.suring him that he could pursue all the good community goals that he wanted to. Since I was involved in films and radio, I needed him to steer the club in its new direction and to keep the books, sparing me the day-to-day management.

Our club teamed up with Norris Henderson's Angola Special Civics Project to maintain the prison's cemetery. We wanted to take over the handling of prison funerals. During the filming of "In for Life," dying inmates had complained that the chaplains didn't even visit them in the prison hospital, and expressed resentment at those chaplains presiding over their burial. I, along with several other leaders, asked Cain to allow us to create and handle a funeral ritual in which inmates would bury their own, with inmate preachers presiding rather than the chaplains. Cain agreed and a.s.signed two inmate carpenters to make wooden caskets to replace the cheap pressed-cardboard coffins the prison had been buying. He a.s.signed another crew of inmates to build an old-time funeral carriage that, when completed, was towed by big, beautiful Percheron horses. The Special Civics Project and Human Relations Club provided the manpower and footed the bill for all other funeral improvements.

We looked for ways to expand and fund our inmate-helping-inmate effort. A number of inmate organizations ran food concessions in the visiting room, selling coffee, donuts, homemade pizza, and barbecue to raise money. Some of the religious inmate organizations had been visiting men in the hospital and bringing them toiletries and books. We in turn got the clubs with food concessions to agree to give terminal patients any food they requested free of charge. The Human Relations Club offered to pay the cost of bus transportation for any terminal patient's relative to visit. Later, Cain would order Dwayne McFatter to create for inmates what turned out to be a nationally recognized award-winning hospice program.

To encourage self-education, the Human Relations Club began to reward the top inmate tutors and students in both the prison's limited academic and vocational programs by allowing them to be guests at our club's monthly socials, where they could mingle with outside guests, listen to music, eat well, and possibly win a door prize bag of food, toiletries, and other items not sold in the prison commissary.

Since most of the elderly inmates just sat around the dorms with nothing to do, the Human Relations Club created a monthly senior citizens' night, at which hundreds of the prison's elderly could congregate, be served a good meal different from their normal prison fare, play bingo for prizes, watch a movie, and socialize with their peers at our expense. It quickly became the most attended activity in the prison. We'd give them free tobacco, coffee, gloves, caps. With Cain's approval, we created an annual long-termers' day to bring together all those imprisoned more than twenty-five years for a day of good food, entertainment, and an opportunity to visit with free men and women. Our first year, singer Aaron Neville headlined the list of entertainers, and outside churches and groups volunteered their services.

The Human Relations Club quickly became the most talked-about organization in Angola, because we gave away our profits to the inmate population as quickly as we made them, a first in the prison. Prison employees who liked what we were doing volunteered their a.s.sistance, working without pay on their days off to help us stage events. As we had antic.i.p.ated, other inmate organizations, not to be outdone or embarra.s.sed, followed our lead with charitable endeavors. Checo often joked that I wanted to put a lot of programs in place in case I didn't get out of prison. There might have been some truth in that, but I took enormous satisfaction in being able to improve the lives of those around me and see the difference in their faces. Cain supported all these endeavors.

We were very pleased when, on January 10, 1996, seventy-eight-year-old Moreese "Pop" Bickham was released after thirty-eight years at Angola. We filmed it for ABC-TV's Nightline Nightline. The key to his freedom had been starring in "Tossing Away the Keys," the radio doc.u.mentary that Ron Wikberg and I coproduced with Dave Isay in 1990. Dave had promised Pop he would get him out, and he and New York lawyer Michael Alcamo had finally pulled it off. Edwin Edwards had commuted Pop's life sentence as he was leaving office the year before. Cain hosted a small reception at the ranch house-a facility used for entertaining guests at Angola-where we all waited for midnight, when Cain personally took Pop, Angola's third-longest-confined prisoner, through the prison gate. Pop, who had been ordained a Methodist minister while in prison, knelt and kissed the ground he had longed for years to walk on.

Soon afterward, Antonio James, a "changed man" even in the opinion of the warden, lost his final court battle, and his execution was to go forward, despite evidence that he was not the shooter. His lethal injection was to be administered March i, and Michael and I resumed filming the countdown to his death.

On February 19, Michael collapsed and died of an apparent asthma attack as he prepared for bed. I lost a valued friend and an ally in my pursuit of journalistic excellence. I mourned most, however, for his widow, Debi, a true Christian who brought love and joy into Michael's caged life and took him out of Angola at long last, though not in the way either had hoped and prayed for.

I contacted TBS Productions and CNN, asking for camera a.s.sistance to replace Michael, but their bureaucracies were too slow in responding. I appealed to Gabriel Films, a New York production company, which a.s.sured me of instant a.s.sistance to finish my film. Jonathan Stack, the head of the company, and Liz Garbus, a young filmmaker, met me at Michael's funeral in Baton Rouge, where I had been driven by a lone female security lieutenant, something so unprecedented that I spent the entire trip suspicious it was a setup.