In The Place Of Justice Part 5

Like almost everyone else, before I found out firsthand what prison was like, I thought it was just a purgatory where criminals were warehoused and punished before being returned to society. I was surprised to learn that it was a world unto itself, with its own peculiar culture, belief system, lifestyle, power structure, economy, and currency. It had its own heroes, like Leadbelly, who sang his way out of Angola and into international stardom; and Charlie Frazier, whose cell in the notorious "Red Hat" disciplinary building was welded shut for seven years after he shot his way out of the prison in a b.l.o.o.d.y escape. It was a world divided into "them" and "us" by a deep abyss of ignorance, prejudice, and misunderstanding. It was a world in which the forces of good and evil struggled daily with no guarantee as to which would triumph. It was a world that placed a high premium on exercising extreme care-in word, deed, and appearance-and upon keeping one's word, whether it was to help someone or to hurt them. It was a world where inmates punished unacceptable behavior even more severely than authorities did. It was a world fraught with cruelty and danger but alive with hope, aspiration, and wide-ranging activity. There was certainly human wreckage-tortured souls and destroyed lives. But people also labored and fought to create meaningful lives in an abnormal place, and to find purpose and a measure of satisfaction in a human wasteland. Prison was more than just h.e.l.l's storehouse.

There was a huge discrepancy between popular perception and the reality of what was happening behind bars. With America wracked by civil disobedience over the Vietnam War, violent revolutionary groups, black militancy, and ghetto riots, some of the nation's inmates embraced militant antiauthoritarian rhetoric. Outside supporters of political militants publicly promoted romanticized notions of Angola prisoners united in resistance to official authority; in fact, genuine militants could not get a foothold in Angola, because gangsters, inmate leaders, slaveowners, and even run-of-the-mill criminal hustlers regarded militants as a threat to their own interests. They readily identified so-called militants to security guards in exchange for favors, often naming personal rivals or enemies as "revolutionaries." While Angola was the most violent prison in the nation, the bloodletting-with a few notable exceptions-was not due to political militancy. The violence was essentially about disrespect, vengeance, s.e.x, turf, property, criminality, money, drugs, domestic disputes, and the inability of individuals to get along peaceably in a jungle atmosphere. Although I kept a weapon handy at all times-first, the knife; later, an iron handle of a mop wringer innocently sitting in the corner of my office-I never needed to use it. Occasionally, violence was invoked as a matter of principle, to prevent a third party from being victimized. But the reality was a far cry from the militancy that many believed kept the prison b.l.o.o.d.y. As I came to understand how Angola functioned, I continued to regard educating the public about Angola as both an opportunity and a mission.

After the third issue of The Lifer The Lifer, prison officials shut us down, saying our funds were beyond their ability to audit and regulate, held as they were in a bank by the ACLU; the move only increased my support from black inmates. In the autumn of 1974, I queried Gulf South Publishing Corporation, which owned and operated a chain of black newspapers in Louisiana and Mississippi, about writing a weekly column on prison life for them, and they agreed. I intended "The Jungle," which is what I called the column, to be different from the usual wail of personal pain or the bitter bar-rattling rage at the system that had historically come out of prisons. I wanted it to be reportorial and, to the extent possible, nonjudgmental. I strove to convey a wider perspective on prison issues than was usually expressed by either prisoners or officials. One of my earliest columns was an insider's a.n.a.lysis of the internal prison economy and the correlation between the degree of material deprivation suffered by inmates and the degree of violence within the prison, an observation I first made in the Baton Rouge jail, which was reinforced when I entered the general population in Angola. It was a piece that could not have been done by an outside journalist. It reinforced my belief that I could make a significant contribution.

In preparing the columns, I found facts and statistics to expose racial and cla.s.s inequities in the criminal justice system-from the staffing of prisons to disparities in sentences, clemencies, and executions. I wrote about the problems of being black in a white-ruled prison. The administration was sometimes embarra.s.sed by things I reported-lack of soap in a prison that produced it, little old ladies delivering cases of toilet tissue to the prison gate in response to my reported shortage of it-and why prison officials stood for it as long as they did, I don't know. It was probably because it had never been done before, so they had no policy on it, and because few Angola officials read black weeklies.

In November 1974, however, Deputy Warden Hoyle and a.s.sistant Warden William Kerr learned I had written a column criticizing the annual prison rodeo as exploiting the inmates for the amus.e.m.e.nt of outsiders, likening it to the gladiatorial games of ancient Rome that used slaves for the entertainment of the ma.s.ses. Hoyle and Kerr ordered that I be removed from general population and locked up in a solitary disciplinary cell known as the Dungeon. (Warden Henderson was out of state.) A dumbfounded Major Richard Wall, the leader of the "new guard," appeared at my office door expressing disbelief at what he had been ordered to do. I had been charged with being a threat to the security of the inst.i.tution, specifically for "stirring racial animosities and instigating insurrection." The newspaper chain that carried my column immediately published a front-page demand that corrections officials explain why their "correspondent" was in disciplinary lockdown. Black politicians and civil rights groups from Baton Rouge and New Orleans also protested. Prison officials responded that I had been locked up to protect me from inmates who didn't like my criticism of the rodeo. Eight hundred Main Prison inmates then responded with a pet.i.tion guaranteeing my safety, resulting in my release from the Dungeon.

I had won a stunning victory over censorship. I emerged from the Dungeon a hero, my image as a fighter reinforced by the administration's retaliation. But I was in no mood for celebration. While I was in the Dungeon, word reached me that my old friend Ora Lee had died of a heart attack. I was crushed. I also felt guilty, because Ora Lee, from whom I'd gained so much, had asked only one thing of me-that I write a column about him to help in his struggle to regain his freedom-and I hadn't done it. I had promised I would, but other things kept getting in the way. Distraught, I got an inmate to smuggle paper and pencil to me in the Dungeon, and I sat down to write the long-promised column, paying tribute to an unlikely teacher who, to the world at large, was nothing more than a criminal: He taught me self-reliance by being self-reliant; strength, by being strong; courage, by being courageous; and to not complain or cry about the things I couldn't change merely by embarra.s.sing me with his own lack of tears and complaints. He was a poor man even by prison standards. He owned one pair of shoes, a change of clothes, and an old coat that was useless against the cold. Abandoned by the world, he had no source of income. He could have easily secured money if he really wanted to; he was intelligent and knew every trick to exploiting others, but he refused to utilize this knowledge because it conflicted with his religious beliefs.... There may have been times that he was scared, but I never knew it. And the knowledge that he was there, like the Rock of Gibraltar, somehow made the going a little easier, made me feel that there was no challenge that I couldn't stand up to, no obstacles I couldn't overcome, because he believed in me and I'd remember him saying, "A man can do anything he puts his mind to." And I knew he was right. How many men are to be found who could lose half of their hand in a grinder as he did and not even cry out, just weep silently? And in a place full of danger, tragedies and bitterness, how many men could retain their sense of humor, greeting each new day with a smile? He permitted nothing to defeat him.*

When I was released from the Dungeon, I learned that my lockup had been followed by a security search of the office I shared with my friend Robert Jackson, which revealed photos of a female security guard and romantic letters she had sent him. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for such a relationship to take root in the fertile soil of love-starved males competing to make the female employees feel like the most desirable of women. And when staffers rubbed shoulders with convicts day in and day out, they often came to see the inmates' humanity with fresh eyes. Still, in an us-against-them world, such relationships were viewed as traitorous by the other employees and were forbidden; a guard under the emotional sway of an inmate could aid him in an attempted escape or smuggle in contraband. Robert was locked up in a disciplinary cell, the female guard was forced to resign, and I lost my office.

Warden Henderson visited me shortly thereafter to tell me he wasn't pleased with what Hoyle and Kerr had done. He a.s.sured me that it would not happen again, and told me that I was free to write for outside publications. Exhilarated, I began trying to freelance. A couple of small alternative newspapers published me, but the mainstream media still were not interested in reports about prison life, even though Angola was seen by many as the bloodiest prison in the country.

From 1972 to 1975, 67 prisoners were stabbed to death in Angola, and more than 350 others were seriously injured from knife wounds. The violence affected one of every ten prisoners, not counting those injured in fistfights or beatings with blunt objects. Another 42 died of "natural causes" in a world where the average age was twenty-three. With no doctor or nurse on staff, medical services were provided largely by a handful of employee and inmate hospital workers whose expertise had been acquired through on-the-job training. An inmate who had worked as a mortician was the most adept at suturing.

Upset by the Louisiana legislature's refusal to address the problems at Angola, U.S. District Court Judge E. Gordon West halted the flow of inmates into Angola on June 10, 1975, placed the prison under the supervision of the court, and ordered Louisiana to make wholesale changes to end the violence and improve conditions there (Williams v. McKeithen) (Williams v. McKeithen). His ruling would have a significant impact on criminal justice in Louisiana because Angola was the heart of the state's adult penal system.

In the wake of West's order, The Shreveport Journal The Shreveport Journal, one of that city's two daily newspapers, devoted its entire July 2, 1975, issue to the problems of Louisiana's criminal justice system. I was invited to be the newspaper's "inside man" with three features: first, a historical overview of Angola and the state's penal practices; second, an expose of the problems faced by military veterans behind bars, including reporting on the nation's first self-help group to aid them, which I helped establish at Angola; third, a depiction of life in prison. The special edition won the paper the American Bar a.s.sociation's highest award, the Silver Gavel, for outstanding public service.

My reporting in a newspaper that white officialdom read and respected had an impact: I was finally offered a job on The Angolite The Angolite. But by then I enjoyed greater status and credibility as an outsider independent of the inst.i.tution, so I declined the offer. Also, to leave my position as senior clerk in the cla.s.sification department-whose officers approved visitors, escorted tours, and determined inmate housing and job a.s.signments-meant a real loss of power. It was a position from which I had gradually engineered the placement of my friends and allies into key jobs. The control and influence of the Main Prison that resulted, combined with that accruing from our collective political and organizational activities among the prisoners, had quickly made me, to my own amazement, one of the most influential blacks in Angola.

One warm day in October 1975, Kelly Ward, the too-young, too-blond, freckled-faced director of cla.s.sification, told me that Michael Beaubouef, his a.s.sistant director, would be taking me to Warden Henderson's office after lunch.

I had been recla.s.sified to minimum-security custody, which allowed me to work and travel outside the fenced-in Main Prison complex without an armed escort. As a trusty, I regularly accompanied cla.s.sification officers when they conducted bus tours of the penitentiary for school, church, and civic groups. The "tourists" almost always asked for printed information about the prison, but there was nothing to give them. The authorities had never bothered to compile a history of Angola or information about prison operations. Sensing opportunity, I requested the warden's permission to produce and sell a tour guide for my personal profit. I hoped that was the reason for the summons.

The drive to the administration building was short and uncomfortable. I was always ill at ease around Beaubouef. Though he had earned a college degree, as the son of a prison guard, he had been raised on B-Line in the peculiar prison culture that regarded convicts as just a step above work animals. He seemed friendly and understanding when I helped him with the monthly parole board hearings. After I was thrown in the Dungeon because of my rodeo article, however, he took me to his office for a private man-to-man talk in which he tried to persuade me to stop criticizing the rodeo and the prison. When I said I couldn't do that, he angrily told me that he no longer wanted me working with him and that he was transferring me to the field. I went to Ward and suggested that Beaubouef's threatened action would make the administration appear to be continuing a vendetta against me because of my writing. After talking with the warden, Ward a.s.sured me that nothing would happen to me. Beaubouef didn't appreciate being overruled; he refused to speak to me for months.

Henderson offered me coffee and friendly small talk. A gracious host, he treated prisoners no differently than he did others, which made him quite popular among inmate leaders. He explained that one of the immediate effects of Judge West's court order was that inmate workers in vital roles at the prison hospital were being replaced by female employees.

"There are going to be many such changes in the coming months," he said. "Cla.s.sification is next. Starting the first of the year, inmate clerks will be phased out."

Female guards had always been restricted to working in the visiting room and the guard towers. "Security is not going to let women work in the middle of the Main Prison," I said. "You know that as well as I do."

"I expect there to be problems, but the male security force is going to have to accept the fact that women are going to work there-just as you have to accept it, if I'm to help you," said Henderson. "I'm interested in what happens to you, as you know. At the moment you have a job you like. Before you lose it and end up in a position that you won't like, I wanted to let you know what's about to happen, so you'll have a chance to try to get another job that you might like."

"Thanks, Warden. I appreciate that."

"You have anything in mind that you think you might like?"

I shook my head. "I'd have to take a look around."

"Well, if you don't already have something specific in mind, perhaps you could help me on something and help yourself in the process," Henderson said. "You've made quite a name for yourself as a writer and, to be frank, it's somewhat embarra.s.sing not to have our best-known writer on the prison paper. Besides, The Angolite The Angolite has always been white and, with eighty-five percent of the prisoners here being black, that's not right. It's never been right. But one of the ugly facts about prison is that you can't always do what you want to do or what you know is right..." His voice trailed off, his eyes reflective. has always been white and, with eighty-five percent of the prisoners here being black, that's not right. It's never been right. But one of the ugly facts about prison is that you can't always do what you want to do or what you know is right..." His voice trailed off, his eyes reflective.

"You're right, Warden," Beaubouef injected, speaking for the first time. "I've always felt that it was wrong for the paper to be all white when the majority of the inmates here are black. It's not fair to the black population and it's not fair to the administration because it gives the public the wrong impression about us, making it appear that we're racist when we're not."

Beaubouef's words rang false to me. Henderson's, I believed. I had found him to be a compa.s.sionate man. I figured I was a continuing embarra.s.sment for the administration. The New Orleans Times-Picayune Times-Picayune had just published a story on October 5, 1975, "The Word-man of Angola," comparing me and my writing to Robert Stroud, the legendary Birdman of Alcatraz who taught himself ornithology by studying the birds that flew into his cell. What neither man knew was that a feature about incarcerated veterans was scheduled for publication in the April 1976 edition of had just published a story on October 5, 1975, "The Word-man of Angola," comparing me and my writing to Robert Stroud, the legendary Birdman of Alcatraz who taught himself ornithology by studying the birds that flew into his cell. What neither man knew was that a feature about incarcerated veterans was scheduled for publication in the April 1976 edition of Penthouse Penthouse magazine, my first national forum. I was paid a $1,000, the most money I ever legitimately possessed in my life. I took it as heady affirmation that I could write. magazine, my first national forum. I was paid a $1,000, the most money I ever legitimately possessed in my life. I took it as heady affirmation that I could write.

"That office has got to be integrated; the black population must be represented in it, and you're the logical person to do it," Henderson said, his voice forceful.

"You want me to go to The Angolite The Angolite," I said flatly.

Henderson nodded. "You need a job, and you'd have the best one in the prison. You'd have a typewriter, privacy, and all the time you want to do whatever writing you desire. I can't imagine a better job for you. And, as editor, you'd be your own boss."

"Bill Brown is the editor," I said.

"Not if you want the job," Henderson said.

With my job in cla.s.sification ending, becoming editor of The Angolite The Angolite was the best move I could make. But replacing Brown, the prison's most visible white inmate, with one of its most visible blacks, troubled me. For the past few years, blacks had been gradually taking over jobs, self-help organizations, rackets, and power previously held by whites. Black inmates outnumbered whites, but there was more unity among whites-and they were better armed, believed even to have guns. Most black leaders did not want a race war, especially when the security force was still almost all white and mostly racist, despite the hiring of seventy-five black guards during the past two years, many of whom had already quit. The total number of guards was only four hundred, divided into three shifts, to oversee two thousand inmates in the Main Prison and another two thousand spread among camps A, H, I, F, RC, death row, and the hospital. was the best move I could make. But replacing Brown, the prison's most visible white inmate, with one of its most visible blacks, troubled me. For the past few years, blacks had been gradually taking over jobs, self-help organizations, rackets, and power previously held by whites. Black inmates outnumbered whites, but there was more unity among whites-and they were better armed, believed even to have guns. Most black leaders did not want a race war, especially when the security force was still almost all white and mostly racist, despite the hiring of seventy-five black guards during the past two years, many of whom had already quit. The total number of guards was only four hundred, divided into three shifts, to oversee two thousand inmates in the Main Prison and another two thousand spread among camps A, H, I, F, RC, death row, and the hospital.

Brown had support among white prisoners and employees. An abrupt changeover carried the potential to precipitate a larger racial conflict.

"I'll take the job, but I don't want you to move Bill Brown."

"Well, it'd be best for you," Beaubouef said. "You'd be able to pick your own staff and have a free hand to do what you want to do as editor."

"The problem with that is, while I can write, I don't know the mechanics involved in producing The Angolite The Angolite," I said, not revealing my real concerns. "Brown will have to show me. But I don't expect him to be very cooperative once you've fired him."

"That's true," said Henderson.

"I'd prefer that you simply a.s.sign me to The Angolite The Angolite and leave him in his present position. That'll allow me to learn the operation through working with him." and leave him in his present position. That'll allow me to learn the operation through working with him."

"Mike, you see to it that he's a.s.signed," Henderson said, turning to Beaubouef. "And, Rideau, when you've learned the operation, let Mr. Beaubouef know and he'll move Brown out." He looked at us, adding, "I don't see any need for us to discuss any of this with anybody else."

I returned to the cla.s.sification department, where I told Ward about my going to The Angolite The Angolite. He was pleased.

After work, I joined several friends for the walk to our dorm, listening as they related the news of the day. There had been a b.l.o.o.d.y fight with machetes in the field that morning. In a second-story toilet in the education department-where only about a hundred students attended basic academic cla.s.ses in pursuit of a GED or the one college-level course, in drafting, offered there by Louisiana State University-a new inmate had been turned out and marked as a galboy. And at the industrial compound, where inmates fabricated mattresses, license plates, traffic signs, and dentures, a cache of weapons had been discovered by guards, fueling speculation that an armed confrontation was brewing.

I now lived with sixty other men in Cypress 3 dormitory on the Trusty Yard, which encompa.s.sed a recreation yard and half of the Main Prison's thirty-two dormitories; the other half belonged to the Big Yard, where prisoners who had not attained the status of trusty lived and exercised. Each yard was a gra.s.sy rectangle that accommodated several baseball diamonds, football fields, basketball courts, volleyball courts, weight piles, and jogging areas. The Big Yard was defined by a barbed wire-topped cyclone fence; there was no fence around the Trusty Yard. The yards were the after-hours complement to full workdays in Angola's effort to reduce violence by keeping inmates busy and physically spent.

One guard stationed outside in a booth supervised our dorm and three others-a total of 240 men. Under such circ.u.mstances, control and order in a dorm rested with the largest or dominant "family" living in it. The tone and quality of life in Cypress 3 was shaped by a coalition of settled lifers and the family of black clerks, artists, and prison politicians to which I belonged. Stealing, raping, fighting, and other forms of disruptive behavior were not tolerated. It was a rule our family had reinforced just the week before by throwing out a black thief who had burglarized a white inmate's locker. Ours was the most peaceful dorm in the prison, which made it a preferred choice when security needed a safe spot to house an inmate. On occasion this forced us to exert our influence with administrators to avoid having undesirables placed among us. If all else failed, an unwanted inmate was met at the door and advised bluntly that entering Cypress 3 would prove hazardous to his health. He would relate that to security, who would find somewhere else to place him. No one ignored the warning.

Like inmates all over the prison, we were sitting at the end of our bunks waiting for security to conduct the four o'clock count so we could go to the dining hall. I told three of my closest friends about my meeting with the warden. Robert Jackson, like Daryl Evans, had been on death row with me. He'd raped a Baton Rouge college student he imagined liked him, to the point of telling her his name and how to contact him. The police did. Now serving a life sentence, he was leader of Vets Incarcerated, a self-help organization for the prison's military veterans. Robert relished politics and was delighted at the prospect of acquiring more influence and power for our "family." Daryl liked it, too, but immediately recognized, "Just 'cuz the warden says that's the way it's supposed to be, don't mean it's gonna go like that. Brown might not go for it and might do some instigating with the white boys or security. On the other hand, he don't even have to say nothing, 'cuz there's other people who're not gonna like it. And the solution is real simple: If you suddenly get locked up or knocked off, the paper stays with Brown."

"Security didn't go for us putting out The Lifer," The Lifer," said Tommy Mason, the youngest member of the family. "I can't see where they're going to be any happier about a n.i.g.g.e.r taking over said Tommy Mason, the youngest member of the family. "I can't see where they're going to be any happier about a n.i.g.g.e.r taking over The Angolite The Angolite, the prison's official paper." After unintentionally killing a woman who refused to pay him for mowing her lawn, Tommy voluntarily turned himself in to authorities. At fifteen, he was sentenced to a life term in Angola. He became the first prisoner in the cellblocks-where men lived in cells rather than dormitories-to earn a GED, and when he was released from the cellblock in 1973, I offered him the a.s.sociate editor post on The Lifer The Lifer. He was a drafting student at Angola and president of Community Action for Corrections, a statewide prison reform organization.

I had decided to talk privately with Brown after the evening meal, to try to reach an understanding with him. If nothing else, I told my friends, I might get some insight into his thinking.

Supper was awful-unseasoned boiled spinach, tasteless boiled potatoes, and boiled wieners-so I freelanced (not everyone could afford to). Daryl and Tommy sold blood to the prison plasma company, so they could also make use of the ever-present black market. The most actively traded commodity in the thriving underground prison economy was contraband food, followed by s.e.x, narcotics, p.o.r.nography, lingerie, and weapons. While eggs, bacon, and pastries were usually available, fried chicken was the special that day.

Tommy, Robert, and I left Daryl to find a food connection for us, while we headed for the education building, walking behind a squadron of Black Muslims marching in military formation to the chant of their leader, Russell X. Wyman. They marched in pairs, in lockstep, behind the flag bearer, their backs straight and eyes fixed directly ahead of them, the Islamic flag snapping in the breeze. Even in the prison's blue denim uniforms, they were a distinctive lot-neat, clean-shaven, with black fezzes, armbands, black bow ties, and spit-shined shoes. Both whites and blacks feared the Muslims and found Islam's popularity among black convicts alarming. As their public image had been shaped by the fiery Malcolm X and much-publicized street clashes with police, many regarded all Muslims as racist, militant, and violent. I found them to be a generally reserved and peaceful group, functioning as a unit and adhering to an all-for-one principle. Some youths targeted for enslavement found instant sanctuary in joining the Muslims. Penal authorities, left to their own devices, would have crushed them. But the federal courts had recognized Islam as a religion protected by the U.S. Const.i.tution.

Penal officials, at varying levels, maintained relations with virtually every inmate group, even criminal ones, except the Muslims. Russell wanted to change this, to improve their image. I tried explaining the Muslims in one of my early "Jungle" columns, but it had little discernible effect other than winning me their support. An opportunity had arisen the previous year while several of us were trying to broker a peace between two feuding black families, neither of whom trusted the other. I suggested to Russell that he use his group to guarantee a peace between them.

"And how are we supposed to do that?" he asked.

"Simple," I said. "Each side will understand that whoever breaks the peace will have to fight not only the other family but the Muslims as well. Not only would they be outnumbered, but who wants to f.u.c.k with you guys?" I knew word would get to the authorities that the Muslims prevented a conflict by guaranteeing a peace between the hostile sides; I figured that might cause authorities to reexamine their perception of the Muslims.

Russell liked my idea. Representatives of the combatants agreed to come to my office. Once Russell's role was explained, both leaders readily agreed to a truce. Russell immediately grasped the potential of his group to prevent bloodshed and joined us on several other similar occasions. The Muslims' image gradually improved as white administrators came to see them in a more positive light.

The education building was a two-story rectangle that housed the education department on the top floor and, on the bottom, numerous offices for security, cla.s.sification, legal aid, the library, the chaplain, and a variety of inmate organizations. There were more than two dozen inmate clubs and religious organizations, and, on an alternating basis, they kept the cla.s.srooms occupied with meetings every night. Meetings attended by outside guests were held in the visiting room after hours. Inmate organizations had flourished under Henderson, who encouraged the formation and operation of self-help programs, permitting inmates to run food and photo concessions in the visiting room to fund their programs and allowing them to buy and keep property related to their organizations, such as food and food-preparation equipment, cameras, and office equipment, including typewriters. Every club had an office, vacated by prison employees when their workday was done, and its officers were permitted to work in them when not on their a.s.signed prison jobs.

The building teemed with activity, not all of it business. The education building (like the visiting room) served as the watering hole for prisoner-politicians, their friends, inmates with offices who wanted privacy, and guys out with their "old ladies" for the night. Since only one, sometimes two guards were on hand to count and supervise the hundreds of inmates involved in an evening's activities, there was ample opportunity for prettied-up gays and galboys to meet dates and for prost.i.tutes to turn tricks wherever opportunity presented itself-in empty rooms, restrooms, mop closets, staircases, behind counters, desks, and any other nook available. Some inmates rented or loaned their offices to facilitate brief trysts between lovers who needed to keep their affairs secret. (Owners usually had s.e.x with their slaves in more convenient locations, like their beds in the darkened dormitory or on their respective jobs.) Control and supervision of what went on in a specific location rested with the organization hosting the activity there.

We made our way through the crowded lobby to the security window to sign in for the night, then went about our business. I headed down the hall toward the Angolite Angolite office, which faced a restroom and the office for the Narcotics Anonymous Club. A cla.s.sification office adjoined it on one side, and the Jehovah's Witnesses' office was on the other. The office, which faced a restroom and the office for the Narcotics Anonymous Club. A cla.s.sification office adjoined it on one side, and the Jehovah's Witnesses' office was on the other. The Angolite Angolite office was also used as an office for the United States Junior Chamber-or, as it is familiarly called, the Jaycees, a nationwide group that cultivates leadership among those younger than forty-since the paper's staff controlled the Angola chapter of that organization. office was also used as an office for the United States Junior Chamber-or, as it is familiarly called, the Jaycees, a nationwide group that cultivates leadership among those younger than forty-since the paper's staff controlled the Angola chapter of that organization.

The office was locked. I called to Tommy, who was walking out of the nearby cla.s.sification office, to tell Kenneth Plaisance, another inmate, that I wanted to see him. I went into the blue-and-red-checkered room in the cla.s.sification department that I was allowed to use as an after-hours office. It was my refuge from the jungle. A place in prison where you could be alone alone was priceless. I had just crossed my feet on my desk, lit a cigarette, and gotten comfortable when the door opened. was priceless. I had just crossed my feet on my desk, lit a cigarette, and gotten comfortable when the door opened.

"Tommy said you needed to see me," Plaisance said. He was a white, balding, and bespectacled typing instructor who was allowed to leave the prison as a Jaycee speaker. "I need to see you, too." He perched on the edge of my desk and spoke with a kind of hurried breathlessness. "You're jammed with some of the guys in Spruce?" Spruce was one of the tree-named dormitories at the Main Prison, along with Cypress, Ash, and Magnolia on the Trusty Yard, and Walnut, Hickory, Oak, and Pine on the Big Yard.

I nodded.

"Good," he said, leaning forward, eager. "There's this black kid. He's not a wh.o.r.e or anything like that. He comes from a good family, and this is his first time in prison. One of the officers of the local Jaycees asked me to see what I could do to make sure that n.o.body turns the guy out or messes over him when he gets here. If you could talk to some of your friends in Spruce to kind of look out for him, it would make this guy owe me a favor, and that would help me in drawing their chapter into a project I'm working on." He handed me a piece of paper with the inmate's name and number scribbled on it.

Plaisance shunned prohibited behavior and worked hard at reinforcing his image as a model prisoner. A lifer, he was dedicated to regaining his freedom and joining the woman he loved. He had no real friends in prison, but he liked me. It was a fondness that began when I unsuccessfully pushed to get him on the staff of The Lifer The Lifer. Plaisance was an a.s.set, an ambitious, shrewd individual with immense knowledge of the prison and the politics governing it. He cultivated officials, community leaders, security personnel, a.s.sistants, secretaries, wives, sons, and daughters, knowing that the key to success for a prisoner-whether in job a.s.signment, housing, earning privileges, or finding help in winning release-rested upon both knowledge and the ability to influence those who exercised power, or their intimates. My prison family had a wide network of friends and allies among both inmates and personnel, but we had not penetrated the inner sanctum of power- the administration. Plaisance knew that the inmate power structure was shifting racially as more blacks moved into jobs and organizations with clout, and he had decided to cast his lot with us. He gradually educated me about administrative personalities and factions, the strengths and weaknesses of management, and the art of maneuvering a minefield of egos and prejudices to get things done.

"No problem," I told Plaisance, "unless he's got an enemy in his past." I paused. Now was the moment to mention what was on my my mind. "Kenny-is Bill Brown in any kind of trouble with the administration?" mind. "Kenny-is Bill Brown in any kind of trouble with the administration?"

Plaisance became alert. He hated Brown. "What do you mean-in trouble?"

"Would the administration have any reason for wanting to move on him?"

Plaisance thought for a moment. "He's in trouble with the parole board. I heard that the chairman and one of the board members were in Henderson's office not too long ago, demanding he fire Bill. Henderson, according to my source, refused."

That explained Beaubouef's behavior in the warden's office. He worked with the parole board and was apparently playing hatchet man for them, knowing that placing me as editor of The Angolite The Angolite would push Brown out. would push Brown out.

Plaisance left and I went to the Angolite Angolite office, which was now open. The neat room was outfitted with black-and-white decor. Brown sat behind one desk, and Joe Archer, a friend of his, sat at a facing desk. They both looked up at me, halting their conversation. Brown was a trim, well-built blondish man in his late thirties, though his Ivy League good looks made him appear much younger. Like Plaisance, he was allowed to travel outside the prison to give speeches for the Jaycees. He was rumored to be carrying on an affair with an attractive state official. My relationship with Brown was cordial but artificial, tainted by our past as competing editors, he of office, which was now open. The neat room was outfitted with black-and-white decor. Brown sat behind one desk, and Joe Archer, a friend of his, sat at a facing desk. They both looked up at me, halting their conversation. Brown was a trim, well-built blondish man in his late thirties, though his Ivy League good looks made him appear much younger. Like Plaisance, he was allowed to travel outside the prison to give speeches for the Jaycees. He was rumored to be carrying on an affair with an attractive state official. My relationship with Brown was cordial but artificial, tainted by our past as competing editors, he of The Angolite The Angolite, me of The Lifer The Lifer.

"What can I do for you, my man?" he asked.

"I'd like to talk. Privately," I said. "It's important, and in your best interest to hear what I've got to say." Brown asked Archer to leave, and I took his seat. I told Brown about my meeting with Henderson: "Apparently, the warden wants you out, but I don't particularly like being used as the hatchet. And, if you're suddenly ousted, people will a.s.sume you've done something wrong to warrant being fired. That'll hurt your efforts to get out of here."

Brown looked crestfallen. "It's hard to believe Henderson would do that to me," he said in a voice marked with disbelief. "It's catching me at a h.e.l.luva time. If everything goes right for me, man, I could be out of here in a matter of months." He shook his head. "This will hurt. How do I explain it to people?"

"You don't have to, Bill. If we cooperate and handle this thing right, the transition can be made to look natural. I'll get a.s.signed in here as a.s.sociate editor, and we'll simply pa.s.s it off as the prison complying with the federal court orders to integrate."

"I don't have much choice, do I?" He forced a slight but false laugh.

"You can fight it-but, if you ask me, that would be stupid since it's inevitable. All our cooperating does is make sure that neither one of us gets f.u.c.ked. You help ease my coming in, and I help ease your going out. You've got to trust me, much like I've trusted you in telling you this."

Brown shook his head emphatically. "I wouldn't jerk you around, not when you've laid your cards on the table. Believe me, I appreciate this, and your willingness to help with it. You can count on me-there won't be any problems."

I stepped across the hall to the office of Narcotics Anonymous. I knew that's where I'd find Silky, whose family controlled all four Spruce dormitories. He was a suave young black who rarely got excited about anything and who silently conveyed strength. We were good friends. He was dictating a letter to Shaky, his favorite slave, who doubled as his personal secretary. They greeted me warmly. Rhythm and blues from a tape player filled the room.

"Get up, baby," Silky instructed. "Let him have a seat."

Shaky rose, smiling. He wore tight, light brown shorts that barely covered the cheeks of his a.s.s, with panty hose underneath to accentuate his shaven cafe-au-lait legs. A scarf was wrapped around his head, hiding his hair, and he wore lipstick. He stepped slowly in high-heeled slip-ons, his a.s.s rolling deliberately and provocatively. He had fully embraced his prison-imposed female role. Shaky moved around to stand behind his owner, his hand on Silky's shoulder, throwing a teasing smile at me.

Silky laughed. He enjoyed Shaky's taunting games with me. "Man, when you gonna come down from wherever you living at and join the real world?" He smiled. "You ought to try it-you might like it. They got wh.o.r.es in here that'll make you forget women. And Shaky is the best-ain't you, baby?" He pulled Shaky around, embracing him and kissing him behind his neck.

Shaky slid out of Silky's arms, moved to me, and slipped his arm around my neck. "I can show you a lot better than him telling you," he said in a soft voice, as I closed my hand around his arm and gently pushed the effeminate boy back to Silky.

"I'm sure you could, but it's not my piece of cake. Look, I need you to take care of something for me-look out for a fish coming in." I gave him the slip of paper with the name and number on it.

Silky studied it. "A friend of yours?"

"Don't even know the dude. It's business. An organization in the streets is interested in him and asked us to look out for him."

Silky handed the note to Shaky, nodding okay to me.

I returned to my friends and told them I had talked with Brown, and that all appeared to be well. It wasn't. The following night, a breathless Plaisance rushed into my office. "You didn't tell me you're taking over The Angolite The Angolite from Bill Brown." He relished the idea. "Bill was on the phone first thing this morning, calling people he's tight with in the warden's office, wanting to know if it's true that he's being moved out." Plaisance had been listening in on an extension. "d.a.m.n, Wilbert, why didn't you let me in on something this big?" from Bill Brown." He relished the idea. "Bill was on the phone first thing this morning, calling people he's tight with in the warden's office, wanting to know if it's true that he's being moved out." Plaisance had been listening in on an extension. "d.a.m.n, Wilbert, why didn't you let me in on something this big?"

I told him everything, including my concerns. "You should never have tried to reason with him," Plaisance said. "He's a snake and he'll lie in a minute."

I cut the conversation short and headed for the Angolite Angolite office. I shoved the door open. Archer was typing at the far desk. Brown, seated at his own, looked up. "You lied to me, Bill Brown," I said. "You've been discussing what I told you with every Tom, d.i.c.k, and Harry in the administration building." office. I shoved the door open. Archer was typing at the far desk. Brown, seated at his own, looked up. "You lied to me, Bill Brown," I said. "You've been discussing what I told you with every Tom, d.i.c.k, and Harry in the administration building."

"You're f.u.c.king right! You walk in here talking s.h.i.t, and I'm just supposed to take your word-without checking? I've been around this place too long for that," he said angrily, rising to his feet. "Everyone I talked to, including the warden's office, says I'm not going anywhere. I don't know what kind of play you're trying to pull off, Rideau, but it's not going to work."

"I can't account for what your people told you," I said evenly, aware that I was unarmed, alone, and outnumbered. "Henderson made it clear to me that he wanted this done low-key. I asked you to keep quiet about it, but you apparently couldn't."

"You're f.u.c.king right, buddy!" Brown repeated. "I'm not going to sit back and let you or no-f.u.c.king-body else try to f.u.c.k me around, not now, not-"

The exchange had gotten out of hand. "I'm not deaf," I said, cutting him off. "Sorry to have bothered you. I won't make that mistake again." I walked out.

I was concerned. Henderson would not appreciate my not keeping the matter confidential, and Brown might instigate violence toward me.

The day I was to have been officially transferred to The Angolite The Angolite arrived without my being rea.s.signed. An employee forgetting to perform a direct order from the warden was inconceivable. Brown was sure to interpret it as proof that I had been intriguing against him. For the next few tense and watchful days, I did not stray from the ranks of friends. Then I received word that I had been a.s.signed to arrived without my being rea.s.signed. An employee forgetting to perform a direct order from the warden was inconceivable. Brown was sure to interpret it as proof that I had been intriguing against him. For the next few tense and watchful days, I did not stray from the ranks of friends. Then I received word that I had been a.s.signed to The Angolite The Angolite.

Again, I went to see Bill Brown-this time accompanied by several armed friends, who waited outside the door for sounds of trouble.

"Looks like you were right all along," said Brown. Archer, at the other desk, eyed me with distrust.

"I a.s.sume this is my desk," I said, pointing toward Archer.

"It's yours, buddy," Brown said.

Archer picked up a folder and walked out of the room. I sat in the warm chair, lit a cigarette, and looked long at Brown. "Things are changing, as you now know," I said. "We can work together to make this easy for both of us, or we can make it difficult for each other. We've both got a lot to lose-you more than me because you're hoping to make parole in a few months. The fact that I came to try to talk to you before tells you that I'm willing to cooperate. But that has to be a two-way street, or none at all."

"There won't be any problems."

"Then you're the editor," I said. "I'm your a.s.sociate, and that's all anyone needs to know."

Brown accommodated the transition. We developed a good rapport in the office, and he accompanied me to the dining hall, the yard, and various club meetings, introducing me to whites as his friend, allowing everyone to see the formerly competing editors working together. He taught me everything there was to know about The Angolite The Angolite and gradually got rid of his staffers so I could pick my own. Then he lost all interest in the magazine, leaving the office pretty much to me while he attended cooking school in preparation for his parole or made Jaycee drug prevention speaking trips around the state. and gradually got rid of his staffers so I could pick my own. Then he lost all interest in the magazine, leaving the office pretty much to me while he attended cooking school in preparation for his parole or made Jaycee drug prevention speaking trips around the state.

In the past, The Angolite The Angolite had been hastily thrown together and published whenever its staff got around to it, so I felt no pressure to produce a magazine as long as Brown was the editor. had been hastily thrown together and published whenever its staff got around to it, so I felt no pressure to produce a magazine as long as Brown was the editor. The Angolite The Angolite was free to report on prison policies but not to be critical of them or to investigate the causes of violence or despair at Angola. I, on the other hand, was free from censorship, so I concentrated on proposing articles to national magazines. was free to report on prison policies but not to be critical of them or to investigate the causes of violence or despair at Angola. I, on the other hand, was free from censorship, so I concentrated on proposing articles to national magazines.

Meanwhile, the violence at Angola continued to escalate. Stabbings rose from 52 in 1972 to 160 in 1974, killings from 8 to 17; 1975 was already the most violent year in modern history, and it wasn't over yet. Blood stained the Walk virtually every day. Oddly, it wasn't the violence itself that affected most prisoners, because with some exceptions-rape, extortion, strong-arming-it was targeted at a specific person for a specific reason. Most inmates did not engage in behavior that would put them at risk, so we did not feel personally threatened by it. What did affect us all, though, was the official response to violence: shakedowns, in which security searched an inmate's body, housing, or work area for weapons or other contraband, or new policies that interfered with our mobility and daily life.