In The Place Of Justice Part 6

The rumor spread that Henderson would leave and federal penal experts would take over the prison as they had during the 1950s in response to the national scandal following the incident when thirty-one inmates slashed their Achilles tendons. Especially disturbing was the talk that a hard-nosed warden would be coming to wrest control of the prison from the inmates and give it back to the prison employees. The Louisiana legislature, which had consistently refused to appropriate a sufficient sum to operate the prison, had just authorized more than $22 million to hire additional staff and purchase equipment to bring Angola into compliance with a federal court order to curb the violence.

There was a growing consensus among the more responsible inmate leaders that if we hoped to maintain the gains we had won, we had to curb the bloodletting. Even our contact visiting program, which allowed us to visit at small tables in a large cafeteria, was at risk; some security officials wanted to make us visit through a screen or gla.s.s. With the cooperation of about thirty club leaders, we took the message to their membership meetings, telling them of the coming crackdown and educating them on what we stood to lose in terms of the quality of our lives. Those involved in activities that fomented violence were warned that unless they immediately became model prisoners, they could expect their enemies to snitch them out.

Not long after I'd settled into my new job, Warden Henderson came to the Main Prison and met with me in the parole board room. He told me he was indeed leaving for Tennessee. He inquired about my efforts to get out of prison. He told me that he had taken notice of my self-education and development as a writer and had read my published writings. "Apart from doing well for yourself, you've worked to help make this prison a better place for the inmate population," he said.

"I've got a mission," I said. "The biggest obstacle to meaningful reform is the popular misconceptions about criminals and society's misguided efforts to cope with them. Since I've got to be here, I felt I could do a little good by clarifying a lot of that."

"You've done that, but there comes a time when you need to be a little bit selfish and concentrate on getting out of this place," he said. "You don't belong here."

Louisiana had ratified a new const.i.tution in 1974, and with it came a new system of pardons that eliminated the review by the attorney general, lieutenant governor, and the inmate's sentencing judge. The 106 release mechanism had been suspended pending the creation of a new five-member pardon board of "professionals," all appointed by the governor, to review applications and recommend action. The ultimate power to grant or reject commutations of sentences lay solely with the governor, who, like the board, was bound by no criteria and rules. Henderson advised me to seek the services of Camille Gravel, executive counsel to the governor and one of the state's most influential lawyers. He also informed me that he intended to recommend my release to the pardon board and guarantee me employment and housing in Tennessee, where he was going to head that state's corrections system.

I filed an application to the board for a commutation of my sentence. In preparation for the hearing, Cla.s.sification Officer Mike Schilling created an official profile of me, and my former supervisor, Kelly Ward, mailed copies of my published works to several journalism schools around the nation, requesting a professional evaluation of my writing ability. Professor William E. Porter of the University of Michigan's Department of Journalism said, "I've seen a certain amount of writing from prisons and I suspect he's the best I've ever seen." Acting dean David Littlejohn at the University of California, Berkeley, said, "Though he is evidently a man of strong convictions, he is no mere propagandist. He seems imbued by an obligation to be true to the facts-the realities-of whatever he writes about. This is a prime attribute of a real journalist." All the responses were similarly positive. I was both gratified and humbled by them, and I hoped they would show the pardon board that I had spent my years in prison wisely preparing for a successful return to society.

As we approached year's end, The Angolite The Angolite, for all practical purposes, had been shelved. Brown was preparing for his upcoming parole hearing, and I for my pardon board hearing. The head of the NAACP in Lake Charles, Florce Floyd, had checked with Frank Salter, who a.s.sured him, as he had Freeman Lavergne before, that he would not oppose my release through executive clemency. Since I was a model prisoner, had been confined almost fifteen years-far longer than the 10-6 life sentence-and had Henderson's personal recommendation and guarantee of housing and employment in Tennessee, my application to the new pardon board was impressive. Not only did I have every reason to expect to get out, but I realized that I needed needed to get out. When the governor announced that Henderson was leaving and would be replaced by a penologist on loan from the Federal Bureau of Prisons, some guards began gloating. Life was going to be much more difficult at Angola. And who knew what the new warden would think of me? to get out. When the governor announced that Henderson was leaving and would be replaced by a penologist on loan from the Federal Bureau of Prisons, some guards began gloating. Life was going to be much more difficult at Angola. And who knew what the new warden would think of me?

* I had given my ma.n.u.script on the criminal mind, written when I was on death row, to one of my attorneys, James Wood, in 1969, to have it typed and prepared to be submitted I had given my ma.n.u.script on the criminal mind, written when I was on death row, to one of my attorneys, James Wood, in 1969, to have it typed and prepared to be submitted* Excerpted from "The Jungle," December 8, 1974, Gulf South Publishing Corporation. Excerpted from "The Jungle," December 8, 1974, Gulf South Publishing Corporation.

5.

Mentor 1976.

I was typing a letter in the Angolite Angolite office on December office on December I I, 1975, when there was a knock on the door. A neatly dressed, pleasant-faced white man in his forties walked in, stood in the middle of the room, and looked around. He asked me if I was the editor.

"Bill Brown is the editor, but he isn't in right now," I replied.

"You're Wilbert Rideau, aren't you?"

I nodded. The man began to pitch me an idea for a story. I cut him off. "You should talk to the editor about that."

"He's not here. And I'm talking to you."

"And I said you should talk to the editor," I said, turning back to my typewriter.

"What if I told you to do it?" the stranger asked, studying me.

"And you would be?" I asked, with an edge.

The man looked at me curiously. "You don't know who I am?"

I didn't.

"What if I told you I'm C. Paul Phelps?"

Holy s.h.i.t! Phelps was second in command of the state's penal system. Elayn Hunt, the corrections director, had named him acting warden of Angola until a replacement could be found for Henderson. Phelps was virtually unknown to Angola inmates and personnel. This was his first day on the job. Phelps was second in command of the state's penal system. Elayn Hunt, the corrections director, had named him acting warden of Angola until a replacement could be found for Henderson. Phelps was virtually unknown to Angola inmates and personnel. This was his first day on the job.

"That changes things, doesn't it, sir?" I said. I stood up, thinking I'd probably just lost my job.

"Relax," he said, taking a seat. "I've been keeping up with you. Read all your columns in that newspaper and the articles you did for the Shreveport paper."

"Did you have anything to do with my being locked up last year for the article I wrote about the rodeo?"

"No. The first I knew of it was when I read the headlines on the front page of the paper you were writing for. No, I've followed your writings because I like the things you say. You have a pretty good grasp of what prison is all about, and you've said things that need saying. You got locked up because some people don't want you writing anything negative about Angola. But you knew that before you wrote your column, I'm sure. The fact that you wrote it anyway impresses me."

I was relieved. "Warden, as I see it," I said, "the biggest problem out there is that the general public and those with the power to change things are seriously misinformed about what prison life is all about, thanks to the bulls.h.i.t they've been fed by prison administrators, convicts, reform activists, and movie producers. Too many people role-play, have something to hide, or are afraid to say anything."

"You're pretty close to the truth," Phelps said. "I was involved in the federal mediation negotiations in 1972 and '73, and as I sat there every day listening to the testimony, what I was most struck by were the misconceptions about each other that inmates and staff both had. The distrust between them was made worse by the fact that the inmate population is mainly black and the guards have always been white."

Phelps believed that the inmates' readiness to think the worst of prison authorities was largely due to administrative secrecy and the entrenched att.i.tude that inmates do not deserve explanations. "If the administration can't do something-if you don't have dentures or underwear to give an inmate-what's wrong with telling him that? He already thinks poorly of you, so what's the worst that can happen? That he might understand you don't have it to give, and that you're not just trying to be mean to him? h.e.l.l, that would be a plus."

"Well, as warden you have the power to change things," I said. "What do you plan to do?"

"I don't know. I don't have a plan."

I stared at him. "You're taking charge of the bloodiest prison in the country, and you don't know what you're gonna do?"

"I answered your question truthfully. As you come to know me, you'll learn that I'm not going to lie to you. That doesn't mean that you'll always like what I tell you. But it's always going to be the truth. And the truth is that I honestly don't know what I'm going to do yet. I don't know enough about prisons in general and Angola in particular to formulate any plans. I need a little time to educate myself first, find out what's going on here and what the problems are. Then I'll be able to be more definite about what I'm going to do."

I could not believe my ears. This forty-three-year-old warden was unlike any I'd met before. I would come to realize that his friendly, laid-back manner belied the force of his character and an intelligence as penetrating as an X-ray. Although he was only a decade older than me, he was worldly and educated. He was a sociologist with a master's degree from Louisiana State University in social work, an air force veteran, and a career corrections bureaucrat with no actual prison experience. He had worked ten years in the probation office before being tapped to head the state's juvenile corrections system in 1967. His background in juvenile corrections, he observed wryly, would be a great help to him at Angola because he already knew many of the inmates by name; this was his way of saying that the state's juvenile corrections system was ineffective in deterring youthful offenders from becoming adult felons. Unpretentious and mild-mannered, Phelps boldly roamed Angola's violent world, chatting with inmates and employees. Warned of the danger of his forays, he said, "I'm not going to learn anything sitting on my a.s.s in an office."

In the prison's dining hall during the noon meal one day, Phelps stepped in line, got a tray, and came over to the table where I was eating with friends. "Mind if I join you?" he asked.

My friends and I exchanged glances. We knew the whole room was watching. "Not at all," I said. "Pull up a chair."

Phelps made small talk and picked at his food while we prisoners hurried through our meal. He asked why everybody was watching us.

My friends laughed. "Chief, free people don't eat with the inmates in here-neither the warden nor the security officers," I said. "Inmates are inmates and free people are free people, and they live on different sides of the fence. What you just did, n.o.body does."

"I didn't know," he said. "Have I jeopardized you all in some way?"

"It's kind of late to start worrying about it. You're through eating?" I asked. He nodded. "Then let's get out of here."

Outside the kitchen, my friends headed back to their jobs as Phelps and I made our way through the throngs of prisoners on the walkway. In the Angolite Angolite office, Phelps fell into a chair. "I'm sorry if I've made things uncomfortable for you as a result of what I did in the dining hall," he said. "I didn't see anything wrong with it." office, Phelps fell into a chair. "I'm sorry if I've made things uncomfortable for you as a result of what I did in the dining hall," he said. "I didn't see anything wrong with it."

I stared at him. "Warden, there are certain rules of behavior, certain appearances, we're all expected to observe-both inmates and employees. It doesn't matter what you think of them. The normal rules of conduct in your world don't apply here."

"I don't know how people live in here, what's acceptable and what isn't," he said. "It's an entirely new experience for me. We've talked about a lot of things during my visits, and the more we talk and come to understand each other, the more that I see that we-you and I-basically want the same things. You tell me you don't like the corruption, the brutality, and the violence in here. I don't either, and I want to change it. But to be effective, I need to know what I'm dealing with. Why do you think I come here every day? You've been here longer than most of my employees, and you've made it your business to know this place and its problems, to understand what makes it tick. I can't change things overnight, but if you help me understand what needs to be done, I a.s.sure you I'll give it my best shot."

"If you're going to be pulling off stunts like you did in the dining hall, I don't see where you give me much choice," I said with a smile.

"You have a choice," Phelps said. "Anytime you get tired of me coming 'round to visit you, for whatever reason, all you have to do is tell me to stop, and I won't come anymore. But I don't mind telling you that I enjoy my visits to this office. It's the only place I can go in the prison where I'm not asked for personal favors."

Either Phelps was as sincere and uneducated about prison life as he appeared or he was conning me. But I liked the man. I enjoyed our discussions, which ranged beyond prison to life, state politics, and the events of the day. And, to be honest, I knew that Phelps would soon return to his full-time job as deputy director of corrections; being on good terms with him could only help.

We often talked of the need for meaningful communication between inmates and prison authorities, of the need to disseminate information about things that affected inmates. Phelps believed that the single biggest source of inmate hostility toward the administration was rooted in secrecy on how decisions were reached. He thought such secrecy sowed distrust and paranoia among both employees and convicts. Having read my newspaper articles, he had also begun wondering how the inmate press might facilitate meaningful communication.

I heard opportunity knocking. I said The Angolite The Angolite could certainly report on developments and put them in the proper context, but only if we were uncensored. "A censored publication has no credibility," I said. could certainly report on developments and put them in the proper context, but only if we were uncensored. "A censored publication has no credibility," I said.

"Okay," said Phelps.

I was surprised by his response. Censorship was the official religion of penal authorities everywhere. From the creation of the first prison in America, authorities had insisted upon reading inmates' correspondence; listening in on conversations; limiting what an inmate saw, heard, and read, as well as who was permitted to visit him; restricting his communications with the news media and anyone else they felt might potentially be problematic-all in the name of the "security of the inst.i.tution" or "in the interests of the inmate's rehabilitation." While restricting prisoners' access to certain kinds of information is essential to the peace and security of the prison-maps showing the layout of the facility and manuals for making explosives come to mind-courts had historically blessed the blanket silencing of the nation's inmates without authorities having ever proven a genuine need for it. Penal authorities had always intimidated judges with predictions that dire consequences-disorder, riots, violence-would follow the granting of any freedoms. But in fact the opposite was quite often true: The first demand of rioting prisoners was frequently to speak to the media or someone in charge in order to have their collective voice heard. Censoring freedom of expression served mainly to shield prison officials from public scrutiny and criticism, permitting them to operate behind closed gates without accountability.

"You know," Phelps said, "after the courts legitimized the role of jailhouse lawyers, prison authorities accepted 'inmate counsels,' who now play an important part in giving inmates access to the courts. By the same token, we have all the elements of outside society here, except a free press. I think there's a role for the press to play here. The thing is to get you started."

I told him that in prison a free press faces difficulties jailhouse lawyers don't. "The truth will upset people, and people play for keeps in here, both inmates and employees. Your employees will do everything they can to pressure you to censor us. And, of course, we'd need access to information."

"Information is no problem. I'm the warden. If I want you to have access to information, you'll have it. Of course, you can't have confidential security information or personal information on inmates or employees, but pretty much everything else can be made available to you. If you're willing to gamble with me on this, I'll see to it that you get what you need." Phelps said I would have his backing to investigate and publish whatever I wanted, as long as I followed the same ethics and standards that professional journalists do; what I published had to be the truth, supported by evidence.

I asked if he would trust me to make responsible decisions, to give me the benefit of the doubt. I knew there would be people who trashed me to him because they didn't like something I wrote. "I've already got enemies," I said, "plus I'm black in a place run by rednecks."

"I know," Phelps said, rising from the chair to stand at my desk. He looked down at me. "You said I'll have to trust you. Tell me-can I trust you?"

His eyes engaged mine, and I knew the moment of truth had come. "Despite my crime," I said, "I'm a good person. And I'm a man of my word. That's all I've got-my word, my honor-and that's important to me. You can trust me."

"Good, then," Phelps said, as we shook hands. "Let's give it a try and see what happens." He asked me to write out new operational procedures for a reorganized Angolite Angolite.

Toward the end of December, Elayn Hunt was hospitalized with terminal cancer, leaving Phelps to manage both Angola and the state corrections system. He spent half a day at headquarters in the state capital, then flew his own plane to Angola, where he'd spend the remainder of the day. His executive a.s.sistant at the prison was Peggi Jo Gresham. Since he couldn't devote much attention to The Angolite The Angolite, Gresham was made its official supervisor and given the task of resolving problems, removing obstacles to information for me, and ensuring that other prison officials did not interfere with the magazine's new mission.

Gresham, forty-two, was a chic, pet.i.te brunette with a fondness for short skirts, which earned her the moniker "Leggy Peggi" among male employees-out of earshot. She was sharp, intelligent, knowledgeable, and efficient. She had initially come to Angola in 1952 with her husband, Carl, who worked in the prison's agribusiness division. She started as a clerk-typist in the records office. When H. L. Hanchey became warden in 1964, she became his secretary. When Henderson became warden in 1968, he encouraged her to continue her education and made her his executive a.s.sistant. Her duties, power, and visibility increased dramatically under Phelps, who relied upon her to run the administration for and with him. Gresham had become a genuine success in a male-dominated world that was hostile to females. She valued power not for its status but for its usefulness to effect improvements, to make prison operations better, to serve the interest of inmates, employees, and society. She was representative of a substantial number of employees-sincere, honest, and decent-who struggled often with indifferent, corrupt, and mean-spirited counterparts over the prison's mission.

Gresham approved additional staff that I requested, a.s.signing Tommy Mason to the magazine as a full-time staff writer; Daryl Evans as a part-time sports reporter; and Eugene Morrison, a white, as the ill.u.s.trator. I had selected them based upon their character; journalism, I could teach them. (Bill Brown was still the figurehead editor.) Some black inmate leaders objected to the integrated staff. But I recognized that the publication could never be fully credible if it discriminated against any segment of the population it served, which is why all-white authority and Southern publications enjoyed no credibility with most blacks.

Under the new regime, the first conflict came when a group of prison officials objected to Gresham's instructions that they provide me copies of meat purchase orders and warehouse delivery receipts, and make themselves available for interviews. They went to Phelps, complaining that requiring prison personnel to explain their decisions and behavior to inmates was totally unacceptable. Phelps disagreed and ordered the officials to cooperate.

They were furious. Though Phelps normally ruled through persuasion, he reminded them that, given his dual positions, there would be no appealing his decision. Disobedience was grounds for dismissal.

He stopped by the Angolite Angolite office and let me know what had transpired. I told him that the meat situation was one of the inmates' biggest complaints because we had been getting wieners and bologna almost every day-sometimes twice a day-when the prison had purchased beef that we were never served, not to mention all the hogs inmates raised and slaughtered at Angola. office and let me know what had transpired. I told him that the meat situation was one of the inmates' biggest complaints because we had been getting wieners and bologna almost every day-sometimes twice a day-when the prison had purchased beef that we were never served, not to mention all the hogs inmates raised and slaughtered at Angola.

"The free people say that inmates are stealing it and smuggling it down to the dormitories, where they cook and eat it," Phelps said. "They've caught enough inmates doing it to make a legitimate argument."

"Chief, that's bulls.h.i.t," I said. "They allow, if not encourage, the inmates to do that, and bust some every now and then, just enough to be able to make that very point. Inmate workers have told me how much meat they steal, and that it's impossible for them to take more because they have to smuggle it inside their shirts. Now, if you multiply the number of inmates working in the abattoir and warehouse times two smuggled steaks per man per day for a month, it doesn't add up to the five thousand pounds of meat that disappeared. I know from inmates how the meat was ripped off and who did it, and I can lay you a trail that ends with one of your a.s.sistant wardens, who got a piece of the action last week, as well as the names, dates, times of day, and locations where the free folks made their pickups."

The following week, Gresham escorted Stan Williams, director of food services for the Louisiana Department of Corrections, and Judy Sims, who headed a training program for inmate culinary workers, to the Angolite Angolite office for us to interview. Having Williams come from corrections headquarters to answer questions about his operation was as unique an event as Gresham and Sims being physically in our office. Women were never permitted inside the Main Prison. Prison authorities, all white males, traditionally held that a woman entering a prison compound full of s.e.x-starved men, predominantly black, would inevitably be s.e.xually a.s.saulted, reflecting the historical Southern white belief that black males l.u.s.ted after white women and could not control their s.e.xual impulses. We asked difficult, even embarra.s.sing questions about the discrepancy between warehouse delivery receipts for meat and the bologna diet we'd been fed. We found out what we wanted to know. office for us to interview. Having Williams come from corrections headquarters to answer questions about his operation was as unique an event as Gresham and Sims being physically in our office. Women were never permitted inside the Main Prison. Prison authorities, all white males, traditionally held that a woman entering a prison compound full of s.e.x-starved men, predominantly black, would inevitably be s.e.xually a.s.saulted, reflecting the historical Southern white belief that black males l.u.s.ted after white women and could not control their s.e.xual impulses. We asked difficult, even embarra.s.sing questions about the discrepancy between warehouse delivery receipts for meat and the bologna diet we'd been fed. We found out what we wanted to know.

When the story was published in the first "new" Angolite Angolite in six months, it was more aggressively written than stories had been in the past, but there was no mention of the theft of meat. Phelps, who expected an expose, came to the office wanting to know what happened. in six months, it was more aggressively written than stories had been in the past, but there was no mention of the theft of meat. Phelps, who expected an expose, came to the office wanting to know what happened.

"The people involved have all resigned or been fired or transferred," I said. "The problem has been solved, and we're eating better. The only point in running an expose would be for the sake of scandal, which would have offended some people and generated a lot of hostility toward The Angolite The Angolite."

I knew that my freedom to operate without censorship could be lost if I didn't handle it carefully. My adversaries were waiting to pounce. The inmate population wanted The Angolite The Angolite to be a journalistic gun to shoot the administration with, but I wanted there to be a gradual, two-way education process. to be a journalistic gun to shoot the administration with, but I wanted there to be a gradual, two-way education process.

Elayn Hunt died on February 3. I was in the warden's office the next morning to ask Phelps who would replace her.

"I'd hope it would be me," he said.

I hoped so, too. While I was there, I tried to persuade him to rescind a few orders he had issued with a view to "rehabilitating" the employees as well as the inmates. He had had all the guards' chairs removed because, he said, "I want them on their feet, walking, moving around, seeing what's going on."

"But that's not stopping them from sitting," I said. "It only forces them to sit on desks, on the walkway, on the railing-which p.i.s.ses them off. These are the people you have to rely upon to achieve whatever changes you want made in this prison."

He'd expressed his intention to do away with inmate orderlies, coffee boys, shoe-shine boys. "There are prisoners here who don't do anything but wait on some officer, bring him coffee, make him comfortable, help him do his job," he said. I pointed out that both sides benefited, as those inmates enjoyed more privileges because of the relationships.

Phelps had also ordered that all inmates except night workers rise at 5:30 a.m., make their bed, and be prepared to go to breakfast by 6:00, then to work. That did not make most inmates happy, including me. My routine was to sleep through breakfast, rise around 8:00, shower, get to the Angolite Angolite office by 9:00, brew coffee, and read the Baton Rouge newspaper. I could begin my day late because I worked late into the night writing, my day having been spent gathering prison news from inmates or employees and listening to the problems of both. Rising at 5:30 would dramatically disrupt my schedule. office by 9:00, brew coffee, and read the Baton Rouge newspaper. I could begin my day late because I worked late into the night writing, my day having been spent gathering prison news from inmates or employees and listening to the problems of both. Rising at 5:30 would dramatically disrupt my schedule.

I argued to Phelps that this wasn't the time to take on the prison culture on multiple fronts. I suggested that during the search for a new corrections head, he might want to back off a little. His new policies would alienate both guards and inmates, who might join forces against him. That would lead to nothing good.

He fell silent for a moment. Then he said: "I think my orders perhaps need to be changed because they're not accomplishing what I had hoped they would."

"Good," I said. I shared with him my view that although prison authorities possess the power of law and the gun, prisoners are not powerless. They possess the power of disobedience, rebellion, disruption, sabotage, and violence. A peaceful maximum-security prison owes its success to the consent of its prisoners, a consent that comes from mutual understanding and reasonable, commonsense accommodations at almost every level of interaction. And the one thing prisoners hate most is what seems to them to be nonsensical, arbitrary rules and actions.

Phelps invited me to review and a.s.sess proposed rules and actions from the inmate perspective before their implementation. This was no small thing. In prison, it is almost impossible to get authorities to rescind a rule already enacted.

"Your guards would s.h.i.t bricks if they knew you were listening to me," I said to Phelps.

"Why? They all listen to somebody, usually snitches," he replied. "Every smart manager, whether in government, the corporate world, or corrections, listens to those whose opinions he values. You've demonstrated in your writing that you understand this world better than most. That makes your perspective potentially more valuable to me than any of my top officials', because yours is one that none of us has."

I educated Phelps on the inmate economy, on how the need for everything from deodorant to appellate lawyers to dope drove initiative as well as violence. Men earned money by mending clothes, repairing watches, writing letters for illiterates, and loan-sharking. They sold plasma, food stolen from the commissary or kitchen, drugs smuggled in by visitors or employees, handcrafted weapons, and the services of their s.e.xual slaves. Some redistributed wealth by strong-arming and stealing; others sold protection to the weak. The security force would not tolerate the drug or weapons trade but largely accommodated whatever divided rather than united the inmate population. s.e.xual slavery, in particular, made security's job easier: They could gain cooperation from the master, who did not want to lose his slave, and if he was a good master-one who did not pimp out or beat his slave-the "wife" would also become an informant for security, on threat of being transferred to an out-camp, where "she" had no protection from new predators. I told Phelps how inmates, in turn, sometimes exploited the administration's fear of militants to get revenge on an enemy by identifying him as a militant, which would get him thrown in the Dungeon until he could convince authorities that he was not a radical.

Just as Phelps knew little about the world that I was unveiling for him, I knew next to nothing about the world of management to which he introduced me, often taking me along to official prison business meetings, which brought a startling new element into the otherwise all-white, all-staff affairs. More than that, he gave me an education in morality, personal responsibility, goal setting, and civic duty.

I suggested to Phelps that he might enhance his bid for the director's job by taking credit for the lull in violence at the prison. There had been no stabbing deaths in the three months since he became warden.

"Do you know why there haven't been any?" he asked.

"Well, let's see," I said. "The prison is still flooded with weapons. Guys are still unhappy about the same things. Emergency medical care hasn't improved. So what's different?" I told him that a lot of inmates knew a crackdown was imminent-Judge West's order to clean up Angola had been well publicized on television and in the newspapers-and the smarter ones had been lying low as a result. The new pardon board had begun reviewing clemency applications, promising to free prisoners who demonstrated rehabilitation, so eligible inmates were on their best behavior.

"It makes sense," he said, "but I can't take credit for the drop in deaths since I've been here. I can't take credit for something I didn't do."

One afternoon I entered the lobby of the Main Prison Office (MPO), where a noisy crowd of demanding inmates had encircled Phelps. "They got another food-poisoning incident going down," Daryl explained to me.

"How much of it is real?" I asked.

"I don't know. The s.h.i.t is just on the Big Yard. Trusties ate the same thing-ain't none of them sick. Dudes on the Big Yard are talking about boycotting the chow hall. They not talking strike yet-just boycott."

The year before, ma.s.sive food poisoning had resulted from contaminated roast beef served in the Main Prison dining hall. The demand for toilets outstripped availability as diarrhea ran through the facility, forcing inmates to resort to buckets and necessitating the creation of makeshift medical stations. The incident triggered an inmate strike that lasted several days. The state health authorities investigated and condemned the Main Prison dining hall and kitchen: Poor drainage had caused a swamp of sewage to collect beneath the huge, elevated structure; it was infested with vermin; and flyovers by the nesting bird population put every plate at risk of droppings. The food manager was fired, and numerous prisoners filed lawsuits. Now, a year later, we were still being fed in the same dining hall, which was still condemned. It was a source of continuing discontent among the inmates.

I told Daryl that our friends and allies were to steer clear of the boycott as much as they could.

He promised to spread the word and find out what was being planned. He gestured toward Phelps. "We need to rescue your boy."

Phelps was talking earnestly to the inmates. He still hadn't learned that you can reason with inmates only when they want to listen. The men around him were more interested in confronting authority than they were in solving any problem.

Soon afterward, Phelps came to my office. "There are a lot safer situations to be in than the one I saw in the lobby," I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

"I'm sure there are," Phelps answered, seating himself in front of my desk. "But the Big Yard is complaining of food poisoning. The inmates talking to me in the lobby actually believe the administration poisoned them-and that's ludicrous. I tried to make them understand that it is not in our best interest for them to be ill."

"Those guys were role-playing, and the situation isn't as simple as you think," I said. "Without knowing the details of what's happening on the Big Yard, I can tell you there's a radical element down there fanning the flames, trying to a.s.sert themselves. Last year, they lost out to more rational leaders, but they came close." I explained that there were other factors at play-bitter inmate rivalries, ambitious men eager to challenge established leaders, personality clashes. I said there were racists among the employees who would like to see a race riot, to defeat integration, and those who wanted a riot as evidence of how dangerous their work was, which would be helpful when they asked the legislature for a pay hike. Those were the components of every every disturbance. disturbance.