In The Place Of Justice Part 9

"You probably won't appreciate this, but what Ross did was for your protection," he said. I told him I didn't need to be protected from the inmates, that Maggio did it to protect his guards from getting their picture taken doing something they didn't want anyone to see.

"A criminal will do just about anything to prevent exposure and punishment," said Phelps. "What makes you think a guard will respond any differently to your pointing that camera at him when he's beating an inmate with a baton, regardless of whether he's justified or not? Guards are like people everywhere: They don't always follow orders or obey rules or laws. Ross wasn't protecting them from you, but you from them. I can a.s.sure you those guards would have taken that camera from you, destroyed it, and probably hurt you very badly in the process. Freedom of the press is an ideal we're trying to make work in here, but our first priority is to protect life-in this instance, yours. You just confirmed that you weren't even aware of the danger you were about to walk into. Ross did the right thing."

I asked him if that meant our agreement that I wouldn't be censored was subject to the whim of the warden. He responded that there could be no free press if I was lying in a hospital bed. "In order to accomplish anything, both you and The Angolite The Angolite have to survive," he said. "You know, Wilbert, people who have power don't always cooperate with the press. In fact, they will do almost anything to protect themselves from bad press." He told me publis.h.i.+ng does not occur in a vacuum, and at times I would have to be creative in order to do what the power-holders didn't want me to do. He said publishers, editors, and reporters all over the world confront this same problem every day. He also pointed out that journalists didn't always have cameras. "But you still have the power of the pen," he said, "and the freedom to do what any good journalist would do-backtrack, investigate what happened, interview inmates and guards who were involved, then paint a word picture of what took place for your readers. Quit complaining-do your job." have to survive," he said. "You know, Wilbert, people who have power don't always cooperate with the press. In fact, they will do almost anything to protect themselves from bad press." He told me publis.h.i.+ng does not occur in a vacuum, and at times I would have to be creative in order to do what the power-holders didn't want me to do. He said publishers, editors, and reporters all over the world confront this same problem every day. He also pointed out that journalists didn't always have cameras. "But you still have the power of the pen," he said, "and the freedom to do what any good journalist would do-backtrack, investigate what happened, interview inmates and guards who were involved, then paint a word picture of what took place for your readers. Quit complaining-do your job."

My frustration at having been barred from covering the disturbance vanished as Phelps's lecture sank in. He had given me a broader context in which to see myself and my work. I wasn't just a prisoner who had been handed certain rights; I was a real journalist with a real job to do. Like the best journalists, I would sometimes have to be resourceful to surmount obstacles to a story. This new view of myself shaped my work in all the years to come.

7.

Truth Behind Bars 1977-1981 When Tommy left to become the governor's personal valet, I decided it was time to add a white inmate to the staff of The Angolite: The Angolite: Billy Wayne Sinclair. Billy Wayne Sinclair.

"You're gonna catch enough flak from blacks for putting a white boy in my place, without picking one the administration hates," Tommy said when I told him. "He's a criminal and a dopehead." Billy had recently emerged from a stint in the cellblock for possession of LSD. Everyone Everyone I knew advised against my bringing him on board. I knew advised against my bringing him on board.

I first met Billy in 1965, when he was a tall, skinny twenty-four-year-old who was shoved by angry deputies into the Hole near me behind the booking desk of the East Baton Rouge Parish jail. He had been on parole after serving a year in Angola for a s.e.x offense, followed by a stint in the federal penitentiary at Terre Haute. He was already wanted for robberies in several states when he gunned down a popular convenience store manager in Baton Rouge. Hostile deputies perpetrated numerous little cruelties to make his stay in the Hole tough, like leaving his bright overhead light on even at night, so he couldn't sleep. To ease his misery, I pa.s.sed him cigarettes and food, and once turned up my transistor radio so that he could hear a little music. For my trouble, the jailer transferred me to a solitary-confinement cell, the only black in the middle of the white section of the jail. Shortly afterward, I discovered Billy had been placed in the cell behind me. In the middle of winter, one of the jailers turned on an air conditioner that streamed cold air in on him. Freezing, his voice reduced to a whisper, Billy pleaded through a ventilation shaft for me to help him. I instigated the white inmates to rebel. Their protest brought in top officials, who rescued Billy. He would forever credit me with saving his life. As Billy was led out, the angry local sheriff vowed I would remain in my isolation cell as long as I was in his jail. He kept his word. I was there another two years, longer than any other prisoner held in isolation.

In 1966, Billy escaped. A week later, he was apprehended in Arkansas after committing another robbery. In March 1967, he was transferred to death row, where he spent much of his time loaded on drugs. At some point he began to do serious reading and ultimately filed a lawsuit against the long-term confinement of death row inmates in cells without any physical exercise. He won the suit, thereby acquiring a reputation as a jailhouse lawyer, which brought him some status among inmates.

In 1976, 63 percent of the inmates in Angola were functional illiterates. So the pool from which to draw someone for The Angolite The Angolite who was reasonably proficient in English was small. I believed Billy had grown and improved as a result of his prison experiences, and I believed devoutly in second chances. He gave me his word that he would not use narcotics or do anything to bring disrepute upon who was reasonably proficient in English was small. I believed Billy had grown and improved as a result of his prison experiences, and I believed devoutly in second chances. He gave me his word that he would not use narcotics or do anything to bring disrepute upon The Angolite The Angolite, and I knew he wasn't involved with any gangs.

When I told Maggio of my choice, he was irate: "You can forget Sinclair. He will not work on The Angolite The Angolite as long as I'm warden." Phelps would not overrule Maggio. as long as I'm warden." Phelps would not overrule Maggio.

The administration's hostility toward Billy stemmed from the many lawsuits he'd filed against the prison. To defuse opposition, he agreed he'd never file another suit against the warden, the inst.i.tution, or any employee. The agreement entailed no real loss to the inmate population, because Billy's only success had been in the death row exercise case four years earlier. Peggi Gresham pointed out to Maggio that this was an opportunity to end Billy's legal terrorism of his employees. Maggio a.s.signed him to The Angolite The Angolite. To my surprise, Billy expressed relief: "That takes a big load off me, 'cause everybody wants me to file s.h.i.+t for them. This provides me the excuse to say no." He started work on the July/August 1977 issue.

Phelps, Gresham, Maggio, and other officials did not readily take Billy into their confidence regarding administrative processes and decision making. Gresham and I discussed the magazine's operations and management on the phone, in the lobby of the Main Prison, in her office, or wherever we met. Billy's medium-security status restricted his movement to within the Main Prison, which left me to attend conferences and meetings or to cover events elsewhere in the prison. Billy understood the officials' initial distrust of him and aimed to win them over. The Angola Jaycees, which he'd inherited when Tommy left, provided a perfect vehicle. He poured his energy into the organization and, after the Jaycees raised $1,000 for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, Maggio began to warm to him.

In November, Maggio revealed that he planned to leave at the end of the year to become warden of a new inst.i.tution. In eighteen months, he had converted a violent Angola into one of the safest prisons in America. There had been only two killings in 1976 and one in 1977, with fewer than ten stabbings serious enough to require hospitalization. And he had done it without restricting freedom of expression for either inmates or employees. His wardens.h.i.+p began the most transparent and open prison administration in Louisiana history-possibly in American history-a transparency that would continue with his successor, Frank Blackburn.

As Maggio prepared to leave, the school of journalism at Southern Illinois University announced that The Angolite The Angolite, the nation's only uncensored prison publication, had swept the American Penal Press Awards. It was cited for its "high quality and success in leading the way in new and responsible prison journalism." The awards were presented at Angola in a ceremony attended by the corrections and prison hierarchy as well as media from throughout the state. Our journalistic achievements were given widespread coverage in Louisiana, as was my editors.h.i.+p of The Angolite The Angolite. I was good copy-something new and different.

I became something of a local celebrity, in demand as a speaker around the state. Shortly after the awards, the Alexandria police chief arranged for my transfer to his custody for a weeklong tour of his city's schools to talk to kids about the importance of doing the right thing in life. People wanted my autograph or a photo taken with me. They congratulated me, shook my hand, patted me on the back. Some women slipped me their phone number or address. One treated me to a tour of the city, and we made love on crushed clover on the outskirts of town, making a far-fetched prison fantasy come true.

Then came the announcement that The Angolite The Angolite was one of five finalists in the category of specialized journalism for the 1978 National Magazine Awards. Administered by the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, the awards are the highest honors for the nation's magazine industry. Judges cited was one of five finalists in the category of specialized journalism for the 1978 National Magazine Awards. Administered by the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, the awards are the highest honors for the nation's magazine industry. Judges cited The Angolite The Angolite for its "realistic reportage of what is happening behind prison walls." In the end, for its "realistic reportage of what is happening behind prison walls." In the end, Scientific American Scientific American won, but it was the first time a prisoner publication had ever been in such august company. won, but it was the first time a prisoner publication had ever been in such august company.

These were life-changing events for me. They marked the first time in my life that I had been publicly patted on the back for having done something good. It felt great. The honors increased The Angolite The Angolite's stature in the prison. When Warden Blackburn took over, he, like Phelps and Gresham, gave our journalism his unflinching support, and we were able to become more aggressive.

Energized, I mapped out major stories for the remainder of the year, selecting each for its potential impact or appeal to diverse segments of the prison community. The editorial mix I sought was first displayed in the July/August 1978 issue, which featured "Anatomy of a Suicide," Billy's chilling account of the life and death of his best friend, Billy Ray White, who committed suicide and slowly bled to death in the cell adjacent to Billy's while the two men talked; my profile of Peggi Gresham, the first female a.s.sociate warden in a male prison in Louisiana; and an interview with New Orleans district attorney Harry Connick, the state's foremost opponent of the release of Angola prisoners. I also added a popular new section where readers could express themselves unedited. With this issue, too, I acquired ill.u.s.trator Troy Bridges, which made the majority of the Angolite Angolite staff white. staff white.

Billy aspired to match my recognition as a professional journalist. He began to think hard about stories and to focus on writing objectively, which was difficult for him because he tended to moralize, seeing the world as black-and-white. I suggested he use his knowledge of the law to educate inmates about their rights, the workings of the justice system, and legal news and issues important to them. He took to it immediately, writing lengthy legal essays and delving into actual cases of Angola prisoners.

I concentrated on a.n.a.lytical features and investigative reports. In the September/October edition, I reported on old-timers lost in the bureaucracy of the system. In "Conversations with the Dead" I told of Frank "c.o.c.ky" Moore, who had been living in a tin shack and tending horses behind one of the prison's out-camps for thirty-three years-in a system that routinely released lifers after a decade of good behavior. The New Orleans Times-Picayune Times-Picayune and other media picked up on my story, and c.o.c.ky was soon free. and other media picked up on my story, and c.o.c.ky was soon free.

Billy was impressed with the reaction of the outside world to the story, but I could sense his resentment, too. He was becoming more compet.i.tive. I feared that, because I didn't want there to be a winner and a loser. I asked Gresham to promote him to a.s.sociate editor.

She bristled. "I am not going to promote anybody to improve their att.i.tude," she said. She did, however, allow him to accompany me on a trip-his first-to Dixon Correctional Inst.i.tute, less than an hour's drive from Angola, to do a story for our last issue of the year. Shortly afterward, we learned The Angolite The Angolite had won top honors from the American Penal Press for best news reportage, the second consecutive year. Billy was promoted to a.s.sociate editor with the publication of our March/April 1979 edition. had won top honors from the American Penal Press for best news reportage, the second consecutive year. Billy was promoted to a.s.sociate editor with the publication of our March/April 1979 edition.

The Angolite's prominence grew. Corrections Magazine Corrections Magazine highlighted me in its March 1979 issue with a feature, "The highlighted me in its March 1979 issue with a feature, "The Angolite Angolite Angle: A Louisiana Inmate Leads His Magazine into the Big Leagues of Journalism." The American Bar a.s.sociation gave me its 1979 Silver Gavel Award for "Conversations with the Dead," for "outstanding contribution to public understanding of the American system of law and justice." It marked the first time in the ABA's hundred-year history that it had so honored a prisoner. Warden Blackburn went to Dallas to accept the award. Billy and I received a special 1979 Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award "for bringing about a deep understanding of the lives and deaths of those imprisoned." The award was presented to Phelps and Blackburn by Senator Edward Kennedy and Ethel, widow of Robert Kennedy, during ceremonies attended by several hundred journalists at her Virginia home. Upon his return, Phelps instructed prisoner publications at other state facilities to follow our example. Supervisors and inmate staffers of the publications at both Dixon Correctional Inst.i.tute and the women's prison at St. Gabriel traveled to Angola to meet us, study our operation, and discuss ways of improving their own. Angle: A Louisiana Inmate Leads His Magazine into the Big Leagues of Journalism." The American Bar a.s.sociation gave me its 1979 Silver Gavel Award for "Conversations with the Dead," for "outstanding contribution to public understanding of the American system of law and justice." It marked the first time in the ABA's hundred-year history that it had so honored a prisoner. Warden Blackburn went to Dallas to accept the award. Billy and I received a special 1979 Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award "for bringing about a deep understanding of the lives and deaths of those imprisoned." The award was presented to Phelps and Blackburn by Senator Edward Kennedy and Ethel, widow of Robert Kennedy, during ceremonies attended by several hundred journalists at her Virginia home. Upon his return, Phelps instructed prisoner publications at other state facilities to follow our example. Supervisors and inmate staffers of the publications at both Dixon Correctional Inst.i.tute and the women's prison at St. Gabriel traveled to Angola to meet us, study our operation, and discuss ways of improving their own.

My success and The Angolite The Angolite's were the latest signs in what I had long since begun to feel was a charmed existence. I had twice narrowly avoided being lynched following my arrest, then had been rescued from three consecutive death sentences by three unexpected landmark decisions by the U.S. Supreme Court. Thrown into the most violent prison in America, I not only survived, I thrived. "It's like something's happening on a level that I don't understand," I told Phelps one afternoon when he stopped by my office.

"You're getting religion?" he asked, smiling.

"I don't know, but at what point do I ask, What the h.e.l.l's going on? I can't help wondering if some cosmic force or supernatural ent.i.ty isn't pus.h.i.+ng me along a specific course in life, having saved me for some unknown purpose I'm to serve."

"You've been blessed by an extraordinary amount of good fortune," Phelps said. "You want to make sense of it, and you will, eventually. But the important thing to understand now is that you're uniquely postured to make a difference in the lives of others, to do a lot of good, and to educate the public about the world of prison. That That should be a personal mission with you, whether you feel a supernatural force nudging you toward it or not. Society needs the information you are in the position to provide. This criminal justice business has a lot of experts-we're good at studying statistics and pretending we know what we're talking about, and while I can't speak for the other professionals, I know we penal administrators fake it a lot. You can provide the kind of truth that comes from firsthand experience." should be a personal mission with you, whether you feel a supernatural force nudging you toward it or not. Society needs the information you are in the position to provide. This criminal justice business has a lot of experts-we're good at studying statistics and pretending we know what we're talking about, and while I can't speak for the other professionals, I know we penal administrators fake it a lot. You can provide the kind of truth that comes from firsthand experience."

I had, indeed, come to see The Angolite The Angolite as my mission in life, my path to redemption. It allowed me the satisfaction of helping others, whether by educating them or solving problems. It also kept me in touch with people outside prison, normal people, so I could mitigate some of the effects of being inst.i.tutionalized. The magazine gave me a measure of control over my life; I could decide what stories to pursue and set my own schedule. Every day held the promise of unpredictability and discovery-giving tours, traveling, sitting in on meetings with administrators, checking the levees that kept the Mississippi in place, researching Angola's history, photographing the annual Angola rodeo, and talking to scholars, media, and government officials from Louisiana and elsewhere. Under Blackburn, as my mission in life, my path to redemption. It allowed me the satisfaction of helping others, whether by educating them or solving problems. It also kept me in touch with people outside prison, normal people, so I could mitigate some of the effects of being inst.i.tutionalized. The magazine gave me a measure of control over my life; I could decide what stories to pursue and set my own schedule. Every day held the promise of unpredictability and discovery-giving tours, traveling, sitting in on meetings with administrators, checking the levees that kept the Mississippi in place, researching Angola's history, photographing the annual Angola rodeo, and talking to scholars, media, and government officials from Louisiana and elsewhere. Under Blackburn, The Angolite The Angolite took flight. Our staff began to tackle the kind of difficult subjects for which the magazine would become famous: inequities in the system, lost and forgotten prisoners, the brutal realities of life behind bars. took flight. Our staff began to tackle the kind of difficult subjects for which the magazine would become famous: inequities in the system, lost and forgotten prisoners, the brutal realities of life behind bars.

We didn't do it alone. The Angolite The Angolite gradually developed a network of relations.h.i.+ps with editors and journalists throughout Louisiana and the nation upon whom I could call for information, photos, and general a.s.sistance. In return, we acted as a resource for them when they wanted information on Angola, story ideas, or guidance on whom to talk to-inmate or employee-about a particular issue. We became the de facto public information office for Angola and the Department of Corrections. gradually developed a network of relations.h.i.+ps with editors and journalists throughout Louisiana and the nation upon whom I could call for information, photos, and general a.s.sistance. In return, we acted as a resource for them when they wanted information on Angola, story ideas, or guidance on whom to talk to-inmate or employee-about a particular issue. We became the de facto public information office for Angola and the Department of Corrections.

As we became more aggressive in covering our world, we had heated editorial conferences with Gresham and Phelps. The arguments were always over style and language. Phelps didn't want obscenities in the magazine. He wanted a publication that people could pick up off his coffee table or in a doctor's office and read without being offended. I felt we sometimes needed crude language to convey effectively the realities of prison life. "I was just thinking how my fellow penal administrators around the country would never believe what is taking place in this room," Phelps said in a flash of wry humor during one of our arguments.

But, in terms of reporting, everything everything remained fair game; officials had to cooperate and make information available. For "The Child-Savers," a story in the July/August 1979 issue, we went to Louisiana's largest reform school, the former State Industrial School for Colored Youths, where I had been sent as a teenager. My objective was to examine the prevailing view that the juvenile system was full of violent delinquents. I found what I expected: Although 68 percent of all the kids going to juvenile court in Louisiana in 1974 and 1975 were white, 68 percent of those sent to prison were black. The racial disparity held true for 1976 and 1977. Phelps, who had disagreed with my proposition of inst.i.tutional racism, was surprised at the revelation. I also discovered that 85 percent of the 1,076 juveniles sent to prison in 197677 were there for nonviolent offenses. remained fair game; officials had to cooperate and make information available. For "The Child-Savers," a story in the July/August 1979 issue, we went to Louisiana's largest reform school, the former State Industrial School for Colored Youths, where I had been sent as a teenager. My objective was to examine the prevailing view that the juvenile system was full of violent delinquents. I found what I expected: Although 68 percent of all the kids going to juvenile court in Louisiana in 1974 and 1975 were white, 68 percent of those sent to prison were black. The racial disparity held true for 1976 and 1977. Phelps, who had disagreed with my proposition of inst.i.tutional racism, was surprised at the revelation. I also discovered that 85 percent of the 1,076 juveniles sent to prison in 197677 were there for nonviolent offenses. Angolite Angolite stories that exposed problems were normally followed by some type of administrative remedy, but "The Child-Savers" was not. The outside media apparently did not find these revelations of racism newsworthy; the statistics revealing lopsided juvenile justice would continue for the next quarter century. stories that exposed problems were normally followed by some type of administrative remedy, but "The Child-Savers" was not. The outside media apparently did not find these revelations of racism newsworthy; the statistics revealing lopsided juvenile justice would continue for the next quarter century.

What I felt to be my most important story, and the one that held the greatest potential to be censored, was "The s.e.xual Jungle." In 1979, penal administrators still universally lied about prison rape, characterizing it as an infrequent occurrence by aggressive h.o.m.os.e.xuals and s.e.xual deviants. But, as I've said, it was an epidemic perpetrated primarily by heteros.e.xuals, and it was an integral part of life in prison, condoned by security officers who were complicit in maintaining its existence. Penthouse Penthouse senior editor Peter Bloch had asked me to write an article about rape and s.e.x in prison, but he wouldn't allow me to write more than a thousand words, which, in my view, was insufficient to cover the subject. I turned down his offer of $1,000 (it wasn't easy). I decided, instead, to do an article in senior editor Peter Bloch had asked me to write an article about rape and s.e.x in prison, but he wouldn't allow me to write more than a thousand words, which, in my view, was insufficient to cover the subject. I turned down his offer of $1,000 (it wasn't easy). I decided, instead, to do an article in The Angolite The Angolite, where I had as much s.p.a.ce as I needed to properly deal with the subject. For the expose, I interviewed officials, victims of s.e.xual violence, perpetrators, and experts. To add a national perspective to the story, I turned to Ginger Roberts.

I'd met Ginger when she was a Louisiana State University law student clerking at the Department of Corrections. Phelps had asked me to look after her as she and a group of fellow students embarked upon a project to help Angola jailhouse lawyers. A New Yorker, she had done civil rights work in Mississippi before being invited to Louisiana by Elayn Hunt when she was director. We hit it off instantly, forming what would become a lifelong friends.h.i.+p. She became my first pro bono attorney and a staunch supporter of both my journalism and my freedom efforts. At my request, Ginger interviewed Dr. Frank Rundle in New York City for The Angolite The Angolite. Having served as chief psychiatrist at the 2,200-man California Training Facility at Soledad and as director of psychiatry of Prison Health Services for all of the correctional inst.i.tutions in New York City, Rundle provided the national overview I needed.

I opened my piece with a description of the a.s.sault I had witnessed in the East Baton Rouge Parish jail: Leaving the bullpen, he strolled toward the cell area. Stepping into the darkened cell, he was swept into a whirlwind of violent movement that flung him hard against the wall, knocking the wind from him. A rough, callused hand encircled his throat, the fingers digging painfully into his neck, cutting off the scream rus.h.i.+ng to his lips. "Holler, wh.o.r.e, and you die," a hoa.r.s.e voice warned, the threat emphasized by the knife point at his throat. He nodded weakly as a rag was stuffed in his mouth. The hand left his neck. Thoughts of death moved sluggishly through his terror-stricken mind as his legs, weak with fear, threatened to give out from under him. An anguished prayer formed in his heart and his facial muscles twitched uncontrollably. He was thrown on the floor, his pants pulled off him. As a hand profanely squeezed his b.u.t.tocks, he felt a flush of embarra.s.sment and anger, more because of his basic weakness-which prevented his doing anything to stop what was happening-than because of what was actually going on. His throat grunted painful noises, an awful pleading whine that went ignored as he felt his b.u.t.tocks spread roughly apart. A searing pain raced through his body as the hardness of one of his attackers tore roughly into his r.e.c.t.u.m. "Shake back, b.i.t.c.h!" a voice urged. "Give him a wiggle!" His rapist expressed delight as his body flinched and quivered from the burning cigarettes being applied to his side by other inmates gleefully watching. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed him and he began to cry, and even after the last p.e.n.i.s was pulled out of his abused and bleeding body, he still cried, overwhelmed by the knowledge that it was not over, that this was only the beginning of a nightmare that would only end with violence, death, or release from prison.

Not only was the twenty-eight-page feature, ill.u.s.trated with numerous photos, published in the November/December 1979 issue just as I wrote it, but Phelps and Gresham also incorporated it in Louisiana's corrections training programs as required reading for new employees. The administration's policy for dealing with s.e.xual violence and h.o.m.os.e.xuality was revised: Once officials understood that openly gay inmates did not incite s.e.xual violence and were often its victims, they stopped the wholesale lockup of overt h.o.m.os.e.xuals.

Later, following an American Corrections a.s.sociation convention, Phelps told me that a number of corrections officials from other states could not understand why he was allowing me to do what I was doing, and they were especially displeased with "The s.e.xual Jungle." "We were sort of boycotted at the convention," he said, "which tells me that we must be doing something right." It was a comment that perfectly revealed Phelps's strength of character, not only to run a transparent prison but also to revel in it in the face of criticism by his peers.

My work was bringing me some much-needed positive recognition as I mounted another appeal to the pardon board. The Baton Rouge district attorney withdrew his opposition to my request for clemency. Former warden Henderson, now corrections commissioner in Tennessee, again supported my release. Phelps and Blackburn had been declaring publicly that I was rehabilitated. I had received an offer to write a book and another to make a movie about my life, offers I hoped would give me a good start when released from prison. Attorney Richard Burnes was going to make the case for my release near the end of Governor Edwin Edwards's term in office.

The hearing was held in Baton Rouge in January 1980. NAACP officers from Lake Charles and state vice president Rupert Richardson showed up to support me. Ginger got state representative Joe Delpit and Reverend T. J. Jemison, president of the National Baptist Convention, two of Louisiana's most powerful black leaders, to appear on my behalf, but only at the request of her boss, Camille Gravel, one of the state's most influential white lawyers. White Lake Charles politicians and bankers had led a letter-writing campaign against me. Frank Salter, victim Dora McCain, and staff from the Calcasieu Parish district attorney's office came to the hearing to oppose me. James Stovall, head of the Louisiana Interchurch Conference and former pastor for the McCain family, told the board that the most difficult thing he had ever done was to leave McCain's side and join those requesting my release. The board voted 32 against me. The crus.h.i.+ng loss was made worse when I learned that Johnny Jackson, Sr., the only black on the board, cast the deciding vote. White reporters covering the hearing a.s.sumed the roomful of whites to be my opponents, when in fact they were predominantly supporters of mine from New Orleans and Baton Rouge.

I had been imprisoned nineteen years, longer than 99.9 percent of the inmates in Angola. I had expected to regain my freedom through the traditional 106 clemency process that had routinely freed lifers since 1926. Now, despite evidence in court records to the contrary, state officials alleged that no 106 release practice had ever existed, generating considerable frustration and anger among the lifer population, many of whom had entered into plea agreements with the expectation they would serve only ten years, six months. In 1979, the Louisiana legislature voted to repeal the very 106 law that officials said didn't exist. As we reported in The Angolite The Angolite, Representative Raymond Laborde said the new law would "end the old myth old myth that life in Louisiana means 10 years, six months. With this it will mean the rest of your life." That meant that the only way out of prison for lifers like me was through the new pardon board, which had just turned me down. I pulled my Guitar Slim ca.s.sette out of the drawer and closed the office door. I needed to sink down into the gutbucket blues. that life in Louisiana means 10 years, six months. With this it will mean the rest of your life." That meant that the only way out of prison for lifers like me was through the new pardon board, which had just turned me down. I pulled my Guitar Slim ca.s.sette out of the drawer and closed the office door. I needed to sink down into the gutbucket blues.

"The George Polk Award?" I asked, looking from Gresham to New York Times New York Times reporter Bill Stevens, who was sitting in her office. reporter Bill Stevens, who was sitting in her office.

"You don't know what you've won?" he said, then explained to me that it was one of journalism's most prestigious awards. After Stevens left, I asked Gresham to make Billy coeditor of The Angolite The Angolite, since he had also won a Polk Award independent of my work. I told her it was the only way to ensure that he got equal media attention. She did not agree, but relented; and Billy was approved to become coeditor with publication of the May/June 1980 edition.

Following my interview with Stevens, the Times Times executive editor, Abe Rosenthal, whom I'd earlier asked for a job, phoned to congratulate me and wish me luck. He told me his paper would be keeping an eye on me. That was followed by a call from David Jones, the paper's national editor, who inquired whether any other media had shown interest in my winning the Polk Award. I told him no. "That'll change," he said. Shortly after the publication of Stevens's front-page story on me, the other national media descended. A barrage of phone calls was followed by a stream of reporters seeking interviews. One helicopter transporting an NBC team mistakenly landed in the Main Prison Trusty Yard instead of on the prison airstrip, alarming security officers. Had they landed in the Big Yard, they probably would've drawn gunfire from the tower guards. executive editor, Abe Rosenthal, whom I'd earlier asked for a job, phoned to congratulate me and wish me luck. He told me his paper would be keeping an eye on me. That was followed by a call from David Jones, the paper's national editor, who inquired whether any other media had shown interest in my winning the Polk Award. I told him no. "That'll change," he said. Shortly after the publication of Stevens's front-page story on me, the other national media descended. A barrage of phone calls was followed by a stream of reporters seeking interviews. One helicopter transporting an NBC team mistakenly landed in the Main Prison Trusty Yard instead of on the prison airstrip, alarming security officers. Had they landed in the Big Yard, they probably would've drawn gunfire from the tower guards.

Because neither Billy nor I could attend the awards ceremony at the Roosevelt Hotel in New York, Blackburn and Gresham stood in for us. Gresham said they were besieged by agents, reporters, and cameras wherever they went: "It was as if New York City had just gone Angolite- Angolite-crazy!"

A month later, "The s.e.xual Jungle" made The Angolite The Angolite a finalist for the 1980 National Magazine Award, though it didn't win. a finalist for the 1980 National Magazine Award, though it didn't win.

Inspired by the honors our magazine received, the staff became even more aggressive. At Ethel Kennedy's suggestion, we wrote about the mentally r.e.t.a.r.ded offender, who is easy prey for the rapists and strong-armers. We revealed how mail-order companies use prisons as dumping grounds for shoddy, defective products. We exposed the gross inadequacy of medical services at Angola, after which we were advised that we had better not need medical care anytime soon.

Many of our best stories originated with an official or employee. During an interview in his office, I told New Orleans district attorney Harry Connick that I couldn't imagine him being as candid with the mainstream media as he was with us. "You guys are different, Wilbert," he said. "You understand this business from the inside out; the others don't."

Now people throughout the Louisiana corrections system wanted to be in The Angolite The Angolite. Lonely prisoners hoped exposure would get them a girlfriend or freedom. Officials and employees yearned for the professional recognition we could confer, or sought to use us as a conduit for additional resources or change. The honors and publicity we received also raised prisoners' expectations. We constantly fielded pleas to get a better prison job, improve an inmate's custody status, and address all kinds of personal problems. I once received a letter from an inmate in the mental health cellblock who believed I was responsible for "the garbage" he was being fed and demanded I change his menu "or else."

Billy and I traveled around the state unshackled and accompanied by an unarmed security officer to cover official events, to report on other facilities, to lecture at universities, and, in response to requests, to talk to at-risk kids.

We were sometimes overwhelmed by the demands on us and we knew we needed help. Tommy Mason had lost his job as the governor's valet after getting drunk and making a play for a female guest at the governor's mansion, and he had been returned to Angola. I asked him to rejoin The Angolite The Angolite, though Billy opposed it.

I soon saw that there was a dark side to success. The ambitious and manipulative-inmates and employees alike-sought to cultivate us; the jealous and resentful, to bring us down. Some of my critics wrote letters full of lies to the pardon board (and G.o.d only knows who else) to sabotage my freedom efforts. A sympathetic official showed me some of the letters so I'd know who my enemies were and what they said and could protect myself.

More worrisome to me were the machinations of Jack Rogers, a Lake Charles attorney who, in talks with prisoners and in addressing a group of 106 lifers, was saying I was the biggest liability to the legal challenge they had mounted because "no judge will ever vote to let Rideau out of prison." I complained to Blackburn, Gresham, and Phelps that Rogers was creating a dangerous situation for me. They a.s.sured me they would handle it, and I never again had trouble with Rogers or with the inmates he spoke to, but I wondered, when Angola security warden Walter Pence told me there were rumors of a contract on my life coming out of Lake Charles, if it had anything to do with Rogers. The rumor mill is one of the most maddening aspects of prison life, and prisoners used it regularly to inflict anxiety-and insomnia-on a foe. My paranoia was p.r.i.c.ked, and I sent word to all my friends and allies throughout the prison to keep me abreast of all new arrivals from southwest Louisiana and arranged to have no new inmate from that area live or work around me. I was glad I had Billy and Tommy to watch my back.

In late 1980 Elin Schoen came down to research a story on The Angolite The Angolite for for The New York Times Magazine The New York Times Magazine. Like many outsiders, she was puzzled by my inability to get clemency in Louisiana when it was routinely given to others convicted of murder. She went to Edwin Edwards, who had left the governor's mansion some months earlier after eight years' residence. She asked Edwards, whose liberality in granting commutations was legendary, why I couldn't get one.

"Rideau was a black who had killed a white person," Edwards told Schoen. "There has never been a case where a black had killed a black where there was this kind of furor over it when the criminal came up for clemency. It's easy to raise community feelings over Rideau. But community feelings shouldn't be given that much weight."

I was stunned when I read of the nonchalance with which Edwards acknowledged the virulent racial animosity in white Lake Charles and the power that community had to enforce its will. More demoralizing still was Schoen's discovery that before my clemency hearing, Edwards "phoned a pardon board member who was known to be a Rideau supporter and requested that this person vote against Rideau." That person was, of course, Johnny Jackson, Sr. "It was just gonna be a hot potato," a source requesting anonymity told Schoen. "Edwards wasn't gonna make any friends in the Lake Charles area."

After a gloomy session listening to the blues, I took heart in the Times Magazine Times Magazine revelation that Edwards's behind-the-scenes finagling was responsible for the pardon board denial-meaning that if I had been judged on the merits, I would've gotten the recommendation. That gave me hope that I could win clemency from the new pardon board that had come in with Republican governor Dave Treen. Treen was reputed to be tough on crime and promised to be tightfisted with clemencies, but that didn't worry me, because I knew that no one could match my record and my accomplishments. Moreover, I knew a couple of members of Treen's newly appointed board to be sincere professionals, and I trusted they would be fair. revelation that Edwards's behind-the-scenes finagling was responsible for the pardon board denial-meaning that if I had been judged on the merits, I would've gotten the recommendation. That gave me hope that I could win clemency from the new pardon board that had come in with Republican governor Dave Treen. Treen was reputed to be tough on crime and promised to be tightfisted with clemencies, but that didn't worry me, because I knew that no one could match my record and my accomplishments. Moreover, I knew a couple of members of Treen's newly appointed board to be sincere professionals, and I trusted they would be fair.

Meanwhile, Louisiana appeared to be nearing its first execution since 1961. News reporters were making the pilgrimage to Angola to do stories on the death penalty as a prelude to the scheduled April 8, 1981, execution of Colin Clark. Billy and I went to the death house at Camp F on March 17 to get photos for a single-topic edition we planned to do on capital punishment. We encountered two television crews there getting film footage of the electric chair and the death chamber. They wanted to interview us about the death penalty, and Warden Blackburn suggested we help them out.

A few days later we were interviewing Blackburn in his office when Baton Rouge WAFB-TV reporter Jodie Bell, whom we met at the death house, phoned and asked to talk to Billy. Billy took the call in a nearby office. When he returned, he said that Bell wanted to know how far it was from Angola's front gate to the death house; I wondered briefly why she hadn't just asked whoever answered the phone for that information. A couple of weeks later, Bell showed up at corrections headquarters in Baton Rouge, where we had gone to interview an official. Shortly thereafter, Billy told me he'd gotten a letter from Bell saying she had requested permission from the warden to see us again for her death penalty series.

She came alone. We saw her in a private interview room, unsupervised. We mostly chatted; occasionally she asked specific questions and jotted notes. Later she visited us again, to gather information for a story about us for Gambit Gambit, a New Orleans weekly.

One night soon after that, security summoned me from my office to take a phone call from the media concerning The Angolite The Angolite. A distressed Jodie Bell told me that she had found out "everything about Billy" and angrily railed about his not having told her about his long criminal history.

"What's with you and Jodie Bell?" I asked Billy, once I had returned to my office. He told me that they had been corresponding and communicating on the phone. "She just called me, and she sounded hysterical," I said. "Call her. And tell her that she cannot call here like that again. She's putting our Angolite Angolite phone privileges in jeopardy." phone privileges in jeopardy."

The next morning, Billy confessed to being madly in love with Bell, the fortyish wife of a New Orleans journalism professor and mother of three. She had recently embarked upon a career in television journalism. She did her television work in Baton Rouge during the week and visited her family in New Orleans on weekends.

Billy said he was going to continue to see Jodie in the unsupervised, closed-door privacy of the room in which we had met with her previously; that would be possible only if Jodie requested the visits as legitimate journalistic interviews. I realized that my inclusion in her last two visits had been merely to give them credence. I told him that she should leave my name out of future "interview" requests because I would not jeopardize my hard-earned credibility by partic.i.p.ating in their ruse.

Billy's conduct put me in a bind. The Angolite The Angolite was everything to me-both my mission and what made my life in Angola bearable and meaningful, and what I hoped would prepare me for life after my release. Billy was playing Russian roulette not only with his own life but also with mine. was everything to me-both my mission and what made my life in Angola bearable and meaningful, and what I hoped would prepare me for life after my release. Billy was playing Russian roulette not only with his own life but also with mine.

What were my options? Telling Gresham about Jodie and Billy's private trysts would likely lead to Billy's dismissal from the magazine; Gresham would regard his actions as a betrayal of the trust she placed in him. Moreover, if Gresham learned that Jodie was abusing her journalistic credentials to have private romantic visits with Billy, she might severely curtail all media access to Angola and The Angolite The Angolite, which was a benefit to the prisoners and essential to our operation. That would be good for no one.

As a man who had been deprived for far too long, I couldn't condemn Billy for wanting romance with the willing Jodie Bell. Torn as I was, I kept my mouth shut and prayed that Billy and Jodie didn't get busted.

8.

Disillusion 1981-1986 The Angolite enjoyed remarkable freedom to investigate and criticize prison management, policies, and practices under Warden Blackburn, so it was ironic that what nearly brought us down in early 1981 was a story about a toilet and another about religion. enjoyed remarkable freedom to investigate and criticize prison management, policies, and practices under Warden Blackburn, so it was ironic that what nearly brought us down in early 1981 was a story about a toilet and another about religion.

A maverick guard had put a lock on a communal toilet in the education building because he did not want to sit on a toilet seat used by an inmate. This was the sort of petty, arbitrary exercise of power-at once both humiliating and inconvenient to inmates-that gave daily prison life a sense of madness and superfluous cruelty. At The Angolite The Angolite, we saw the guard's action as an opportunity for satire, which we ordinarily avoided because we felt every aspect of prison life was serious business. Billy wrote an accordingly lighthearted piece for our January/February 1981 issue called "The Locked John." The other feature in that edition was "Religion in Prison," in which I observed that the Catholic Church, the biggest and most powerful in Louisiana, had turned a cold shoulder to the imprisoned, literally abandoning ministry to them.

When the magazine was distributed throughout the prison, Billy and I were on a speaking engagement in the northeastern part of the state. Walter Pence, Angola's security warden, phoned to tell me there was growing anger among his guards, some of whom were threatening to firebomb the Angolite Angolite office because Billy had written "prison guards, like defensive linemen, are not known for their dazzling brilliance." Other guards complained to their state legislators that we should be shut down. Pence suggested that we consider extending our speaking trip to allow the furor to diminish. But if prison had taught us nothing else, it taught us that you can't solve a problem if you are running from it. We immediately returned to Angola, where I enlisted the help of Lieutenant Colonel Richard Wall, security chief of the Main Prison, and some other influential officers with whom I had good relations, to help mollify the angry guards. office because Billy had written "prison guards, like defensive linemen, are not known for their dazzling brilliance." Other guards complained to their state legislators that we should be shut down. Pence suggested that we consider extending our speaking trip to allow the furor to diminish. But if prison had taught us nothing else, it taught us that you can't solve a problem if you are running from it. We immediately returned to Angola, where I enlisted the help of Lieutenant Colonel Richard Wall, security chief of the Main Prison, and some other influential officers with whom I had good relations, to help mollify the angry guards.

At the same time, the bishop of the Catholic diocese of Baton Rouge, the Very Reverend John Sullivan-later discovered to have been a not-so-reverend pedophile-was offended by my article on the church and took his complaint and political clout to Governor Edwards, but Phelps stood firm.

Clinton Baudin, a vulgar, red-faced, beer-bellied officer, had meanwhile mounted a continuing vendetta against me and the magazine. On the last day of August, Louis Ortega, one of our two ill.u.s.trators, overslept after working late the night before and thus missed reporting for his "extra duty" a.s.signment that morning. Baudin cited Ortega for "aggravated work offense," a serious disciplinary infraction, and removed him to the Dungeon. Before he left, Baudin turned to Larry Stegall, our second ill.u.s.trator, and said, "You're next."

Shortly afterward, Major W. J. Norwood, who had locked up Billy almost a decade before for possession of narcotics, led three officers into the Angolite Angolite office, where they strip-searched Billy and had him wait outside while they shook down the office. After about an hour, the officers departed. They had rummaged through photos, files, mail, confidential notes, and interviews. Worse, they had obviously listened to a ca.s.sette containing an interview with condemned prisoner Colin Clark, which we had been keeping confidential at the request of Clark's attorney. office, where they strip-searched Billy and had him wait outside while they shook down the office. After about an hour, the officers departed. They had rummaged through photos, files, mail, confidential notes, and interviews. Worse, they had obviously listened to a ca.s.sette containing an interview with condemned prisoner Colin Clark, which we had been keeping confidential at the request of Clark's attorney.

When Phelps learned what had happened, he a.s.sured me, "I'll handle Norwood and those officers-in my own way."

A couple of weeks later, in September 1981, Phelps was fired. Republican governor Dave Treen, who'd a.s.sumed power the year before, said he ousted Phelps because of "philosophical differences." Phelps, a Democrat, had been critical of the throw-away-the-key prison-building policies that were feeding a corrections system in which more than half of its inmates were confined for nonviolent property offenses. He was equally critical of the governor's stinginess on clemency, which he predicted would make Angola the world's largest old folks' home.

Treen replaced Phelps with John T. King, a political crony who had a background in business. Within two weeks, the new regime restricted editorial content in all prison publications. Department of Corrections headquarters shut off its flow of information to The Angolite The Angolite, canceled equipment purchases, curtailed supply orders, and put our staff under investigation.

On October 8, King transferred Frank Blackburn out of Angola and brought Ross Maggio back as warden. Phelps and Maggio now led opposing factions of employees, and Maggio immediately got rid of Blackburn's top administrators, who were Phelps loyalists. Peggi Gresham was stripped of much of her power.

On his second night back, Maggio came to the Angolite Angolite office. "Been hearing all kinds of rumors about y'all," he said. office. "Been hearing all kinds of rumors about y'all," he said.

"I'm surprised at you, Warden," I said, "believing prison rumors."

He didn't smile. "Heard y'all also been running the prison."

"About as much as when you were here. People listen to us, just as you did. You know, we only have as much power as people think we have," I said.

"Well, there's some people believe you have too much, that The Angolite The Angolite has gotten out of hand." He took a seat. "h.e.l.l, I could get elected to public office running against has gotten out of hand." He took a seat. "h.e.l.l, I could get elected to public office running against The Angolite The Angolite. There's some highly placed people want y'all out of business."

"Are you putting us out of business, Warden?" Billy asked, handing him a Department of Corrections directive to all inmate organizations suspending "any type of newsletter or magazine."

"Let's put it this way," said Maggio. "I'm not gonna be the warden who shut The Angolite The Angolite down. If they want to put y'all out of business, they are gonna have to do it themselves." down. If they want to put y'all out of business, they are gonna have to do it themselves."

King moved quickly against us. On October 16, a Department of Corrections official wrote: "I do not feel that it is in the interest of this department or the inmates to publish derogatory information regarding public officials."

When an inmate was killed while sitting at the kitchen table in Camp H shortly after Maggio's return, neither employees nor officials would talk to us for fear of offending the new regime. Nonetheless, Maggio told us to continue to operate as we had in the past, that he- he-not corrections headquarters-would determine how we operated.

When we threatened to alert the national media about what was happening and take the King administration to court over it, Phelps sent a message advising me not to engage the new powers in a war because they were mean-spirited enough to destroy us. He a.s.sured me that whatever his faults, Maggio was his own man.

Maggio warned us that he would have "to trim [our] sails a little to pacify some people," but at least we'd stay in business. Unfortunately, that put an end to a project Phelps had approved for Louisiana Public Broadcasting, in which they were to give us cameras and train us to produce television reports. Our freedom to travel outside the prison ended, and our telephone communications with the outside world were reduced. We were unable to purchase new equipment-typewriters, cameras, tape recorders-and our yearly budget gradually dropped 40 percent even as the spending for other inmate operations increased.

Jodie Bell's visits with Billy were ended when Maggio learned of them. She then chose to quit her television job rather than give Billy up. Billy was now so stressed that he sometimes found it difficult to keep his anger under control. During one editorial conference, he was so contentious with Maggio, I was afraid the warden might lock him up. After Jodie divorced her husband, she and Billy refused to ask Maggio for permission to wed, as inmates were required to do. Instead, they married by proxy; then, as his wife, she automatically qualified to visit him.

Jodie had convinced me she was a friend, so I was surprised when one day pardon board chairman Sally McKissack came to the prison, alarmed. "Jodie has an agenda, Wilbert, and it's to get Billy out," Sally told me. "Now, there's nothing wrong with that. The problem is the manner in which she's pursuing it. In her talks with me and other board members about Billy, she deliberately misrepresents facts at your expense. To hear her tell it, Billy is the one who took over the magazine and made it into what it's become, and you're just a figurehead. You would do well to be wary of her."

Sally, whom I had known for about seven years, wanted me out of prison. Her strategy was to push a clemency application through for Billy first; she had enough votes on the board and felt certain she could get Governor Treen, despite his hard-line stance on clemency, to commute Billy's sentence. Then the board would issue a similar clemency recommendation for me, putting the governor in the position of having to commute my sentence or explain why he granted clemency to the white Angolite Angolite editor but not the black one. Sally was convinced that Treen would do that, particularly since he was making a genuine effort to court black voters, which Louisiana Republicans had never done before. editor but not the black one. Sally was convinced that Treen would do that, particularly since he was making a genuine effort to court black voters, which Louisiana Republicans had never done before.

Billy completely surrendered himself to Jodie, who became the driving force in his life. He would echo Jodie's ideas about what we should or should not do at The Angolite The Angolite-to the point that I had to remind him frequently that Jodie was not on the staff, nor was she knowledgeable about the world we lived in.

"The Angolite Angolite experiment is dead," Billy declared solemnly one day. "Jodie agrees. The concept of a free press [in prison] can't and won't work because the Department of Corrections wants us destroyed, and the only reason we're not is because of Maggio, who, while saving us, has also killed our operation." experiment is dead," Billy declared solemnly one day. "Jodie agrees. The concept of a free press [in prison] can't and won't work because the Department of Corrections wants us destroyed, and the only reason we're not is because of Maggio, who, while saving us, has also killed our operation."

"We're not dead," I said, urging him to keep things in perspective. The Angolite The Angolite was still functioning at a higher level and with more resources than when Phelps initially freed the magazine from censors.h.i.+p in 1976. I said that no publication perpetually functioned under ideal circ.u.mstances. Important and controversial issues could still be addressed, thanks to Maggio. Billy wasn't convinced. was still functioning at a higher level and with more resources than when Phelps initially freed the magazine from censors.h.i.+p in 1976. I said that no publication perpetually functioned under ideal circ.u.mstances. Important and controversial issues could still be addressed, thanks to Maggio. Billy wasn't convinced.

Louisiana's prison publications would not fare well during the King regime. Only The Angolite The Angolite and the and the Hunt Walk Talk Hunt Walk Talk of Hunt Correctional Center survived. Of course, with the flow of information and physical access reduced, we couldn't do all that we wanted to. At the day-to-day level we functioned as usual, though employees erred on the side of caution by checking with Maggio before giving us an interview or solving a prison problem we brought to their attention. Billy and I redirected some of our energies into freelance writing for state and national publications, and we even produced a column, "From the Inside," for the Fortune Society of New York. of Hunt Correctional Center survived. Of course, with the flow of information and physical access reduced, we couldn't do all that we wanted to. At the day-to-day level we functioned as usual, though employees erred on the side of caution by checking with Maggio before giving us an interview or solving a prison problem we brought to their attention. Billy and I redirected some of our energies into freelance writing for state and national publications, and we even produced a column, "From the Inside," for the Fortune Society of New York.