My Life After Prison

Resources for the incarcerated and their families.

William Kissinger

A Trip To The Planetarium For Kayle

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Carrying Our Veterans On Our Shoulders

Today I had the honor of being the final speaker at an event/press conference sponsored by Floridians For Alternatives To The Death Penalty and Death Penalty Action. I was joined by 3 other Veterans who are active in representing Veterans and, honestly? I felt a good bit out of my depth. Man, EVERYBODY outranked me! There was a retired Navy Captain, a retired Army Major, a retired Army Sergeant and finally, me, a lowly Airman 1st Class, USAF.

Everybody was smarter than me. Everybody dressed better than me. They were charismatic like you just wouldn’t believe! They all had 20, 30, even 40 years invested in their careers doing exactly what they were doing. And I was the last speaker, so I really faced an uphill battle going into the fight. But I had a clearly distinct advantage in one regard and outranked them all in one aspect – I was the ONLY one in the room who had served 47 years in one of the worst prisons in America. I’m pretty certain that I was the only convicted murderer present (though I cannot be entirely certain of that detail !). LoL!

(L-R) Tom Dunn, Esq. (USA) [Kayle Bates’ Trial Attorney] , Art Cody, Esq., (USN), Director Center for Veteran Criminal Advocacy, Bill Kissinger, A1st, (USAF), Justice Advocate, David Ferrier, retired Sergeant (USA) Mitigation Investigator

We were all gathered together in a room at the Challenger Learning Center in Tallahassee, Florida, a beautiful complex with scale models of the Challenger spacecraft, an IMAX theater, and a planetarium that will dazzle you.

TOP – The Planetarium BOTTOM – The Event Room

It was a beautiful setting for a serious discussion on a gruesome event – the pending execution of Kayle Bates, whose execution at time of this writing is scheduled for 6:00pm, August 19, 2025.

The four of us had only met the night before at a dinner organized by the bubbly and energetic Grace Ellen Hanna, the Board Secretary of FADP. I cannot stress enough how calming of a presence Grace carries with her effortlessly, and in all of my moments of vulnerability (frequent!) was there to push me forward. She also served as my personal taxi service for which I am forever grateful.

Grace Ellen Hanna, Board Secretary, FADP

Art Cody was the last to arrive to the dinner due to travel complications, so Dave Ferrier, Tom Dunn and his wife, Millie, (Litigation Attorney, Federal Public Defender Program), Grace and I proceeded to enjoy each other’s company and a great meal. In the process, we discovered that we actually knew other people in each other’s orbit. See, the capital punishment circle is actually very small and it’s like the old adage that “Everybody knows somebody and somebody knows everybody.” Millie knew Federal Public Defenders in Louisiana that I’ve worked with and Dave knew ex-convicts that I had known and seen go home many years before that Dave had worked to prove his innocence.

The reason the circle is small is actually multifold: the job of representing and defending or appealing a death-sentenced prisoner demands a dedication, passion and commitment that very few attorneys possess. The passion comes from believing that every human life is sacred and to put it all very simply

Killing people who kill people to show people that killing people is wrong just doesn’t work. It only kills more people.

The job also requires that a person be able to set aside all of their own biases and prejudices and fight to save this life – this hated and reviled and contemptible life, and that’s a pretty apt descriptor for virtually every single death-eligible prisoner ever to stand trial. But, it’s also the descriptor used by those who wholeheartedly support and actually energize the push for more and faster executions.

I have talked with and interviewed many wardens and high-ranking security officials and they are almost unanimous in their belief that capital punishment does not serve the purpose of deterrence and does much more harm than good. It only creates more victims. The executioners, also, become victims as they are forced to kill another human being with whom they have near-daily contact and become familiar with over time.

And then, there are those who simply take a “clinical” or “sanitized” viewpoint: “It’s a part of the job and I may not like it, but I have to do it so I’ll be humane and kind to him while I do it.” Like shooting him with a bullet made of sugar? Suffocating him with a fragrant and aromatic, flower-scented gas? Hanging him with a rope made of the finest silk? Or, there’s this:

“When Warden Burl Cain came that afternoon to my office, I poured him coffee. He’d hosted a new coroner’s technician for dinner the night before and told me how he’d described the execution to him, to calm his worries: “Four officers will escort Dobie from his cell. The strapdown team is well trained, each officer has an arm or a leg. If he resists, they’ll carry him. They’ll strap him to the gurney and it’ll be over quickly—then you’ll pronounce him dead.” He spoke as matter-of-factly as discussing the weather. I was appalled; Cain was serene. Before leaving, he slipped off to deliver a brand-new “Stone Cold” Steve Austin T-shirt to Dobie—an awkward farewell gift.”

Bill Kissinger, from “The Last Breakfast”, in the Harvard Inquest Magazine.

How do we distance ourselves from this mindset, from this policy-directed death, from this sanitized version of pre-meditated murder? By opposing it, fighting against it and demanding by every possible measure that we abolish it. Here is where the passion and commitment comes in. This is the passion that Tom Dunn carries with him to trial, that Art Cody defends his clients with and that David Ferrier investigates and searches for mitigating evidence with.

Kayle Bates was Tom’s first capital case after leaving the Army. It turned into a decades-long journey with Kayle that continues today.

Kayle Bates – Scheduled for execution August 19, 2025

After graduating from high school, Kyle Bates followed his lifetime dream and he enlisted in the military with the Florida National Guard. He served for six years. He participated in the unit’s activation to quell the race riots in Liberty City in Miami in 1980. He also attended and completed the Army’s rigorous jungle training in Panama. Essentially, his wife said after those two incidences, Kyle was different. He had nightmares. He’d wake up screaming loudly, acting crazy, and not recognizing or remembering where he was.

As Art explained, every veteran on death row has service connected, post-traumatic stress disorder, traumatic brain injury, or other service related disabilities. It is a service connected disability because were it not for the fact he served, had he not raised his hand and volunteered for duty, he would not have this mental health problem and would not have committed this crime and never found himself on death row.

Every veteran who served – especially in combat or combat zones – brings home scars that are sometimes plainly visible, and sometimes invisible and unseen, and sometimes don’t manifest themselves for months, years, or even decades later. Such close and frequent association with violent death does not leave one unscathed. Of the general population of the United States, only about 5% are veterans. Yet the segment of veterans on death row is 10%, or twice the rate of normal population. That rate is growing – the United States has been in more wars in the past 30 years than any other period in history. More veterans are exposed to the horrors of war and ever more powerful and destructive weapons.

Sgt. David Ferrier, U.S. Army, a Vietnam veteran and longtime capital defense investigator, talked about how little the system accounts for veterans’ trauma. He said, “In criminal cases, it’s very common that the only person in the courtroom familiar with the veterans’ experience, with the veterans’ military experience, are the veterans themselves.”

He reminded the audience that PTSD is not a new thing, and neither is the state’s neglect of it.

“Although it’s been referred to by many different names over the centuries — soldier’s heart, shell shock, battle fatigue, Vietnam syndrome, post-traumatic stress disorder — it has been part of warfare since ancient times,” Dave said. “It’s written about in The Odyssey, it’s written about in All Quiet on the Western Front. It’s written about in a variety of Vietnam oriented books. Such close and frequent association with violent death in combat does not leave one unscathed.”

And then, it was my turn. I spoke not only as a former Airman First Class, U.S. Air Force, Vietnam veteran and criminal justice reform advocate, but also as an ex-offender who spent 47 years in prison. During much of my time in prison I served as an Inmate Counsel Substitute (paralegal) and much of it working on death row.

When I began, I recalled the lessons of military service from the first day of basic training through tech school and on to the combat zone:

“When a brother is hurting, when a brother is wounded, you run to him, you put him on your shoulders and you carry him as far as you can towards safety.”

I described the day I brought a petition with 4,000 signatures to Governor DeSantis’ office pleading to halt the execution of Edward “Zak” Zakzwreski only 2 weeks before this day on behalf of FADP and Death Penalty Action.

“When I did this, it reawakened something in me and it was hard for me to deal with, but it reminded me that when I went down that hall, I was carrying every veteran on death row with me.”

I also spoke about sitting with a condemned man on death row during his final hours.

I was given permission by the warden to spend the last 24 hours of his life with Dobie Gillis Williams. Dobie, at the time of his execution, was a 39-year-old black man that was tried and convicted by an all white jury with a white prosecutor, a white judge, a white defense attorney, white sheriffs in the courtroom, and he was terrified. The night before his execution, I stood at the bars with him talking to him, and we had his lawyer on the phone and she was just crying and screaming, “Dobie, there’s nothing else I can do! I can’t do anything else.”

I tell that whole story here on Substack in “The Last Breakfast.”

Our veterans are in the same shape. We send them to war. They face the horrors of war. They come home and we ignore them. Governor DeSantis has had the opportunity four times this year to pick a veteran up and put him on his shoulder and carry him to safety. He’s not doing it. Instead, he’s choosing to rush them to the chamber of death and it’s wrong. It is time to stop executions for everyone, but most especially for our most vulnerable, and our most vulnerable are our veterans. They’re the most deserving of our care, our empathy, and they’re deserving of us picking them up and putting them on our shoulders and carrying them to safety.

I sincerely hope that I am able to continue carrying this weight towards safety for at least a bit farther. My appreciation extends to everyone who helps to shoulder the burden and help me carry it. My thanks to Grace, Bridget, Art, Dave, Tom and Millie, and to all the unseen hands that help to make it a little bit lighter.

How ‘Bout A Slice o’ Dat’ Pie, Old Boy!

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Cherry Pie We ALL Supposed To Get A Piece Of – ‘Dat’s De’ “Lagniappe“

I was reading over a post that a good friend had made earlier today about what happened in his life when he exposed corruption in the Louisiana State Penitentiary and the Louisiana Board of Pardons and Paroles…the corruption reached all the way up into the Governor’s office. Doing so reminded me that I needed to get back over here and finish this story.

It is, of course, the never-ending story in Louisiana. Corruption is endemic to Louisiana. It’s something that we grow up with, and we always heard ,”Oh, yeah, cher’! It’s a pie. But everybody gets a slice of the pie.” They even have a peculiarly cute name for it: “lagniappe”.

“We picked up one excellent word – a word worth travelling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber, expressive, handy word – ‘Lagniappe.’ They pronounce it lanny-yap … When a child or a servant buys something in a shop – or even the mayor or governor, for aught I know – he finishes the operation by saying, – ‘Give me something for lagniappe.’ The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of liquorice-root; (nb…)”: Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi(1883)

On a totally related note, the gentleman who once famously uttered that particular “pie”-phrase served some prison time himself, I suppose, for taking too large of a slice of that same pie

Edwin Edwards, the former governor of Louisiana, served eight years in prison. He was sentenced to ten years in federal prison in 2001 after being found guilty of racketeering, extortion, money laundering, mail fraud, and wire fraud. The charges stemmed from a scheme to manipulate riverboat casino licenses. Edwards began his sentence in October 2002 and was released from prison in January 2011 to a halfway house, before being released from the halfway house in January 2011, and starting three years of probation in July 2011. He was granted an early release from probation in February 2013.

“In 1986, my wife and I exposed the largest “pardons for sale” (as it was dubbed by the media) criminal scheme in Louisiana history. The federal and state investigations that ensued sent the pardon board chairman to a federal prison, got one of the state’s most powerful legislators indicted (later acquitted), forced three prison officials into bribery guilty pleas, led to the resignation of a prison warden and a number of lesser prison officials, and, as you can imagined, pissed off a whole lot of people inside and outside of the Louisiana prison system—including then Gov. Edwin Edwards who never met a bribe he did not like.” (Billy Sinclair, FaceBook post, 8/11/25)

Billy went on to tell about the devastating effect that the incident had on his present and on his future…it would be many more years before he would see his freedom. He was branded a “snitch” by all, and allegations that he had “tarnished the integrity of the prison newsmagazine (The ANGOLITE) and violated some kind of unwritten code of journalism ethics by cooperating with law enforcement.”

“Through the co-editor’s (at the time, Wilbert Rideau) insider influence with the editorial board of the New York Times, I became the only inmate in history to ever be rebuked in an editorial by this massive media conglomerate for exposing corruption over protecting the “integrity” of The Angolite.”

Now, you see, I know a little something about (1) lagniappe, (2) corruption, (3) prison and (4) the consequences of doing “the right thing,” particularly in Angola prison. First, because I served 47 calendar years in that hellhole and, second, because I personally witnessed corruption on a daily basis, and finally because I was on the receiving end of a media-spun retaliation effort by those who dealt in the corruption plague within.

Twice.

The first occasion occurred in 1995 not long after Cain’s appearance on the state scene with his involvement in a private-sector company, Louisiana Agri-Can. The owner, Charles Sullivan, Cain and others with “high-level access, including to the Governor’s office,” had opened a can relabeling plant in the old cannery building at Main Prison. The inmates who worked there labored for hours daily at a rate of between .04 and .20 cents per hour.

At the time, I was an Inmate Counsel on the Civil Litigation Team at Main Prison, and because of a few well-known court victories, was a favored counsel to prisoners seeking assistance. When a prisoner assigned to the plant came to me with his request for help and answers to his questions, I helped, having no idea that it was the beginning of a months-long adventure involving a trip to the dungeon, field work, threats on my life via a plan to “shoot me while attempting to escape,” an emergency removal by U.S. Marshalls, a stay in the East Baton Rouge Parish Prison, multiple hearings in federal court, secretive information provided to my attorneys by an Assistant Warden, and ultimately, a financial settlement with the Department of Corrections.

I, too, was labeled a snitch – but not by prisoners. By guards. A few days after I was released from the dungeon and reassigned to the West Yard field lines, a friend came to me and told me that there was talk circulating among the guards that I could be shot while trying to escape. Much later, after I was in federal protective custody, when I was on the witness stand I was being cross-examined by Burl Cain’s attorneys. They tried to get me to tell them who told me that the guards intended to shoot me. I risked everything by refusing and looking at the judge and asking, “Your Honor, look what has happened to me. If I tell them who told me, that person has a job and is trying to feed his family and is trying to protect me. If they’ll do this to me, what do you think they’ll do to him?”

The judge ruled that I did not have to answer the question and ordered the attorney to ask his next question.

“U.S. district judge Frank Polozola ruled that Louisiana Secretary of Corrections Richard Stalder and Angola Warden Burl Cain be held in contempt. He ordered them each to contribute $1,000 to a victim compensation fund. Stalder, Cain, other wardens, assistant wardens and assorted prisoncrats were all ordered by judge Polozola to take a “refresher course” on the U.S. Constitution, particularly the First Amendment right to free speech.

The contempt ruling resulted from LA state prison officials failing to produce documents the court requested and for violating an order not to harass a prisoner. The prisoner, William Kissinger, had been employed in a private prison industry job at an Angola prison relabeling plant. Kissinger wrote a letter to federal health officials that cans of evaporated milk and tomato paste with old expiration dates were being relabeled and shipped out of the prison. “The bottom line is that Kissinger, a two-time murderer, was taking actions to protect the public,” judge Polozola said. “The DOC was taking actions that would hurt the public and protect the contract of friends.”

After Kissinger wrote two letters to the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA), in which he said the can relabeling operation was “shrouded in secrecy” and “stinks of impropriety,” he was retaliated against by prisoncrats. Kissinger was transferred to a farm laborer job in a distant corner of the 18,000 acre Angola prison complex. He had been serving in the main prison as a legal advisor to other prisoners. Prison officials seized the computer Kissinger had used to assist other prisoners and to write the letters to the FDA. “Clearly this was retaliation,” said Kissinger’s attorney. “The inmate was transferred because of bad words. There is not an iron curtain between inmates and the First Amendment.”

Polozola agreed that transferring the prisoner and seizing his computer amounted to harassment, in violation of an earlier order he had issued to prevent officials from retaliating against Kissinger.”

Source: Corrections Digest

To illustrate the dangers involved in “doing the right thing,” from both sides of the fence, a meeting had been held the day before this particular hearing at the Ranch House. Burl had put a dot in the middle of a chalkboard and said, “That’s you.” Then, a circle around the dot, and an X inside the circle. “The X is you. You’re good and you’re safe.” Now, an X outside the circle. He pointed at it and said, “If that’s you, your ass is grass, and I’m gonna’ be the lawn mower.”

The next day at this hearing, my attorneys brought this conversation up when examining a witness. Burl’s jaw dropped when the attorney asked, because he now knew that someone in his inner circle had given us the information – he didn’t know where to turn. And, there was nowhere left to turn. When he finally took the stand, he could only rant and finally admit that, yes, he had retaliated against me by locking me up and ordering my computer seized. Because – ya’ ready? ‘ I had used “bad words.” Words like “shrouded in secrecy” and “stinks of impropriety,” when it literally was.

The Second War

The second occasion was 20 years later when Burl was under an investigation by Maya Lau, an investigative reporter and her team for the Advocate in Baton Rouge. This time, also, was because of the written word. I have this terrible habit of doing the right thing. And granted, it doesn’t always work out in my favor. Maya reached out to me as a source for her current investigation after she unearthed data about my first encounter with Burl and the tangled web he wove.

(L) Katie Schwartzmann, Atty and (R) Maya Lau, Investigative Reporter, The Advocate

So, we began a correspondence that began with a letter from her requesting to be placed on my visiting list. Because of my previous confrontation with “The Boss,” as he liked to be referred to as, the letter actually shook me up a bit. I carried the letter to my Camp Security Supervisor (a Colonel) who also, incidentally, happened to be my Camp F VETS Club sponsor. I felt naturally that I could trust him if no one else to guide me through this swath of uncharted waters.

As it happened Burl Cain was scheduled to attend a party at the David Knapps Training Academy located right next door that very afternoon. So, armed with the letter and my request for direction, the Colonel went next door to seek blessings for me. It turned out that Burl didn’t show up, but his trusted Deputy Warden was there. So, the Colonel showed him the letter and explained the situation and my concerns. The response? “Man, tell Kissinger he doesn’t have to worry about that stuff. That’s all water under the bridge.”

Except, it wasn’t. Or if it was, the waters were awfully deep and swirling rapidly. We continued our correspondence and suddenly a few weeks later I found myself stripped, jumpsuited, beaten, shackled and in the back of a van to an entirely different prison far away where I languished in solitary for weeks.

Because there was a Major there who I had helped a couple of years earlier with a discrimination lawsuit against DOC, I was finally able to get a phone call. I dialed a friend and told him to immediately record our conversation so he could play it back to Maya. I had a lot of information to get out there and get out there fast. I gave him Maya’s name and stated the specifics of my situation, and stressed the urgency of it all.

To her credit and the credit of the ADVOCATE, she immediately got the ball rolling. Now they weren’t so concerned about my 1st Amendment rights – they were concerned about their 1st Amendment right and access to information. In the end, though, they did the most important thing – they secured counsel for me. One day not long afterwards, a Sergeant came to my cell and flung the door open and said, “Lawyer visit…let’s go.” And that’s how I metKatie Schwartzmann,a tough and gritty bulldog of a lawyer and a staunch defender of the 1st Amendment. The Roderick and Solange MacArthur Justice Center took my case.

It took some time and a few prison disciplinary hearings, a few “DENIED” Administrative Remedy Proceedings and about 6 months in an extended lockdown cell, before Katie finally filed my lawsuit against Burl Cain and Jimmy LeBlanc (Secretary of Corrections at the time) and about 16 other named defendants. Katie knew from the outset that it would be a difficult case, but she stuck with me and we proved that, for the second time, Louisiana had tried to silence me. It took literally two years to climb that hill. We won hands down. The single most important goal I had was getting back to Angola, back to my same dormitory and job assignment, and getting my property back. The settlement we reached accomplished all of my goals. And, hey, I didn’t forget her. Several years later after my release, I reconnected with her.

eMail I Sent To Katie After I Was Released From Prison

Yes, prison is tough and danger lurks around every corner. There are traps and pitfalls everywhere one looks and every time one sets their foot down. Fellow prisoners, guards – anybody – can hate you for doing the right thing. Sometimes it is very hard to do it. Sometimes you suffer. And very seldom do people appreciate what you’ve done that ended up helping them. My takeaway, though, is that when you do the right thing, well, right things happen for you. I’m just glad there were people willing to stand in that gap beside me.

The Collision Course of Ron DeSantis and Edward Zakrzewski

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It Ends In The Death House

My trip to see the Governor – or the Floridian, His Excellency of Death – was eventful in that I met a wonderful Episcopal priest by the name of Reverend Susan Gage. Just as everything seemed as if it were going to go all the way off the rails, she showed up staring intently at my T-Shirt and Vietnam Veteran cap, as if God Himself had sent her to rescue me from my shortcomings. Made me wonder if God was either partial to Episcopalians or showing a bit of mercy to a blundering sinner.

In my very first solo mission for Floridians for Alternatives to the Death Penalty and Death Penalty Action, I made a tremendous boo-boo. I made a miscalculation timewise and presented the dual Petitions for Clemency for Edward Zakrzewski 30 minutes early.

The only saving grace for me was twofold – no media timely made an appearance and I did have the foresight to take photos of my presentation to the beaming young lady sitting behind the imposing barrier of Reception. It appears that – as Susan patiently explained to me – it is very difficult to catch the attention of the media in Tallahassee. It seems as though executions have become so commonplace in Florida that they don’t even bother to show up any more unless, of course, there might possibly be an “illegal alien” lurking in the crowd for FHP and ICE to grab..

First though, before making my way haltingly to Reception. I had to traverse the Security barricades manned at the moment by no less than five big and burly armed officers, X-ray machines, bowls for metallic odds and ends and wands which they use to scan your person. Now, to be quite honest with you, this was an intimidating process; however, not one I am completely unfamiliar with. You see, I was in prison for 47 calendar years in Louisiana, so I am well-versed in intrusive – and abusive – searches.

This was neither intrusive or abusive, yet I knew the drill perfectly: empty your pockets, open the backpack, deposit phone(s) in the bowl, set laptop to the side, lift arms and follow directions, turning when told, and when approved gather everything back up. Ask for and receive directions. Simple, right? Absolutely. Traumatic and triggering? Absolutely!

It brought to mind all of the many, many times I had been shaken down in Angola by angry officers or scared officers or rookie guards who felt they had to make an impression. Though, honestly, they never impressed me. After a while you don’t let it affect you, just let them do their thing and hope for the best. Back in the game, we used the old trick of placing a hard-core porno magazine about 1/3 of the way down in our boxes, and it’d get them every time. They’d lock in on that and sit there for an hour slowly paging through the mag, and “forget” to shake us down and their lieutenant would call for them to go somewhere else. Then the new policies went into effect and porn was contraband, so we had to find new ways – and, of course, we did.

I got through this shakedown without incident, and was so relieved I thought I might pass out. Just a few short years before in prison, I had been fortunate to get in to a Shift Supervisor’s office without risking either a serious cursing out or lockdown or at the extreme, an ass-kicking and a stay in extended lockdown. They gave me directions and I gathered my belongings, stuffing pockets and lugging my backpack into place and sat off on this amazing journey. Once the necessary turns and corners were navigated, there it sat before me, this imposing hallway – the Pathway to Power.

Hallway To The Governor’s Office – Tallahassee, FL

It was an impressive Pathway for sure, a long and wide gleaming corridor of marble lined with gilt-framed oversized oil paintings of former Governors, some of whom went on to become US Congressmen. I am an Air Force Vietnam veteran and had the distinct pleasure of delivering a dispatch to a Brigadier General who was based in Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City) in much less grand quarters but who had equally impressive powers. The General had the power to summarily kill hundreds or thousands of people via a radioed order with no qualms, no hesitation, no regrets. This man at the end of this corridor had the power to kill only one at a time and solely with the stroke of a pen, but his actions would affect dozens now, and perhaps even future generations.

What struck me as I turned to enter this hallway was a section with an elegant display of plaques attached to the wall, marked “Florida’s Medal of Honor Recipients” in bold black lettering. There is an accompanying inscription explaining the Medal and describing in summation, “These members of the Armed Forces have brought great credit upon themselves, their military units, and the State of Florida. We salute them!”

Tribute Wall In The Capitol, Tallahassee, FL

Edward “Zak” Zakrzewski was an Air Force veteran. His military records consistently rated him as exemplary in conduct, appearance, and compliance with Air Force standards — both on and off duty. He was often described as a role model for others. He was no Medal of Honor recipient by far, but he did his job and was prepared to sacrifice himself in service to this country if called upon. His crime was horrific, but it was also completely out of character, and proof that he was plagued with emotional and mental burdens too heavy to bear.

These thoughts would not escape my mind as I crossed the final few feet into the opening to the sanctum. My heart was thundering in my chest as the lovely young lady behind the high desk asked if she could help me. Remembering my mission, I said very clearly and confidently

“I hope so, ma’am. I’m here as a representative of Death Penalty Action – a nationwide organization opposed to the death penalty – and Floridians for Alternatives to the Death Penalty. I have petitions from both groups with thousands of signatures calling upon Governor DeSantis to halt tomorrow’s execution of Edward Zakrzewski. We ask that he honor this man’s military service, and the fact that half of his jury wanted to spare him death. I would like to submit these petitions to him. Would you accept them and may I speak with him?”

Petition Delivery At The Governor’s Office

To make it short, she accepted them with a smile and a few kind words and said that the Governor was not available. I thanked her and left, my heart rate slowing as I did until I came to the Medal of Honor display, and turned to ponder it again. It was tragic that politicians constantly harp on and on about how they “care for our Veterans,” and “honor their service” and “respect their sacrifices.” In reality, Veterans are expendable on the fields of battle and in everyday life. Why else would there be thousands of veterans battling addiction, sleeping on the streets and in whatever shelter they can find? Why else would vital physical and mental health services be cut and benefits denied?

Edward Zakrzewski sought treatment and sought help for his demons. He remained deeply remorseful for many years. Five members of his jury voted for life instead of death. The judge overrode their decision. If he stood trial under today’s laws in Florida, he would be ineligible for execution. Edward Zakrzewski deserved mercy, and hardly merited a moment’s thought as DeSantis’ pen scrawled across the warrant calling for his execution.

Florida this year has carried out more executions than any other state, while Texas and South Carolina are tied for second with four each. A 10th execution is scheduled in Florida on Aug. 19 and an 11th on Aug. 28 under death warrants signed by Republican Gov. Ron DeSantis.

Florida is setting records already – it’s just now August 1 – and not in a good way.

My mission was complete, if not a success. RIP, Zak.

The Ditch-Side Homicide

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Murder In Prison Beside A Ditch

When I first arrived at Angola, it was a truly lawless place, a landscape littered with broken hearts and dreams and shattered souls, a place full of anger and hatred, a place where people went to wait to die. As did I. I was sentenced to LWOP (Life Without Parole) for a senseless murder, the taking of a human life for dollars – chump change, really – in a drug robbery.

Well, now, I did have an excuse though no one wanted to hear it. I was an angry, Vietnam veteran with a humongous chip on my shoulder, mad at the whole world and at the government that didn’t support us and at the people stateside who rallied in the streets to oppose what we were sent to do, where four kids died at our own hands at Kent State University. I was angry at everybody and felt that they all owed me something for my self-inflicted misery.

I Was An Angry Young Veteran and An Addict When I Was Arrested

Angola was still in the throes of integration. Whites and Blacks living together! My God, imagine! And in the heart of the Deep South?! The East Yard was the West Yard and the whole world was crazy. Camp A, Camp F, Camp H, Camp I and Main Prison were the only living areas and they were all a mess. There was none of the Camp C and Camp D and Camp J, they were all lines on blueprints somewhere. DeQuincy was a dream in somebody’s mind because one could never get there. Wade and DCI didn’t exist yet, and the state’s prison population would swell to levels never before imagined. Louisiana has an incarceration rate of 1,067 per 100,000 people (including prisons, jails, immigration detention, and juvenile justice facilities), meaning that it locks up a higher percentage of its people than any independent democratic country on earth.

I spent my first few months at the old RC (Reception Center) building (which housed Death Row and CCR) because about 2 weeks after I got there, Butch Germain got me a job as a clerk in the print shop which was located in the back next to ID. I could pronounce multi-syllable words, could spell, do math and was White. I was a lock for virtually anything. Butch was a guy I met in the backseat of an NOPD cruiser that picked me up from the plane I was extradited from Texas to Louisiana on. Butch was locked up on a Felon in Possession of a Firearm charge, and had copped out for a 10-year sentence on a double-bill to avoid an HFC (Habitual Felony Conviction) sentence. He arrived at Angola about 3 weeks before me, but we had maintained our friendship all during the months of Parish Prison. This, of course, was long before Louisiana went stark raving mad and started issuing 198-year sentences for Armed Robbery and 35-year sentences for Simple Burglary. Much simpler times.

They had gotten rid of khaki-back guards (inmate guards with shotguns) a couple years earlier, though they still utilized them as what we called “Turnkeys.” The only task the Turnkey had was to guard a locked gate and open and close it using a big old heavy brass key. Secretly, they would do a bit of head-thumping for ranking security and always got away with it. The older ones they put in private little rooms on the second floor of RC, and they were protected. I mean, how long would they last in population with guys who just a couple years earlier they had wielded a shotgun over in boiling sun and doing backbreaking labor? Not long, and they knew it. I had an experience with one of those Turnkeys that was pretty entertaining but I’ll save that tale for another time.

About 9 months after I got to Angola, they reopened Camp A following a renovation and 50 of us were the first ones to occupy the Big Stripe side of the Camp. I was the second one through the gate (right behind Chester “Cheeky” Lawrence) and found a choice bunk in the corner and settled in. This was my new home and would be for a couple of years.

For several months we lived in the Camp and rarely went anywhere, rarely saw anything or anyone, and lived an isolated life where simple fights were the norm, “aggravated fights” (with any type of weapon) slightly less common. We didn’t have locker boxes, no way to secure our meager possessions and many fights were over stolen goods, many were over homosexual “lovers” spats, and some were racially motivated. Integration was slow in taking over and becoming the standard. Southern White boys being what they are and Blacks being what they are it kind of took a while for things to settle down.

We kept our possessions in cardboard boxes shoved under our beds, and we had to hustle the boxes from the kitchen or wherever we could find them. The camp was overrun with roaches and silverfish bugs. Radios and 8-track tape players would be infested quickly as the roaches loved the glue on circuit boards. To have a radio – GE Super Radios and Panasonics with a tape player were considered the top of the line – was both a status symbol and an invitation to host a brawl.

We used to gamble – a LOT – because of all the slack time on our hands and no way to burn energy off. For a while we even had a 24-7 poker game on a bunk pushed up next to the bathroom wall so we could see the “table” and count our “money” and pots after the lights were out. There were “big games” and little games. Big games were played with cigarettes, cash, watches, rings, new jeans – whatever one had of value and were worth whatever the “house man” placed on it. Little games were played with cookies, candy bars, and cigarettes.

There had to be guards available to allow us yard time on the tiny patch of land the Big Stripe side afforded. We were fortunate, as the Trusty side didn’t even have a yard – their building looked out on a cattle pen for the dairy which was the main industry of Camp A, but for Trusty prisoners only as they had to be up and at ‘em for 2:00 in the morning. Our back yard was actually big enough to play a raggedy game of touch football and had an old basketball backboard up on a post – sans net, naturally.

Willie White was in our dorm, and was one of the most fun and bubbly guys you could hope to be around in a maximum security prison. It was almost as if he didn’t deserve to be here, like he had jumped off the bus by accident and never caught a ride back. He and “Big O” were best friends, and Big O liked to put down one of the little poker games because Willie loved cookies and this way they always had a steady supply of duplex cookies for Willie to munch on. Big O was a fat older Black guy and Willie was a short but stocky Black – neither one of them had a racist bone in their body, so some of the White guys would join in their game, myself included.

James Love* was a younger Black guy from New Orleans, a hipster who embodied hip the way Irma Thomas embodied the French Quarter soul sounds she was so well-known for. He was also secretly in a homosexual relationship with “Georgie,” another New Orleans player with what was called “big hair,” an Afro that when fully picked out looked like a huge halo tarnished by time and prison.

This particular day started out just as any other – 65 men rushing to occupy one of 5 ceramic toilets, 4 sinks and a big mop sink. With toothbrushes in hand and clutching sour-smelling washcloths they made their way to the bathroom. Willie was as usual bantering lightly with someone when he encountered Love who said something no one could hear, and Willie turned around and told Love, “Bitch you the one over there making humps up underneath that blanket with Georgie!” Love said something about, “Yeah well, we’ll see about who be making humps!” and walked off.

By this time, Camp A had finally gotten an extra free man and he was assigned as a Line Pusher for our dorm’s field squad, Line 2. Because we were a small line (20 men max, as that was the most that a single guard was allowed) we usually worked very close to the camp and always within walking distance. Directly across the main road that ran from the Front Gate of the prison all the way around Angola was a large field where greens were growing. This huge field was surrounded by a ditch about two feet deep by 3 feet wide.

Convicts Working On Ditch – “3-Minute Waterbreak”

We were clearing the sides of the ditch and the bordering Johnson grass and weeds alongside the road, and using an assortment of tools such as ditchbank blades, a few hoes and a shovel. If you’ve never seen a ditchbank blade, they’re a long-handled tool with about a 14” curved blade about 4”wide. Normally, the Line Pusher would assign one man – a hard worker – to the short blade, which was a typical ditchbank blade but with a sawed off handle, usually used to cut and clear a guard line so the guard had a clear shot down the line.

TYPICAL DITCHBANK BLADE

I was blessed! This was my week to work the water bucket, and my partner was John Blanchard (a little rich White dude out of Lafayette whose daddy owned an oil well service company). The two-man team rotated on a weekly basis. All I had to do was pick the bucket up with John and carry it down to where the free man pointed and set it down. There was a collection of about 8-10 coke cans with holes drilled in the side and a wire hook to hang them from the bucket.

The water wagon would come around to all the lines early in the morning and fill our buckets up and this had to serve the whole line because he wouldn’t come back around until much later. At this time the lines worked for an hour and were given a 3-minute break. During that 3-minutes you had better do everything that needed doing: piss, roll a cigarette, talk, bullshit with your buddies or drink water. At the end of the 3 minutes you immediately went back to work.

When the pusher hollered “Break time! Drain ‘em, get ‘em and roll ‘em,” everybody scrambled, and we headed to the spot he pointed at, just far enough away from him and his horse. We set the bucket down and hung the cans on the lip and stepped back to clear the way for the thirsty workers. After a minute or two, Willie came to the bucket and stuck his blade in the ground and peeled his gloves off and folded them over the handle. He was laughing and joshing with someone as he leaned down and grabbed one of the cans and dipped it into the water.

He was mid-sip— cup to his lips, a casual tilt of his wrist and a laugh still on his lips when the blade came. I didn’t see it at first. Just the cup, slipping from his hand. Just the snap and grunt of his body folding in half like a broken toy. Then the thud. His head – attached only by a cartilage to the body – landed at my feet, eyes still open, mouth still curved in the soft shape of a swallow.

The blood came in a sudden burst—hot, blinding, metallic. It painted my shirt, my face, my mouth. I staggered back, gagging, hearing the distant echo of my own scream tangled with eighteen others. The Line Pusher was frozen with a look of horror on his face, and he drew his weapon and shouted and choked and put his pistol back in the holster, then drew it again and tried again to get his words out and failed.

Eighteen men—tough men, hard men—frozen mid-roll, mid-joke, mid-breath. Someone dropped a half-rolled cigarette. Another vomited instantly. No one moved toward the body. No one dared. It was as if time had cracked open and spilled something ancient and merciless into our midst. One moment: laughter, cool water, early morning weariness and sweat. The next: death, unfiltered and grotesque, as intimate as breath on skin.

No warning. No reasoning. Just the bright red of carotid arterial blood. Just silence. Just the sound of the cup tumbling slowly across the dirt, as if trying to pretend this was still just a normal working day.

Love stuck his short blade in the ground and walked to the ditch, away from our circle of shock and away from the Pusher. When he got to the ditch, he simply sat down. No drama, no excited yelling, just a weary sigh as if he had completed some long-burdensome task.

This was, of course, long before Angola had millions of dollars worth of 2-way radios and broadcast towers and computerized communications networks and ambulances. In those days, emergencies were broadcast from the fields by a succession of three quick gunshots that signaled what was known as a high-rider. Depending on his location, he would be either on horseback or riding what we called a “bronco,” which was akin to a Jeep.

We were still trying to gather our wits when the air was shattered by his three rapid shots. Moments later the high-rider screeched to a stop and he jumped out and asked the pusher what was happening and his eyes followed the pusher’s silent, shaky pointing finger. His eyes widening, he drew his weapon and screamed at everybody to move toward the middle of the field and away from the scene.

Within a half-hour there were a half-dozen or more broncos and personal vehicles gathered around us and they began pulling us off to the side and questioning us as to what we had seen or knew about what had happened. Love was handcuffed and hauled off to whatever fate awaited him, and after another hour or so we were lined up and counted and walked back to the camp. I don’t know what everybody else said, but I didn’t see anything.

The mood was subdued, somber. Everybody was quiet. We got to the gate and the shakedown was a lot more thorough than usual, and there were a lot of “mother fuckers” thrown around, Upstairs, we watched quietly as the guards came and packed up both Willie’s and Love’s property and left without another word.

The next day was a normal day.

I told this story because I was talking to my friend and extraordinary filmmaker and documentarian, Catherine Legge, on the phone yesterday about the violence in Angola and this story came to mind. It was my first witness of a murder in the prison and it had a lasting effect on me. From that point forward I kept a proverbial set of eyes in the back of my head.

For 47 years I held on to those eyes, as if they would be the only thing that would save me. They probably were.

This was the first murder I witnessed in Angola, but it wouldn’t be the last. Thank God it is a different world today.

STRETCHING THE LIMITS – Prison Jobs

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During my 47 years in Angola (Louisiana’s State Penitentiary), I think I held something in the area of 8-10 different jobs. Doesn’t sound like a really good track record in the “free world,“ but trust me, it’s very good in prison.

I met the coolest of older dudes – they’d all been in the system for decades – when I finally made Trusty and moved to Camp F where the vast majority of trustys lived, worked, ate, slept and played. It was a world unto itself with a totally different caliber of men than found in the Main Prison or any of the other outcamps. They were older, more mature, stable. It was away from the hectic pace of the rat race that passed for the wider general population

I knew guys who had 30+ years in one job assignment, but they were trusty and hardly ever moved around the farm and usually had a “technical” or highly-skilled job. An example of this was my friend, Wayne…he worked in the Electric Shop, and had done everything from sweeping and mopping the floor, to working on the “pole truck,” and doing high-voltage line work, to working in the motor rewinding shop. He was finally released some time back and went directly into some well-paying job with all that experience. He’s currently living the good life in rural Louisiana.

Another of the guys, Earl, was a laundry worker – he had worked in every single assignment in the laundry, from orderly to washer to dryer, to presser and folder. He had been there for 27 years and loved his job and would often step in for someone who had a visit or was on callout or just didn’t go to work because he could operate any piece of equipment there.

Forget the fact that he had three cats he had raised from kittens that he cared for like a fussy and dotty old aunt. He died several years ago from a stroke, still working in the laundry.

Trusty workers always brought him special finds – wild onions, greens, garlic, peppers, tomatoes – from the various fields around the farm. He prepared a stack of good soul-food plates on weekends for sale for cigarettes and gave away half of what he made to poor and disabled convicts.

Tall cooked in various kitchens around the farm for over 40 years. He suffered from diabetes, and as a cook was on his feet for hours and hours every day. Finally, his legs were lost to age and his culinary skills lost to Angola.

Or, take Jerry…a sophisticated backwoods country boy who always proclaimed his innocence and bitterly cursed “the bastards in that damned parish who don’t want to see me free!” while passing out well-worn hoes, rakes and shovels along with the occasional weed eater or lawn mower from the Tool Shed. Every single tool had to be checked out and signed for by the borrower and accounted for upon its’ return. He was meticulous with records and inventories, especially of chemicals and flammable liquids.

Jerry had been at Angola for about 30 years when I was around him and had seen his share of interesting events. He had, at various times, worked in Tool Sheds around the farm, been an Inmate Counsel, been a cook, a club president, an orderly, an ACA compliance clerk, and a general pain-in-the-ass to virtually everybody.

Jerry was an ornery bastard but, at heart, was a good dude. He had tried several off-time activities, but eventually settled on one of the rarest of penitentiary hobbies – taxidermy. He combined his job with his hobby and his source of income. And it was a good choice – he maintained the support of the “old guard” crew of wardens and high-ranking security while he had the opportunity to build bonds (and customers) with the new guard. He gradually moved his taxidermy operation into a remodeled partitioned space in his Tool Shed and kept a pretty cluttered area that was highlighted by his own stove where he often had a big pot of jambalaya. He had a BBQ pit where on special occasions deer meat or pork steaks would be found for those fortunate enough to be invited.

When I left Angola, he was still busily handing out tools, checking levels in fluid containers, stitching animal hides and stirring up jambalaya, all the while proclaiming his innocence.

Or, “Ole Fox,” who never saw a pair of boots he didn’t want to lick. He had been down a little over 30 years when I was last around him. He was a middle-aged leaning in to older poor Black man who came from a bitter and impoverished background, and had had to work hard for everything he had ever had. When you first met him, he would come off as sort of gruff, with a deep and gravelly kind of voice. He had a habit of talking with his hands – like a lot of Italians do – and he made it a point of maintaining eye contact with you the whole time. If you looked away he wouldn’t hesitate to touch you on the arm or shoulder or back to return your attention to him.

He worked at the Mule Barn where the mules were there for the purpose not only of being working beasts of burden but for show as well. When they weren’t busy hauling fresh-picked produce from the field farm lines or delivering 500-gallon tanks of drinking water to the crews picking those crops, they were being groomed and made ready for TV. The Warden at the time, Burl Cain, loved to show off his mules and the Barn was a favored spot for taking escorted visitors on tours of “The Farm,” as Angola became famously known. Who decided to jump into the lurch and become the featured mule expert? Fox, of course. When not at work, he loved to talk about his job and the things that went on there, and would do so with anybody within earshot.

He called Burl Cain “his daddy,” and meant it. Once, Burl saved Fox in a disciplinary-type situation and the CO who was on Fox’s ass got chewed out pretty royally. Fox never let him or anyone else forget it.

“I’ll go to Burl on your ass in a minute!” became his standard reply when confronted with virtually any situation he didn’t like or was threatened by, Talk about stretching the limits!

These are just a few of the guys whom I was around while I was doing time. Angola was – if nothing else – a total hodge-podge of personalities that made up the unique environment that was Angola prison. I’m so glad I’m gone – they can keep it!