A Trip To The Planetarium For Kayle

William Kissinger · August 17, 2025 · Leave a Comment

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!

William Kissinger · August 17, 2025 · Leave a Comment

**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

William Kissinger · August 17, 2025 · Leave a Comment

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

William Kissinger · August 17, 2025 · Leave a Comment

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.

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

William Kissinger · August 17, 2025 · Leave a Comment

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!

Murky Waters – Just Enough Light To See

William Kissinger · August 17, 2025 · Leave a Comment

When I set foot down in Angola (Louisiana State Penitentiary) in 1975, I had no clue what to expect, was scared out of my mind and never expected – by any means – to ever leave. My arrival was heralded by a pot-bellied, snuff-dipping, foul-mouthed redneck guard who told me to get my “fuckin’ sorry ass in that ditch and get to cuttin’ or I’m gonna’ show ya’ a new place for ya’ to sleep!”

So…THIS is Angola?

I found myself at 7:15 a.m. on my very first full day in Angola wading into greenish murky water that came up almost to my waist. My clothes were the same ones I had on at the time of my arrest a year earlier – bell-bottom Levi’s, a Polo shirt and Converse shoes. They were stylish when I last had them on; here, now, I felt like they were flashing a neon sign that said, “Scared as Hell!” Looking around me there were 19 other guys in various types and colors of clothing and every one of them had a different sign flashing: “Scared as You!”, “Defiant!”, “I’m Mad!”, or “I’m Lost!”.

The only one who didn’t have a sign flashing around him was the foul, pot-bellied guard sitting on the horse prancing around above us on the bank. He didn’t need a sign because every time the hack spurred the beast he would throw clods of mud into the water splashing on us, the guard cursing the horse and us simultaneously. It was not a pretty sight, and unsettling to say the least, especially on an empty stomach. How in the hell did I end up here, waist-deep in slimy green water, beating on a cypress tree with a dull ditchbank blade and a redneck hack screaming at me? I had only been here for about 9 hours!

**Front Gate – Angola State Penitentiary**

The next 47 years would fly by or crawl by or stand stock-still; there would be good times and better times, and there would be bad times and horrible times and some absolutely bone-crushing frightening times. There would be times when I doubted the likelihood of waking the next day, or even of making the next meal. There would be times when I hated every single free man (employees of DOC) that I came into contact with, and I knew that they hated me. And believe it or not, there was actually a time when my heart ached when I stumbled upon a Captain trying to hide so he could cry because his phone rang and he found that his wife had just miscarried their second expected baby.

Prisons bring out the widest array of emotions that it is possible for any one human to display, and the timing of their surge to the surface is never quite optimal. At the most inopportune time one could be overwhelmed with a crushing sense of sadness that took all the breath out of you, or filled with a rage that blinded you with a fury burning so bright that you radiated with the anger and those around you felt the warmth.

So, we were prisoners not only of the rules and bars and fences and concrete, but of our own emotions as well. In effect, we became our own jailers bound by our angers and sadness and fears. This was our world.

I used to laugh – inwardly, of course, as outright mockery could earn you a quick and nasty ass-whipping – at the brazen stupidity of some of our keepers. Take the Compound Shakedown Lieutenant who found a 3.5” floppy disk (remember those ancient artifacts?) in my shirt pocket and when I explained that it contained “files” wanted to lock me up for an Attempted Escape.

Or the one who wrote me up for having a tiny flower plant in a clay pot. I used to take the pot outside early in the morning and let it get sun and air, and return it in the evening. Watching it steadily grow and begin to bloom and fold its petals at night as if sleeping gave me a sort of calming pleasure. The guard who wrote me up for it did so out of a sense of petty vengeance – he could do it, and there was nothing I could do about it. I get my pleasure now knowing that I can tell others about how petty he is, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

I suffer from COPD so a macing or tear gassing incident can deal me a lot of trauma. In all my years of incarceration, I was only personally gassed twice, but fell victim as a “collateral bystander” on several occasions. There is nothing more frightening than not being able to breathe. The unbearable weight of tons of stone pressing down upon your chest, the heart-rending agony of even a breath of the poison sending coughing spasms down into your lungs, wracking your entire body, tears streaming down your cheeks and making the burning in your eyes worse…

Both times that it was directed towards me personally were done by the same guard, and he did it because he could and because he didn’t like me and because I showed him just how stupid he was. So, yeah….my bad. I really should have left him in the dark. Would have saved me a lot of pain and suffering. But, he would still have been stupid.

One of the things I learned fairly early on was to pick my battles, and to pick ones that I thought I could win. The end goal, of course, was to win the war, but to do it one battle at a time. Just surviving was winning. The bastards wanted me to die there – I wanted to live. Just this morning I realized that I had in fact won the war, because I’m out here in Florida with a swimming pool not far from my front door, and he’s still right there in Angola.

By the time I was released, I had grown considerably older, a lot wiser, and much more tolerant of my fellow human beings. And, therein lies the rub – I now saw them as human beings instead of just blue-suit guards with hangovers and erectile dysfunction bent on making my life as miserable as they perceived theirs to be. But, this wasn’t a sudden thing that came about at the end of a long sentence. This was a gradual change that occurred over a long period of time, over a lot of emotional roller-coasters, and over a lot of personal triumphs and personal losses.

I can easily say now that by the time I walked out that Front Gate into the free world I could count among my friends at least 3 Deputy or Assistant Wardens, a Colonel, several Majors, a few Captains, a couple of Lieutenants, and a dozen or so Sergeants. Now, that doesn’t mean at all that I fell soft or forgot who I was and started mingling with the enemy. It just means that I now viewed them for what they were and they finally saw me for who I am – human beings.

And, I’m glad for that because it finally allowed me to win that final battle, which let me win the war: I saw myself as a human being. I was no longer an angry drug-addicted Vietnam veteran and a survivor of abuse. I’m human, and it’s so nice to be here with you.

The Desperate Client

William Kissinger · June 5, 2025 · Leave a Comment

Left At The Altar

The interview meeting was not my first. It was to my knowledge, however, the first of its’ kind. I had been an Inmate Counsel (“lawyer” in the jailhouse sense) for a fair number of years and had encountered many entirely new and different – some might go so far as to say “unique” – situations. The guy sitting across from my desk I had talked to a number of times when I made my morning rounds of the tiers on Death Row. Just never at length, never without bars separating us, and never in such a tense moment.

His wrists were wrapped with solid stainless steel handcuffs threaded through the notorious ‘black box’ and his feet were shackled to his chair. Two security officers had brought him into the Legal Aid Office and strapped him in and cautioned him; “Do NOT fuck up! Act like you’ve got some sense now.”

At the time, I was kind of a hero, as I had just a few years before beaten the Warden, Burl Cain, in a huge lawsuit wherein I was portrayed as the hero and he the villain. It was not much of a stretch to frame Cain as a villain – he was wildly popular with Louisiana’s legislature – his brother, James David Cain (R) from Pitkin, Louisiana, was a legislator for some 36 years – and was often caught up in mildly scandalous affairs and various goings-on. Burl testified that I “used bad words,” and deserved to be punished for saying them. All I had said (in a letter to the FDA requesting an investigation into a private enterprise on prison grounds) was that it was “shrouded in secrecy and stinks of impropriety”

So he locked me up in solitary, I was threatened with being “shot while attempting to escape,” and various other forms of not-so-pleasurable treatment. However, thanks to a friend who smuggled a letter detailing my experiences to a federal judge, a volunteer lawyer who fought tooth-and-nail on my behalf (Keith Nordyke), and favorable public opinion, I eventually prevailed in a federal lawsuit. Instant fame amongst the convicts, instant landfall monies, and an instant target on my back from several different quarters.

I had fought my assignment to Death Row for some time. Burl Cain had summoned me to the A-Building late one night and asked me to take on the role. He explained why I was the perfect candidate for the job. I demurred with the best initial answer I could come up with at the moment – “Warden, how do you expect me to go in at night and lay my head down on that pillow and sleep, not knowing if I had correctly and effectively done everything possible to save that man’s life knowing that next week or the week after you’ll be the one to kill him?! I can’t do that.”

Well, as Wardens will do, he let me go with that, and then a week later Colonel Sam Smith called me in to an Internal Review Board and basically told me I had better take the assignment or…else. He said (off the taped record, of course) he had received instructions from Burl Cain. I abandoned my clients on the Civil Litigation Team and I accepted the assignment.

I had settled in fairly well and grown to learn most of my clients – all condemned to die by lethal injection – and become familiar with most of them and their needs. I had Shepardized cases for them, fetched and delivered law books to them, drafted motions on their behalf, filed public records requests for them, obtained DNA tests and located “lost” evidence in police files for them, and advocated with everybody on earth I could think of on their behalf.

This, however, was a beast of a different stripe. When I made morning rounds on the Tiers, Kevin S. had stopped me and thrust a piece of paper in my face. Shaking from fear or anger or worry or some emotion, he said, “Man, these mother-fuckers trying to kill me and I ain’t even got a lawyer!” Well, this wasn’t right or…was it? I mean, everybody on Death Row has lawyers, don’t they? Don’t they?

It was very simple – it was an Order from the 19th Judicial District Court in Baton Rouge (the state’s capital) setting his date of execution. The date that the State of Louisiana would calmly, methodically and purposefully kill him had been set.

But, to my way of thinking, it hadn’t been set in stone. And that’s the only thing that counts. You see, when a convict (especially an Inmate Counsel) thinks there’s a way to get past something, he’s going to find it. Now, it might be around it, over it, under it, or through it…but he’s going to find it.

So, after getting past my initial uneasiness at the way the meeting had started out, we got into the details. Kevin S. – a tall, heavily built and very dark Black man – had been convicted of the July 30, 1991, 1st Degree Murder of one Kenny Ray Cooper, a young guy working at a Church’s Fried Chicken. As he continued with the story, my skepticism began to wane. He told me that it was NOT an armed robbery, as the DA had presented it to the jury. It was actually a case of self-defense.

Louisiana defined 1st Degree Murder (Louisiana Revised Statute R.S. 14.30) at the time as:

“The killing of a human being:

(1) When the offender has specific intent to kill or to inflict great bodily harm and is engaged in the perpetration or attempted perpetration of certain listed felonies (e.g., aggravated kidnapping, rape, robbery, arson, burglary, assault, etc.),

OR

(2) When the offender has specific intent to kill or inflict great bodily harm and meets other aggravating factors.”

As Kevin unraveled the story to me, Kenny owed him money from a previous drug deal, and he had gone to collect after several failed attempts. An argument ensued, and Kenny pulled a gun and Kevin pulled his and they exchanged shots. Kenny died – Kevin survived. Now, Kevin was awaiting the horror of being killed by Louisiana for defending himself.

Before I go further into the story and my reliving of the moment, let me tell you a few things about Louisiana’s death penalty and its’ prosecution and application in Louisiana. Louisiana is inherently a racist state, and always has been. It has a rich and vibrant history of horrific racism. Even today, Louisiana’s justice system fights to maintain Jim Crow-era laws that are responsible for the mass incarceration crisis in the state, and which even now, threatens to dominate the nation in the numbers of prisoners stuck behind bars for the remainder of their natural lives.

When I was in Angola prison (where I served 47 flat calendar years), at one point I was fortunate enough to meet the artist Debra Luster, while she was working on her beautiful exhibit One Big Self: Prisoners of Louisiana. As a wooden bowl maker and erstwhile craftsman, I participated in her project. This was only one of the myriad of experiences where I began to realize that Louisiana had a serious problem with racism and mass incarceration.

However, as I sat across the desk from Kevin on that day, these were all thoughts far from my mind. I was focused on one thing and one thing only: saving his life from being murdered by the State of Louisiana. It really made no difference to me whether Kevin was truly guilty or truly innocent – at moments such as this, innocence is never the point – the point is taking the next in a series of breaths.

Now, I believe I had told you that Kevin said to me, “…trying to kill me and I ain’t even got a lawyer!” Well, that wasn’t entirely correct, Turns out that he did indeed have attorneys appearing on his behalf. They just weren’t there. Turns out there was a big fancy wedding taking place in England, and his attorney was doing the most vitally important task of attending the wedding. Hmmm…balancing the scales between attending a wedding and getting a stay on Kevin’s case….I believe I would have chosen the latter. But, I digress….

I called Ms. Dora Rabalais, (Director of Legal Programs at Angola for 26 years) and explained the situation to her. At that point in time, we had a pretty good relationship because (secretly) she had admired my first battle with Warden Burl Cain, (wherein I wrote the now-famous “shrouded in secrecy” letter). At the conclusion of my case in Federal District Court, she had told me that I had brought credibility and strength back to the program. So, today, she was willing to help in this seemingly urgent matter.

She called the Death Row Warden who was in charge of both CCR (Close Cell Restriction) and Death Row, and I have no clue as to how the conversation went. I do know that it was only about an hour later that one of the post officers came to my office and told me that they would be bringing Kevin to the office in about thirty minutes. So, that’s how we came to be sitting across from each other, how I heard his story, and how the first-of-its-kind meeting was arranged, and how the next events took place.

Kevin and I talked for at least an hour or two and I told him what we would do. I would file for a Stay of Execution and go from there. I prepared it (my first one in such a critical matter!) using a Louisiana Formulary, and had it carried to Ms. Dora’s office where she faxed it to the court. As expected, a few hours later it was DENIED. I had already prepared an appeal of the denial and sent that back to Ms. Dora, where it was faxed to the Louisiana State Supreme Court. Baby stuff, right?

Maybe ‘baby stuff’, but for me, for Kevin, for everybody, it was huge. In times of clear pressure, Legal Programs was thriving and delivering on the promise of effective assistance of counsel substitutes to all inmates.

Under her leadership, Angola’s legal programs became a model for other states. States like Florida, Mississippi, and Texas adopted similar programs to enhance legal assistance for inmates without the need to hire additional attorneys.

Kevin eventually received his stay order. That night, if no other, I could lay my head down and rest knowing that I had done everything I could to help Kevin, and that it would not be the next week that Louisiana would kill him.

We had several more interactions over the next year or so, and I continued my work for Death Row, Treatment Center, and Infirmary Center inmate clients. Years later, I looked up one day in the chow line and Kevin was standing there – free from the promise of death. He had been re-sentenced and now had a LWOP (life without parole) sentence.

Sadly, though, my battles with Burl would resume some time later. We would get into a war over my accusations of financial impropriety and he would again send me to another institution. It was a harrowing experience to endure for what I felt was – again -doing the right thing. Ultimately, I prevailed again,

I have now been free for 781 days. I just turned 72. I’m living my best life. I hope you are too!

Donate NOW To My Life After Prison – FREEDOM CHANNEL

BUY ME A COFFEE !!

Thank you! Be sure to check my Substack column at

Rewriting A Memoriam

William Kissinger · May 23, 2025 · Leave a Comment

Remembering Dobie

**Dobie Gillis Williams and his Spiritual Advisor, Sister Helen Prejean**

Dobie Gillis Williams was born to Zino and Betty J. Williams at General Number One Hospital in Kansas City, Missouri, on December 14, 1960, and departed this life on January 8, 1999, at 6:48 P.M.

—From the memorial booklet for the funeral of Dobie Gillis Williams

Night either comes very early or very late when you’re on death row, depending on how you look at it. At 2:30 in the morning, it can very easily seem like 4:30 in the afternoon.

When I was one of the inmate legal counsel-substitutes assigned to work on Louisiana’s death row, my days usually started very early and ended very late. Our small office was always hectic—for condemned prisoners, every legal snarl or tangle seems critical. We could never find anything reliable to set our watches by, so we just worked from one crisis to the next. It seemed much easier that way, more palatable.

On Friday, January 8, 1999, I watched every single minute tick by. That was the day they killed Dobie. The day started early enough. I was up and out of bed in my dormitory at 3:30 a.m.; I had a promise to keep. I had promised Dobie on Thursday night that I would eat breakfast with him on what would be his last day on Earth. I made a lukewarm cup of instant coffee, staggered sleepily through the morning ritual of teeth-brushing and face-washing, and made my way from the dorm to death row. I walked through thirteen gates and sets of bars, only three of them manned by officers, before I could stand in front of Dobie’s cell and keep my promise.

We had shit-on-the-shingle (a.k.a. chipped beef on toast), grits, and ten-ton biscuits for breakfast. Dobie had about three or four bites and spent most of his energy just pushing the food around on his tray with a plastic spoon. At 9:30 the night before, Dobie and I had talked to one of his attorneys, Paula Montoya, on the phone. I guess for strength or reassurance, Dobie kept squeezing my hand through the bars as he talked. He had severe arthritis, and his hands were in a constant cramped position so that holding his hand was like shaking hands with a lobster. The arthritic pain extended to his knees so that he walked like a little roly-poly man.

Paula told me on the phone that it was all over, that there was nothing left to be done and nowhere left to turn. She cursed Don Burkett bitterly. Burkett, the district attorney of rural Sabine Parish, Louisiana, had spent a substantial amount of time and taxpayer money grinding at the gears of the machine that would eventually kill Dobie.

This was my first experience at passing the final hours of a condemned man’s life, and I stumbled through it like a helpless blind man. Do you act cheerful and try to make them laugh about something? Try to find humor and lighten the air? Or do you try to dwell on more serious and grave things, preparing their mind and soul to cross that chasm that neither they nor you can begin to understand? Do you share their fear and let it show, or do you hide it behind some resolute mask of being strong for them?

Not knowing what to do or how to act, I just was there with him. What he chose to do was to hold my hand through the bars while he talked to Paula and together they cursed Burkett. I didn’t know what else to do with this new experience of helping a man die with grace. Paula had been through this many times before, and Dobie had lived with it for fourteen years. It wasn’t new to them, only to me, and I had never felt more like a stranger, wandering through a strange land.

Dobie had had more highs and lows in the prior six months than any man should have to endure. In June 1998 he had come within an hour of execution when, at the last minute, the U.S. Supreme Court had issued a stay order.

Then again in November, he had been down to an hour before fate had stepped in to batter him yet again. It felt like “last meals” were becoming a regular staple of his diet. I remember that night, November 11, 1998, I sat in my small, cluttered office on death row and thought about what was happening. A stream of prison officials kept crossing the lobby. It seemed to me that, despite their business-as-usual appearance, they were all obviously unsettled by the coming events. I had never seen that many high-ranking officials at death row in all the time I had worked there.

I watched as, around 7:30 p.m., two nurses came from the Robert E. Barrow Treatment Center (the infirmary for Louisiana State Penitentiary, the prison better known as Angola). Along with three security officers, the nurses escorted Dobie into the office across the lobby from me. There, they photographed a smiling Dobie holding a number board in front of his chest, placed him on a standing scale and noted his height and weight, and fingerprinted him. They had to make sure they killed the right man. Through it all, Dobie chatted it up with the nurses.

Seeing him so full of life only magnified to me just how close he was to this horrible death, and how much life I still had stretching out before me. I was one of the 85 percent of Angola’s prisoners who would grow old and die there, rotting away in loneliness and isolation.

Dobie, on the other hand, was a young man, though he’d grown frighteningly old inside just waiting to die. At least I had the luxury of being able to wonder each and every morning if this would be the day I “went home”; Dobie knew every day for fourteen years that he would be killed, that one day he would “go home.” I doubt that he ever even thought about getting a pardon or even asking for one. Pardons and clemency just weren’t in the cards for him—or anybody else in Angola, it seemed. Governor Mike Foster, a firm and conservative Republican, had not granted an act of clemency to a single prisoner since he took office.

On that night, it had seemed so important to me that I hold on to some hope that Foster would soon commute someone’s sentence, that he would send a signal of hope to me and all the rest of Angola’s lifers. Instead, Dobie’s scheduled November 1998 execution led to the most surprising gubernatorial intervention in recent Louisiana political history: less than an hour before Dobie was to be strapped to the gurney, Governor Foster unexpectedly halted the execution at the request of, surprisingly, Burkett.

The delay was only a temporary reprieve, meant to allow the defense time and opportunity to conduct DNA testing on a curtain taken from the bathroom of the house where Sonja Merritt Knippers had been brutally slain in 1984. DNA testing was not widely practiced at the time of Dobie’s trial, and the blood-stained curtain had never been subjected to DNA analysis. The fifteen-day reprieve granted by Foster meant at least another forty-five days for Dobie, since Louisiana law requires a minimum of thirty days following the last and most recent execution date before a new date could be set.

As far as Louisiana politics go, this was seen by those of us on the inside as a strategic ploy. Postponing Dobie’s date with the executioner presented the perfect win-win, no-lose situation, an opportunity for Foster and Burkett to score points politically. They were being merciful when the courts had not been; they were providing a chance for justice and the system to work. If science proved Dobie’s innocence, then the governor would come across as a savior, a deliverer, a hero. If the same science proved his guilt, then they had been merciful, compassionate, fair and just, and the system could kill Dobie with a firm hand and a clean conscience.

Dobie came back from the Death House that night, only hours after the governor’s announcement, and returned to his cell on the row. He was quiet, subdued, somber. He watched the news every time it came on the TV but hid his thoughts as he listened to the newscasters speak—the talking heads who themselves seemed surprised at the reprieve.

For several days there was intense speculation about two things: whether the DNA results would positively establish Dobie as the killer, and what the new execution date would be. It was rumored that a pool had been established, that there were wagers on the DNA test results, that both guards and inmates were betting.

Within a week there was a published report in which Burkett announced that analysis of Knipper’s bathroom curtain had positively established that the blood belonged to Dobie. His lawyers were ominously silent. Soon thereafter, Burkett filed a motion with the Eleventh Judicial District Court to set a new execution date: January 8, 1999. Dobie would see one more Christmas, one more celebration of the life of another man who, though a great bit holier, had also been executed.

Thanksgiving came and went, unimportant and unnoticed. It seemed like such an insignificant affair. I found myself spending more time with Dobie, and he was quicker to stop me for conversation in the mornings when I made daily rounds on the tiers. He would never ask for anything, and it only cost a few moments of my time. Looking back, I guess he was trying to hang on, and I was afraid to let go. I know now that friendship can be like that.

In the coming weeks, Sister Helen Prejean, Dobie’s spiritual adviser, visited him and helped him deal with his fear. Dobie had a “Fear Not” hat that he wore constantly for the last three weeks of his life. It symbolized his fight to control the greatest enemy he had. In Isaiah 41:10, he was exhorted:

“Fear thou not, for I am with thee. Be not dismayed, for I am thy God. I will strengthen thee, yea, I will help thee, yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”

Fear, it seems, is the constant companion of death row inmates. I suppose it stayed with Dobie until the end, after his call with Paula had ended and I’d left him to fight it alone through the rest of his last night on Earth. But he was calm when I next saw him, early the following the morning.

Having kept my promise to have breakfast with Dobie, I watched six security officers restrain and chain him, then walk him to the elevator for his short ride to Camp F and the Death House. This time I knew it was the last time I would ever see him alive, and I marveled at how his painful shuffle seemed to be carried off with such grace. They cleared the halls of all traffic as they proceeded. He smiled at me through my office window as he passed and tried to wave his shackled hand.

After, Warden Burl Cain, accompanied by his most loyal of underlings, made an entrance.

Some months before, I had been involved in a dispute between one of the guys who worked for me and the A Building security officer. She did not like this inmate and harassed him at every opportunity. The inmate counsel’s office was entitled to a coffee distribution every month, and the day in question he just happened to be bringing the supplies to our office. She saw her opportunity and grabbed him and began questioning him: what he was carrying, had he stolen it, where did it come from, and on and on. She tore open the obviously unbroken plastic bag sheltering the Styrofoam cups and separated them, looking into each one. Finally, disappointed that she had found nothing to charge him with, she handed everything back. Disgusted, he grabbed all the cups and threw them in a nearby trash can.

This enraged the officer. She screamed at him, wanting to know why he had thrown all the cups away if they were so important. He simply told her, “I’m not going to give those cups to anybody to drink out of since you’ve had your hands on every one of them.” She wrote him up for “Disrespect” and “Defiance” and proceeded to call for an escort to carry him to administrative segregation.

It was at this moment that I entered and saw what was going on. I hurriedly attempted to intervene with the officer and explained very calmly that he was merely delivering supplies to my office and meant no disrespect by disposing of the cups. The situation deescalated somewhat, and she canceled the trip to segregation. The next day, I had a talk with Warden Cain and explained what had happened. Warden Cain handled it as Solomon-like as possible; he simply instructed one of his deputy wardens to buy my office a coffeepot and coffee and cups and all the trimmings. Problem solved!

On the day of Dobie’s execution, Warden Cain came into my office and sat down while his underlings made their rounds on the tiers. I offered him a cup of coffee. He accepted, and I poured. He started in by telling me about his experiences of the night before, when a young man had come to his house and joined him and his wife for dinner. The man was a new employee of the parish coroner’s office and would be called upon in several hours to pronounce Dobie dead. Warden Cain said the young man had told him that he was unsure of the process and how he would perform his duties.

Cain’s response had been clear and concise. He said he thought he could best put the man at ease by explaining exactly what would happen. He’d told the young man: “Four big, strong, healthy officers will enter Dobie’s cell and place wrist and leg restraints on him, then escort him the hundred feet from his holding cell to the execution chamber. If Dobie isn’t willing to go peacefully, they’ll each grab an arm or leg and carry him into the chamber, place him on the gurney, strap him to the table, and we’ll kill him. It’ll be over with pretty quickly, and then we’ll call you in and let you pronounce him.”

I was horrified on the inside, but Cain was so calm and relaxed on the outside. After a bit of small talk, he excused himself and joined the others outside for a trip to Dobie’s cell. I found out later that he had gone to deliver a new “Stone Cold” Steve Austin T-shirt to him. Austin was Dobie’s favorite wrestler, and he had asked one of the wardens if he could have one. Pretty obviously, this was a going-away gift—even if a rather awkward one.

I left the office early and spent the day doing everything I could to ignore what I knew was happening on the other side of the vast, 18,000-acre expanse of the Louisiana State Penitentiary grounds. I went to the A Building at 5:00 that evening to attend a Latin American Cultural Brotherhood meeting. My closest friend, Ron, and I sat there quietly at a table in the corner. I had one eye on the meeting’s activity and the other on my watch. To this day, I can’t recall what the meeting was about.

Shortly after dusk at 7:00, through the A Building windows, I saw an ambulance drive up to the back doors of the treatment center. I watched the EMTs unload the gurney from the back of the ambulance. I sat there in the A Building’s gloomy shadows and let the tears stream down my face while the meeting went on and others got on with their lives. Though it could have been anything else—perhaps there’d been a minor emergency on the prison farm, or maybe an overdose—I knew in my heart that I was saying goodbye to Dobie. I knew he had finally gone home.

Late that night, back in the dorm, Ron and I lay in bed talking across the aisle to each other. He knew I had to talk about it, had to get it out and look at it, and he let me. My voice started cracking and the tears came again, this time flowing like they would never quit, my lungs sucking in gasps of air and choking them back. I cried for my friend, for his fear, for the great pains they had put him through, for God not saving him, for us not doing enough to stop it.

Two days later, I got a copy of Sister Helen’s email. She always posts a message following an execution, and I think it serves as a catharsis for her as much as it does an eye-opener for the reader. This one was especially poignant.

She talked about the great grace and dignity with which Dobie had left this world. About how he had laughed while he ate his last meal of ice cream and chocolate bars and washed it down with cold soda. About how the Minnesota law firm that had struggled for eleven years to save his life finally told him, in the end, that it had been an honor to work on his behalf.

She talked about how she had been anxious when it came time for him to speak his last words—anxious because she hadn’t talked to him about this. Knowing how crucial this was for him, for the victims of this horrible crime, for the people who were resolutely killing him. Knowing that this would be what he left behind. About how she shouldn’t have worried, because he had spoken after only the briefest hesitation.

He had faced the gallery of witnesses from the execution chamber, thought a moment, then said, quietly: “I just want to say I don’t have any hard feelings toward anyone. God bless everyone. God bless.” He was already turning toward the gurney as he said it, toward his fate. He climbed up onto the gurney on his own; he didn’t want, need, or accept the help of his executioners.

The fear he had lived with for so long, that he had fought with his “Fear Not” cap, that he had learned to control with Sister Helen’s guidance and counsel, had evaporated. The fear had been replaced with the great and overpowering strength and grace of God’s love and the simple gesture of forgiveness that he extended even to those who killed him.

Sister Helen talked about all those things, and about how Dobie fit so perfectly into the death row mold. The pattern is so common here. Dobie was a thirty-eight-year-old Black man. He was poor, from a small, rural area of a Deep South state where representation by an ill-qualified and questionable, if not actively crooked, defense counsel—Dobie’s lawyer was later disbarred due to repeated misconduct—is often the best such a capital defendant might hope for.

He was held accountable for the tragic death of a white woman in a small, country-backwoods Louisiana town. His guilt was decided by an all-white jury. Everyone in the courtroom was white. He had a warm body for a lawyer standing beside him throughout the trial. The prosecution held the winning hand all the way through. The State of Louisiana, after fourteen years of unrelenting effort and untold expense, finally killed Dobie Gillis Williams, just three weeks after his thirty-eighth birthday.

On Thursday, January 14, 1999, Dobie was buried at King’s Chapel Cemetery in Many, Louisiana. The ceremony, billed as a “homegoing service,” was standing-room only. The little country church had doubtless never seen the likes of such a day. There was perhaps more love in that little church on that one day than in all the rest of the world put together.

Unraveling (IN)Justice – Part III

William Kissinger · May 9, 2025 · Leave a Comment

Willing Ears – Eager Lips…..And A Widening Divide

Jimmie Duncan with his girlfriend, Zoe, on a Visit at Angola’s Death Row

This is Part 3 of my series of articles on the 32-year journey of Jimmie Christian Duncan to prove his innocence from the confines of a Death Row cell in Louisiana’s Angola State Penitentiary. What got him there is a sordid tale – one of dirty Louisiana (in)justice, two now-discredited doctors, a jailhouse informant (read as “snitch”), and an attorney who decidedly did not provide effective assistance of counsel at trial. Oh, yeah…and throw in there a little bit of good ole’ Louisiana backwoods politics and a courtroom full of people who just would not listen….

I’ve talked about Jimmie a lot lately, and told you of how I know him well. I even told you that I used to sell him tacos, burritos, and cheeseburgers from the inmate club I was the founding president of, the Camp F VETS. I used to stop and talk to him if he was awake in the mornings when I picked up deli orders, or in the evenings when I delivered food, or on Tuesdays when I delivered fruit for indigent prisoners.

Jimmie was one of the guys I enjoyed stopping and chatting with a bit. He was one I just knew was in there bad, knew he was truly innocent of the horrible crime he was charged with – murder and sexual abuse of an infant. But the leap to that charge was fraught with corruption and lies from 2 doctors with extremely shaky backgrounds and a well-documented history of wrongful convictions – basically “hired guns” up for purchase by willing ears – and between cops and judges, there were plenty of those.

Jimmie was initially arrested and charged with negligent homicide. Under police interrogation, Duncan was inconsolable. Sobbing, he told the police, “I jerked her out of the bathtub and tried to get her to breathe, and I couldn’t. I tried to blow her air. I tried pushing on her little tummy.” When the officers concluded their interview with Duncan and asked if he wanted to add anything to his statement, he cried out, “I just want to bring the baby back.”

The West Monroe Police Department charged Duncan with negligent homicide, alleging that his carelessness and inattention led to the toddler’s death. After doctors examined Haley’s rectum and suspected possible abuse, they sent her body to Jackson, Mississippi, to be examined by Dr. Steven Hayne, a pathologist, and his colleague Dr. Michael West, a dentist. Their findings changed everything.

West identified tooth marks on Haley’s body, and Hayne stated that he found overwhelming evidence that she was the victim of a violent sexual assault. Based on those determinations, prosecutors concluded that Duncan had bitten Haley repeatedly, anally raped her, and forcibly drowned her to cover up his crimes. Prosecutors upgraded the charges to first-degree murder.

Louisiana had its own medical examiners at the time who were closer to the scene of the crime. Nonetheless, Haley Oliveaux’s body was taken from Glenwood Regional Medical Center in West Monroe, Louisiana, 120 miles east to Jackson, Mississippi, so it could be autopsied by Hayne. At the time, Hayne, who has never been certified in forensic pathology, was performing the majority of autopsies in Mississippi, some 1,200-1,500 per year. That’s an output other forensic pathologists describe as impossible (he was also holding down two hospital jobs and testifying regularly in court).

Duncan maintained his innocence from the beginning, but in 1998 a Ouachita Parish jury convicted him of capital murder and sentenced him to death. He was sent to death row at the Louisiana State Penitentiary, where he has remained ever since, spending three decades awaiting execution and fighting to prove his innocence.

So…in spite of the local medical examiners who were highly qualified to conduct legitimate autopsies wherein violence was suspected, why was Haley sent to Mississippi for an autopsy?

Among those who traveled the 120 miles to observe Hayne’s work were the West Monroe police chief, a police detective and captain, and two assistant district attorneys. Although it isn’t particularly uncommon for prosecutors or police to witness an autopsy, it is unusual for them to farm them out and travel two hours and cross state lines to do so.

“Every prosecutor in Mississippi knows that if you don’t like the results you got from an autopsy, you can always take the body to Dr. Hayne.”
Leroy Riddick, Alabama medical examiner.

Simple answer? Because Hayne was a hired gun, and he and his partner, Dr. West, were for sale. And that was precisely what the Ouachita Parish cops needed, a willing accomplice. They got two. And as talk swirled in West Monroe – as things tend to do when something horrible happens in small, rural Southern towns – a light bulb flickered above somebody’s head, and began to blink on and off until it glowed brightly. That person was Michael Cruse.

The other major piece of evidence against Duncan was testimony from a jailhouse informant who claimed that Duncan confessed to his crime while behind bars. Michael Cruse testified that he shared a jail cell with Duncan for one day in late December 1993. (Cruse also claimed another inmate in the same cell confessed a felony to him, according to the letter he wrote to prosecutors.)

Duncan’s current attorneys have since obtained an affidavit from Michael Lucas, another inmate in the cell that day, who says that not only did Duncan not confess, he repeatedly asserted his innocence, despite Cruse’s constant attempts to elicit a confession.

Since then, two other inmates have reported being asked by Ouachita Parish law enforcement officials to lie about hearing Duncan confess. One of them, Charles Parker, who had worked as an informant for the FBI, wrote a letter of complaint to the district attorney’s office about the incident. In a later interview with Duncan’s post-conviction attorneys, he described how an investigator named Jay Via approached him and fed him information about Duncan’s case.

“He gave me details of the crime, saying that the child was less than two years [old] and that she had been anally raped,” Parker said “He told me that when I came forward I was to say that Jimmie had confessed to biting the child while he was raping her.”

Parker said that in exchange for his testimony, Via promised “he would talk to the DA and would get my sentence reduced.” Parker said he refused, because he thought Duncan was being railroaded. Via then allegedly threatened him with repercussions.

The prosecution not only never followed up on Parker’s initial letter, they never turned it over to Duncan’s trial attorneys—yet another violation of their legal requirement to share exculpatory evidence. The letter wasn’t discovered until Duncan’s post-conviction attorneys found it in the district attorney’s case file.

Police notes taken during an interview with the informant Cruse say that he asked for “ammunity [sic] from prosecution.” Cruse’s own letter offering to testify also mentioned his desire for leniency with respect to a burglary charge he was facing. Neither of those documents were turned over to Duncan’s trial attorneys either. By the time of Duncan’s trial, Cruse was facing a new charge of theft. That charge was dropped a month after he testified.

Inspector Via has a history of eliciting false confessions. In 1983 a man named Barry Beach was arrested in Ouachita Parish for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. After three days of intense questioning, he confessed to Via that he had killed three women in Louisiana and one in Montana. Beach’s lawyers were later able to prove Beach couldn’t have committed the three murders in Louisiana, because he wasn’t even in the state at the time. Beach still stands convicted of the fourth murder, which took place in Montana, though there are mounting questions about that one too.

Incredibly, Via then managed to elicit two more false confessions to one of those same murders. Months after the Beach confession, Via got convicted felons Henry Lee Lucas and Ottis Toole to confess to one of the murders Beach didn’t commit. Just last year, a fourth man named Anthony Wilson was arrested for that murder after DNA tests linked him to the crime scene.

The state’s most telling witness was Michael Cruse, an inmate who on December 28, 1993, briefly shared a cell with defendant. That day, Cruse testified that he woke to find defendant “ranting and raving about [his] charge.” Cruse told defendant “[I]f you are innocent then justice will prevail but if you are guilty then you need to talk to God․” Defendant then began sobbing and made rambling statements to Cruse, telling him that “the baby was pointing at his penis and that he said something about a bottle or bobble.”

Further, defendant said “[t]hat it must of been the devil in him cause the next thing he knew he blacked out again and when he came to he was trying to have sex with the baby.” Still further, defendant said that the baby was hysterical and that “all I wanted was the baby to stop.”

Now, do you remember the whispered conversations when you were in school and somebody “tattled?” Finger pointing…cat-calling, name-calling, ostracizing? The tattler was no longer one of the “cool kids,” not with the “in crowd,” not invited to eat lunch with you? Remember that? Well, that’s pretty much how it is in adult life as well. NOBODY likes a snitch. Especially a rewarded snitch. There’s a saying on the streets and in the penitentiary: “Snitches get stitches.”

Well, well, well… look who crawled out from the bottom of the prosecutor’s filing cabinet. Turns out the star witness wasn’t missing—just strategically misfiled under ‘C’ for ‘Can’t Believe This Guy.’ Who knew justice came with footnotes… and secret snitches? Louisiana did, that’s who.

In State v. Jimmie Christian Duncan, Duncan’s incredible team only discovered – long after trial – a confidential informant, Michael Cruse, whose true motivation was buried so deep in their files that archaeologists were nearly called in. Filed somewhere between a gumbo recipe and a ‘Misc: Definitely Not Brady’ folder, this witness—who has given a full recantation 32 years after trial—was, defense counsel noted, quietly doing laps in the prosecutor’s memory since the mid-’90s.

Not only did Cruse recant his statements, but Charles Parker (who was, as noted earlier) a trusted confidential informant for the FBI, had written a letter of complaint to the District Attorney about what Cruse was doing. This letter was also kept from trial attorneys.

So, perhaps the most damaging elements in Duncan’s trial were the snitch, Michael Cruse, and the crooked cop, Jay Via, and the willing ears of a hungry prosecutor’s compelling urge for a headline-grabbing conviction.

Next, in Part IV, we’ll take a look at how this all tied together, and how (IN)Justice works in Louisiana. Thank you for staying with me on this journey through the underbelly of the South. See ya’ soon!

Let’s Talk Trauma & The Death Penalty.

William Kissinger · September 2, 2024 · Leave a Comment

Boy, is there a LOT going on! In the world of state AND federal politics, we have heated arguments and an attempted assassination and questions of whether it was staged or real….we have a former President assembling a group of followers and going to Arlington National Cemetery where he posed for a photo op after aides physically shoved a Park employee aside…do YOU have an opinion on that?

Also, in other areas, civil rights attorney Ben Crump speaks out on Democracy Now! after a judge dismisses counts against 2 officers in the Breonna Taylor case (a Black female EMT who was killed by police IN her home during a raid…a raid based upon a falsified police officer’s affidavit), saying that the victim’s boyfriend was responsible for her death because he produced a legally owned firearm and officers returned fire. Bear in mind that the warrant was falsified, it was in the wee hours of the morning, Breonna and her boyfriend were asleep, and the officers broke the doors down for entry. Hmmmmm….

FORMER President Trump has said that he would offer immunity to police officers if he is elected, when “Qualified Immunity” is one of the largest problems in policing, corrections and virtually every field where someone has power over another. This is another issue that divides us as a nation – those who oppose this are labelled as liberal and weak, and supporters of it are called radical and inhumane. Where does one draw the line? Where do YOU draw the line?

AND, the death penalty is back on the table and liberally in use around the country. The old arguments both for and against it are resurfacing, and the usual voices are raised in defense of their positions.

LAST NIGHT, August 29, 2024, at 6:15 pm, the State of Florida executed Loran Cole.

The Death Penalty in America: A System of Inequality

The Death Penalty is Looming. Photo by Bruno Guerrero on Unsplash

The System’s Inequities

The execution of Loran Cole in Florida highlights the ongoing debate surrounding capital punishment in the United States. While proponents argue that the death penalty serves as a deterrent to crime and provides justice for victims, critics contend that it is a cruel and unusual punishment that disproportionately affects marginalized populations.

The death penalty system in America is often criticized for its systemic biases, particularly against individuals from underprivileged backgrounds. Here are some key factors that contribute to this inequality:

Racial Disparity: Studies consistently show that individuals from minority racial groups are more likely to be sentenced to death than their white counterparts, even when controlling for other factors. This racial bias can be attributed to systemic racism within the criminal justice system.
Economic Inequality: Individuals from low-income backgrounds often have limited access to quality legal representation, which can significantly impact the outcome of their cases. This can lead to harsher sentences, including the death penalty.
Mental Health Issues: Many individuals who are sentenced to death have underlying mental health conditions that may have contributed to their crimes. However, these conditions are often not adequately addressed, which can result in unfair trials and harsh sentences.

The Impact of Trauma and Neglect

The experiences of individuals from underprivileged backgrounds can often be marked by trauma and neglect, which can contribute to criminal behavior. If these individuals had access to mental health services, substance abuse treatment, and other support programs, it is possible that they could have been prevented from committing crimes.

For example, individuals who have experienced childhood abuse or neglect may be more likely to develop mental health problems, such as depression, anxiety, or substance abuse. These conditions can increase the risk of criminal behavior. By providing early intervention and support, it may be possible to address these underlying issues and reduce the likelihood of criminal activity.

The Need for Reform

The death penalty system in America is in need of significant reform to ensure that it is applied fairly and justly. This includes:

Addressing systemic biases: The criminal justice system must take steps to address racial and economic disparities in death penalty cases.
Improving access to legal representation: Individuals facing the death penalty should have access to high-quality legal representation, regardless of their income level.
Addressing mental health issues: Individuals with mental health conditions should have access to adequate treatment and support.
Exploring alternatives to the death penalty: Some states are considering alternatives to the death penalty, such as life without parole. The life is saved!

By addressing these issues, it may be possible to create a more just and equitable death penalty system that better serves the needs of all Americans.

BUT, what about Loran Cole, a White male?

Photo provided by FL Department of Corrections

Loran Cole, 57, received a lethal injection and was pronounced dead at 6:15 p.m. at Florida State Prison for the 1994 killing of an 18-year-old college student. Cole also was serving two life sentences for rape.

Cole did not have a last statement. “No sir,” he said when asked if he had some final words.

After the procedure began about 6 p.m. Cole briefly looked up at a witness in the front row. After three minutes, he began taking deep breaths, his cheeks puffing out. For a brief moment, his entire body trembled. Five minutes into the procedure, the warden shook him and shouted his name. Cole then appeared to stop breathing and then was declared dead.

Cole’s crime was horrific.

Cole and a friend, William Paul, befriended two college students in the Ocala National Forest, court records showed. After talking around a fire, the men offered to take the siblings to see a pond. While away from the campsite, Cole and Paul jumped the victims and robbed them, according to the records.

THUS, another life was taken…and, another life was surrendered.

Although it is widely known that I oppose the death penalty in ALL cases, this particular case is haunting. It is haunting in that the state of Florida was actually complicit in the heinous murder that landed Cole on death row. I say that because he was a surviving victim of the notorious Dozier School for Boys in Marianna, Florida.

Cole was an inmate at a state-run reform school where he and other boys were beaten and raped. The state has since apologized for the abuse and this year passed a law authorizing reparations for inmates at the now-shuttered reform school. The lawyers also argued Cole shouldn’t be executed because he was mentally ill and had brain damage and Parkinson’s disease.

Not that long ago, Florida Governor Ron DeSantis (R), signed legislation setting aside $20-million in compensation for surviving victims of Dozier.

“It’s been too long,” said state Sen. Darryl Rouson, the Democrat who sponsored the bill. “This is but a small token for a vast ocean of hurt, but it’s what we can do now.”

As he spoke, a group of about 20 victims stood in the Senate public gallery, one wiping tears from his eyes.

“Thank you for never giving up. Thank you for continuing to fight. Thank you telling the story and the stories of those who are not here and can’t speak. We salute your presence today,” Rouson continued.

What is striking about this is the fact that Cole survived the Dozier School, and the trauma he was exposed to, later led him to commit the crime for which he was put to death by Florida, the same state that allowed the Dozier facility to operate. Bodies are still being dug up there.

The mass grave that was discovered in 2017 on the grounds of the campus has been thoroughly excavated, and the remains of many of the missing boys have been identified. At least 75 separate remains were mingled in the mass grave. However, it is possible that there may be additional remains to be found. Given the history of the school and the number of boys who disappeared (hundreds), it’s unlikely that all of the missing have been accounted for.

If new evidence emerges or additional remains are discovered, authorities may need to reopen the investigation. But for now, the primary focus of the investigation has shifted to identifying the victims and bringing those responsible for the abuses to justice.

One might say that all of the survivors of Dozier were compensated. Some received a monetary reward. Some were killed by Florida.

Just 2 weeks ago, I did a long post on trauma and where it leads if not treated. It often leads to prison, and sometimes to death. For Loran Cole it led to his death, and the death of a promising young man in a college student. For now, Florida has failed.