Football is in mighty fine swing right now and people are starting to get excited about their teams – sorry if you’re a Saints or Cowboys fan! – I am, too. I’m a HUGE Texas A & M fan, and right now we’re ranked #5 nationally! So, it seemed like a good time to tell you about a lesser-known aspect of prison – the gambling culture, and more specifically, the football (and basketball) tickets operation. I have a lot of experience with this one, (and had a couple of DB writeups and did some dungeon time) and found myself in the middle of some dirty free folks’ politics and got transferred once.
Gambling makes up a HUGE subset of the prison culture, and everybody knows that where there’s a need there’s always going to be somebody willing to step up and fill that need (especially if there is the potential for financial reward). It is fairly simple to become a “ticket man” – the only thing that really matters is what degree of risk you are willing to assume. If you want to minimize the financial risk, you can easily bring in partners; if you want to hog all the profits (minus operating expenses, of course), you ride by yourself. Along with all of the profits, you also assume all of the risks.
And, BOTH can be huge, at least in terms of the prison economy. The risks are extreme because you’re offering great odds – you’re paying out MANY times what a prisoner is betting.
On a “lucky” bet, a $10.00 wager could easily (but rarely) cost you $1,000.00!
At the time I’m writing about, the price of a pack of Camel’s (primary brand in Angola, when smoking was still permitted) was $4.97 and two packs was rounded up to $10.00. Community coffee was also a good fit. Some ticket men would take almost any commissary items (soups, cookies, candy, stamps, etc.) and negotiate the value with the bettor. It would also probably be the first items paid out to a willing and hungry winner.
That practice of accepting almost anything on a bet carried its own risks as it required larger hiding spaces, more clever means of concealment and transportation from the bettor, storing it during the games, and delivering payoffs to a winner. But, as the old saying goes, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” and absolutely no one on earth has a stronger will than a convict trying to put his hustle down. So, means were found and hustlers were employed, guys that could move, that had common sense (or absolutely none and just relied on their balls!) or were just in the right places and positions.
Convicts that were needed to run a ticket:
Typists / copy makers
Runners
Bookkeepers
Vaults (temporarily held pick-ups, or bets)
Bankers (emergency loan sources for large “hits”)
Sample of a portion of a football ticket
A well-run ticket made money for everybody – all the employees, even the normal run of the mill population, and yes, even people in security. Everybody is looking for the “big hit,” the “score,” the easy win. And, basically, they’re chasing an elusive butterfly that’s just always a little bit out of reach. Even a guy who was lucky enough to have a subscription to a print newspaper – yes, they are still a real thing.
So, the way it worked was like this: the point spread for the week’s games comes out in the Tuesday newspaper (some guys had other sources for getting a “quick point spread”…over the phone to a trusted friend on the streets perhaps). The “Gold Sheet” out of Vegas was another source. The spread comes out, the ticket man makes his own spread with minor adjustments here and there, eliminates unavailable TV games, and writes it up. He gives the master ticket to the typist/copyist who immediately sets it up. A good typist has his typewriter preset with tabs and knows right off the bat how many tickets will fit on a standard page, and sets to work.
The typist must be extremely accurate, intelligent and not prone to errors. (A missed or dropped or altered number is literally a break-the-bank mistake that can cost hundreds.) When he’s completed his job, he returns it to the ticket man so it can be proofread and approved, then it goes to the copy man. The copy man is someone in an office or who has access to an office where a copy machine is located and has the opportunity to make multiple copies of the sheet. The ticket man knows how many tickets he’ll need for a given week and tells the copy man, he runs that many and returns it to the ticket man.
The ticket man cuts them up from the pages and gives a stack of tickets to his runners, and knows how many to give to each runner based on their popularity or access to the population (certain segments such as cellblocks have specific needs such as the ability to move freely). Now, the real work starts. The runners head out and start distributing the tickets, going first to their guaranteed customers, their hardcore bettors.
Then they do their real work – hustling new players. They never carry their full supply of tickets with them, just enough to work with and keep the rest stashed. The runner has quickly learned who the “looky-loos” are, the ones who just want to look and won’t bet a nickel; he doesn’t waste a ticket on these guys.
By now, it’s Thursday and the pick-up begins. The first pick-ups are usually smaller, one pack or the equivalent, normally 4 or 5 (team) picks for the early games. The ticket man can start to get a sense of how the bets are going, what teams are “hot,” and how the pickup will be. The runner passes his pickup to the vault and as soon as feasible goes in and makes a sheet listing all the bettors, the picks they made, and the amount bet. He then passes all of the stubs to the ticket man, who makes his own “master sheet,” listing all of the bettors, the picks they made, and the amount bet.
The pickup increases as time goes on, and although many of the bets are still 1 or 2 packs, the amount wagered gets bigger. By the time Saturday breaks dawn, things get really hectic. The runners are besieged with late and last-minute bets, some larger 4-picks…well thought-out 5 or 6 picks, here and there some 10-picks. Every single one is picked up, dutifully logged in and given to the ticket man. There is no room for error. When gametime arrives, it’s “sweat time,” meaning that everyone is sweating the games they bet, and the ticket man is sweating a pivotal game he changed the point spread on by one or two points, maybe even flipped the favored team.
By halftime, everybody has a good idea of how they’re going to fare – the bettors know the one team they really counted on is losing or won’t cover the point spread and the ticket man can tell whether someone’s going to hit. If cigarettes need to be moved they get moved – well in advance of the final scores. It’s vitally important to be extremely prompt in paying a winner. The losing bettors are already turning in another ticket for the late games or for the Sunday games in hopes of another chance of winning their money back.
If you now have at least a rudimentary understanding of how the tickets work it is perhaps time to tell you about some of my own experiences as a ticket man – and I’ve had the whole run: typist, runner, bookkeeper, vault, and banker. It is kind of like the job market in the free world – you usually have to start at the bottom and work your way up to the top. A word of caution here: the only thing a convict has in prison is his word. If you’ve ever had a bad debt, if you’ve ever failed to honor an obligation, your future as a ticket man is doomed from the start. Don’t think that your reputation does not quickly spread – in a prison housing over 5,000 men – you are mistaken.
My start in the ticket world began as a typist when I was a clerk on the Industrial Compound. I typed (and copied) for a guy on the East Yard at Main Prison. I handled it for the return of a mere 5 packs of Camels a week (roughly $20.00). Then I became a runner for the same guy – instant boost! – I jumped up to roughly $50.00 per week. sometimes less sometimes more, or 10% of what I picked up. During the heat of the season, like “Rivalry Week,” I might pick up $1,000, leaving me with a cool$100.00 a week. In prison, 100 x 4 = $400.00 a month which is a great standard of living, but especially in the 70’s and 80’s when I was doing this and it was my primary means of support.
So, I was a runner for a couple of years and just like with any budding entrepreneur, I set aside a little something every weekend of every season. When I found myself in the right situation I took the plunge and decided to put out my own ticket. I called it “SportsLine,” and ran it like a business. I was even more rigorous than normal because I didn’t hire any typists or runners my first year, keeping expenses to the absolute bare minimum. The first year I was scared 24/7 – worried about all the risks. What are the risks?
EVERYTHING is a risk. EVERYONE involved with the ticket is taking risks every minute of every day. The typist runs a risk every time he sets his typewriter up, and the copy man every time he turns the copier on. The runner runs the risk every time he walks out of his dorm with a pocket full of tickets, every time he sits down and writes his sheet, every time he delivers the stubs to the ticket man. The vault runs a risk every time the shakedown crew enters his dorm – sometime many years ago DOC set out a new policy that said that no inmate “shall have in his possession or control more than 5 cartons of cigarettes or Bugler tobacco at any time.”
This was for a variety of reasons, but more than anything else it was to try to eliminate the gambling and ticket operations. It obviously didn’t work, because every vault I ever knew had multiple people holding cigarettes for him. At the height of my ticket operations, I had about 8 vaults and each of them had 4-5 people holding cigarettes for him. Of course, there was also the case of “GP,” who was busted when the shakedown crew found a couple hundred cartons of cigarettes hidden in the ceiling of the Camp C Law Library. GP was like me, and didn’t like paying people for taking risks when he could take them himself for free!
My biggest and worst situation I found myself in was when I found myself at the intersection of convicts, politics and free people. You usually stay out of their business and for non-security issues they pretty much stay out of yours. There are usually pretty strict and straight lines separating convicts and free people, but when you work for a long time in close proximity to them that line tends to blur a bit.
I had been a clerk at Camp F for a number of years when this happened, and had been running SportsLine for about 4 years {seasons} when this happened. My boss (who I had a good understanding with), “Major X,” was suddenly suspended without pay and transferred to being a supervisor over the Farm Lines. This was because a convict running the CPR Club at Camp F was caught in possession of more than $3,000 cash (green money) and vending machines under his control were found to have been compromised.
Now, let’s be clear here – Major X had never done anything with any club at Camp F that Colonel Y didn’t tell him to do. Colonel Y was – plain and simple – an asshole. About 40, tall, a big man with a big attitude. When he entered a room, he commanded everyone’s attention. I won’t deny him his credit. It seemed as though he had earned his rank. Once he had attained a certain amount of power, however, he began to use it in surprising ways, both to shield his “pets” and to attack others. I was obviously not a pet.
It was early on a Saturday morning and Colonel Y had weekend duty. I was in the office typing up the week’s accreditation summaries and preparing for the coming week when he came in. The 2 female officers working the front desk each bought Community coffee every week, and I would make them a pot as soon as I got to work and it was the only pot made unless they specifically asked for it. The pot was empty when he came in, and he looked at it disgustedly.
“You gonna’ make some coffee or what?” he snarled.
“No, sir,” I responded, not looking at him.
“Why the hell not?” shock and surprise crossing his face.
“Well, sir, the ladies up front buy that coffee and I make them one pot a day, and that’s what they want.”
“They’re sergeants and I’m a Colonel. What part of that don’t you understand?!”
Now, I’d had it with his attitude, and I turned around and faced him.
“The part I don’t understand is the part where you wrote the report on Major X and recommended his suspension and transfer. He never did a damned thing with that club unless you or Warden Z told him to. That stuff happened with CPR and now he’s riding a damned mule in the fields. It’s that part,” and I turned back around.
I guess that in some circles it would be said that I had “let my alligator mouth overload my hummingbird ass,” but I just didn’t care. This guy needed to be told that he had messed over a good man and had done it wrongly to protect himself from blowback for the loose supervision over the club.
The repercussions were instant and though it was expected, I didn’t realize it yet. As a ticket man I had to hold all the stubs from the pickup until Tuesday so that I had incontrovertible proof of a bettors picks. Everybody of consequence at Camp F knew I ran SportsLine. EVERYBODY. An unnamed Warden once (several times, actually) played one of my tickets – pulled the cash money from his wallet and handed me the ticket with his picks under an alias. Nothing about it was secret.
That was Saturday morning. Tuesday morning I was startled when the head of the Shakedown Crew appeared at my door and ordered me to stand up and get away from the desk. The very same man had a standing bet with me every LSU game – if he won, he paid me in cigarettes, and if I won I paid him with a pizza. I thought he was joking when he said it, and grinned and told him, “Come on, man. You just lost a pack!” He looked me in the eyes and said, “I don’t have a choice,” very clearly implying that he had been ordered to do this.
To make this shorter, he and the crew shook me down and found the bag with my stubs, and curiously, confiscated from me a printed DOC policy regarding polygraph exams and the process for administering them. DOC policies are easily discoverable in the Law Library. They wrote me up for Gambling and Contraband. The stubs were definitely contraband, but the policy? Hmmm……
While this was going on, Colonel Y and Warden Z came in and told me to come to the lobby and have a seat. They both sat down and started trying to interrogate me, asking about the shift Lieutenant and a couple of other officers. I just looked at them and said,
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, besides that, ratting on a convict is bad enough but ratting on a free man? There’s no win in that. I got nothing to say.” Of the 7 people in the building at that moment, 4 of them were on the take from my ticket. It was kind of quiet but I could swear I heard a sigh of collective relief emanating from them all.
An hour later I was stepping down from a van, shackled at the ankles and waist and led down a hall and placed in the Camp C Tiger dungeon in solitary. Four days later, I was fortunate to go to DB Court in front of a Colonel whom I had known for many years and was cool with.
As soon as we had gone through the formalities, he switched off the recorder and said, “I got a phone call early this morning telling me to send you to a working cellblock. But that call came from a Colonel, and I’m a Colonel, too. So, I reckon that means I can do it or not do it.”
I let out a huge sigh of relief – salvation in sight! He turned the tape back on and I gave my statement, and questioned the confiscation of the polygraph policy as we are allowed to have them. He turned the tape off again and told me, “Kissinger, you gotta’ understand – they’re trying to throw the book at you. Just plead guilty and I’m not gonna’ send you to the blocks.”
Ten minutes later he sentenced me to a quarters change to the Main Prison and job change to the Farm Line. A week later, Major X drove out to where we were working and told the free man working the line to call me to the headland. When I got there and saw him, I broke out into a huge smile. He greeted me and told me that he had heard about the whole thing, and said that he appreciated the fact that I had “held my water.” He then told the free man line pusher (who was notorious for being a hardass on White boys) to take it easy on me, and that he would be checking in on me from time to time. Two weeks later, I had a job as a clerk at the Tag Plant. The next season, I was back at Camp F, and SportsLine was more popular than ever before.
Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it, and come back for more true tales from the bayou! See you again soon!
There were a whole lot of times when I was in Angola that I thought I had reached the end of my rope, that I just couldn’t go one more day, that I couldn’t take one more work call. This is just one of those times. Fortunately, it worked out so that I was able to live to serve a lot more of the 47 flat calendar years I did in that hellhole.
Medical care at Angola has ALWAYS been horrible. It was horrible in the 70’s, and has gotten only slightly better, and only because of court-ordered changes.
Constitutional Violations:Federal judges have ruled that Angola’s medical care is not only subpar but also constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.
“Callous and Wanton Disregard”:The court found that prison staff and administration have “callous and wanton disregard” for the health needs of the incarcerated population, leading to a pervasive state of illness.
Specific Deficiencies:Deficiencies were noted in:
Clinical care (including sick call and medication management)
Inpatient/infirmary care
Emergency care
Specialty care
Decades of Neglect:Evidence shows the state has been aware of and failed to address these deficiencies for decades.
So, it was well on into my early years in Angola when I came very close to seeing the end of my sentence. This was a period where virtually everything was in short supply. Repair of anything was an unrealized fantasy, silverfish and cockroaches ruled the dormitories. If something in the prison was broken, the attitude was pretty much, “Well, just paint it.” I was still dealing with the ugly grind of field work in the Farm Line. Camp A had its’ own farm line and I had been toting that standard for a couple of years.
Long days of backbreaking and mind-numbing labor, most of which was “make-work,” just something to work the hell out of you and make you bone-tired. ALL of it took a toll on you, mentally, emotionally and physically.
I’d already been down a few years at Angola, staring at an LWOP, and by then the days just started running together. I was housed at Camp A, which carried its own kind of crazy — a different vibe, a harder edge, like the walls themselves had soaked up all the madness and spit it back out at us. It used to be known as the “White Elephant,” and had a bloody history tied to it like an anchor.
They had us working Line 2, and that morning my squad was sent behind the Camp A Dairy. What we did was called “quarter-draining,” which was to dig little paths through the pen for drainage. The spot was called the grab pen — where the cows got bunched up before they were herded inside to be milked. The ground out there stayed slick and nasty, churned up mud mixed with piss and shit from all those cows standing around too long. Every step was a fight not to lose a boot, and the smell of it hit you deep in your throat, like you couldn’t ever wash it out.
We were out there in that mess, maybe 15 of us, just moving slow, trying to keep from slipping. Nobody wanted to bust their ass in that slop. The free-man boss sat up on his horse, watching us like he always did, not saying much, just chewing on his toothpick like he owned the whole damn world, occasionally spitting tobacco juice around the toothpick. Every once in a while just in case anybody thought he wasn’t paying attention, he’d spit out a stream of juice and snarl out an oath – “Get your cracker ass on and get to digging my fuckin’ quarter drains!”
The cows weren’t in any hurry either. Big, heavy bodies pushing against each other, lowing, shitting, pissing, making the ground worse with every step. You’d try to guide one along and another would swing its head at you, big floppy ears catching the air close enough to make you flinch. Out there, you learned real quick that you weren’t the meanest thing in the pen. It was mostly the buzzing blue flies that were the meanest. They landed on all that piss and shit, buzzed all around you and then landed on you and you got chills running up your spine.
I remember standing there, sweat running down my back, mud and cow shit creeping over the tops of my boots, and thinking: this was my life now. Not a season, not a stretch, but forever. Every morning another field, another pen, another stink that clung to me long after I left it.
The grab pen was its own kind of trap. There was nowhere to stand clean, nowhere to breathe easy. Every time the sun came up, that steam would rise off the ground — piss and shit cooking together — and it would wrap around you, stick to your clothes, crawl up into your nose until you almost couldn’t taste anything else.
The men didn’t talk much out there. Maybe a curse when a boot got stuck, or a laugh if somebody damn near went down face-first. But mostly it was just the sounds of the cows and that steady creak of the boss’s saddle as he shifted on the horse. His rifle lay across his lap, casual, like it wasn’t even meant for us — but we all knew it was.
After a while, you stopped noticing the smell, stopped noticing the mud pulling at your legs. What you couldn’t stop noticing was the weight of it all. The fence around the pen. The fence around the farm, the fence around the camp. The fences inside your own head.
Convicts Digging A Narrow Quarter-Drain
Not long before this, they’d issued me a new pair of brogans. Heavy, ankle-high stiff boots meant for dry land, not for the swamp of a grab pen. First day I laced them up, they already felt wrong, cutting at my ankles, rubbing at my heels. But you don’t complain about boots in Angola — you just wear what they give you and keep moving.
What I didn’t know was that a little piece of rock, maybe no bigger than a sliver of a fingernail, had slipped down inside one of my brogues. The mud and water kept my socks wet all day, and the rubbing started carving at my foot without me realizing it. By the time I did, the skin was scraped open, raw. Out there, raw skin didn’t stay clean for long.
Every step I took in that slop, the mix of piss and shit worked its way into that cut, deeper than I wanted to think about. At first it was just sore, a little sting when I put weight on it. But the next day, I woke up with my whole foot throbbing. By noon, I could feel it climbing my leg, burning inside me in a way that had nothing to do with the sun overhead.
Two days in, it was bad. My foot was so swollen I couldn’t pull my boot onto it. My fever kept climbing, and my body felt like it was shutting down one piece at a time. I was dizzy, weak, couldn’t keep food down, couldn’t even make myself care about eating. My skin was hot, but I was shivering inside. I knew something was seriously wrong, but I was too sick to do much more than just drag myself through it. By nightfall, my leg had angry-looking red streaks criss-crossing and running all the way up to my waist. I knew this was bad, just not how bad.
I finally hit the point where I couldn’t tough it out anymore. It went against everything in me to do it, but I had no choice — I had to call on the free man. That was the CO over the dorm, the one who held the keys and the clock, and usually couldn’t care less if you dropped dead in your rack.
I staggered up to the front of the dorm and started banging on the door, hard as I could manage. The sound echoed, but it still felt like it took forever before he showed. When he did, he looked pissed, like I’d interrupted his cigarette break or his crossword.
I told him I needed help. He laughed it off, told me there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with me that couldn’t wait until morning. Basically told me to get fucked, and started to walk away. But I wasn’t letting go — not this time. I leaned on the bars, kept insisting, told him I was serious.
Finally, I yanked my pant leg up and showed him my foot, swollen and purple, and then I pulled my shirt up so he could see the angry red streaks running all the way up my side. I was shaking, sweating through my clothes, barely able to stand upright.
That got to him. His face didn’t go soft, exactly, but something shifted. He stood there looking at me for a long beat, then muttered that he’d go see the lieutenant. Then he disappeared, and I was left holding myself up on the bars, praying he didn’t just forget about me.
About twenty minutes later, Lieutenant Hart finally showed up. Everybody called him Big Daddy. He was a mountain of a man — had to be pushing four hundred and fifty pounds easy — and he moved like it hurt him just to be upright. Each step was a slow roll, like the floor dipped under him.
He came up on me, eyes small in that big red face, and asked what was going on. I told him. He looked at my foot, at the streaks crawling up my leg, and just shrugged. Told me to wait until the next day, like I’d been making a fuss over nothing, like I was mad he took my cookies or something.
Something in me snapped right then. We started going back and forth, him gruff and dismissive, me desperate and sick and not caring anymore. My head was burning but my hands were steady. I pulled out a little razor blade I’d been holding onto, laid it across my arm, and dragged it just enough to open the skin so he could see the blood. Then I laid it back on my arm and stared at him.
“You can either send me to the hospital for my leg,” I said, voice shaking, “or you can send me to get this motherfucking arm sewed back on!”
Big Daddy froze for a second, staring at the thin line of blood on my arm. His face twitched like he couldn’t decide whether to roar at me or grab me. Then he cursed under his breath, spat tobacco juice at the floor, and barked for two rank-and-file night guards. They came stomping up the stairs and in from the corridor, both of them in sweat-stained khakis and scowls like permanent scars.
“Take this fool to the infirmary,” Big Daddy snapped. “Now.”
They didn’t handle me gently. Each one took an arm and yanked me forward hard enough to make my knees buckle. I stumbled between them, half-dragged down the hallway, my foot throbbing so bad I couldn’t feel the floor. The guards muttered and cussed the whole way—about being pulled off their posts, about “malingering,” about “another dumb-ass convict trying to milk a sick call.” Their grips were iron, fingers digging into my arms, but I didn’t care. The only thing keeping me upright was the thought that I was finally, maybe, headed somewhere I could get help.
We reached the infirmary at the Treatment Center — a low-lit room with chipped paint and the stale smell of antiseptic. The night duty doctor was already there, a big man with a gray beard and a face like carved stone. He didn’t look up at first, just kept scribbling something on a clipboard. “Put him on the table,” he said flatly.
The guards shoved me onto the exam table, and I swayed, gripping the edge with white knuckles. The doctor finally looked up, and when his eyes hit my leg, his expression changed fast. He dropped the clipboard onto the counter with a clatter.
“Jesus Christ,” he growled, pulling on gloves. “How long has it been like this?”
I mumbled something—two days, maybe three—but my voice was thin. He didn’t even answer. He yanked my pant leg up, peeled back the filthy band of my sock, and let out a sharp hiss of breath. Red streaks like lightning bolts raced up my calf, across my thigh, and vanished under my shirt. He lifted the hem and saw the rest. His jaw tightened.
“You’re about eight hours from this hitting your heart,” he snapped, turning on the guards. “And when it does, he’s dead. You understand that? DEAD.” His voice cracked like a whip. “This is a severe septic infection—blood poisoning. This man needed treatment yesterday.”
The guards shifted uncomfortably but didn’t say anything. One of them muttered, “He didn’t look that bad—”
The doctor whirled on him, eyes blazing. “You idiots can’t see a man dying in front of you? If he’d waited until morning, you’d be zipping him into a body bag!”
He slammed a drawer shut and started pulling supplies out—IV kit, antibiotics, things I couldn’t even name. His hands were fast but steady. “We don’t have time for this place’s nonsense,” he barked. “Call the control center and tell ‘em he’s going to Charity Hospital. Get a van ready. I don’t care who you wake up or what strings you have to pull. He’s going out tonight.”
“No ambulances at this hour,” one of the guards said.
“Then get the van,” the doctor snapped. “I’ll ride with him if I have to. Move!”
They bolted out. The doctor turned back to me, his eyes softer now, but only just. “You’re damned lucky you made it here when you did,” he muttered. “Another eight hours, and you wouldn’t have had a prayer.” He jammed the IV needle into my arm with practiced speed, hooked up a bag of clear fluid, and pressed a mask over my face.
The last thing I remember was the cool rush of liquid sliding into my veins and the smell of disinfectant, the doctor’s rough voice still echoing in my head: “Eight hours from your heart. Eight hours from dead.” Then the room tilted, and the lights blurred as they wheeled me out toward the waiting van and whatever came next.
This is Part III of my series on the affects of Hurricane Katrina striking Louisiana and a large portion of the Gulf states twenty years ago this week. Almost everyone, when you mention Katrina, gets images of a flooded city, people stranded on rooftops or wading slowly through toxic waters, savage acts or even tales of individual heroism and bravery.
Very few people think of the plight of either the prisoners of Angola or OPP or any of the smaller parish jails, about where they went and how long it took them to get help, but especially, what happened to the female prisoners. In this series, I tell you about it. If this is your first encounter with my writing here, please go back and read Part I and Part II to fully understand what was going on.
“The first really impactful item that sent shivers down our spines was when word began to filter up to us of frightening events in New Orleans – prisoners were abandoned in their cells, left to the steadily rising waters when their guards abandoned them and fled their posts. The reports were horrendous. Already off-balance with our own conditions, our only thought was “Could we be next?”
Bill Kissinger from Part 1 of this series.
Conditions were in chaos in the gym….
So, when I left Part II, I had finished creating the initial database and was preparing to get started on assigning beds and creating a roster for the officers. Those plans, however, had to be put on hold when an officer called me to come up front and told me they needed help unloading a truck. When I arrived and the officer unlocked the door for me to pass through I saw not one, but three big-bed pickup trucks parked and idling, their bulging loads concealed beneath tied down tarps.
Pulling the tarps to the side I discovered cases of fancy, high-end soaps, some with hotel logos on them; cases of extravagant body washes and lotions, cases of baby powder, even cases of little, tiny bottles of perfumes and colognes. The next trucks revealed cases of toothbrushes and toothpaste, feminine razors, cases of casino playing cards with the casino’s name emblazoned across them, and to my utter embarrassment – female undergarments and sanitary napkins. Now, please, bear in mind that I had been locked up for 36 years at this point!
So you could at least understand my embarrassment at handling such items. After quickly “inventorying” the items, I started to unload the first truck. I was only slightly surprised when the free man told me, “Kissinger, hold up…set a couple of those cases – of everything – off to the side. For me.” Hmmmpphhhh. This particular free man had a reputation of pilferage on a regular and giant scale, and virtually everyone knew it. What was gonna’ be the takeaway here – would I be in a trap or would I be in a perfect situation? If I refused or if I went along? If I did or if I didn’t? What was gonna’ be the victimhood breakdown here?
Throwing caution to the wind here, I set two stacks to the side – one of one case of each commodity and one of two cases of each.
If he went down, I’d go down. However, I knew that if I went down, I’d go down alone. In prison NOBODY likes a snitch, so ya’ gotta’ be careful – snitch on a convict and all the convicts hate you, snitch on a free man and all the free people hate you. There just isn’t a middle road to walk down.
He told me to take all the stuff we had set aside for him and load it into his truck and I did. Job completed, I took the cases set aside for me and shot straight back into the office and stashed it for later. Now, let’s be clear here – I did NOT take any female undergarments or sanitary napkins or anything like that. I COULD have and could have made money with it. Shocking to think, but there is a black-market for that stuff in Angola.
What I concentrated on (for myself and friends) mostly were the casino playing cards, soaps, body washes, lotions and powder. We had no clue when we’d be allowed to return to Camp F, and these would come in very handy over what turned out to be a year.
The patrol came to pick me up around 8:30-9:00 at night, and I always carried a pillow-case back to the gym with me. The driver would shake me down and seeing that it was all harmless, let me carry it with me.
The next day the officer and I, along with several female officers, set up an assembly line operation and distributed a “care bag” to every single female in the camp. They were overjoyed to receive these small comforts – little reminders of a world they had left behind and that was now beyond their reach. They could now apply a little makeup and take care of their hygiene and feel human again, even if only for a while,
While they were beginning to feel human again, we were still trying to gain our footing and get our balance back. Strange, but I went to sleep that night feeling that I had done some good in this world we live in.
The next day brought even more surprises, and this time I would be personally impacted, and impacted in a way that would last for several years.
NOTE: Most people think of Hurricane Katrina and have images of people stranded on rooftops, crowds of people in the Superdome, helicopters flying overhead with lift-stretchers dangling below, or boats flying down city streets. Katrina upended a LOT of lives, but very few people stop to wonder what it was like in Angola State Prison or Orleans Parish Prison. In this short series of articles, I’ll tell you.
Things went south while we were asleep. Mother Nature was savagely angry with New Orleans and Angola and was showing her wrath, while we were still asleep. We woke to the shrill blaring of whistles, nightsticks banging on metal locker boxes and strident screams from correctional officers.
KATRINA Lay just offshore and grew to a MONSTER storm
Robert H. “Bubba” Butler, longtime Angola employee who had risen to command of Camp F and Death Row was standing at the head of the dorm, face red and usual cigar in his mouth. Camp F was the prison’s Trusty Camp, and we were about 430 prisoners of varying age, race, ability and temperament. Every one of us averaged 20-30 years served on LWOP (Life Without Parole) sentences. In other words, we were at home. “Here,” for me, was Camp F Dorm 3-Lower, a forty-man dorm, the first floor of a 2-story building that at one time served as a BOQ (Bachelor Officer Quarters) for free people. It was considered to be a plum assignment, even for trusties. Living there could only be approved by the warden.
“Allright! You’ve got about 30 minutes here!” Bubba’s booming voice, amplified with his raspy speech and cigar-laced depth, echoed out across the dormitory.
“Get up and get your shit together. You can carry ONE pillow case with you because we don’t know when you’ll get your property. Take anything you need and put it in that pillow case. Everything else, pack it up and put it in your locker boxes, and roll your mattresses up and put any loose stuff in that. We’ll have somebody come pick all that stuff up later and get it to you when we can. It’ll ALL be out of here by the night. Now, get moving!” And, he was gone just like that. The rest of the pushing and orders came from the sergeants
And THAT is how we learned that Hurricane Katrina was getting ready to devastate Louisiana and upend our – and thousands of others’ – lives for over a year. Angola was really no stanger to hurricanes or “massive storms,” as the media refers to them. We had heard the day before that Katrina was strengthening and growing but had no idea what was to come. It was to us an unreal concept that we could be completely uprooted from our lives, that we could lose our home, that virtually everything would change. I mean, we were in the penitentiary, for God’s sake! COs were always spouting out that they were there to “protect us” and to “protect the community from us.” Weren’t we supposed to be protected, and didn’t that include from Mother Nature and her wrath?
Evidently not. There were some serious failures on the part of correctional officers all around the state on that day and ensuing days, most notably in New Orleans which was much closer to the coast than Angola. We had some hours before the full fury of the storm hit us. In the meantime tragedy and disaster along with major failure was happening in New Orleans.
As Hurricane Katrina began pounding New Orleans, the sheriff’s department abandoned hundreds of inmates imprisoned in the city’s jail, Human Rights Watch said today.
“Of all the nightmares during Hurricane Katrina, this must be one of the worst,” said Corinne Carey, researcher from Human Rights Watch. “Prisoners were abandoned in their cells without food or water for days as floodwaters rose toward the ceiling.”
By (the scheduled) lunchtime, we found ourselves dropped off from the backs of flatbed trailers and buses and herded into the 75-year-old Gym, which once served as the Chow Hall for the entire Main Prison. The free people were in full-on panic mode; as for us, we were confused as hell, worried and somewhat panicked over the loss of all of our property, our goods, all our important memories and things we held dear. Our hobbycraft tools and materials – and this was very important. Many of us lived on what we produced in the hobby shops – in our spare time, we spent many hours in the shops producing arts and crafts that we sold at the semi-annual Rodeo. What about our tools and raw materials that we had spent the months since April working with? What would happen to this? How would we support ourselves in the future? Would there be a future? We had no idea – by this time, rumors were plentiful.
Along with the rumors, news from the outside started to filter in to us. As it is with rumors, some of the news confirmed what was circulating and some disproved it. Not everyone went to work for a day or so as new security procedures were planned and worked out. The first big job was getting bedding and toilets working and showers and figuring out how we were going to eat and just live. The only ones who went to work for the first full day were guys whose boss picked them up for an “emergency detail.”
The whole time we weren’t working we were learning more and more about just how dire the situation was for New Orleans and coastal cities. Within two days, 80% of New Orleans was completely submerged. At first, the death toll was horrible – first reports indicated dozens were dead. This fact alone caused worry and concern among the convicts. There were no phones and no way to contact family or friends on the outside to determine if they were safe.
Then when power was restored and TVs were brought back online and finally brought to us, the staggering truth was revealed. There were literally thousands dead and many, many more missing and unaccounted for. Horrifying images flickered across the television screen of poor, mostly Black faces in agony, struggling through chest-high brackish and toxic sewage-laden water, overflowing masses who had sought shelter in the iconic Superdome, only to find crime – reports of assaults, rape, suicide, even murder taking place inside. The bodies began to pile up. The more we learned, the more concerned we grew and the more our imaginations began to wander.
As KATRINA Hit The City, Infrastructure Began To FailThe Critical Routes Were Failing, Stranding ManyThe City Was Overwhelmed By KATRINA
Hundreds Of Locals Sought Shelter in The Superdome
The Superdome Became A Refuge
Ultimately, there have been several studies conducted which cast a doubtful light on many of the numbers, but THESE are confirmed:
The first really impactful item that sent shivers down our spines was when word began to filter up to us of frightening events in New Orleans – prisoners were abandoned in their cells, left to the steadily rising waters when their guards abandoned them and fled their posts. Thereports were horrendous. Already off-balance with our own conditions, our only thought was “Could we be next?”
Conditions were in chaos in the gym….
Nothing happens to improve your lot in life immediately. Anywhere. In prison it takes an inordinate time longer.
So, our personal safety and provision of necessities obviously took the back seat on the bus. We had nothing and were packed 400 into the gym.
When we first arrived, bedlam reigned. There were no supplies, no bedding, no hygiene materials, no food arrangements, not even rolls of toilet paper. Not even the free people knew what was going on, what to do, who to get advice or instruction from. All of the Main Prison supervisors were stretched out trying to get a handle on the situation. Sometime in the early morning of the next day trucks arrived carrying old army-surplus styled folding green cots and we were all given one, so that at least we could get up off of the floor.
Prison being what it is, when we were told that we could only bring one pillowcase with us, most guys stuffed their bags with cigarettes/tobacco, instant Maruchan soups, cookies and a change of clothing and – hopefully – a bar of soap and shower shoes, maybe a roll of toilet paper.
The gym was split down the middle by a floor-to-ceiling chainlink fence. On the side where I was told to go, there was one toilet – an old ceramic relic that had to have been 50 years old. Stained, cracked and leaking, when flushed it spread a flood of sewage across the red tiled floor, so that when anyone used the toilet when they walked out, they spread the sewage across the gym floor. And cleaning supplies? Non-existent.
It took weeks before we could get anyone to install phones and set up mailboxes so that we could call or send letters out to our families and friends. In the meantime, all we could do was fret, worry, work or sleep from utter exhaustion. Just a few days after we came to the gym, the sprawling Rodeo grounds were taken over by dozens of officers for processing and intake of hundreds of prisoners from various parishes.
PDF Montage of Dan Bright – Exonerated from Angola Death Row And His Personal Experience With Katrina
Thousands of OPP Prisoners were eventually herded onto a bridge/overpass where they would remain for several days without food or drink, in suffering heat. Finally, they would be rescued and lowered into boats that carried them to safety, and into another waiting mass for transfer to other prisons, other jails.
“It was complete chaos,” said a corrections officer with more than 30 years of service at Orleans Parish Prison. When asked what he thought happened to the inmates in Templeman III (A building within the OPP complex), he shook his head and said: “Ain’t no tellin’ what happened to those people.”
“At best, the inmates were left to fend for themselves,” said Carey. “At worst, some may have died.”
The stories of mass deaths of abandoned prisoners have not been verified, though a number of individuals and organizations have conducted their own studies and investigations have certainly pointed in that direction. If true, it would have called for a massive coverup.
In the gym, which was slowly beginning to become at least habitable, things became a bit more chaotic as we settled into a routine of work – both our regular jobs (plumbing, carpentry, electrical, etc.) and “emergency” cleanup work, repairs and preparing parts of the prison to house evacuated prisoners from parish jails. It was only the beginning.
While New Orleans received the most attention, smaller communities, particularly in coastal parishes east of the city and around Lake Pontchartrain, experienced massive damage from the storm surge.
Slidell: Located on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, more than 40% of the city was submerged by the storm surge, which topped 20 feet in some areas. More than 95% of homes and businesses were damaged.
St. Bernard Parish: The sparsely populated areas of this parish were hit unexpectedly hard by winds and floodwaters. The emergency center was submerged, and an estimated 40,000 homes were flooded.
Plaquemines Parish: Located south of New Orleans, this low-lying, rural parish was “devastated by high winds and floodwaters”.
Mandeville: Communities along the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain were significantly impacted by a storm surge of 12 to 16 feet.
Other even smaller towns simply disappeared. When evacuations finally began in earnest, people filtered out to Baton Rouge, Houston, Dallas, Atlanta and some even farther – Tennessee, Chicago, Arkansas and far-flung destinations.
After about 2 weeks, semi-trucks, pickups and even SUVs would begin arriving, packed to the gills with donations from churches, stores and organizations who had learned of Angola’s plight.
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.
When I first arrived at Angola, it was a truly lawless place, a landscape littered with broken hearts and dreams and shattered souls, a place full of anger and hatred, a place where people went to wait to die. As did I. I was sentenced to LWOP (Life Without Parole) for a senseless murder, the taking of a human life for dollars – chump change, really – in a drug robbery.
Well, now, I did have an excuse though no one wanted to hear it. I was an angry, Vietnam veteran with a humongous chip on my shoulder, mad at the whole world and at the government that didn’t support us and at the people stateside who rallied in the streets to oppose what we were sent to do, where four kids died at our own hands at Kent State University. I was angry at everybody and felt that they all owed me something for my self-inflicted misery.
I Was An Angry Young Veteran and An Addict When I Was Arrested
Angola was still in the throes of integration. Whites and Blacks living together! My God, imagine! And in the heart of the Deep South?! The East Yard was the West Yard and the whole world was crazy. Camp A, Camp F, Camp H, Camp I and Main Prison were the only living areas and they were all a mess. There was none of the Camp C and Camp D and Camp J, they were all lines on blueprints somewhere. DeQuincy was a dream in somebody’s mind because one could never get there. Wade and DCI didn’t exist yet, and the state’s prison population would swell to levels never before imagined. Louisiana has an incarceration rate of 1,067 per 100,000 people (including prisons, jails, immigration detention, and juvenile justice facilities), meaning that it locks up a higher percentage of its people than any independent democratic country on earth.
I spent my first few months at the old RC (Reception Center) building (which housed Death Row and CCR) because about 2 weeks after I got there, Butch Germain got me a job as a clerk in the print shop which was located in the back next to ID. I could pronounce multi-syllable words, could spell, do math and was White. I was a lock for virtually anything. Butch was a guy I met in the backseat of an NOPD cruiser that picked me up from the plane I was extradited from Texas to Louisiana on. Butch was locked up on a Felon in Possession of a Firearm charge, and had copped out for a 10-year sentence on a double-bill to avoid an HFC (Habitual Felony Conviction) sentence. He arrived at Angola about 3 weeks before me, but we had maintained our friendship all during the months of Parish Prison. This, of course, was long before Louisiana went stark raving mad and started issuing 198-year sentences for Armed Robbery and 35-year sentences for Simple Burglary. Much simpler times.
They had gotten rid of khaki-back guards (inmate guards with shotguns) a couple years earlier, though they still utilized them as what we called “Turnkeys.” The only task the Turnkey had was to guard a locked gate and open and close it using a big old heavy brass key. Secretly, they would do a bit of head-thumping for ranking security and always got away with it. The older ones they put in private little rooms on the second floor of RC, and they were protected. I mean, how long would they last in population with guys who just a couple years earlier they had wielded a shotgun over in boiling sun and doing backbreaking labor? Not long, and they knew it. I had an experience with one of those Turnkeys that was pretty entertaining but I’ll save that tale for another time.
About 9 months after I got to Angola, they reopened Camp A following a renovation and 50 of us were the first ones to occupy the Big Stripe side of the Camp. I was the second one through the gate (right behind Chester “Cheeky” Lawrence) and found a choice bunk in the corner and settled in. This was my new home and would be for a couple of years.
For several months we lived in the Camp and rarely went anywhere, rarely saw anything or anyone, and lived an isolated life where simple fights were the norm, “aggravated fights” (with any type of weapon) slightly less common. We didn’t have locker boxes, no way to secure our meager possessions and many fights were over stolen goods, many were over homosexual “lovers” spats, and some were racially motivated. Integration was slow in taking over and becoming the standard. Southern White boys being what they are and Blacks being what they are it kind of took a while for things to settle down.
We kept our possessions in cardboard boxes shoved under our beds, and we had to hustle the boxes from the kitchen or wherever we could find them. The camp was overrun with roaches and silverfish bugs. Radios and 8-track tape players would be infested quickly as the roaches loved the glue on circuit boards. To have a radio – GE Super Radios and Panasonics with a tape player were considered the top of the line – was both a status symbol and an invitation to host a brawl.
We used to gamble – a LOT – because of all the slack time on our hands and no way to burn energy off. For a while we even had a 24-7 poker game on a bunk pushed up next to the bathroom wall so we could see the “table” and count our “money” and pots after the lights were out. There were “big games” and little games. Big games were played with cigarettes, cash, watches, rings, new jeans – whatever one had of value and were worth whatever the “house man” placed on it. Little games were played with cookies, candy bars, and cigarettes.
There had to be guards available to allow us yard time on the tiny patch of land the Big Stripe side afforded. We were fortunate, as the Trusty side didn’t even have a yard – their building looked out on a cattle pen for the dairy which was the main industry of Camp A, but for Trusty prisoners only as they had to be up and at ‘em for 2:00 in the morning. Our back yard was actually big enough to play a raggedy game of touch football and had an old basketball backboard up on a post – sans net, naturally.
Willie White was in our dorm, and was one of the most fun and bubbly guys you could hope to be around in a maximum security prison. It was almost as if he didn’t deserve to be here, like he had jumped off the bus by accident and never caught a ride back. He and “Big O” were best friends, and Big O liked to put down one of the little poker games because Willie loved cookies and this way they always had a steady supply of duplex cookies for Willie to munch on. Big O was a fat older Black guy and Willie was a short but stocky Black – neither one of them had a racist bone in their body, so some of the White guys would join in their game, myself included.
James Love* was a younger Black guy from New Orleans, a hipster who embodied hip the way Irma Thomas embodied the French Quarter soul sounds she was so well-known for. He was also secretly in a homosexual relationship with “Georgie,” another New Orleans player with what was called “big hair,” an Afro that when fully picked out looked like a huge halo tarnished by time and prison.
This particular day started out just as any other – 65 men rushing to occupy one of 5 ceramic toilets, 4 sinks and a big mop sink. With toothbrushes in hand and clutching sour-smelling washcloths they made their way to the bathroom. Willie was as usual bantering lightly with someone when he encountered Love who said something no one could hear, and Willie turned around and told Love, “Bitch you the one over there making humps up underneath that blanket with Georgie!” Love said something about, “Yeah well, we’ll see about who be making humps!” and walked off.
By this time, Camp A had finally gotten an extra free man and he was assigned as a Line Pusher for our dorm’s field squad, Line 2. Because we were a small line (20 men max, as that was the most that a single guard was allowed) we usually worked very close to the camp and always within walking distance. Directly across the main road that ran from the Front Gate of the prison all the way around Angola was a large field where greens were growing. This huge field was surrounded by a ditch about two feet deep by 3 feet wide.
Convicts Working On Ditch – “3-Minute Waterbreak”
We were clearing the sides of the ditch and the bordering Johnson grass and weeds alongside the road, and using an assortment of tools such as ditchbank blades, a few hoes and a shovel. If you’ve never seen a ditchbank blade, they’re a long-handled tool with about a 14” curved blade about 4”wide. Normally, the Line Pusher would assign one man – a hard worker – to the short blade, which was a typical ditchbank blade but with a sawed off handle, usually used to cut and clear a guard line so the guard had a clear shot down the line.
TYPICAL DITCHBANK BLADE
I was blessed! This was my week to work the water bucket, and my partner was John Blanchard (a little rich White dude out of Lafayette whose daddy owned an oil well service company). The two-man team rotated on a weekly basis. All I had to do was pick the bucket up with John and carry it down to where the free man pointed and set it down. There was a collection of about 8-10 coke cans with holes drilled in the side and a wire hook to hang them from the bucket.
The water wagon would come around to all the lines early in the morning and fill our buckets up and this had to serve the whole line because he wouldn’t come back around until much later. At this time the lines worked for an hour and were given a 3-minute break. During that 3-minutes you had better do everything that needed doing: piss, roll a cigarette, talk, bullshit with your buddies or drink water. At the end of the 3 minutes you immediately went back to work.
When the pusher hollered “Break time! Drain ‘em, get ‘em and roll ‘em,” everybody scrambled, and we headed to the spot he pointed at, just far enough away from him and his horse. We set the bucket down and hung the cans on the lip and stepped back to clear the way for the thirsty workers. After a minute or two, Willie came to the bucket and stuck his blade in the ground and peeled his gloves off and folded them over the handle. He was laughing and joshing with someone as he leaned down and grabbed one of the cans and dipped it into the water.
He was mid-sip— cup to his lips, a casual tilt of his wrist and a laugh still on his lips when the blade came. I didn’t see it at first. Just the cup, slipping from his hand. Just the snap and grunt of his body folding in half like a broken toy. Then the thud. His head – attached only by a cartilage to the body – landed at my feet, eyes still open, mouth still curved in the soft shape of a swallow.
The blood came in a sudden burst—hot, blinding, metallic. It painted my shirt, my face, my mouth. I staggered back, gagging, hearing the distant echo of my own scream tangled with eighteen others. The Line Pusher was frozen with a look of horror on his face, and he drew his weapon and shouted and choked and put his pistol back in the holster, then drew it again and tried again to get his words out and failed.
Eighteen men—tough men, hard men—frozen mid-roll, mid-joke, mid-breath. Someone dropped a half-rolled cigarette. Another vomited instantly. No one moved toward the body. No one dared. It was as if time had cracked open and spilled something ancient and merciless into our midst. One moment: laughter, cool water, early morning weariness and sweat. The next: death, unfiltered and grotesque, as intimate as breath on skin.
No warning. No reasoning. Just the bright red of carotid arterial blood. Just silence. Just the sound of the cup tumbling slowly across the dirt, as if trying to pretend this was still just a normal working day.
Love stuck his short blade in the ground and walked to the ditch, away from our circle of shock and away from the Pusher. When he got to the ditch, he simply sat down. No drama, no excited yelling, just a weary sigh as if he had completed some long-burdensome task.
This was, of course, long before Angola had millions of dollars worth of 2-way radios and broadcast towers and computerized communications networks and ambulances. In those days, emergencies were broadcast from the fields by a succession of three quick gunshots that signaled what was known as a high-rider. Depending on his location, he would be either on horseback or riding what we called a “bronco,” which was akin to a Jeep.
We were still trying to gather our wits when the air was shattered by his three rapid shots. Moments later the high-rider screeched to a stop and he jumped out and asked the pusher what was happening and his eyes followed the pusher’s silent, shaky pointing finger. His eyes widening, he drew his weapon and screamed at everybody to move toward the middle of the field and away from the scene.
Within a half-hour there were a half-dozen or more broncos and personal vehicles gathered around us and they began pulling us off to the side and questioning us as to what we had seen or knew about what had happened. Love was handcuffed and hauled off to whatever fate awaited him, and after another hour or so we were lined up and counted and walked back to the camp. I don’t know what everybody else said, but I didn’t see anything.
The mood was subdued, somber. Everybody was quiet. We got to the gate and the shakedown was a lot more thorough than usual, and there were a lot of “mother fuckers” thrown around, Upstairs, we watched quietly as the guards came and packed up both Willie’s and Love’s property and left without another word.
The next day was a normal day.
I told this story because I was talking to my friend and extraordinary filmmaker and documentarian, Catherine Legge, on the phone yesterday about the violence in Angola and this story came to mind. It was my first witness of a murder in the prison and it had a lasting effect on me. From that point forward I kept a proverbial set of eyes in the back of my head.
For 47 years I held on to those eyes, as if they would be the only thing that would save me. They probably were.
This was the first murder I witnessed in Angola, but it wouldn’t be the last. Thank God it is a different world today.
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!
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.
Tiny Flower In A Clay Pot
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 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.
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!
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!
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 Floridaexecuted Loran Cole.
The Death Penalty in America: A System of Inequality
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.
This post is Part 2 of my series on the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina striking the Louisiana coastline, causing immense damage and costing at least 1,800 lives. Since virtually everyone knows how it impacted civilian life but very few people know how it affected those of us serving LWOP and lengthy sentences in Louisiana State Prison (Angola).
“The first really impactful item that sent shivers down our spines was when word began to filter up to us of frightening events in New Orleans – prisoners were abandoned in their cells, left to the steadily rising waters when their guards abandoned them and fled their posts. Thereports were horrendous. Already off-balance with our own conditions, our only thought was “Could we be next?”
Bill Kissinger from Part 1 of this series.
Nothing happens to improve your lot in life immediately. Anywhere. In prison it takes an inordinate time longer. How much is “inordinate?” What is “safety?” How “uncomfortable” are prisoners supposed to be and for how long? Are prisoners supposed to be considered “less than” outside civilians?
For the first few weeks of our life in the gym, chaos continued to reign and it was on free people (guards) and convicts alike. We had gotten folding Army-style surplus cots to sleep on, we were eating in the Main Prison chow hall although at separate feeding times. We were starting to return to our regular jobs (although, those of us who were able-bodied had been working every day on emergency clean-up crews) and new procedures had been worked out between crew foremen, Main Prison wardens (5) and the Outcamp Warden and the Camp F warden . The wardens passed down their agreements to their colonels and lieutenant colonels who passed it to majors and captains and lieutenants and – theoretically, at least – orders were carried out and changes made and policies implemented.
Nothing really quite worked that way with us as we were the new kids on the block and would remain that way for a long time. There had always been a kind of veiled hostility towards prisoners who lived at Camp F from both security and Main Prison convicts. They saw us as spoiled brats with way too many freedoms and comforts and way too much “political” power; politics in Angola is everything, and at every level: sergeants, lieutenants, captains, majors, colonels, wardens – everybody had their favorites and every favorite had their own connections. It’s just the way things work and it’s the way things have always worked – think back to your school days or your military service or even the company you work at. It’s just that way.
So, the majority of our obstacles were based on this type of thing – the way we were viewed. So what did we do to counteract the “little brother” dilemma we were boxed into? We worked together to accomplish more, to secure what we felt was ours, to improve our lot, and we did it in small ways. We had a stellar plumbing crew, a skilled electrical crew, a grand carpentry crew, and a whole bunch of crafty wise little dudes in various positions who were capable of pulling off semi-miracles.
Our leaky toilet? Fixed! Our lack of electrical outlets? Fixed! Phone lines installed and ready for Securus to come in? Done! Hygiene supplies and cleaning supplies? Done! Real, metal bunks and mattresses for sleeping comfortably? Done! Water fountain? Done! Fans? Done! Over time, when we finally returned to Camp F a year later, we left behind a much better framework for the next group of people who found themselves here under similar circumstances.
On only our 3rd day in the gym, I was summoned to a Camp F supervisor’s office. They told me I needed to be ready to go to work in the morning. WHAT? I was the Clerk for Camp F. At F, my duties consisted of filing paperwork generated by each shift, creating new blank forms for them, doing ACA mandatory paperwork (i.e., temperature logs, hobbyshop inventories, tower checks, camp vehicle mileage reports, flammable inventories, etc.), making coffee for the E-Bldg, keeping the lobby clean, and in general, generating whatever written reports my boss needed when needed so that he’d look good when called upon.
I Went To Work The Next Day…
The next morning I was up and cleaned up and dressed and ready to go to work. By this time, there was a procedure worked out for the patrol driver to pass through the Sallyport and drive to the back door of the gym, load up callouts, and drive back out. The patrol van driver picked me up at a little before 5:00am, which guaranteed that I would be a few minutes late to get coffee made for the shift, but I was so happy to get out of the gym and back to work that I didn’t care.
Little did I know how happy and excited I would be at the end of the day, my first day back at work. First, I would be free to do what I loved doing – bringing efficiency and order to an office – and second, that I would meet and be entranced by a girl from New Orleans, and that I would also take a trip to the dungeon and back.
We got to Camp F, and one of the female security officers told me, “Alright, Kissinger, they’ve got a few hundred ladies here now, so things are gonna’ be a little bit different. We need to figure out a way to get all these ladies assigned to a bed, and once we do that, we can figure out what to do next.”
Females? WHAT?! I’m really, really confused because Angola is a MEN’S maximum security prison! Females had originally been sent to Angola to what had become known as “The Willows,” a small collection of clapboard buildings that typically housed anywhere up to 125 women at a time and was located in the northwestern corner of the prison.
Women had been housed at Angola since around 1901. Remember that all during that time, throughout the South, was a period of extreme segregation, so there were separate living quarters for Blacks and Whites. There were several occasions when the females came under close scrutiny from “committees” and “study groups” and “prison experts.” Was anything ever done to resolve the problems that existed? No….especially during the Huey Long administration. The state’s legislature, as a matter of course, kept their hands off of the penitentiary, as it had always been viewed as the Governor’s “property.”
It took a stripper from New Orleans to cause the women to be moved to an entirely separate facility of their own. (Source: Academia, Marianne Fisher-Giorlando, originally Kerry Myers of the Angolite)
The “Forbidden City” held many, many secrets. The last of the females left Angola in the summer of 1961. A new era dawned. Forty-four years later, women would once again walk through Angola, and would walk in my dorm.
When I got over my initial shock it was time to look at what was before me. There was a stack of different spiral-bound logbooks and single pieces of lined paper with handwritten and nearly illegible names and numbers scrawled across them. Pure turmoil, and the office phone constantly ringing, radios continually chattering with Control Center traffic and a few highly frustrated free people expressing themselves in colorful terms.
A Nightmare Of Work Awaited Me
I grabbed a cup of coffee and dove into it. First, I had to figure out what the logbooks contained and how the information was put together (they were all filled with lists of names and DOB’s and DOC numbers….next to some of the names was a single letter – “W” or “B” or “O” indicating race – but not all of them were indicated.) Then, had to assemble all of the individual pieces of lined paper into some form of order and try to match them up with names already in the logbooks to make sure there were no double entries.
Suffice it to say that the entire office was in total disarray and the king of the day was Utter Chaos. It took the better part of several hours to get everything organized to where I could start to enter data into a hastily constructed database and begin to match it to the database updated by Control Center at midnight every night. So, as it was quickly approaching the second “mandatory” count of the day, I needed to get them an accurate printout showing how many and who Control Center said was actually here.
Now, let me remind you of something I’ve talked about several times throughout my writings. Angola ran about 15-20 years behind the times with everything technological. Here it was 2005, and the office computer was still running old versions of MS Windows (and different versions in separate offices!) and the master database operated by Control Center was an old, clunky and slow DOS-based relational database called “NutPlus.”
Let me be the first to admit here that what I was doing was pretty much considered “illegal” by rank or authority. There was actually a policy that prohibited me from using this computer because it had inmate data on it. Let me tell you how much that mattered when there is a crisis or emergency situation and you’re the only one around who has the knowledge to do it. Yeah, about that much. The point is to get the work done, and pretty much everyone will turn their head while you get it done.
Miraculously, the 11:00 count cleared after only 3 or 4 recounts! (And, I can testify that there was NOT a “paper count,” with imaginary numbers.) So, what remained was to get everybody into an assigned bed so that they could be located at any time of the day or night, and make an accurate record of that assignment. The phone rang again, and the major called for me. The bed assignments would have to wait, as there were trucks pulling up at the camp with donations for the women. Oh boy….this would turn out to be an interesting episode and a chapter of Angola’s already infamous history, and I’ll tell you about it next time.
NOTE: For a look at other sides of Angola, might I suggest you take a look at my friend Rose Vines Substack, “Graphic Dead Man Walking.”
