And we focused on getting out of Angola, which required patience. Because we no longer traveled outside the prison, opportunities to meet new people and advance our cause had been greatly curtailed. Jodie got a high-powered New Orleans attorney, Jack Martzell, to represent Billy before the pardon board, but we were relying primarily upon Sally's strategy.

One afternoon following Billy's clemency hearing, Tommy entered the office with a wide smile. He waved a letter and told us the pardon board had recommended that the governor commute his life term to thirty years, making him immediately eligible for parole since he had already served one-third of that term. "You have a letter from the board, too," he said to Billy, handing him the letter as he left.

Billy tore open the envelope. He looked surprised as he read, then puzzled. "I don't understand this." The pardon board had recommended a reduction in his sentence to sixty years, which, if approved by the governor, would make Billy eligible for parole in a few more years, after he had served twenty.

"This doesn't make sense," he said. "They're going backward." In 1979, a clemency recommendation urged that his sentence be reduced to forty-five years, but Governor Edwards had not approved it. "The only thing that's different is that I've won national awards since then. It's like I'm being punished for doing more. I've been locked up longer, and I've accomplished more than Tommy and all these others who're getting recommendations that will free them right away." He became distraught. "How am I going to explain this to my wife? Jodie's been preparing for my release, buying furniture and making a home for us."

I was surprised. The typical commutation recommended for someone serving a life term was for thirty or thirty-five years, maybe forty. Sally was scheduled to address an inmate organization that evening in Angola, and I suggested he ask her what happened before phoning his wife. As the day wore on, he grew angrier. He saw himself as a victim, discriminated against. There was no reasoning with him.

That evening, Sally explained to him that the board felt a recommendation for a commutation to sixty years was all the current governor would sign for him. Billy stormed away. Sally then turned to me. "Prepare yourself, Wilbert," she said. "You'll get a seventy-five-year recommendation, which will parole you out in a few more years." She saw my disappointment. "I'm sorry," she said, "but at least you'll be getting out, just not now."

A few weeks later, Billy showed me a lawsuit he had filed against the pardon board. In it, he argued that the recommended cut to sixty years was more severe than a life sentence, which traditionally had given an inmate parole consideration after ten years and six months. He also included a list of clemency recommendations for other inmates as a means of comparison. Tommy's name was among them. He told me that Jodie had "heard through a source" that the governor's office was investigating the pardon board.

"If that's true, then your putting all these guys in your lawsuit will put political heat on their recommendations. The governor won't touch them," I said.

"I can't help that," he replied harshly. "Those are the facts that show I'm being discriminated against. Besides, if I can't get out, why should they?"

"What are you doing, man?" I asked. "Sally's plan calls for me to go up next. You could be s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g things up for both of us."

"And what am I supposed to do? Keep my mouth shut and let 'em f.u.c.k over me and my wife? I can't do that, and I won't do it. I have a const.i.tutional right to express my grievance and pursue redress. Like Jodie says, if Sally and the governor want to do something for you, they'll do it regardless of what I do."

But that's not how things worked. Sally and fellow board member Louis Jetson, a longtime black supporter, visited me soon afterward to advise me to postpone applying for clemency until some of the hard feelings among the board members had died down.

"Jodie tried to pressure the board to change their decision with threats that she and Billy might commit suicide to embarra.s.s the board," Sally told me. "And Billy has sued the board, which makes absolutely no sense at all because he doesn't have a right to anything. Clemency is a gift of mercy." She paused.

My dream of freedom was dissolving.

"We no longer have the votes," Jetson said, shaking his head. "Those on the board who were receptive to doing something for you and Sinclair are p.i.s.sed. We're hoping to salvage you, but I have to tell you, at this point, it doesn't look good."

There was no clemency hearing for me during the four years Dave Treen was governor.

I continued to work alongside Billy, though it wasn't easy. I swallowed my anger, but my friendship with him was over.

Governor Treen turned out to be so stingy in granting clemency that some of the state's newspapers charged him with abdicating his responsibilities as governor. By the end of his second year in office, he had granted only nine commutations. When he ran for reelection in 1983, he boasted of having issued only forty clemencies to prisoners as compared with the thousands granted by Edwin Edwards, who was making a bid to become governor for a third time. Treen was executing a callous political strategy, but it fueled hopelessness among the prisoner population. The situation at the prison became so incendiary that Maggio, who had never asked for the release of a prisoner, suggested to Sally that the governor commute the sentences of a couple of deserving lifers to relieve tensions at Angola. The debate over clemency took center stage at the height of the gubernatorial campaign when Edwards's brother, Nolan, was shot to death by an ex-felon whom Edwards had previously freed. Edwards nonetheless steadfastly maintained that executive clemency was an integral part of Louisiana's justice system and indicated that if elected he would again grant clemency to deserving persons.

The hope that Edwards might win staved off serious prison disturbances during the latter part of Treen's administration. Inmate organizations provided resources for the prisoner population to conduct letter-writing campaigns encouraging friends and relatives to vote for Edwards. And, for perhaps the first time in history, the entire inmate population and employee force watched the televised election results. When Edwards was declared the winner by a landslide, cheering by both the keepers and the kept erupted throughout the prison. The seething despair eating away at the Louisiana State Penitentiary was quieted overnight as hope, the balm of the prison world, was restored. Edwards reinforced it by establishing a Forgotten Man Committee to look into the increasing number of long-termers in prison.

Prisoners' expectations soared when Edwards appointed the state's first majority-black pardon board. Its chairman, Howard Ma.r.s.ellus, a brash, streetwise high school princ.i.p.al, roared up to Angola on a motorcycle, "bringing hope," he declared. "There are guys up here who deserve a second chance, and I'm gonna try to see that they get it." This had special significance to blacks, who const.i.tuted 80 percent of the state's prisoner population.

Ma.r.s.ellus came to personify hope to everyone-except Billy. After shaking hands with Billy during a meeting in our office, Ma.r.s.ellus reached for my hand and introduced himself as "the man who's gonna get you you out of here." out of here."

"What about me?" Billy asked, smiling.

"Those white folks under Treen already took care of you. You got your issue," he said, referring to Billy's still viable recommendation for a reduced sentence of sixty years. Ma.r.s.ellus then told Tommy that his thirty-year recommendation was also still good. Looking back at me, he said, "It's this brother's turn. And this is the board and the governor who'll do it." He instructed me to file a clemency application. "We'll try to have you out of here for Christmas."

I fought to contain my exhilaration, and could see Tommy struggling to do the same, because we could see that Billy was ready to explode.

"I'm not accepting that s.h.i.t he's talking," Billy said after Ma.r.s.ellus left. "He's gonna free y'all, but f.u.c.k over me because I'm white? What does he take me for?" He stormed out of the office, slamming the door.

Governor Edwards brought back C. Paul Phelps as secretary of corrections, which meant the return of freedom of expression for inmates and staff throughout the system, and the resurrection of The Angolite The Angolite to its former status. A few months into Edwards's term, Ross Maggio retired, and Frank Blackburn returned as Angola warden. Our May/June 1984 issue reflected our restored access to information and officials: I did a major investigative report, "Dying in Prison," which revealed how terminally ill prisoners at Angola met their end-chained to a hospital bed if they were sent for treatment to one of Louisiana's charity hospitals-and, for those whose bodies went unclaimed by family or friends, a trip to a local funeral home, where the corpse was placed in a pressed-cardboard box and returned to Angola for burial in a service presided over by the prison chaplain and attended mainly by inmate gravediggers. to its former status. A few months into Edwards's term, Ross Maggio retired, and Frank Blackburn returned as Angola warden. Our May/June 1984 issue reflected our restored access to information and officials: I did a major investigative report, "Dying in Prison," which revealed how terminally ill prisoners at Angola met their end-chained to a hospital bed if they were sent for treatment to one of Louisiana's charity hospitals-and, for those whose bodies went unclaimed by family or friends, a trip to a local funeral home, where the corpse was placed in a pressed-cardboard box and returned to Angola for burial in a service presided over by the prison chaplain and attended mainly by inmate gravediggers.

I resumed traveling outside the prison for speaking engagements and to pursue stories. On advice from his attorney, Billy declined trips as part of an effort to stay out of the limelight and to distance himself from me in the public mind, since I was high profile. He refused to talk to the media, leaving me to speak for The Angolite The Angolite and about prisoner issues. and about prisoner issues.

I went around the state talking to at-risk teenagers and young adults on probation about the horrors of prison life. I lectured at schools, universities, and churches, to civic and professional groups, and made numerous appearances on television to talk about prison, including a June 19, 1984, appearance on Nightline; Nightline; unable to resist the lure of trading views with U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice Warren Burger on national television, Billy joined me. unable to resist the lure of trading views with U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice Warren Burger on national television, Billy joined me.

Once again I had access to the inner sanctum of corrections management. Phelps took me to meetings where I learned that everything about inmates in corrections was tied to dollars, that every day an inmate wasn't working translated into money lost to Prison Enterprises, which accounted for the constant administrative pressure on prison medical authorities to be conservative in issuing work exemptions to inmates because it reduced the available labor pool for agricultural and industrial operations. I also attended regulatory standardization meetings where top officials of every prison met to review practices to achieve system-wide uniformity and end costly duplication. I learned that prison was becoming a vast business, which was a boon to some politicians, who demanded more "law and order," which meant more arrests, more convictions, longer jail terms, and more jobs and contracts for goods and services they could dole out to supporters.

Where there had been only three state prisons in Louisiana when I became editor of The Angolite The Angolite in 1976, there were now six, with more on the drawing board and thousands of state prisoners backlogged in local jails around the state. Historically, jails and prisons had to be built with voter approval, but in 1985 Governor Edwards got the legislature to create the Louisiana Correctional Facilities Corporation, which allowed the state to expand and build prisons without public consent. That created a monster with an insatiable appet.i.te for growth. The most basic law of the prison system is that as long as there is a cell, someone will be found to put in it. In Louisiana, the "product" would be primarily black males, while the beneficiaries of this prison industry were almost all white. Phelps began to despair of any meaningful change in the way the state pursued justice. He foresaw that corrections, driven by profit and politics, would ultimately be reduced to simply warehousing people for increasingly longer periods. in 1976, there were now six, with more on the drawing board and thousands of state prisoners backlogged in local jails around the state. Historically, jails and prisons had to be built with voter approval, but in 1985 Governor Edwards got the legislature to create the Louisiana Correctional Facilities Corporation, which allowed the state to expand and build prisons without public consent. That created a monster with an insatiable appet.i.te for growth. The most basic law of the prison system is that as long as there is a cell, someone will be found to put in it. In Louisiana, the "product" would be primarily black males, while the beneficiaries of this prison industry were almost all white. Phelps began to despair of any meaningful change in the way the state pursued justice. He foresaw that corrections, driven by profit and politics, would ultimately be reduced to simply warehousing people for increasingly longer periods.

If Edwards's return as governor brought hope to those in the penal system, it did not extend to the condemned. As he was leaving office, Dave Treen had resurrected capital punishment in Louisiana by signing off on the executions of two men. Only a couple of weeks after Edwards moved back into the governor's mansion, his new pardon board convened at Angola on April 1 for its first full clemency hearing: Elmo Patrick Sonnier received a death sentence in 1977 for the kidnapping and murder, with his brother Eddie, of two St. Martin Parish teenagers (Eddie received a life sentence).

Eddie testified at Elmo's hearing, and the brothers now claimed Eddie actually did the killings. They weren't very convincing. Dismissing the Sonniers' claim as a ruse and rejecting an impa.s.sioned plea for mercy from Elmo's spiritual advisor-a naive, fresh-faced Catholic nun named Sister Helen Prejean-the board voted to let Elmo die in the electric chair on April 5.

As the board members headed for the exit, Ma.r.s.ellus introduced them to me. Lawrence Hand, the board's only white, shook my hand politely, telling me he was impressed with The Angolite The Angolite. Johnny Jackson, Sr., who had voted against me in the past, put his arm around my shoulder when we were alone and whispered, "We're gonna take care of you this time around. The last time wasn't right." A smiling Lionel Daniels pumped my hand and told me he was from St. Landry Parish, the family home of my parents, and winked meaningfully.

A statuesque, well-dressed, light-complexioned woman-the board's only female-offered her hand, smiling as if she knew something that I didn't. "I'm Margery Hicks," she said. "We've met before, but I'm sure you've forgotten." Seeing my puzzlement, she added, "Reform school-remember Coach Hicks? I was his wife." I remembered her husband lining us kids up and whipping our a.s.ses with a thick strap. I nodded. "He died four years ago," she said.

"You guys didn't do a very good job rehabilitating me back then," I said.

"No," she said, then laughed. "But judging from what I've heard, this place apparently did. I'm really proud of you." I felt good after meeting her and instinctively knew she would vote to free me.

These pardon board members frequently came to Angola to interview inmate applicants and to attend administrative events and prisoner programs, as had their predecessors. Ma.r.s.ellus, in particular, became a regular at the prison, searching for "deserving" inmates to help. I also met the board members at headquarters or outside events. Like many in the criminal justice system, they sometimes called upon The Angolite The Angolite for advice or help with research, which I generally provided. for advice or help with research, which I generally provided.

Hicks stopped by The Angolite The Angolite whenever she came to the prison, and I gradually got to know this strong, well-educated, bra.s.sy redhead. She had retired from the juvenile corrections system and become a member of the Scotlandville Area Advisory Council, a powerful black political group in Baton Rouge. She had been given the pardon board appointment as part of Edwards's payoff to her political group for their support in his reelection. As time pa.s.sed and our friendship grew, she took me into her confidence and provided me with a behind-the-scenes view into the workings of the board that would destroy all my remaining illusions about its fairness. whenever she came to the prison, and I gradually got to know this strong, well-educated, bra.s.sy redhead. She had retired from the juvenile corrections system and become a member of the Scotlandville Area Advisory Council, a powerful black political group in Baton Rouge. She had been given the pardon board appointment as part of Edwards's payoff to her political group for their support in his reelection. As time pa.s.sed and our friendship grew, she took me into her confidence and provided me with a behind-the-scenes view into the workings of the board that would destroy all my remaining illusions about its fairness.

At an August 7, 1984, hearing, New Orleans lawyer Bill Quigley made a powerful presentation to the pardon board, arguing that his client Timothy Baldwin might well be innocent of the murder of an elderly Monroe woman. The board rejected the claim and denied Quigley's plea to have Baldwin's death sentence commuted to life imprisonment. As his September 10 execution date neared, Baldwin persisted in his claim of innocence. Then came the sensational news that Governor Edwards had flown to Angola on August 28 and met with Baldwin for an hour. The following day, Edwards flew to the women's prison to talk with Baldwin's codefendant, his ex-girlfriend Marilyn Hampton. The next day, the governor explained to the media that he had bent over backward "doing some unprecedented things to make certain in my own conscience that I was acting properly." But he was not going to stop the execution. Baldwin thanked Edwards publicly for his time and consideration. Hicks, however, was infuriated. "He shouldn't have played with Baldwin's feelings like that," she said to me. "He knew he wasn't going to do anything for the man."

I didn't understand her objection. "Edwards went the extra mile to personally find out what happened in Baldwin's case," I said. "How many governors would do that? I'm impressed."

"Everybody's impressed," she said. "That's why he did it. But Edwin Edwards is the joker who told us to deny clemency to Baldwin in the first place, just as he did with Sonnier. Now, are you still impressed?"

She told me that the governor ordered their claims denied before the hearings were even held. "He didn't care whether they were innocent or not. He doesn't want the board to send him any recommendations for clemency on death penalty cases. We were told from day one just to go through the motions, but to deny them all."

While wearing a public mask of understanding and compa.s.sion, Edwards would ruthlessly execute more men than any Louisiana governor in modern times. And I could do nothing about it because no one would go on the record.

Hicks told me that clemency proceedings were fraudulent only in death penalty cases. She a.s.sured me that although Edwards had personally sabotaged the board's decision on me in 1976 and 1980, it was extremely unlikely that he would do it again. "He got busted," she said, "and The New York Times The New York Times told the world what he did. More importantly, he knows that he would not be governor if it weren't for us blacks. The fact that he appointed the first majority-black pardon board and chairman in history is proof of that. So you're coming out of this place. He owes us that." told the world what he did. More importantly, he knows that he would not be governor if it weren't for us blacks. The fact that he appointed the first majority-black pardon board and chairman in history is proof of that. So you're coming out of this place. He owes us that."

The board held a hearing on my request for clemency on December 19, 1984. It was covered by USA Today USA Today and and The New York Times The New York Times and on the front pages of newspapers all across Louisiana. White opponents in Lake Charles cranked up their anti-Rideau machine, while the Lake Charles black community launched a letter-writing campaign on my behalf. The pardon board received nearly three thousand letters in all, which the and on the front pages of newspapers all across Louisiana. White opponents in Lake Charles cranked up their anti-Rideau machine, while the Lake Charles black community launched a letter-writing campaign on my behalf. The pardon board received nearly three thousand letters in all, which the Times-Picayune Times-Picayune reported ran about 4-to-1 in favor of granting mercy. reported ran about 4-to-1 in favor of granting mercy.

In keeping with the board's rules, I could not attend the hearing. The board heard from both sides, and after it deliberated for fifteen minutes behind closed doors, Ma.r.s.ellus announced a unanimous recommendation from the four members present that the governor commute my sentence to time served. (Lawrence Hand, the only white member, was absent due to illness.) My mother burst into tears, elated by the decision. My supporters were jubilant. Edwards had won all his elections with the solid support of the black vote-statewide, about 30 percent of the population. Given his remarks to The New York Times Magazine The New York Times Magazine in 1980-that the feelings of the white Lake Charles community were the root of my inability to get clemency, and his comment that "community feelings shouldn't be given that much weight"-everyone a.s.sumed that I would finally receive the second chance I had worked so hard to earn and which had been given to so many others. in 1980-that the feelings of the white Lake Charles community were the root of my inability to get clemency, and his comment that "community feelings shouldn't be given that much weight"-everyone a.s.sumed that I would finally receive the second chance I had worked so hard to earn and which had been given to so many others.

Two days later, Jim Amoss of the Times-Picayune Times-Picayune phoned to tell me that the governor, away on a hunting trip in Texas, had rejected the recommendation of the board. Without seeing the recommendation, Edwards cited the "nature of the crime" and said that I had already been given one commutation when I was resentenced from death to life imprisonment. What he didn't acknowledge was that the forty-five or fifty unconst.i.tutional death sentences replaced with life sentences were not grants of mercy but a legal maneuver by the state to preserve dozens of convictions that might not have stood if we had been retried. Nor did anyone note that Edwards, though he turned me down, had previously granted clemency to at least a dozen other formerly condemned murderers. phoned to tell me that the governor, away on a hunting trip in Texas, had rejected the recommendation of the board. Without seeing the recommendation, Edwards cited the "nature of the crime" and said that I had already been given one commutation when I was resentenced from death to life imprisonment. What he didn't acknowledge was that the forty-five or fifty unconst.i.tutional death sentences replaced with life sentences were not grants of mercy but a legal maneuver by the state to preserve dozens of convictions that might not have stood if we had been retried. Nor did anyone note that Edwards, though he turned me down, had previously granted clemency to at least a dozen other formerly condemned murderers.

Members of the media immediately called me at the Angolite Angolite office. All I wanted to do was suffer my crushing defeat in private, the way other inmates did. But the reporters kept calling, and as office. All I wanted to do was suffer my crushing defeat in private, the way other inmates did. But the reporters kept calling, and as Angolite Angolite editor with a phone on my desk, I felt I couldn't hide. editor with a phone on my desk, I felt I couldn't hide.

"Naturally, I'm floored," I told Times-Picayune Times-Picayune reporter Jason DeParle. "I understand the governor's position about my having been sentenced to death before. But that's the nature of clemency-that an individual not be forever chained to misfortune, tragedy and sin... I'm going to continue to be a productive individual and continue striving to earn my place among free men. I've always accepted my punishment without complaint." reporter Jason DeParle. "I understand the governor's position about my having been sentenced to death before. But that's the nature of clemency-that an individual not be forever chained to misfortune, tragedy and sin... I'm going to continue to be a productive individual and continue striving to earn my place among free men. I've always accepted my punishment without complaint."

Hicks was shocked at Edwards's denial, as were Ma.r.s.ellus and Phelps. They concluded it was a mistake to have recommended an outright discharge from prison, that it may have been too much for my white opponents to swallow. Ma.r.s.ellus a.s.sured me that on my next clemency application the board would instead recommend a commutation to sixty years, the same that Billy had received from the previous board. The difference was that, given my almost twenty-four years of incarceration, I would be immediately eligible for parole.

In the months following, the state executed two more inmates who had been denied clemency by the board. Then board member Lionel Daniels resigned, followed by Hicks, who was replaced by Oris Williams, a member of her political group. She a.s.sured me he would vote for me when the time came.

Meanwhile, my relationship with Billy was deteriorating. Despite his choice to remain low profile and out of the news, he felt credit due him for The Angolite The Angolite was being buried beneath the national tide of attention that my case had garnered. He blamed me. Tension replaced the sense of calm that had long made was being buried beneath the national tide of attention that my case had garnered. He blamed me. Tension replaced the sense of calm that had long made The Angolite The Angolite office my refuge. office my refuge.

April brought bad news as our supervisor, Peggi Gresham, transferred to the Louisiana Training Inst.i.tute for Girls as its deputy superintendent so she could be closer to her ailing parents, for whom she had to care. Gresham and I had started on The Angolite The Angolite a decade earlier with a shared vision. We had developed an abiding respect, trust, and fondness for each other. Like Phelps, she trusted me without reservation, as I did her. Prison power rests in personalities and in relationships. When Gresham left, she was the most powerful individual in the Angola administration. After her demotion during Maggio's second reign, she had become Warden Blackburn's right hand and confidante. In her absence, I no longer had an official I was close to in the Angola administration on whom I could count to protect my interests in conflicts. a decade earlier with a shared vision. We had developed an abiding respect, trust, and fondness for each other. Like Phelps, she trusted me without reservation, as I did her. Prison power rests in personalities and in relationships. When Gresham left, she was the most powerful individual in the Angola administration. After her demotion during Maggio's second reign, she had become Warden Blackburn's right hand and confidante. In her absence, I no longer had an official I was close to in the Angola administration on whom I could count to protect my interests in conflicts.

As summer 1985 approached, Billy had lost virtually all interest in The Angolite The Angolite and had pretty much stopped going anywhere inside or outside the prison to cover events. Since there were only three full-time writers on the staff-Billy, Tommy, and me-his withdrawal seriously affected production of the magazine, forcing me to rely more on stringers. Billy's contributions increasingly were limited to items that were essentially rewrites of published stories in the commercial media. and had pretty much stopped going anywhere inside or outside the prison to cover events. Since there were only three full-time writers on the staff-Billy, Tommy, and me-his withdrawal seriously affected production of the magazine, forcing me to rely more on stringers. Billy's contributions increasingly were limited to items that were essentially rewrites of published stories in the commercial media.

He became a progressively more negative force in the office. He maintained running conflicts with our new supervisor, Richard Peabody, and his a.s.sistants, whom he disliked and made no effort to work with. It made putting out a magazine even more difficult, so I asked Phelps if he could a.s.sign us a different supervisor, and a.s.sistant warden Roger Thomas was placed over us in November 1985.

One day Billy told me he was hearing rumors that pardons could be bought. "The word is that Ma.r.s.ellus can be gotten to," he said, "and that guys are sending their people in to him." He told me he had heard that the wife of inmate Gary Martin, a smooth-talking born-again religious con artist, had been seen on a number of occasions in the streets with Ma.r.s.ellus, who was said to be sleeping with her in return for getting her husband out of prison. Billy hated Ma.r.s.ellus, so his remarks were suspect. He suggested that I be careful about being too closely a.s.sociated with Ma.r.s.ellus or even talking with him on the telephone, because he felt it was only a question of time before the chairman got investigated. Since we were no longer chummy, I wondered why he was telling me this.

"Billy, I don't do anything wrong," I said. "If Ma.r.s.ellus or any other official is doing something wrong, that's their problem, not mine. You should know me well enough by now to know that I'm always always clean." I paused, then added, "If you know something specific that I should be aware of, tell me. If not, I don't have time for this." clean." I paused, then added, "If you know something specific that I should be aware of, tell me. If not, I don't have time for this."

I was now preparing for another pardon board hearing, which was scheduled for May 7. I had high hopes for receiving a recommendation that the governor would sign this time.

The hearing was a repeat of the previous one, attracting national media attention. Both my supporters and opponents had conducted letter-writing campaigns to the pardon board. As before, the rules barred me from attending. It was standing room only in the hearing room, which was packed with my supporters, mostly white, with the overflow outside. Margery Hicks, among others, carried picket signs advocating my release. After two hours of deliberation, the board recommended my sentence be reduced to sixty years, making me eligible not for outright discharge but for immediate parole, as our strategy dictated. The confidence of my supporters was contagious. In the privacy of my office, I planned my new life. I dreamed modestly, about walking down a street or eating in a diner, maybe going to a movie. I knew there would be enormous challenges, and I steeled myself for them. I felt that whatever life could throw at me on the outside, I was equal to it, having survived so much in Angola. I let myself drift on a tide of hope.

The media caught up with Governor Edwards the next day as he was entering the federal courthouse in New Orleans to stand trial on racketeering and conspiracy charges. He told the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate Morning Advocate, "I'll take a look at [Rideau's] file when it gets to me. I'll not prejudge it."

The following day, thanks to Jim Amoss, now an editor, the conservative Times-Picayune Times-Picayune did something it had never done before: It editorially called for the governor to commute the sentence of a prisoner-me. It said: "If ever a man was rehabilitated, it seems that Wilbert Rideau has been. That conclusion is not ours alone. It is shared by the professional corrections officers who have supervised him for the past 25 years." did something it had never done before: It editorially called for the governor to commute the sentence of a prisoner-me. It said: "If ever a man was rehabilitated, it seems that Wilbert Rideau has been. That conclusion is not ours alone. It is shared by the professional corrections officers who have supervised him for the past 25 years."

On June 18, 1986, Edwards held a press conference where he announced that he was denying me clemency again: "If I reacted solely on my personal beliefs, I would sign the pardon," he said. "I agree with those who say he has been rehabilitated." I found it ironic that, given his previous comments to The New York Times The New York Times that ma.s.s sentiment shouldn't overrule the ends of justice, he now justified denying me clemency because, he said, he had a responsibility to be concerned with "ma.s.s sentiment," and noted that "community feeling in the Lake Charles area" remained severely against clemency. I got the news when Warden Blackburn walked into my office and interrupted an NBC-TV news crew that was interviewing me. "Rideau, the governor just turned down the pardon board's recommendation," he said. I was devastated. The crew turned off the cameras, expressed their regrets, and left me to my disappointment. that ma.s.s sentiment shouldn't overrule the ends of justice, he now justified denying me clemency because, he said, he had a responsibility to be concerned with "ma.s.s sentiment," and noted that "community feeling in the Lake Charles area" remained severely against clemency. I got the news when Warden Blackburn walked into my office and interrupted an NBC-TV news crew that was interviewing me. "Rideau, the governor just turned down the pardon board's recommendation," he said. I was devastated. The crew turned off the cameras, expressed their regrets, and left me to my disappointment.

The next day, Jane Bankston, the wife of a state senator and the director of mental health for the corrections department, came to see me. I had met her when she was working with a prerelease program several years before. She had become a good friend and, with Ginger Roberts, had coordinated my recent clemency effort. Jane had driven to Lake Charles and picked up mailbags of letters to the governor from black churches there and made sure the hearing room was filled to capacity with supporters. She asked how I was doing and requested that I accompany her to the prison hospital. There she took me into a room where there was a black inmate with whom she cheerfully began chatting. Gradually, it dawned on me that he was blind. I was intrigued. Jane introduced us. His name was Alvin Anderson. As I listened to them I became offended at a system that would keep a blind man in the biggest maximum-security prison in the nation. His blindness made him the most vulnerable person in the place. How was he to fend for himself, to survive? By the end of the visit, I was resolute, my disappointment pushed aside. "The governor may keep me in prison," I said to Anderson, "but I will make that sonuvab.i.t.c.h turn you loose. I promise you that."

As we left the hospital, I told Jane that I wanted all the information the department had on Anderson and other prisoners who were blind, paralyzed, or otherwise severely disabled. Then I asked her what she had come to the prison to see me about. "I wanted you to meet Alvin." She smiled. "Now I know you'll be all right." Ever the social worker, she had engineered the meeting to refocus my attention. I channeled my emotions and anger into an investigative expose, "The Edge of Madness." The story, published in the July/August 1986 Angolite Angolite, was picked up by the commercial media and prompted the pardon board to initiate efforts that would ultimately free Anderson and about twenty more needlessly confined Angola inmates.

I noticed that Billy had become calmer, less negative, and much more cordial. He volunteered to do a story on Wade Correctional Inst.i.tute, a prison located near the Arkansas border that was the state's only facility with a protective custody unit designated for former cops and sensitive, high-profile individuals. For someone who had shown little inclination to do any real journalism of late, this was a surprise.

During the summer, on one of my trips to Baton Rouge, Phelps expressed concern to me about Billy. Without going into details, he suggested I keep an eye on him. "Tell me," he said, "in the course of his everyday life, have you seen him behave strangely or do things that cause you to wonder about him?"

"Billy was withdrawn for a while, which we attributed to his frustration over not being able to get out, but lately he's changed. He's become more alive, more sociable, curious-always wanting to know about what's going on," I said. "Tommy believes he's up to something."

"What does he think he's up to?"

"We haven't the foggiest idea," I replied, "but if you feel he can no longer be trusted and presents a potential problem to The Angolite The Angolite, maybe you should consider moving him into a different position."

"We'll see how things go," he said.

In August, Billy told me that Jodie heard through a source in the Baton Rouge federal district attorney's office that the FBI was now investigating pardon selling and Ma.r.s.ellus. He seemed quite buoyed by this fact, which I attributed to his dislike of the man. On September 4 came the news that state police had arrested Ma.r.s.ellus and House Speaker pro tempore Joe Delpit, one of the governor's closest political allies, on charges of public bribery and conspiracy to get convicted murderer Juan Serato out of prison for $100,000. Federal district attorney Ray Lamonica revealed he had also been conducting an investigation independent of the state police's but refused to divulge any information.

As the scandal began to dominate the news in the ensuing weeks, the governor declared that he would sign no more pardons until a grand jury investigation was over.

As the scandal grew, Billy acted increasingly odd, especially after his office was searched in a surprise security action. When I pressed him, he revealed to Tommy, me, and our ill.u.s.trator, Poochie, that he and Jodie had been cooperating with an FBI sting operation on Berlin Hood, the prison's food manager, who offered to arrange a pardon for Billy for $15,000, that Ma.r.s.ellus was involved, and that it went all the way up the line to the governor.

We were shocked, not only because of the FBI connection but also because Billy and Hood were close, and had been for more than a decade; Hood was his mentor, protector, and advocate.

"This only has to do with Hood," Billy said, "not anyone else in this prison." He said he couldn't explain everything right then but suggested that we watch reporter Chris McDaniel's special series featuring Jodie on Channel 9 the following evening. He said that would be followed by the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate Morning Advocate publishing a feature on him. publishing a feature on him.

After Billy left the office, Tommy said, "Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned. They betrayed Hood to the FBI, then betrayed the FBI to Channel 9. This is going to raise questions about us, too."

I sat alone in the darkness of my office, deep into the night, trying to decide what-if anything-I should do. I knew that if I repeated down the Walk what Billy had told us, one of those inmates whose clemency hopes had vanished because of the scandal would take him down. I had tried hard to help Billy, yet he had caused me more problems and anguish than any other inmate during my entire prison experience.

With the morning light came clarity. Just because people labeled us criminals didn't mean we had to be criminals. I had survived everything prison had thrown at me, and I would survive this, too.

That morning Billy left Angola in the custody of federal marshals. A Channel 9 camera crew was conveniently at the front gate to film and report the story of his entering protective custody after being part of a federal investigation into pardon selling. It was headline news throughout the state.

The following afternoon, Phelps met with the Angolite Angolite staff. staff.

"To answer the question foremost in your minds," he said, "Billy Wayne Sinclair is in the East Baton Rouge Parish jail, where he is being debriefed by federal and state investigators. While it's supposed to be about Hood offering him a pardon for fifteen thousand dollars, he's volunteering everything he knows about everybody to anybody who'll listen." He paused, looked at me, and continued. "He says you and Ma.r.s.ellus are close, that you call him at home, and he's heard you discussing the cases of inmates on the Angolite Angolite telephone, suggesting that your dealings with Ma.r.s.ellus were improper, if not criminal." telephone, suggesting that your dealings with Ma.r.s.ellus were improper, if not criminal."

"Of course I've talked to Ma.r.s.ellus about inmates," I said, "just as I've talked with past pardon and parole board members who ask my opinion on trying to help inmates. I'm the editor here, and everyone calls for both information and my opinion-grant hustlers, researchers, journalists, state officials, wardens. I've been doing this for the last ten years. I've never seen it as a big deal, nor has anyone else. But in all my dealings with Ma.r.s.ellus he never once suggested anything improper or offered to sell a pardon, either through me or to me."

"Does anyone have any idea why Billy would want to create problems for The Angolite?" The Angolite?" Phelps asked. "It's apparent that he wants to." Phelps was concerned that our staff might be seen as complicit in Billy's informant activities and his busting Hood, a popular prison employee. Phelps asked. "It's apparent that he wants to." Phelps was concerned that our staff might be seen as complicit in Billy's informant activities and his busting Hood, a popular prison employee.

"Well, we're about to learn how much respect we command and the extent of our credibility among the inmates," I said.

A less courageous man in charge would have shut us down, but Phelps used the incident as an opportunity to reinforce the administration's commitment to us. He said his concern was The Angolite The Angolite and what Billy did. "That's something that I, as publisher, have to address," he said, "so get out your tape recorder." and what Billy did. "That's something that I, as publisher, have to address," he said, "so get out your tape recorder."

He gave a lengthy statement, which I published in its entirety in the November/December 1986 issue of the magazine, following a brief report on Billy's role as an FBI undercover informant. "What Billy Wayne did certainly compromised not only the integrity of the magazine but also the safety and well-being of the rest of the staff who had nothing to do with his extracurricular activities," he said, in part.

Not long after the Sinclair affair, Phelps expanded journalism at Angola to include KLSP, the nation's only federally licensed, inmate-operated radio station.

We Angolite Angolite staffers met with inmate leaders, making a point of being seen with them and becoming even more accessible to the general population. Our survival required all of Angola to see that we were not part of Sinclair's sting and that we had no knowledge of it. Tensions ran rampant at the prison, with rumors of widespread investigations into individuals and operations. Inmates were on edge. Employees were wary. But our integrity remained intact. staffers met with inmate leaders, making a point of being seen with them and becoming even more accessible to the general population. Our survival required all of Angola to see that we were not part of Sinclair's sting and that we had no knowledge of it. Tensions ran rampant at the prison, with rumors of widespread investigations into individuals and operations. Inmates were on edge. Employees were wary. But our integrity remained intact.

Contrary to his expectations, Billy would serve another twenty years in prison, in protective custody. Jodie, who stuck with him, eventually went into public relations work in Houston.

9.

Soldiering On 1986-1990 Which is worse: death by execution or spending the rest of your life in prison? That was a question I was asked to answer on July 1, 1986, when I went to the studios of WBRZ-TV in Baton Rouge to appear by hookup on Nightline Nightline. With twenty-five years served on a life sentence, I was at that time one of the longest-serving lifers in America, which qualified me as an expert on the subject. Ted Koppel was exploring it because serial killer Ted Bundy was scheduled to be executed that night-a date with death he dodged only temporarily.

A couple of weeks later I received a note from Dr. Linda LaBranche of Northwestern University, a Shakespeare scholar who had learned from my Nightline Nightline appearance that I "wrote for the prison newspaper" and decided-against all her instincts, she later confessed-to write to me to offer whatever I might need in the way of pens, writing tablets, or books. She sounded like a prim and proper English teacher who was patting me on the head like a good little boy. I sent a return note thanking her for her interest and asked her to write again. I enclosed articles about me from appearance that I "wrote for the prison newspaper" and decided-against all her instincts, she later confessed-to write to me to offer whatever I might need in the way of pens, writing tablets, or books. She sounded like a prim and proper English teacher who was patting me on the head like a good little boy. I sent a return note thanking her for her interest and asked her to write again. I enclosed articles about me from The New York Times The New York Times and and The Christian Science Monitor The Christian Science Monitor and the and the Times-Picayune Times-Picayune editorial advocating my freedom. After reading the articles, she wrote back asking why my clemency had been denied. It made no sense to her. I wrote back, and she did, too-almost daily, telling me about her life and asking me for more information about my case. I sent her a two-inch-thick file of photocopied news clippings. In return, the following week, she sent me a thirty-page "briefing" on my case that she had prepared for the media, along with cross-indexed listings of the articles I'd sent. editorial advocating my freedom. After reading the articles, she wrote back asking why my clemency had been denied. It made no sense to her. I wrote back, and she did, too-almost daily, telling me about her life and asking me for more information about my case. I sent her a two-inch-thick file of photocopied news clippings. In return, the following week, she sent me a thirty-page "briefing" on my case that she had prepared for the media, along with cross-indexed listings of the articles I'd sent.

I was amazed at the amount of work she'd done, even though the "briefing" was far too long to be of any value to the media. She said she was dividing the days of her summer vacation between scholarship and reading up on the criminal justice system, to which she'd never before given a thought. She found the whole thing fascinating. I wondered if she was just a crazy old lady, and if not, if she'd be willing to help me in some way that might lead to clemency. I didn't know what that might be, but the biggest problem that every prisoner faces in trying to get out of prison is a lack of help on the outside-someone to write letters, recruit other supporters, show up at pardon hearings, gather evidence, organize. When I asked her to send me a photo of herself, she sent a one-inch-square mug shot from a school ID card. Quite possibly crazy Quite possibly crazy, I thought, trying to discern from the miniature photo what she might actually look like.

C. Paul Phelps was going to a corrections convention in Chicago in October and I asked if he would check her out for me, if she was willing to meet with him. It was a meeting that would change my life. He thought she was charming, smart, and very well informed about my case. He grilled her with questions, she grilled him, and by the end of the long dinner they shared, he urged her to come to Louisiana and talk with me in person before she agreed to put her reputation on the line to try to help me.

Linda announced she would come during the Thanksgiving break. When the day arrived, I was on edge, still a bit wary that someone might want to take out their frustrations on me because their clemency hopes were damaged by the pardon-for-sale investigation.

Linda stepped off the prison bus wearing high heels and a teal blue suit, definitely overdressed. She stood five-foot-two and weighed less than a hundred pounds, which were packed into an hourgla.s.s shape that would have been the envy of a twenty-five-year-old but that the typical black man from my era would have found too thin. Her hair was a light auburn, thanks to henna, which complemented her light complexion and highlighted big eyes that changed from bright blue to green or gray depending on the color of the sky or her clothing. She was thirty-eight years old, and although she was not beautiful in the cla.s.sic sense, I could tell that she had always been a magnet for men the way pretty women are when they exude warmth. As we talked, I learned that she had left home as a teenager to find a better life than the one she was born to, that she was fiercely independent and possessed acute a.n.a.lytical skills that she had acquired from her life and had honed during her journey through academia. The only sign that betrayed her Ph.D. was an unrelenting desire to discuss everything from crime and punishment to politics in terms of Shakespeare's plays or dramaturgy. If it hurt her feelings that I showed no interest in what was then her life's pa.s.sion, she didn't show it.

I never expected Linda to be in my life very long. She had been a rolling stone, making her way at nineteen to New York City and shifting from city to city ever since. I met her shortly after her return to the United States from Bangkok, where she'd been teaching at a university she walked into one day while backpacking around the world at age thirty-five, sleeping in youth hostels and train stations. She was clearly an adventurer, and I figured I was just the latest adventure. That was fine with me. In prison you learn to be grateful for what you can get.

"From what I gather, you have a lot of people who support you and your cause for freedom," she said to me as we sat at a concrete table, watching some inmates visiting with their families, others playing volleyball with their kids. Lush green trees formed a border around the s.p.a.cious, parklike visiting grounds built into a slope of the Tunica hills. It was an oasis, a spot of beauty and peace accessible to trusties as a reward. "What you don't have-and I think you need-is a soldier," soldier," said Linda, "someone on the outside who will actually do for you the things that you need done. I can be that for you." said Linda, "someone on the outside who will actually do for you the things that you need done. I can be that for you."