One day during the week of the execution, we were told the surprising news that we could not film at the death house because an ABC-TV crew was filming there. They had also been on death row talking to Antonio. I asked Antonio why he was cooperating with ABC when he had committed to giving me the exclusive. He apologized and explained that Cain had brought Prime Time Live Prime Time Live's correspondent Cynthia McFadden to meet him and had asked him to cooperate with the lady. "I have to do this," James told me. "I don't have a choice." Cain was getting Antonio's son out of a juvenile prison to visit with him, and was helping his mother by providing transportation for her to visit him.

I told him that I understood. I would have done the same thing.

Cain, learning that I was angry, said that I was to continue my film, that there was no conflict, that what I would produce would be the superior film because he had made ABC promise that they had to allow me to use the footage they would tape at the death house of Antonio's walk to the execution chamber. "This way, you'll have not only what you film, but also what they do, too," he said. "This is a better deal for you."

I reminded him that I had been filming this project since the day he became warden and that he had promised me the exclusive on Antonio's last walk. He promised to make it up to me on something else. We continued filming, tweaking, and changing our project so that it didn't end up appearing to be a copy of what ABC would produce.

In June, Prime Time Live Prime Time Live aired "Judgment at Midnight," a special hour-long feature that focused on the final week's countdown to Antonio's execution. Prior to the broadcast, Cynthia McFadden appeared as a guest on aired "Judgment at Midnight," a special hour-long feature that focused on the final week's countdown to Antonio's execution. Prior to the broadcast, Cynthia McFadden appeared as a guest on The Charlie Rose Show The Charlie Rose Show to talk about ABC's unparalleled access to the execution. She explained that while at Angola on a totally unrelated story about another inmate, Cain invited her to accompany him to death row, where he introduced her to Antonio James and suggested the story to her, guaranteeing her unprecedented camera access to everything except the actual execution. Cain had deliberately sabotaged my film project. McFadden, none the wiser, understandably leaped at the opportunity. to talk about ABC's unparalleled access to the execution. She explained that while at Angola on a totally unrelated story about another inmate, Cain invited her to accompany him to death row, where he introduced her to Antonio James and suggested the story to her, guaranteeing her unprecedented camera access to everything except the actual execution. Cain had deliberately sabotaged my film project. McFadden, none the wiser, understandably leaped at the opportunity.

But she also touted Cain's openness and the access accorded ABC-TV, unaware that less than two weeks before The Charlie Rose Show The Charlie Rose Show, Cain had punished inmate boxer Donald Vallier for his "openness" in innocent comments to the New Orleans Times-Picayune Times-Picayune about h.o.m.os.e.xuality and drugs at Angola by putting him in chains and transferring him across the state to another prison. Cain's openness and media access were calculated and orchestrated for his own purposes. about h.o.m.os.e.xuality and drugs at Angola by putting him in chains and transferring him across the state to another prison. Cain's openness and media access were calculated and orchestrated for his own purposes.

Stack told me that Cain discouraged him from working with me. Nonetheless, we labored on to produce the hour-long doc.u.mentary, now renamed Final Judgment: The Execution of Antonio James Final Judgment: The Execution of Antonio James, which was to air in August on the Discovery Channel. Stack said Cain had a real problem with what I was doing and that it might help if I wasn't listed as one of the producers of the film. So I reluctantly settled for the minimal credit line "Story by Wilbert Rideau," and decided to discontinue my film work until Cain became comfortable with my doing it and I could gain more control over my work, and the credit I would receive for it.

In the wake of Michael's death, I had rea.s.sumed control of The Angolite The Angolite. Cathy Jett now indicated that Cain might want to import someone from another prison to run it. That idea stunned the entire staff. Then Angolite Angolite staffer Keith Elliott died shortly after Michael, and production of the magazine fell behind schedule. While Cain was out of state, I phoned Sheryl Ranatza and told her that the magazine had a contractual obligation to subscribers and that I was going to take charge of the operation until the warden decided whom he wanted to serve as editor. She agreed. Once I reestablished my position, I didn't think Cain would oust me, because that would be a hugely controversial move. staffer Keith Elliott died shortly after Michael, and production of the magazine fell behind schedule. While Cain was out of state, I phoned Sheryl Ranatza and told her that the magazine had a contractual obligation to subscribers and that I was going to take charge of the operation until the warden decided whom he wanted to serve as editor. She agreed. Once I reestablished my position, I didn't think Cain would oust me, because that would be a hugely controversial move.

It felt like death was everywhere I turned, and I wrote more about it in the September/October 1996 issue of The Angolite The Angolite.

While "Final Judgment" was produced, the story of another prisoner facing death went undone.His name was Anthony Fields, but everyone called him "Beaver Duck." He came to Angola in 1971, a teenager with life terms for two New Orleans rapes. The prison was sinking into an era of barbarity that would earn it the distinction of being the bloodiest prison in the nation. It was a bad time. Beaver Duck was raped and enslaved, forced to be a wife to his rapist. Afterwards, he was used and abused by predators, traded, sold and used as collateral, escaping this role only a decade ago. Vengeful souls might regard this horrific experience as a kind of poetic justice.Beaver Duck came to me in early February, dying of lung cancer, robbed of whatever dream for the future that had sustained him through his ordeal. He wanted to tell his story on film, to share the tragedy of his pained existence with the world. Having become a Christian, he wanted his 25 years in Angola to be of value to others, for it all not to have been a waste. His was a story I yearned to tell.Too many things were happening, not enough time. There was the merciless countdown to the execution of Antonio James. I was committed to that story, wanting to salvage some value from his needless, yet inevitable death. Then two Angolite Angolite members died and the magazine fell far behind schedule. members died and the magazine fell far behind schedule.Beaver Duck lived in my dormitory. There was no escaping him. His eyes asked when I'd bring the camcorder and begin filming. He reminded me each morning, "I'm ready when you're ready. Waiting on you." "Hang in there," I'd say. "Soon!" Though ever mindful his health was deteriorating, I was caught up in a tide of demands and activities. I was very frustrated at my inability to find the time to get back to him. Friends warned, "Time's running out." Beaver Duck became so weak he was placed on the medical ward. Still, he sent word from his hospital bed not to forget his story. I really wanted to do it, had even gotten a green light from my boss, but couldn't find the time. He remained unfinished business. I finally went to the hospital, not to film, but to tell him his request to be furloughed to die outside with his family had been denied. "That means I'm gonna die in prison, huh?" he said, his voice low and filled with despair. I watched life leave his eyes. He died a week later. He was 43.Antonio James's story was told, but not Beaver Duck's. I failed him. His sad eyes and imploring, "I'm waiting on you," join a litany of others I could never find time to get back to. They haunt my soul during times of reflection because I understand their disappointment. Like Beaver Duck and others, I too am unfinished business. Those who promised with the best of intentions to help, and could have made a difference, couldn't make the time. They never got back.

As 1996 was drawing to a close, I was more than a little surprised to hear from Jonathan Stack. He wanted us to start working on a film I had suggested to him called "Where I Live," about life in Angola. Stack told me that Cain was okay with that. I told him that I'd seen no change in Cain's att.i.tude, and I could do nothing until I did.

One evening soon afterward, I went to a Christmas function at the chapel, a white, high-ceilinged, octagonal building without statuary or other ornamentation save the beautiful stained-gla.s.s windows depicting symbols of the Christian, Jewish, and Muslim religions. Leaving early, I stepped onto the brightly lit Walk nearby.

"Hold up, Wilbert," said Cain, who fell in alongside me as I headed to my office. "I'll walk with you." He asked if I was going to work with Stack on another film. "Nope," I said. He flattered me about our Antonio James film and said he "knew that a little compet.i.tion would make you work harder and turn out a better product." He suggested that I should work with Jonathan again. "Y'all make a good team," he said, then added meaningfully, "I like Jonathan."

A few days later, Cain phoned to tell me that Stack and Liz Garbus were at the prison to film some of the Christmas activity. They were already filming in the employee community. "But they don't know what else to film. Look," he said, "they need you to help them make this film. They don't know anything about Angola, but you know this place and how to do what they want to do. They can't do it without you, so they gonna be coming to your office to talk to you, and I'm counting on you to make this work for 'em and for us. If you have any problems or need anything, you just call."

Hardly a simple request for a personal favor, this was a nicely presented command from a dictator armed with arbitrary power. I knew I had to do what he asked.

I wondered what Stack could have done to get Cain not only to overcome his animosity toward me but to order order me to make another film. I knew Stack had arranged speaking engagements for Cain in the northeast, even traveled with him. Now Stack had carte blanche in Angola. I had to be wary of him. me to make another film. I knew Stack had arranged speaking engagements for Cain in the northeast, even traveled with him. Now Stack had carte blanche in Angola. I had to be wary of him.

I told him and Liz, whom I liked, about various things happening in different parts of the prison that would collectively provide a slice of life in Angola. We walked over to the prison hospital with Checo and Norris to film a visit with Logan "Bones" Theriot, who was dying, and my film, now renamed The Farm The Farm, was under way. We filmed for months all over the prison, and despite my initial reservations, I soon warmed to the project. Filmmaking was something I enjoyed.

Two months into the project, on March 5, 1997, Advocate Advocate reporter James Minton phoned to ask me about an award I had won. I had no idea. reporter James Minton phoned to ask me about an award I had won. I had no idea.

"You won the Louisiana Bar a.s.sociation's top journalism award for Final Judgment," Final Judgment," he said. "No one told you?" he said. "No one told you?"

I was stunned to learn from the front-page news story the next day that the Bar a.s.sociation had requested my presence at the awards ceremony five weeks earlier. Cain had instead sent an a.s.sistant warden to the ceremony to pick up the award-actually two awards-inscribed with my name, and kept them on his desk without even telling me about them. The negative press, including an editorial critical of him in the Advocate Advocate, was an utter embarra.s.sment to Cain. A week later, he struck back.

On March 12, 1997, I was ordered out of the Angolite Angolite office while three unidentified men in civilian clothing, carrying briefcases and black bags, went in. When I was permitted to return to the office that afternoon, I saw that our two office phones had been removed. In their place was a new phone that Cain wanted us to have, so that we could phone anyone, anywhere in the world-as long as they accepted the collect charges. (Many of our calls were to governmental agencies, libraries, and research agencies that could not accept collect calls.) The new phone, unlike our old ones, couldn't receive incoming calls and allowed us to call only outside the prison, so we could no longer have telephone contact with any official in the prison, including our own supervisor. And all our calls were now to be recorded. office while three unidentified men in civilian clothing, carrying briefcases and black bags, went in. When I was permitted to return to the office that afternoon, I saw that our two office phones had been removed. In their place was a new phone that Cain wanted us to have, so that we could phone anyone, anywhere in the world-as long as they accepted the collect charges. (Many of our calls were to governmental agencies, libraries, and research agencies that could not accept collect calls.) The new phone, unlike our old ones, couldn't receive incoming calls and allowed us to call only outside the prison, so we could no longer have telephone contact with any official in the prison, including our own supervisor. And all our calls were now to be recorded. The Angolite The Angolite and I were just being tolerated. and I were just being tolerated.

I'd spent a lifetime gaining experience and knowledge of the prison world from a unique perspective. It was my only real a.s.set. But after two years of trying to acquire credibility as a film producer both for myself and for The Angolite The Angolite, I had little to show for it. When The Farm The Farm was nominated for an Academy Award in the best feature-length doc.u.mentary category, I wasn't included in the nomination. I never knew why. was nominated for an Academy Award in the best feature-length doc.u.mentary category, I wasn't included in the nomination. I never knew why.

Cain was doing everything he could to isolate me. He ended twenty years of my traveling outside of the prison to talk to university students, civic organizations, and probationers. My personal mail was being read. Cain was telling some of my closest allies, like Ginger Berrigan, now a federal judge, that I was no longer the upbeat, rehabilitated person they had known-that I'd given up, become depressed, let myself go. Ginger, who came to see for herself, was surprised to see me unchanged. I shuddered to think what Cain was saying to people who didn't really know me.

Cain's efforts to undermine me sometimes got me down. Now I often felt I would die in Angola, thinking all the doors were shut-state courts, federal courts, and now executive clemency.

But I would always rebound. I'd had a long life, certainly longer than anyone had expected, and that was a very precious gift, as were the opportunities and the forums given me. I had tried to make the most of them, tried to make a difference, tried to help people both in and out of prison, even helped others win the freedom that continued to elude me and that I might never know. To be sure, I regretted the suffering I had inflicted on so many innocent people with the horrible crime of my youth, the wounds that for some would never heal. Nor had my own life been easy. There had been the pain of isolation, the occasional struggle against going mad, the physical and emotional deprivations, the heartbreak of repeated denials of clemency, which forced me to dig deep within myself to find strength that I didn't even know I possessed. But I also had professional success, the blessing of remarkable supporters and friends, and the satisfaction of helping others. I felt good about myself and proud of the way I'd handled my imprisonment and, in this world of extremes, proud of the way I exercised the power I'd attained. Most of all, I had Linda, who smoothed the rough edges of my existence. I definitely was not happy; I was still a prisoner yearning for freedom, unable to make many of the decisions that controlled my life. But all in all, I had much to be thankful for.

And now hope was rekindled. In September 1997 U.S. Magistrate Christine Noland ruled that the evidence proving racial discrimination and tokenism in Calcasieu's jury selection process in 1961 was overwhelming. Citing U.S. Supreme Court decisions going back to shortly after the end of the Civil War, she recommended that my conviction be thrown out and I be given a new trial or freed.

Although Noland was not his magistrate, Judge Frank Polozola somehow came to preside over the review of her decision. He did not rush into what would normally be a formal acceptance of a magistrate's recommendation. He let it sit for a year and a half. Then, on May 5, 1999, he held a hearing on the state's objections to the magistrate's recommendations. I was brought to his Baton Rouge courtroom at Calcasieu district attorney Rick Bryant's request. The district attorney brought with him his entire top bra.s.s to fight the nearly forty-year-old case. By my side was my longtime pro bono attorney, Julian Murray. Friends and supporters of mine had come from New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Grambling, and Lafayette; three drove all night from Texas. They had come in vanloads from Lake Charles to show their support for me. Except for the seats occupied by the media, the courtroom was filled to capacity by people wearing FREE RIDEAU FREE RIDEAU pins, which the judge made them remove. pins, which the judge made them remove.

As the hearing began, Judge Polozola reminded everyone that "this is not a parole or pardon board hearing. The purpose of the hearing is to determine whether or not const.i.tutional rights were violated." The state had conceded in its pleadings that the method of selecting grand juries in Calcasieu Parish in 1961 was susceptible to racial discrimination, although they denied that the presence of Acton Hillebrandt's yardboy on my grand jury was either tokenism or discrimination. In court, however, Bryant argued that none of that mattered anyway because I had waited too long to file my habeas appeal. In earlier pleadings, he had suggested that I had deliberately sat in prison biding my time for four decades just waiting for everyone concerned with the case to die or grow so old they wouldn't be viable witnesses at a new trial. It was hard to sit still for such hallucinogenic logic.

Bryant put me on the stand and grilled me about why I hadn't filed this habeas pet.i.tion in 1973 after the Louisiana Supreme Court last reviewed my conviction. I answered that I didn't know I had a basis for a claim until 1993 and explained that in 1973 my lawyers told me they had done everything for me that could be done. Bryant called James Wood, one of my 1973 lawyers, to the stand, and he confirmed what I said. The district attorney suggested that since I had educated myself as a writer, I should have also known my legal rights. Alternatively, Bryant's a.s.sistant, Wayne Frey, suggested that since I had chosen to become a writer rather than a jailhouse lawyer, I would have to live with the consequences of my choice.

Because the district attorneys could not defend against the charge of discriminatory practices, they were trying to make me the problem. In their through-the-looking-gla.s.s view, the fault wasn't what they did in 1961 but that I didn't catch them soon enough.

At the end of the daylong hearing, Judge Polozola overruled Magistrate Noland's recommendation, saying I had presented no evidence of racial discrimination in the jury or in the selection process in 1961 Calcasieu. I was immediately taken back to Angola, where Cain refused to let me talk to the media. I don't know what he told them. They reported that I either declined to be interviewed or that I would not accept their calls.

In the aftermath of Polozola's ruling, George Kendall, a nationally prominent civil rights attorney at the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, enrolled as cocounsel with Julian on an appeal of Polozola's action to the U.S. Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. After fighting my case alone and pro bono for more than fifteen years, Julian welcomed George's help and the resources he brought to the equation. And so did I.

I watched what had been America's most transparent prison for more than two decades fade to black. The outside media was routinely denied access to me. Our original office phones were returned to us a year after they were taken following a meeting of the state senate judiciary committee at which the chairman grilled Cain about their removal. Cathy Fontenot (formerly Jett) now told me whom I could and could not speak to on the phone. Few people wanted to talk, anyway, once I informed them that all calls were monitored and recorded. Information, the lifeblood of any news operation, had pretty much dried up.

The July/August 1999 Angolite Angolite was the first issue to reflect that. All six of the articles I wrote were insignificant. For the next edition I managed to do a good investigative report on the unprecedented and, I thought, questionable lockup of fourteen leaders of inmate organizations. It was the last report critical of the administration to see the light of day in was the first issue to reflect that. All six of the articles I wrote were insignificant. For the next edition I managed to do a good investigative report on the unprecedented and, I thought, questionable lockup of fourteen leaders of inmate organizations. It was the last report critical of the administration to see the light of day in The Angolite The Angolite.

Censorship was now imposed without pretense. Cathy Fontenot began giving me direct orders as to what I could and could not publish. When an employee from another prison objected to the term "guard" in one of our articles, it was banned from the magazine by administrative fiat, replaced by "correctional officer." A letter to the editor from a gay inmate grumbling about how he was treated by both inmates and employees was pulled from the January/February 1998 galleys. In 1979, you'll recall, I had published an expose of h.o.m.os.e.xual rape and enslavement at Angola. How times had changed. Another letter to the editor, from an inmate at the women's prison, complained that certain inmates were dying from lack of medical care. Fontenot pulled that letter from the March/April 2000 galleys.

Even the mundane was now censored. For the March/April 2000 issue, I'd taken a photograph of officer Tracy Cage having her brogans shined by an elderly inmate. Fontenot called and told me I couldn't put the guard's face on the cover. I explained that I'd gotten permission from both Cage and the inmate to use the photo, but Fontenot insisted I find something else. I sent over a new cover showing just the inmate polishing the boot. My phone rang.

"Wilbert, you can't use this cover," Fontenot said.

"It doesn't show the guard's face."

"Look," she said, "I've discussed this with Warden Cain. It doesn't look right to put a picture of an inmate shining a guard's boots on the cover of The Angolite The Angolite. It doesn't reflect well on the officers or the inmates or the inst.i.tution."

"Miss Fontenot," I argued, "I don't see the problem. The photo reflects a fact of life here at Angola. The shoe-shine boy is simply doing his job-a job, I might add, that was created by Warden Cain. What's wrong with that?"

"It doesn't look right," she snapped. "Find something else for the cover."

"Is that a direct order?"

"It is," she said, hanging up.

I thought about C. Paul Phelps, who lifted censorship at Angola in 1976 because he believed that shining light on its dark spots and educating the public about its inhabitants would help stimulate reform. He and a twenty-year succession of wardens and Angolite Angolite supervisors had supported openness and freedom of the press because, first, they had nothing to hide, and, second, they believed that if you didn't want people seeing what you were doing, then maybe you shouldn't be doing it. I was witnessing the dismantling of everything they believed in and my own life's work, and there was nothing I could do about it. supervisors had supported openness and freedom of the press because, first, they had nothing to hide, and, second, they believed that if you didn't want people seeing what you were doing, then maybe you shouldn't be doing it. I was witnessing the dismantling of everything they believed in and my own life's work, and there was nothing I could do about it.

The irony was that Cain continued to promote Angola's longtime reputation for being open to journalists. In fact, only stories that were not critical of Cain or his administration, or those that cast them in a good light, were being written or aired-stories on the rodeo, the Bible college, religious revivals, the hospice program, execution stories anch.o.r.ed by Cain holding the condemned man's hand and praying with him. The journalists he favored were grateful for any any access at all to an American prison. "Half the time," I told a visiting journalist friend, "they don't even know they're being led by the nose by a warden who has co-opted them for his own agenda." access at all to an American prison. "Half the time," I told a visiting journalist friend, "they don't even know they're being led by the nose by a warden who has co-opted them for his own agenda."

This warden surrounded himself with people notable for their blind loyalty and drove off many of the straight shooters and professionals who would second-guess him or tell him he was wrong. Mike Gunnells, Angola's most competent and knowledgeable security warden in recent times, finally left in January 1999 after being demoted and then replaced with one of Cain's cronies from a small satellite prison. Gunnells told James Minton that he feared security had been relaxed under Cain. Gunnells was no sooner off the prison farm than four inmates used two handguns smuggled in by an employee to escape on January 24, 1999.

In addition to employees who were inexperienced, corrupt, or lax, the power structure was destabilized as Cain tripled the number of a.s.sistant wardens, promoted and demoted officers, and flipped them around without regard to qualifications or experience. Opportunistic inmates used the power vacuum to make trouble for their enemies, attack guards, bribe employees to smuggle in money and weapons, and engineer escapes. On November 3, 1999, death row had been without a warden for two weeks when four men used ten hacksaw blades to escape from what was supposed to be the prison's most secure facility. It was the first such breach to occur since death row had been created in 1957. The Angolite The Angolite was not allowed to interview either inmates or employees. was not allowed to interview either inmates or employees.

The weeks that followed brought three separate incidents of inmate attacks on guards, which were not made public by the prison. But there was no keeping the fourth incident secret.

On December 28, 1999, there was a rebellion in the education building at Camp D. One guard, the greatly disliked David Knapps, was killed. Numerous inmates, some innocent, were brutalized when employees responded. One was shot in the back of the head, a fact confirmed by the autopsy photos. When the inmate's fiancee tried to get his body, she was told he had already been cremated according to Angola's standard practice. I wondered what the h.e.l.l was going on. I had never known an Angola inmate to be cremated. The Angolite The Angolite again was refused access. The brutalized inmates were isolated. Guards were afraid to talk. Two guards who'd been held hostage during the rebellion disappeared. I sent a message to James Minton through a visitor: "Find and talk to the two hostages." He couldn't locate them. My next message to him was a prediction that Knapps's killing would never go to trial because authorities wouldn't want whatever they were hiding to come to light in a courtroom. Lawsuits by two of the inmates who were beaten were quietly settled out of court. again was refused access. The brutalized inmates were isolated. Guards were afraid to talk. Two guards who'd been held hostage during the rebellion disappeared. I sent a message to James Minton through a visitor: "Find and talk to the two hostages." He couldn't locate them. My next message to him was a prediction that Knapps's killing would never go to trial because authorities wouldn't want whatever they were hiding to come to light in a courtroom. Lawsuits by two of the inmates who were beaten were quietly settled out of court.

The outside world no longer had any way of knowing the truth of what was happening inside Angola. The policies Elayn Hunt and Phelps had put in place a quarter century before in cooperation with the Justice Department to ensure inmates had confidential telephone and mail communications with outside media, as a check against the total and arbitrary power wielded by their keepers, had been abolished. The Angolite The Angolite's role of ferreting out and exposing problems, or simply providing factual information, had in effect been ended. The only information coming out of Angola was what Burl Cain wanted the public to know, and there was no way for anyone to check its accuracy.

I knew, as I knew at The Angolite's The Angolite's difficult birth twenty-three years before, that I had to tread carefully because I was no good to anyone if I didn't survive. But life without the meaning real journalism had allowed me to weave into my prison existence was tedious. There was little to look forward to. At the end of the day, I locked up the office, walked back to the dorm, and said to myself, difficult birth twenty-three years before, that I had to tread carefully because I was no good to anyone if I didn't survive. But life without the meaning real journalism had allowed me to weave into my prison existence was tedious. There was little to look forward to. At the end of the day, I locked up the office, walked back to the dorm, and said to myself, I've got to get out of here I've got to get out of here. I lived from one Sunday to the next, desperate for Linda's visit. I clung to the hope that the U.S. Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals would reverse Judge Polozola's ruling denying me a new trial.

On December 22, the court did indeed reverse Polozola's ruling and threw out my forty-year-old conviction. I absorbed the miracle as I had so many miracles before and wondered what G.o.d still had in store for me. I was to remain in Angola while the state appealed the Fifth Circuit's ruling to the U.S. Supreme Court.

A couple of weeks later, working late, I fell asleep in my office around midnight. The faint smell of smoke awoke me. I could see smoke coming through the air conditioner on the back wall, adjacent to a small mental health office. I stepped into the hall and felt the door of that office. It was hot. Down the hall, Sergeant Francesca Tate was working the Main Prison Office alone. I ran and told her I thought there might be a fire in the office next to mine and suggested she call her supervisor and the Angola fire department. Within minutes Captain Juan Anthony and his lieutenant rushed through the MPO security gate, asking for the key to the office. Tate searched, but it wasn't where it was supposed to be. She phoned the dorm where the orderly responsible for keeping the office clean lived and instructed that he-Henry "Wali" Alfred-be sent back to the MPO. Meanwhile, I took Anthony and his colleague down to the mental health office.

They felt the door, looked at each other, and kicked it open. Flames and smoke poured out. I ran back into the Angolite Angolite office to grab my legal mail and notes I'd made for my lawyers. Turning from my desk, I saw smoke billowing into my office under the door. I rushed out into the hallway, which had become pitch-black with smoke. I realized I might now be trapped. The only way out was down the smoke-filled corridor. Holding my jacket to my nose, I ran blindly down the black hall until I hit the light of the Main Prison Office lobby. office to grab my legal mail and notes I'd made for my lawyers. Turning from my desk, I saw smoke billowing into my office under the door. I rushed out into the hallway, which had become pitch-black with smoke. I realized I might now be trapped. The only way out was down the smoke-filled corridor. Holding my jacket to my nose, I ran blindly down the black hall until I hit the light of the Main Prison Office lobby.

"Are there any more people back in those offices?" Captain Anthony asked.

"No one but me was working down there," I said.

We all walked out of the building and stood with other inmates and officers gawking at the fire licking the night sky. It took seven fire trucks from Angola and surrounding communities to put out the blaze.

Sergeant Tate came over to me. "You saved my life," she said.

"I didn't do anything."

"If you hadn't been in your office to smell the smoke and alert me, what do you think would have happened to me, locked inside that MPO?"

We both knew the answer to that question.

The next morning Cain said firefighters thought the fire was caused by a defective electrical cord on the air conditioner.

"That's not what caused the fire that burned down your office," one of the inmate electricians who had looked at the site told me. "Something else is going on." The fire marshal who inspected the remains told me pretty much the same thing.

As the one who discovered the fire, I was called that morning to be interviewed by Ken Pastorek of WBRZ-TV, after which I was restricted to my dorm for the rest of the day. When WAFB-TV and James Minton arrived that afternoon to interview me, they were directed to Burl Cain's houseboy, Johnny Dixon, and informed that he could tell them everything about the fire because he had discovered it while doing paperwork for his religious organization in an office two doors away.

After the fire marshal and other investigators finished going through the charred offices, it was determined that Wali, the orderly, caused the fire by drying some clothing on a chair over a s.p.a.ce heater that was left on. Two of the inmate electricians told me that could be true; they also told me this was a method of setting a delayed fire, so that the culprit is nowhere around when it begins.

I can never prove that someone set out to kill me. But I knew for certain that I had better watch my back.

12.

Behind Enemy Lines 2001-2005 A black gate officer poked his head into my office and told me to call Linda immediately. I didn't stop to ask how the message made its way to me at 9:30 on a Thursday evening in July through all the forbidden levels of bureaucracy. As I walked into the office of a sympathetic captain where I was to make the call, the phone was ringing. The captain handed it to me. It was Warden Cain.

"Wilbert, I just got a court order for you to go to Calcasieu Parish. They wanted to come take you right now, tonight, but we told them we can't turn loose n.o.body till we can verify the court order." Maybe I heard it wrong Maybe I heard it wrong, I thought. I hung on to the phone in silence.

Cain's voice picked up again: "Go on and take the rest of the night packing and telling everybody good-bye." Stunned, I raced to the dorm to call Linda. She'd seen on the five o'clock news that I'd been reindicted and had tracked down George Kendall in Washington to give him the news. I told her they were moving me in the morning. She a.s.sured me that she would arrange for either Julian or George to meet me at the Calcasieu jail in Lake Charles within a day or two. She made me promise to call her as soon as I could get to a phone in the Calcasieu jail to let her know I was okay.

My eyes scanned the office that I had made into a home for myself. Like any home, it contained mementos of people and places I treasure, evidence of my life and times. Hanging on the wall was the pen-and-ink portrait of me that Troy Bridges, our former ill.u.s.trator, drew as his application for the job twenty-three years earlier. On my desk were precious photos of loved ones taken during visits, which had gotten me through long and lonely nights, along with the ca.s.settes of various blues artists. A quarter century of notes and files sat stacked in boxes and stuffed in cabinets, along with old, unpublished ma.n.u.scripts, a smattering of moldering legal doc.u.ments from the first three trials, and love letters dating back to the 1970s. I couldn't even begin to sift through all this in the few hours I had.

Two Angolite Angolite staffers with me suggested taking only what I would need in jail to avoid giving the Calcasieu cops a chance to go through all my things. staffers with me suggested taking only what I would need in jail to avoid giving the Calcasieu cops a chance to go through all my things.

"Look, if you win, you'll come back and pick up your stuff," said one of my colleagues. "If you lose, you'll need it all when you get back."

I took only a tiny box of essentials with me.

It was 4:00 a.m. when I showered and shaved, then woke friends to break the news to them. No one knew what to say. All the men understood the difference between local jails and Angola. They knew, as I did, that I was headed into the worst stretch of time in my entire forty years of incarceration, worse even than death row. Local jails, for the most part, are full of untamed, testosterone-charged youngsters. They're designed to be temporary holding stations for people awaiting trial or those serving short sentences. A prison like Angola is a place where inmates live for a long time, and as a result, it is a community with its own culture and with a responsible inmate power structure, social and recreational activities, sports teams, religious organizations, self-help clubs, and health care. Jails, with their transient population, have none of this: Life in a jail is idleness overlaid with chaos.

The a.s.sistant warden of the Main Prison arrived about 7:00, just as I heard again on the morning news that I'd been indicted once more. An easygoing and decent man, he a.s.sumed a confidential tone: "The people coming to get you are hateful. They've been fighting you a long time, and they won't turn the past loose. They're going to put you in chains and probably try to humiliate or hurt you in different ways. To them you're just a low-life prisoner, not a human being. You need to be prepared not to let them beat you down. You're stronger than that. I'm hoping you win this, and they don't send you back to Angola. We're keeping your bed and everything open just in case."

I had the most desirable real estate in my dorm, the second bunk from a huge fan that blew away some of the stifling heat as well as whatever germs were incubating in the dorm. I appreciated the kindness but realized, of course, that he expected me to return to Angola in no time.

At 8:00, the a.s.sistant warden and I got into a car and traveled a couple of miles across the sprawling prison complex to the Reception Center near the main gate, where I was photographed and had my fingerprints taken. Now I saw the face of doom approach-a Calcasieu deputy sheriff. He put shackles on my ankles, a chain around my waist to which he attached handcuffs, and the dreaded black iron box was affixed between the cuffs, designed to stop escape artists by holding the hands rigid and immobile, away from the cuffs so the locks can't be picked. The box tightens the chain on the handcuffs. They bit into my wrists. The deputy was all business, like a butcher tying up a rump roast. I hated the restraints, and I was scared, but I remained perfectly calm. If prison taught me nothing else, it taught me never to betray weakness.

The Calcasieu deputy loaded me into a van, and we drove away slowly. Right outside the gate, he pulled over by a car in which four armed cops were waiting. They undid the box and cuffs to frisk me and then stick me in a flak jacket.

"You expecting trouble?" I asked.

"You never know," the deputy responded grudgingly.

With me in the middle of the large van and a police car taking up the rear, we tore through the Friday-morning sunshine all the way to Lake Charles, two hundred miles away, without exchanging a single word.

About noon, we pulled up to the jail-a squat, forbidding fortress made of cinder block and brick. There are clones scattered throughout Louisiana, monuments to the runaway prison industry Burl Cain helped create.

As we wheeled into the fenced-in compound, the officer in front donned a flak jacket just before stepping out of the van into the view of cameras, both still and video, operated by other deputies. This was their own carefully controlled photo op. I was led, in shackles and flak jacket, out of the van and into the path of the cops' lenses. One backpedaled in front of me, rolling video even inside the jail. There were deputies everywhere; the sense of being engulfed by Calcasieu cops took me back forty years, except now there were some female and some black faces mixed in. I'm fifty-nine, too old for this I'm fifty-nine, too old for this, I thought.

I was put in a room and the shackles were taken off. Someone handed me a plate of food, but I was far too traumatized to eat.

A black lieutenant with a military bearing tried to explain the jail rules to me. I told him there were too many for me to digest all at once. He told me George Kendall was flying down to see me tomorrow. Thank G.o.d, Linda reached him Thank G.o.d, Linda reached him.

Later, a black female deputy had me taken to her station to get background information from me.

"Why am I getting so much attention from the bigwigs?" I asked her. "I mean, I know I'm not their favorite person."

"They're scared of you."

"Why?"

"'Cuz you're intelligent, and they know they can't treat you just any kind of way."

"Black folks, too?"

"Oh, no"-she smiled-"all them want your autograph."

The head jailer in Calcasieu, Bruce LaFargue, sent for me. About my size, he was ruddy-complexioned and friendly in a professional way. He had taken the job after retiring from Department of Corrections headquarters in Baton Rouge. One of the first things he told me was that he knew and liked Ron Wikberg. I wondered why he told me this, but I knew knew I couldn't trust him. I couldn't trust him.

Placed in a solitary-confinement cell in a section of the jail called Intake, I was to be moved on Monday. I only have to survive solitary for two days I only have to survive solitary for two days. Next to me, separated by a cinder-block wall, was a young, dark-haired white woman whose face looked strained. She had killed her husband and three kids shortly before I arrived. Black trusties sat outside her door to guard against suicide, peeking through a small window at her every few minutes and logging their observations on a time sheet. I nodded off.

On Sat.u.r.day, I woke up to grits, biscuits, and scrambled eggs that were totally tasteless. I was permitted out to shower, then returned to my cell, where I read the legal notes I'd made as I waited for George, who arrived with Linda about 1:00 p.m. George was furious because neither he nor Julian could find out what was going on. Linda pointed out to George that Calcasieu consistently refused to recognize him as my attorney, so they never notified him of anything. She showed him that he was left off the court order notification list. George scrutinized the order and saw the name of the judge who signed it: G. Michael Canaday.

"This is the judge we were informed had already been handpicked before your case had even left federal court," said George. "Judges are supposed to be selected at random, but somehow the prosecutor got him. They're playing dirty. They're rushing this case through and won't tell us a thing. We can't even get them to tell us what day they're going to arraign you."