We visit with friends at the Angolite Angolite offices. I go into Douglas "Swede" Dennis's office for an interview. Swede, who never committed a crime against free society, was thrown into a violent jail in 1957 on a charge of vagrancy and killed another inmate in a fight. For that, he was sent to Angola during its bloodiest days and killed a tough-a.s.s who was gunning for him, an act one warden called a "public service." I promise him that as soon as I get my life together, I will try to help him get out. offices. I go into Douglas "Swede" Dennis's office for an interview. Swede, who never committed a crime against free society, was thrown into a violent jail in 1957 on a charge of vagrancy and killed another inmate in a fight. For that, he was sent to Angola during its bloodiest days and killed a tough-a.s.s who was gunning for him, an act one warden called a "public service." I promise him that as soon as I get my life together, I will try to help him get out.

I've reached an agreement with the authorities that a cla.s.sification officer will have permission to bring my forty banker's boxes of files out of the prison for me. Guards bring my two metal footlockers from storage and snap them open with a bolt cutter. I take one pair of shoes and leave the remaining food and clothing for whoever wants them. We leave for the visiting room, where we meet Sydney, whose legal advice led to my habeas pet.i.tion for a new trial. We tell him we will do whatever we can to help him win his own release. Lafayette comes into the visiting room next, and I tell him also that I will do what I can to help him win release; he has always claimed innocence, and the police or prosecutors years ago destroyed the DNA evidence that he says will prove it. (I would eventually find out that DNA evidence often goes missing.) We're off then to Camp F to see Calvin. As we drive into the heart of the prison's eighteen thousand acres, I am again amazed at the beauty of the countryside, which belies the misery contained here. I thank Calvin for his legal aid, which helped free me, and promise him help in return, too.

It's 3:30 when we get back to the car. As we speed down the highway, leaving the prison increasingly behind, I feel relief, the tension falling away. Linda asks what it was like, going back.

"I am so glad to be out of that place-through with its madness," I say.

The biggest pain in prison, I explain, is the way you are a.s.saulted psychologically and emotionally, the way in which you are robbed of any dignity as a human being and told in countless ways that you don't matter. Then there is the endless aggravation-the craziness, the madhouse atmosphere-that stems from stupidity ruling your world. People in supervisory positions in prison are often not selected on the basis of skill, experience, or ability, but because of politics or cronyism, which means that fools are often placed in positions of power. Stupid people tend to make stupid decisions and do stupid things, and it is this aspect of prison, compounded by the ignorance, childishness, self-destructiveness, irresponsibility, self-centeredness, and criminality of many prisoners, that makes daily prison life maddening. And stupidity takes no holiday; it is woven into the fabric of daily life. There is also the monotony, and the unparalleled boredom it breeds. Finally, there's the emotional deprivation-never being genuinely bonded with anyone or anything.

When we return to Baton Rouge, I am relieved to be home. I finally understand the concept of home. I have a family of one human mate and three felines to whom I belong and who belong to me. I have no words to describe how wonderful this is. I eat and stare out at a couple of cardinals strutting their stuff while Willie B dozes at the bottom of the tree. I delight in this-trees, pets, the simplest of things-and wonder idly how possessing wealth could make this any better. Not that I expect wealth.

John Whitley and Dwayne McFatter arrive to pick me up for a lunch date. I haven't seen the former warden and a.s.sistant warden since they testified at my trial. We go to a nice seafood restaurant beside a lake, where I am the only black. I realize that this is most often the case when I go out with friends. I find it ironic that I socialize almost entirely in a white world. But that's because almost all the people who tried to get me out of prison were white. Many of them stuck by me for decades, rallying support for my clemency appeals, talking to governors, visiting me, doing whatever they could. Other than black officials within the penal system who supported my work and my clemency efforts-and Loyola University's Ted Quant-I had almost no support from African Americans, outside the black Lake Charles community toward the end of my long struggle. I wasn't alone in that. Most of the people involved in prison reform or battling against the death penalty, most of the lawyers and activists fighting either for individual prisoners or for fairness and equity in the pardon and parole processes in Louisiana, were white. With some exceptions, the blacks who came to the prison were ministers or gospel singers who played to a captive audience willing to have their souls saved if it meant a few hours' relief from the tedium of prison life, followed by a good meal.

Whitley and McFatter and I reminisce. They ask me how my new life is going. I tell them that, through my lawyers, I've heard from people from all over the world who wish me well, but that despite all my journalism awards and honors, I have yet to be offered a job. They express surprise at this. Like many others, my own family included, they think that my "celebrity" can automatically be translated into big bucks.

Personally, I'm not surprised at the lack of job offers. It would be a rare employer, TV station, or newspaper publisher who would be willing to hire a high-profile ex-con who has vocal detractors, some of whom may be their advertisers. I always knew I'd have to be self-employed. Most ex-cons try to hide their past for this very reason. But that's not an option for me.

I wonder how Michael Anthony Williams will fare. He's the lead story on the news tonight, exonerated by Barry Scheck's Innocence Project after spending twenty-four years in Angola for a rape that DNA has conclusively determined he did not commit. He's the ninth Louisiana prisoner freed from a wrongful conviction in the past two years. His parents died while he was in prison, and none of his six siblings has visited him in fifteen years. He went in at sixteen and, he is saying at his press conference, was s.e.xually abused while guards turned their backs. He is justifiably proud of having survived his long struggle for vindication and freedom. He expresses the hope that he might be able to become an interior decorator. He smiles and shows the check for $10 that he received from the state upon his release to restart his life. Looking straight into the camera, determination filling his voice, Williams says, "But I'm gonna get a job."

Williams is optimistic about his future, like most men getting out of prison. They get out intending to stay out. Society, however, does not necessarily see Williams's imprisonment and ultimate vindication the same way he does. His triumph over tremendous odds is admirable, heroic even, but to many he will always be an ex-con above all else. His innocence doesn't necessarily remove the stigma of having been in prison, of being "different" because of that cultural experience, in a way that diminishes his attractiveness to potential employers.

I've been ironing and now hand Linda her jeans, freshly pressed and creased. She rolls her eyes and smiles, as if I've done something magnificent and foolish. I do all the ironing around here, along with the laundry, the dishes, the sweeping, and fixing the bed in the morning. I've taken to domesticity. I love taking care of our things, our house, our yard. I can't describe how happy I am just raking leaves or hauling garden soil.

It's been two months since my release, and I've been floating along carefree on the goodwill and generosity of my friends and loved ones. I've spent my days blithely fascinated by Google and our goose-down comforter, bowl-you-over fuchsia azaleas, and quick-as-a-wink e-mails.

And now Judge Ritchie reenters my life. He charges me with court costs of nearly $127,000. He decrees that despite his having declared me indigent, I am to pay for the cost of my fourth trial, because it was I who requested it. The fact that I did so because I was serving an unconst.i.tutional sentence flowing from an unconst.i.tutional trial is apparently immaterial, as is the fact that I served forty-four years in prison on a sentence that was dischargeable in ten and a half. n.o.body is talking about reimbursing me me. In fact, in the wake of the judge's order, someone writes to the Lake Charles newspaper and suggests that I should reimburse the state for the cost of my room and board all those extra years that they housed and fed me. The fact that no other criminal defendant in Louisiana history has ever been a.s.sessed the cost of his trial is not lost on Judge Ritchie. He simply a.s.serts that he is not bound by what other judges have or have not done. He claims to have the power to make me pay for the salaries of the sheriff's deputies who stood guard in the courtroom; the cost of transporting, housing, and feeding the jury that freed me; and the cost of putting him and his staff up at a nice Monroe hotel during jury selection and feeding them at the city's best restaurants.

We note in our appeal of Judge Ritchie's order that the only thing we've been able to turn up comparable in all of American jurisprudence was what happened in the immediate aftermath of Emanc.i.p.ation, when conscripted prisoners filled the need for lost slave labor in the South. A freed slave would be arrested for some minor offense like lingering and fined, say, $2; but then he would also be slapped with "court costs" beyond the ability of any freedman to pay, making him slave labor under another name.

Judge Ritchie is incensed at the implied comparison. He also expresses concern that I'm going to write a book, for big money. I have submitted a proposal to write my autobiography, hoping that the lessons I've learned over forty years in prison can be helpful in making people understand what it is really like. Maybe the judge doesn't want me writing about Calcasieu Parish, about him, about Angola. A number of corrections officials, I was told, expressed surprise that I didn't bash Louisiana or Angola during my appearance on Nightline Nightline after my release. Frankly, it amazed me that people thought I would be mean or spiteful, considering that I built my journalistic reputation on telling the truth, good or bad. after my release. Frankly, it amazed me that people thought I would be mean or spiteful, considering that I built my journalistic reputation on telling the truth, good or bad.

If Ritchie's order is upheld, I wonder how I am going to contribute anything to the maintenance of our household. Linda has funded my freedom effort with her retirement savings and with the sacrificed years of employment that would have given her a pension. Now we are both without safety nets, and I realize that I don't even have Social Security and Medicare to fall back on since all my working years were spent in Angola, and that doesn't qualify you for those benefits.

I'm severely depressed for the first time as a free man.

"What are we going to do?" I ask Linda.

"What we've always done, Wilbert. Fight them. And in the meantime, take as much joy from life as we can, every day."

I try to do this, but in the wee hours and at other moments I am overtaken by anxiety over our future. This goes on for months until one day an old friend, Meredith Eicher, invites me to a street concert downtown. Meredith's mother, Elayn Hunt, was the first female director of corrections in Louisiana, in the 1970s. At the concert, she introduces me to Gary McKenzie, an attorney who specializes in bankruptcy law. Gary offers to file for bankruptcy for me to discharge Judge Ritchie's $127,000 in court costs. We agree to it. Six months later I'm declared bankrupt and free of debt. I'm now apparently worth about $4,500, which I received as a settlement from Time Time magazine for the years they gave reprint permission for an essay I wrote for them. I contribute the money to household expenses and sleep better at night. magazine for the years they gave reprint permission for an essay I wrote for them. I contribute the money to household expenses and sleep better at night.

I've been invited to New York to address the board of directors of the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, without whose help and resources I'd still be languishing in Angola. It is an important night, and Linda and I both work diligently on the speech I will give not only to thank them for what LDF did for me but also to try also to impress upon them that there is a great need for more legal a.s.sistance for people in prison, some innocent and others worthy of release. Thirty-six hours before we head to the airport, George Kendall calls with the news that Johnnie Cochran has just died of a brain tumor in Los Angeles. When I speak of Johnnie to his fellow board members and show them the EXPECT A MIRACLE EXPECT A MIRACLE pin he gave me, I am surprised that my voice disappears into a croak, and I cannot swallow back the tears that have come out of nowhere. I am embarra.s.sed because I have trained myself for decades not to show emotion. A display like this would be regarded as weakness in prison, an invitation to trouble. Here, however, it seems cathartic for everyone, and no one appears to hold it against me. I hear myself say, "I can't do this," and a soft voice from the audience says, "Yes, you can-you can do it." I stop for a moment to collect myself, then finish the speech. pin he gave me, I am surprised that my voice disappears into a croak, and I cannot swallow back the tears that have come out of nowhere. I am embarra.s.sed because I have trained myself for decades not to show emotion. A display like this would be regarded as weakness in prison, an invitation to trouble. Here, however, it seems cathartic for everyone, and no one appears to hold it against me. I hear myself say, "I can't do this," and a soft voice from the audience says, "Yes, you can-you can do it." I stop for a moment to collect myself, then finish the speech.

Afterward, we meet up with my former partner in doc.u.mentary filmmaking, Liz Garbus, who introduces me to her husband, Dan. It's wonderful to see an old friend in a new setting, and like so many other longtime friends, Liz marvels that I am actually out of prison as I promised long ago I would be one day. It's a thrill to be with friends who'd given up hope that I'd ever obtain my freedom. It restores their faith in miracles.

After dinner, out on the street, Dan shows me how to tie the tie I've been carrying around in my pocket all evening. At the hotel, I practice knotting and unknotting it for half an hour so I'll remember how to do it.

The next morning when the wake-up call comes, I thank the operator. In turn, she says she hopes I'll have a great day. "Well, thank you very much," I say, impressed with the friendliness of these Big Apple folks.

"Who was that?" Linda asks. When I tell her, she breaks out in laughter.

"Mind telling me what's so funny?"

"Sweetie!" she says. "That's an automated system. You were conversing with a recorded message!" she says. "That's an automated system. You were conversing with a recorded message!"

"Well, h.e.l.l, I didn't know," I say, laughing along with her.

I'm having the time of my life. I love New York-the grit and dazzle of Times Square, the grandeur of Grand Central Station, the solace of St. Paul's Chapel across from Ground Zero, where the Twin Towers fell as I sat in jail watching, a world away. It's a city to which Linda and I will return half a dozen times in my first year out, for various functions. At one, Barry Scheck presents me with the National a.s.sociation of Criminal Defense Lawyers' Champion of Justice Award for my quarter century of journalism about prison, and George Kendall is given a similar award in recognition of his heroic work. Julian has received comparable honors in Louisiana.

I notice idly that I am spending more time in churches, temples, and synagogues than I ever would have dreamed. Prison soured me on organized religion. As I've said, I saw too many fake conversions by prisoners looking to claim rehabilitation without doing the hard work of changing their behavior. I saw too many priests, chaplains, and ministers who came to prison to save souls but didn't care about the rest of the person. I could see in too many of their faces that they came to Angola primarily because coming there made them feel good about themselves, and a little self-righteous.

Ironically, some of my closest and longest-standing friends have been nuns, priests, and ministers who live what they preach. I find myself at Wesley Methodist Church in Baton Rouge, where I've been invited to say a few words to an inner-city Boy Scout troop sponsored by the church. This is the ten-year anniversary of my first talk to them, when I learned that they were planning a summer outing to the famous scout camp at Philmont, New Mexico. Not all the boys had enough money to attend. I had $213 in my prison account, so I sent it to their scoutmaster. As a thank-you, they bought me a souvenir T-shirt from Philmont. Warden Cain said it was not allowed.

I talk to the scouts and their parents about freedom, and about the value of staying in school and making good life choices. Afterward, the scoutmaster, Elbert Hill, steps to the podium next to me, holding a small package wrapped in brown kraft paper and bearing the Angola mailroom's stamped notice to return to sender. It is an emotional moment for me when I open the package to find the souvenir T-shirt. Hill had saved the unopened package all these years, having faith that I'd get out of prison and he'd be able to give it to me.

Just as I'm ready to leave the podium, a young scout of about ten approaches. He steps to the microphone and tells me that the troop is very thankful that I helped them ten years ago in their time of need and announces that since I've just come out of prison, they decided to help me in my time of need and took up a collection. He hands me an envelope that contains a check for $213. I'm choked up but manage to say thanks and return to my seat.

My first summer as a free man has been great, but now there's a tropical storm brewing in the Gulf. As it takes shape, Hurricane Katrina is headed directly toward New Orleans. It makes landfall on the evening of August 29, and although we are nearly a hundred miles upriver, it causes ma.s.sive damage here in Baton Rouge from downed trees. We lose electrical power, which means no air-conditioning in the sweltering heat, no fan, and no television. The next morning there's still no power, and the streets in this neighborhood of stately old trees are impa.s.sable because of fallen limbs, debris, and downed power lines.

I rig up a way to boil water so we can drip coffee. We more or less move out of the stifling house onto the back patio, where we're glued to the transistor radio for news. We learn to cook everything-even entire meals with rice and vegetables-on a small hibachi that has resided unused in the garage all summer. We begin cleaning up our yard and the street.

When our next-door neighbor manages to get a generator five days later, we go watch television at his house and get our first look at the devastation in New Orleans-dead bodies floating in the water, people on the roofs waiting for boats or helicopters to come, the hordes stranded outside the Superdome and marooned on the sizzling interstate for buses that, it turns out, have been waiting just outside the city for the okay to go in and rescue people. Animal rescue organizations are not being allowed to rescue animals, and some people are refusing to leave their home, rooftop, or asphalt patch without them. The tragedy worsens by the day. The incompetence of government and official leaders is nothing short of criminal.

After a week, we get our power back and are able to resume a fairly normal life. However, Baton Rouge's population has doubled overnight. Shopping even at the Walmart Superstore continues to feel like a war-torn Third World experience. There's no fresh meat, no bread, no milk or eggs, few staples. Many of the evacuees from New Orleans are now housed in Baton Rouge's convention center; others are spread out among the city's shelters, churches, synagogues, and temples. The streets are clogged with New Orleans cars and drivers who bring their Big Easy U-turning ways to Baton Rouge's streets. At age sixty-three, I'd been making slow and uneven progress in learning to drive before the storm, but it's rush hour all the time now. There is no way I can process the information overload out on the streets, and I give up driving altogether.

With all the misery and chaos, we want to volunteer our services. I call the city of Baker, a town just north of Baton Rouge, and talk to the mayor, who claims to be a cousin of mine. He tells us to come help sort food at a distribution center. When we get there, there's nothing to do. The volunteers there direct us to a local church, which has more volunteers than evacuees, and nothing for us to do but re-sort and refold donated clothing in a back room. After an afternoon of that, we don't go back.

Linda hears on the news that there is a desperate need for volunteers to care for stranded dogs and cats at LSU's makeshift shelter. We go there. I stay at the desk outside, logging in visitors and workers who have to show ID because animals have been stolen. I cannot handle the inside, seeing the animals in cages; it's an emotional reflex left over from death row. I cannot stand seeing caging of any kind, to the point that I have to leave pet supply stores when I see fish in tanks and birds in cages. Linda emerges after four hours reeking of sweat, kitty litter, and hand sanitizer. She's in her element, radiant.

Early in September I receive a call from Catholic Charities asking if I'd be interested in helping at a turnaround oasis they've set up at the Bellemont Hotel in Baton Rouge for New Orleans police, firefighters, and other first responders to come for medical exams, immunizations, debriefing, counseling, and other a.s.sistance and services. I'm a little surprised at the request.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I do," the caller says. "I think you'll be a great a.s.set."

"Hey," I say, "these are the people who have been putting their lives on the line to save folks for the last two weeks. If there's anything I can do to help them, count me in."

Linda and I report for duty at the Bellemont Hotel in the morning and LSU's animal shelter in the afternoon.

The situation at the Bellemont is heartbreaking. Men, mostly, spill from buses that ferry them here after they've spent days or weeks fishing people from attics and roofs in New Orleans, after sailing by those, dead or alive, whom they could not help. I've seen faces like this in Ernie Pyle's photos of sh.e.l.l-shocked soldiers in World War II, faces unable to fully engage the horror with which they had to deal. Many of the cops and firefighters, upon recognizing me, express surprise that I'm there to help them and shake my hand in thanks.

"I've lost everything," one dazed man says to me, as I help him fill out the paperwork he needs to get in to see the doctors and counselors. "My house-it's gone. Everything I've worked for my entire life, gone. I'm fifty-nine years old, and I have to start over from scratch," he says. "My pension-it's gone. My house ..." He trails off. "I have nothing." Then he recognizes me. His facial muscles relax just a bit. "But you know what I'm talking about, don't you, Rideau?"

On our fifth day at the Bellemont, Linda and I are finishing our shift as the reception committee for those needing services, guiding them through the necessary paperwork, when Bruce Nolan, a Times-Picayune Times-Picayune reporter, arrives to do a story on the turnaround oasis. He's surprised to see me there and asks me to hang around until he finishes his interview with the man in charge. I say I will. After he leaves my station, a woman in blue scrubs whom I haven't seen before-a nurse, I guess-strides from across the room to our table. reporter, arrives to do a story on the turnaround oasis. He's surprised to see me there and asks me to hang around until he finishes his interview with the man in charge. I say I will. After he leaves my station, a woman in blue scrubs whom I haven't seen before-a nurse, I guess-strides from across the room to our table.

"Wilbert, you should have registered as a journalist," she says edgily. I tell her I'm not here as a journalist but as a volunteer. She immediately walks away. It's quiet, no buses arriving, so I head to the restroom. When I return, Linda tells me the woman in scrubs returned and expressed hostility about my being there. "You think that of all the places he could have volunteered to help, he just happened happened to end up here?" she demanded. "And you don't think he's going to write about this place?" to end up here?" she demanded. "And you don't think he's going to write about this place?"

"Don't let it get to you," I say to Linda. "These kinds of things are going to happen, that's all."

Soon after we arrive at home, the phone rings. We look at one another and instinctively know it has something to do with the nurse. On the line is the woman from Catholic Charities, who expresses thanks for the wonderful job I've been doing. She says how much everyone has appreciated my help-everyone except for one person who, familiar with my background, was complaining about me.

"It's unfortunate," she says, "but I know you wouldn't want one bad apple to spoil all the good work that you and Catholic Charities have done and are still doing at the turnaround oasis." She suggests that for the greater good, maybe I would consider not returning to the Bellemont. I say I don't want to be a distraction and will comply.

Five days later Hurricane Rita is in the Gulf. In Lake Charles, my sister Pearlene and her husband pick up my mother and make their way to our home. Some days later, they return to find my mother's house destroyed, like so many others. Mom moves in with my sister Mary in Houston. After six months, Mother moves into a refurbished house that, because it is in Lake Charles, I will never see. Everyone in my family realizes that owing to the hostility expressed toward me by some of the white townsfolk there, I will never return to Lake Charles. So I seldom get to see my elderly mother, who finds it increasingly difficult to travel. This hurts her heart, as it does mine.

We've returned to Baton Rouge after a trip of three days. Our cats act as though they'd been abandoned, and they stick to us like wallpaper. Rodeo refuses to leave the house at all. After going out for his const.i.tutional, Willie B parks himself in my desk chair. Sangha, a young orphan who came to us after the hurricanes, follows Linda from room to room, crying to be held. Even Ladybug, whose lingering wildness stops her from entering the house, won't budge her nose from the back storm door until we take turns going out to pet her. G.o.d, it's good to be home. It's so much more than good. It's paradise to have a home, a place to be, a place where I am wanted and welcomed. I love my new life, which is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.

"Come feel this lump on Willie B's jaw," Linda says a few days later. We notice that he has lost a lot of weight. I feel the lump, which is hard and solid, not soft like the swelling that comes with infection. The next day we take him to the vet and learn that he has an oral cancer. The doctor prescribes medications, and Willie B's improvement is so dramatic that we take him to another vet for a second opinion. The diagnosis is confirmed. It is a question of days, not weeks, he tells us, until we will have to euthanize our friend, when his pain outweighs his quality of life. "It's the last thing you can do to show him that you love him," says the vet.

Willie B begins a clear and rapid decline. The bulge on his jaw grows daily. I'm convinced Willie B knows he is dying. I'm astounded by his equanimity, his stoicism, his strength. I can only pray that I will meet my end with the dignity he refuses to shed. The other cats also sense his illness, his vulnerability, his mortality, and keep their distance.

Last night Linda lay with Willie B on the sofa in my office, where he has taken up residence. They spent more than two hours in there, Willie B uncharacteristically rolling around on her chest, forcing his forehead under her neck, trying to get as close to her as he could, insistently. This morning, he makes the rounds of all his favorite haunts in the neighborhood, literally stopping to smell the flowers in a deliberate way. I've gone with him, to photograph what is surely one of his final journeys. Too late, we realized that we have almost no photographs of him as an adult, and I'm trying to make up for it in one morning. When we return home, Willie B refuses to eat, refuses the medication that makes his physical condition tolerable. Linda is distraught, but even now Willie B, who has been her rock for the last twelve difficult years, has a strangely calming effect on her. I think he knows his role. We are all in my office, and Willie B moves from the sofa to the hallway, looks at me, and enters the coat closet, where it is dark and he is alone. A more feral cat would have simply walked off, like an elephant, to die. But Willie B long ago surrendered any wildness he had to his love for Linda. He stays in the closet for about ten minutes, then comes back, jumps in my lap for affection, leaves me, and jumps in Linda's lap. After a few minutes, he retires to the arm of the sofa and looks at us. It is a pleading kind of look. Like he's waiting for us to do something.

"I think he's telling us it's time," Linda says, swallowing hard but determined to remain calm for his sake. I agree. Willie B uncharacteristically steps willingly into the carrier, which I cradle on my lap during the thirty-minute trip to the vet, who knows we are coming and lets us wait in his private office until he is free. When he joins us, he takes Willie B from us and hooks up the sleeve for the needle that will administer the lethal c.o.c.ktail. When we rejoin Willie B, Linda kisses him on his forehead and kneels so she is at eye level with him on his death table. She caresses him one last time, then holds his right front paw, where he will be killed, in her hand. His eyes lock on hers in what I can only describe as a knowing way, and they stay locked there until what is behind those eyes-life, consciousness, intelligence-vanishes.

Willie B is gone, just that fast. We return to the doctor's private office, where we take turns holding our departed cat for half an hour. If I had any doubts about the rightness of our decision, they evaporate when I feel my little friend finally at rest and realize how rigid with pain and stress he had become in his final days. Willie B was my first pet, and I loved him.

None of the death I witnessed at Angola affected me quite like this. Love had never been a factor, though losing Ora Lee Rogers and C. Paul Phelps came close. At home, Linda's tears fall all over our forever-changed household. She's beyond the consolation of human words or kindness. Grief and loss define her. I think back forty-five years to the suffering, the sorrow I inflicted on Julia Ferguson's loved ones and ask G.o.d, again, to forgive me.

Linda retreats to prayers for the dead. She believes deeply that Willie B is on a path and that, maybe, she can help him on his way. This is one of the things I adore in her-her unconditional belief in the power of love. I envy her this devout belief.

Rodeo Joe, meanwhile, is deeply depressed and losing weight fast. He scours the neighborhood looking for Willie B. He stands sentry by the gate, staying out all night waiting for the return of his brother. Several weeks later, Rodeo is killed by a pack of stray dogs at dawn, in our front yard, his cries for help masked by the whir of the air conditioner as we sleep in the bedroom. I discover Rodeo's corpse and break the news to Linda. She is numb with grief. We make another sad trip to the crematorium. Rodeo's death casts a pall over our household, and, untutored in such piled-on domestic grief, I wonder if anything can redeem our joy. Ladybug cries day and night for her brothers, in vain.

Summer turns to fall, then winter. Miss Elsie, the best first neighbor anyone could have, decides her house is too difficult to keep up and moves to Mississippi to live with her son and daughter-in-law. A young couple, James and Jennifer, take her place, bringing their newborn and the hope and vigor of youth to our neighborhood.

One day a starving orange tabby shows up in our other neighbor's backyard, taking refuge from the cold in a spot of sun against the brick wall. Linda talks to him, feeds him.

"He's just like Willie B," she says. "Look at his markings."

It's true.

"Look," says Linda. "He's so sweet and gentle, so Zen, just like Willie B."

She believes Willie B has sent this castaway to us, and who am I to say he did not? We bring him into our home. Because of his color, we christen him Goldie. He bonds with Sangha and Ladybug. We go forward, with animals we love and care for. I tell Linda we are a family of discarded strays she has rescued. She smiles and says that we have all rescued her. As time pa.s.ses, the days we grieve are outweighed by the days we live in wholeness.

It's spring again. I rise with the sun, brew coffee, set out food for the cats. The birds are starting to sing and a pair of squirrels play chase on the trunk of the old live oak out back. The spirits of my old friends still linger here, reminding me of the blessings of unconditional love. Yes, this is paradise. I go wake up Linda because I don't want her to miss a thing.

Acknowledgments.

I am indebted to more people than I could include in this book, and more than I can possibly mention by name here, for their support, encouragement, and kindness over the course of my incarceration and since my release.

Without the help of the many guards and prison officials who saw something of value in me and opened doors of opportunity that allowed the best in me to emerge, neither this book nor my life as a journalist would have been possible. Also, to the many Angola prisoners who shared my experience of trying to improve themselves and the world we lived in, I want to say thank-you for your companionship and for helping me to keep faith and achieve some of my dreams.

To the journalists and editors who took notice of my efforts and treated me as a colleague during my quarter century as a prison journalist, I owe a special debt.

So many people befriended me along the way and eased the harshness of my prison life with letters, visits, friendship, love; although I cannot mention them all by name, I will never forget their contributions to my life.

My mother deserves far more thanks than I can give her for a lifetime of standing by me and never complaining about the hardship I brought upon her and my siblings.

My thanks go to East Baton Rouge Parish librarian Elva Jewel "Peggy" Carter, who contributed research to many Angolite Angolite articles and became a treasured personal friend, and to Louisiana State Library librarian Marc Wellman, another friend to whose research a.s.sistance this book owes much. articles and became a treasured personal friend, and to Louisiana State Library librarian Marc Wellman, another friend to whose research a.s.sistance this book owes much.

To Dr. Marianne Fisher-Giorlando, who brought her students to tour Angola every year and steadfastly supported both The Angolite The Angolite and me, I owe great thanks. and me, I owe great thanks.

For her unwavering support and readiness to help me anytime, anywhere, I would like to thank my birthday buddy and longtime friend Leslie Turk.

I owe a great debt to the remarkable talent and generosity of the late Peter Golden, a Lafayette, Louisiana, dentist who traveled to Angola many times to save my teeth, pro bono, after they had all been declared beyond repair by the prison.

To Dr. Susan Jones of Lake Charles, I am grateful for the many times she came to the Calcasieu Parish jail during the last four years of my imprisonment to give me flu shots and other medical attention, pro bono.

My debt to lawyers is truly incalculable, beginning with Julian Murray, Louisiana's "Atticus Finch" and best criminal trial lawyer, who fought for my freedom for two decades, pro bono.

I'm thankful that George Kendall brought not only his own pro bono legal brilliance to the fight to free me, but the resources of the NAACP Legal Defense Fund and the law firm of Holland and Knight. Those resources included talented young attorneys Laura Fernandez, Vanita Gupta, Chris Hsu, Parisa Tafti; and bright, energetic young law students Michael Block (Harvard), Katherine Bolton (NYU), Michael Bullerman (NYU), Deborah Cornwall (Harvard), Jerome Del Pino (NYU), Charles Hart (NYU), Annie Jacobs (NYU), Sarah Johnson (NYU), Dan Korobkin (Yale), Vivian Labaton (NYU), Susan Lee (NYU), Matt Mazur (Harvard), Michael Oppenheimer (CUNY), Susan Plotkin (NYU), Gretchen Rohr (Georgetown), Priy Sinha (NYU), Jonathan Smith (NYU), Aimee Solwtkway (NYU), Maria Fernanda Torres (NYU), and Ben Wizner (NYU).

Ron Ware, the public defender in Calcasieu Parish who put his career on the line when he refused to go along with the attempt to judicially lynch me, has both my thanks and my great admiration.

To the late, consummate trial lawyer Johnnie Cochran, I am indebted not only for his pro bono legal help but for his steadfast faith in miracles, which reinforced my own.

My thanks go also to James Wood, the attorney just two years out of law school who defended me at my 1970 trial, but more important, whose testimony decades later helped me win the new trial that freed me in 2005.

To Ginger Berrigan, my first pro bono attorney and now a federal judge in the Eastern District of New Orleans, I offer my deepest grat.i.tude for her faith in me and her unflinching support over the past thirty-five years.

I am grateful to Elaine Jones and her successor as president of the Legal Defense Fund, Ted Shaw, for undertaking the fight for judicial fairness for a guilty prisoner when there were, and are, so many incarcerated innocents begging for help, and not enough resources to meet the need.

To the jury of twelve ordinary citizens from one of Louisiana's most conservative parishes, I can only express grat.i.tude that knows no bounds for the verdict that freed me.

I also owe thanks for the generosity of friends and strangers alike who have helped me since my release from prison.

To Catholic Charities' Prison Ministry Coordinator Linda Fjeldsjo and the St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Stores operated by the Catholic Diocese of Baton Rouge, I owe thanks for a.s.sisting me when I had nothing.

Dr. Frank J. Alvarez, III, and nurses Tina Davis and Leslie Murphy of the Baton Rouge Clinic have my great thanks for supplying me with free blood-pressure medication during my first year of freedom, when I could ill afford to buy it.

I would also like to thank Baton Rouge attorney Gary McKenzie and his a.s.sistant Audra Bodin, who worked pro bono to have me declared bankrupt to rescue me from unprecedented court costs meant to cripple my ability to rebuild my life.

I owe particular thanks to the Open Society Inst.i.tute of the Soros Foundation for their financial support while I wrote this book and am honored to be among the many Fellows they support who are dedicated to relieving misery and doing good in this sometimes cynical world.

To Robert Barnett and Deneen Howell of Williams and Connolly, I owe thanks for jump-starting my life with their work to find a publisher for this book.

This book owes much to David Friend of Vanity Fair Vanity Fair for his enthusiastic support and for his suggestion that I keep a journal as I awaited retrial in Lake Charles. Similarly, my thanks go to Ted Koppel for his good advice that I keep a journal of my first days and months of freedom. Both journals have proved immensely helpful in the writing of this book. for his enthusiastic support and for his suggestion that I keep a journal as I awaited retrial in Lake Charles. Similarly, my thanks go to Ted Koppel for his good advice that I keep a journal of my first days and months of freedom. Both journals have proved immensely helpful in the writing of this book.

I am especially indebted to Jonathan Segal, my editor at Knopf, for taking a chance on me. His insightful suggestions and guidance have been invaluable to me in the writing of this book.

Finally, I am deeply grateful for Linda LaBranche, the pet.i.te Shakespeare scholar who became my knight in shining armor. Her friendship and love, first as my supporter and now as my wife, made everything else possible.