"Oh, I haven't seen you do it, yet. But I will."

"I wouldn't count on it if I were you."

"I can can count on it. You're not as tough as you want people to believe. And let me tell you something," he says, tapping the bars with his keys. "No matter how tough you think you are, this steel is a whole lot tougher. You'll bend." count on it. You're not as tough as you want people to believe. And let me tell you something," he says, tapping the bars with his keys. "No matter how tough you think you are, this steel is a whole lot tougher. You'll bend."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

He turns to leave. "We'll see."

"No. You'll You'll see. I already know." see. I already know."

A steel door slams down the walk, and I listen to the footsteps until they fade away. Alone again. Silence engulfs me. I reach for a cigarette, feel the smoke pouring into my lungs as I inhale deeply. I smoke too much. I know I should quit. This poison only contributes to my physical deterioration, compounds the lack of exercise and poor diet. My lungs must be s.h.i.t. To h.e.l.l with it. Smoking is the only luxury left to me.

One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... turn. One ... two ... three ... That idiot. Old a.s.shole actually expects to see me break. What he doesn't know is that being broken requires my permission. I'm not about to surrender my manhood, my dignity, or my self-respect. They may have stripped me of everything else, but I will not permit myself to be reduced to a human dog. I'll die first. Of course, insanity is always possible-no, probable probable. How in h.e.l.l can a man live for years like this and remain sane? It's impossi- I halt my pacing in midstride: I could be insane now! I could be insane now! I wouldn't necessarily know it. I shiver. I wouldn't necessarily know it. I shiver. Suppress it, Wilbert Suppress it, Wilbert. I start pacing again. One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... turn. My eyes, searching for something to latch on to, scan the walls and find the rivets. The number of rivets in here impresses me, as it has before. These walls are well held together. But, then, they'd have to be; otherwise I'd get out, wouldn't I? And they don't want that. I know the number of rivets because I've counted them before: 348 of them. Or was it 358? I frown, trying to remember. It's important to get it right. I need to know exactly the number of rivets holding me in. I decide to count them again, to be sure. I start counting, and soon I'm on my hands and knees, counting the rivets under my bunk, when a picture of what I must look like flashes through my mind. I have to smile. If Old a.s.shole could only see me now. He'd laugh until he s.h.i.t himself, figuring for sure I'd gone crazy. And it is is crazy. Me, down on all fours, counting the rivets in a steel tomb. It looks like insanity, but my mind is intact. Old a.s.shole will have to wait a little longer. When I finish counting, it's 358 rivets after all. crazy. Me, down on all fours, counting the rivets in a steel tomb. It looks like insanity, but my mind is intact. Old a.s.shole will have to wait a little longer. When I finish counting, it's 358 rivets after all.

I crush out the cigarette, which has burned to a nub in the ashtray. I lie down, gaze up at the ceiling, walls. Aren't we always struggling against walls? I ask myself. Not always of concrete and steel, but walls nonetheless-ignorance, poverty, indifference, oppression? Yes, yes, definitely oppression. I can't remember a time when I wasn't a prisoner. But who is ever really free? "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose;" that's what Janis Joplin sang. I start humming "Me and Bobby McGee" until the thought of all that wasted talent, that gift, gets to me. Shooting s.h.i.t in her arm. G.o.dd.a.m.n! G.o.dd.a.m.n! She fought her way out of this stinkhole. Port Arthur, her hometown, is right over the Texas line from Lake Charles. The girl escaped the grip of these crazy motherf.u.c.kers. She was free, whatever demons she had. A f.u.c.king shame, that was. But what the f.u.c.k do I know about freedom anyway? She fought her way out of this stinkhole. Port Arthur, her hometown, is right over the Texas line from Lake Charles. The girl escaped the grip of these crazy motherf.u.c.kers. She was free, whatever demons she had. A f.u.c.king shame, that was. But what the f.u.c.k do I know about freedom anyway?

Struggle is the only reality I've ever known. The world I was born into was sharply divided between black and white, good and evil, innocent and guilty. It was a world of absolutes. Whites ruled, I learned, because G.o.d demanded it. I was guilty the moment I was born. The guilty labored under the weight of poverty and misery. Locked in economic bondage, they were made servants of the innocents. The females were ravished, the males emasculated; they were insulted, humiliated, and brutalized as a matter of course. Being lynched with impunity at the pleasure of the mob was the just desert of the guilty, the wrong, the black.

I close my eyes and see a huge, ancient courtroom, built to be a temple. There is rich, dark wood that smells like lemon rind and gleaming bra.s.s everywhere. The ceiling rises several stories up into a dome, like a Byzantine church. The floors are marble, polished to a high shine. There is an altar up front where the judge sits; the choir box is off to his left, my right. To enter this temple of justice, you have to climb a mountain of marble steps to the white-columned portico that shields the front door. A huge old battle cannon squats off to the left of the steps as you approach. To the right, high atop a white pillar, a copper soldier has his left arm raised as in battle. The inscription on the topmost marble block of the base says THE SOUTH'S DEFENDERS. THE SOUTH'S DEFENDERS. On the block below, 18611865, and beneath that, On the block below, 18611865, and beneath that, OUR HEROES. OUR HEROES. At the base of the statue, there are wreaths or flowers in a vase, with a Confederate battle flag propped alongside. I know this, even though I cannot see the statue from my seat in the courtroom. I know it because, for as long as I can remember, there have always been flowers and a Confederate battle flag there. I do not have to wonder what the city fathers meant to suggest about justice in their community when they erected a copper soldier leading the charge for the Old South on these courthouse grounds. Floodlights set in concrete ensure that every prosecutor, every lawyer, every plaintiff, every defendant, every witness, every victim, every judge, every juror, every deputy, every spectator, every reporter, every researcher, every visitor, every civil servant, every politician, and every black person who pa.s.ses or enters, day or night, will see the patron saint of this temple. At the base of the statue, there are wreaths or flowers in a vase, with a Confederate battle flag propped alongside. I know this, even though I cannot see the statue from my seat in the courtroom. I know it because, for as long as I can remember, there have always been flowers and a Confederate battle flag there. I do not have to wonder what the city fathers meant to suggest about justice in their community when they erected a copper soldier leading the charge for the Old South on these courthouse grounds. Floodlights set in concrete ensure that every prosecutor, every lawyer, every plaintiff, every defendant, every witness, every victim, every judge, every juror, every deputy, every spectator, every reporter, every researcher, every visitor, every civil servant, every politician, and every black person who pa.s.ses or enters, day or night, will see the patron saint of this temple.

Inside, a drama is taking place. A teenage boy, flanked by white lawyers, sits at a large table, a black-robed figure before him. Twelve white men, vested with the power of life and death, are seated over to the right, in the choir box. A clot of newspaper reporters sits off to the left. Behind the black boy is a sea of white faces. A carnival atmosphere prevails as characters parade to the witness stand and play their roles with unholy indifference to the significance of the drama. The performances are well received, the audience entertained.

The judge breaks for intermission and leaves the altar. The actors and members of the audience huddle in small groups, chattering gaily as if they were at a c.o.c.ktail party instead of in church, completely indifferent to the shadow of death hovering nearby, awaiting the end of the play. The talk flows freely around the boy and is often about him, as though he were merely a gargoyle, an inanimate object of discussion devoid of intelligence or sensitivity.

The drama unfolding is to decide whether the boy will live or die. Curiously, the boy is relaxed and appears unconcerned, which some in the audience see as his lack of feeling. What they don't know is that the drama holds no suspense for the boy. He knows he's going to die. It doesn't matter to him. He has long since grown tired of the cruelty and meaninglessness of his existence, though his fierce pride and iron spirit will not allow him to kill himself. Someone else will have to do that. So he watches with detached interest as the drama plays out to its fateful end where absolute good will triumph over absolute evil.

"We find the defendant guilty as charged."

The jangle of keys knifes through my reverie. My eyes fly open, instantly alert. The hatch on the door of my cage swings back silently, leaving a hole in the metal the size of a shoe box. It's the Man, but a friendly one. I roll off the bunk to my feet. He stuffs several packages and some books through the hole. I grab them and quickly toss them on the bunk.

He puts his face in the hatch. He looks like mashed potatoes and redeye gravy with his bad skin and birthmark. I wonder if that's why he works here instead of in the outside world.

"They fixed some barbecue for us today. I figgered you might like some. When you finish, break the bones and flush 'em down the commode so n.o.body'll know."

I nod my head.

"The candy and books come from some of the prisoners down the line. They got a s.e.x novel in the bunch. The boys swear by it-told me to tell you it's guaranteed to raise your d.i.c.k all night."

Convict humor. I deadpan, "Yeah, I really need that."

He smiles. "It's supposed to be a joke. They just kiddin' you."

I nod. "I know. You want the book? My s.e.x problem is bad enough without it."

He shakes his head. "Naw. I ain't got time to do no reading."

A quiet settles between us. The unfamiliarity of human company-other than my mother, whose face pokes through the hole every Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and Sister Benedict Shannon, an activist nun who sometimes stops to see me when she visits the jail-makes me nervous and self-conscious. After so much solitude and silence, small talk comes hard to me. My mind searches for a conversation piece.

"Old a.s.shole came by earlier. Shooting his s.h.i.t, as usual," I say.

"Yeah? Well, don't let it get to you. He ain't worth it. I don't see why they ain't got rid of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d a long time ago. He don't do nothing but rile everybody up and cause a whole lotta trouble."

"That's the truth."

"It's just a question of time before somebody hurts him." He moves away. "Look, I gotta go. Take it easy. I'll check you tomorrow night."

"All right."

The hatch closes; silence returns. I scan the books and stash the s.e.x novel under my mattress. There are three food packages, and I can tell by the feel and the smell what is in each of them, but I play the old Christmas Eve guessing game anyway. Is it barbecued chicken, pork ribs, or beef ribs? Is it white bread or corn bread? Are the potatoes pan-fried or French fried? After I tease myself a bit, I open the packages and wolf down every trace of one man's human kindness. He could lose his job for bringing me this food. My eyes fall upon the candy the prisoners sent me-two little treasures that, in other circ.u.mstances, could cost a man his life in this place. A Snickers and a b.u.t.ter-Nut, contraband as h.e.l.l and therefore worth their weight in blood, should one man try to steal them from another. In a world defined by deprivation, things that are trivial in the outside world are magnified to a significance far beyond their street value. This b.u.t.ter-Nut bar, for example, cost someone real money, which is already in short supply among the inmates. There's the cost of the candy itself, and the added value attached by every hand that facilitated its journey from the candy counter at Walgreens into the jail to the guys down the line, who sent it to me. h.e.l.l, they may even have had to grease the palm of the guard who pa.s.sed it to me. Even more than the money, though, is the cost of getting caught: The guard could get demoted or fired, and an inmate could get thrown in the Dungeon for dealing in contraband.

It's strange, even to me, that men who wouldn't hesitate to rape or kill each other band together to help me, just because I've been locked down in solitary for so long. Most of them don't even know me. But my tormentors have made me a living legend in this jail: the one they can't break the one they can't break. The irony is not lost on me that it's the professed Christians who are so cruel and unmerciful, while it's the criminal misfits and social dregs who try to help me, usually without my even asking.

I flush the chicken bones and wrappings down the toilet. I turn back to the bunk, pick up the candy, and hide it for later. I light a cigarette and stand at the bars looking out into the night. The rain has stopped.

A rare sensation crawls over me-amazement at the fact that there are people out there loving and being loved or sleeping peacefully. People who experience joy, peace, and love. There are people out there who know nothing of fierce struggles for survival and sanity, struggles against aloneness, cruelty, violence, danger, rapes, rebellions, and madness. It's like knowing that Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong lived in a s.p.a.ceship on their way to the moon, weightless and floating on air. You can know it as a fact, but you cannot imagine the experience.

The sensation pa.s.ses and an old longing surfaces-a longing to escape this harsh, ultra-masculine jungle unsoftened by love or beauty, where everyone is engaged in a perpetual battle to prove who is the toughest, the strongest, the cruelest. I long to get away from this field of pain and misery. Not to the city; that's just another jungle. I want to flee to the country, where I imagine there is no madness, no hate, no war, no animals save those that walk on four legs. Out where life is simple, peaceful, and clean. Where rippling creeks feed open meadows and green leaves dance on soft breezes to the chirpings of gaily colored birds. I long for the fragrance of honeysuckle in my nostrils, the air of innocence. And alongside the creek, clover matted from tender love-making. This is freedom-to work, to love, to aspire. To find my place in the world. To- Then I think: Could I fit into that world out there? So much has changed. I was a boy when I left that world. I know nothing of the world that has taken its place. How could I adjust to that world when I couldn't even adjust to the world I knew, the world that shaped me, or misshaped me? Having lived in this jungle for so long, could I function in a civilized world?

Am I really winning my struggle to improve my mind and retain my sanity and humanness, or is my success an illusion? Am I just losing my humanity more slowly than those around me? With no guidance, and no yardstick to measure progress against, I can't tell.

I suck angrily on a cigarette. I squash it out, a fierce determination flaring in me. I can can adjust, and I adjust, and I will will adjust. If I could adjust to the cruelties of imprisonment, I can adjust to anything. adjust. If I could adjust to the cruelties of imprisonment, I can adjust to anything.

One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... turn. One ... two ... three ... four ... five. Stop. I lean upon the bars, look about my cell.

Eat, drink, p.i.s.s, s.h.i.t, walk. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a pendulum. No love, no satisfaction, no friendship, no peace-always lonely, always wanting and never having. This is not living; this is existing, like a head of cabbage on a garden row.

I look out the window and up at the heavens. It's difficult to relate to Him. He's too indifferent to pain and human misery. Most people look to Him with grat.i.tude-for their lives, if nothing else. Grat.i.tude eludes me. He did me no favor allowing me to be born into this world.

I suddenly feel an overwhelming sense of injustice. I want to disrupt violently the comfort of my tormentors, to impress them with my pain and misery by making them feel something of what I feel. My hands tense up, aching to hit something. I could take it out on the floor, but my knuckles are still half raw from the savage scrubbing I gave it last night. I reach for my cigarettes instead. I smoke and pace until the rebellion subsides. I return to the bars and look out the window.

The fools. Don't they realize how much of their trouble comes from making men desperate, driving them to despair and rebellion?

A heaviness settles on me, as it has before and will again-a sense of death. My chest feels tight; I feel cramped and smothered. I literally ache from despair. Long ago, a cruel world that regarded my ambition as insolence and my claim to equality as blasphemy ignited in me fires of frustration fueled by ignorance. I stand in the ominous silence of this steel tomb and contemplate the utter destruction of life that followed-my victim's, my family's, my own. I agonize for what has been lost, what could have been. From this wreckage, I will will save something yet, though I cannot see how. I look at the books on my bunk. I know they are the keys to keeping my sanity, and they are also my salvation. If I die in here, I am not going to die an ignorant man. I am going to learn something about the world and taste something of life before I leave it, if only through books. And if I somehow survive this experience, I am going to need all the education I can milk from these books. save something yet, though I cannot see how. I look at the books on my bunk. I know they are the keys to keeping my sanity, and they are also my salvation. If I die in here, I am not going to die an ignorant man. I am going to learn something about the world and taste something of life before I leave it, if only through books. And if I somehow survive this experience, I am going to need all the education I can milk from these books.

On the horizon the first rays of dawn appear, softening the darkened world. I am like the lone soldier trapped behind enemy lines, weary and weaponless, torn between hope and despair. I stare out the window until the flood of morning bathes the world, bringing light, hope, and life-to others. The joint awakens, and I hear the first stirrings of a new day. There are noises in the hall. It's breakfast time.

The hatch opens. "Well...h.e.l.lo there, Rideau," a voice says as I turn away from the window. The mask I wear to conceal my feelings falls into place.

"I see you're up early this morning," the Man says, slipping a tray through the hole.

I give him a smile that I don't feel. "Just looking out the window."

"It's a nice morning. Gonna be a real pretty day today." He leans against the door. He wants to talk.

I move toward the hatch and the awkward conversation I do not want. "Yeah," I tell him, "it's going to be a beautiful day."

Months pa.s.sed and the raw dampness of Louisiana's winter gave way to the swelter of the Southern sun. Still there was no ruling from the Louisiana Supreme Court. The justices had not yet taken action on my appeal when in June 1972 the U.S. Supreme Court issued its Furman v. Georgia Furman v. Georgia decision abolishing the death penalty as it then existed and voiding all death sentences in America. decision abolishing the death penalty as it then existed and voiding all death sentences in America.

In the wake of Furman Furman, the Louisiana Supreme Court began ordering the state's condemned resentenced to life imprisonment and releasing them from their solitary cells on death row into the relative freedom of the prison at large, where they worked and mingled with other people. It was nearly a year before the court got around to my case. Eight of the nine justices saw no problem with anything that had ever happened in "this case [which] has been in the courts for many years." On May 7, 1973, they affirmed my murder conviction and, because of Furman Furman, ordered me sentenced to life imprisonment.

The legal battle for my life was over; there was nothing left to appeal or to do, my lawyers told me. It was the last word I would hear from any of them for more than a quarter century. I was taken from the Baton Rouge courtroom where I was resentenced and ushered back to Angola.

4.

The Jungle 19731975 Thursdays were "fresh fish" day at Angola, when new inmates joined the general inmate population. I boarded an old school bus behind the Reception Center to be transported to the Main Prison, where half of Angola's four thousand inmates lived. The other half lived in four out-camps widely scattered among fields of corn, cotton, and soybeans that stretched as far as the eye could see on the eighteen-thousand-acre prison grounds. The Reception Center housed death row, protective custody, and Closed Custody Restriction (CCR), where inmates were locked up for disciplinary reasons or because they were deemed a threat to security. Perhaps because of my slight build, the Initial Cla.s.sification Board, which determined housing and job a.s.signments, had offered me the physical safety of a cell in protective custody rather than the brutal, predatory life in Angola's general population. "It's a jungle down there," they told me, "and it can get pretty dangerous." But after twelve years of solitary confinement, I opted for the jungle.

I was dropped off behind the laundry building with my bag of personal belongings, along with the other newcomers. Then we set out on the Walk, an elevated, twelve-foot-wide concrete thoroughfare for foot traffic that ran throughout the sprawling Main Prison complex connecting cellblocks, thirty-two dormitories, the dining hall, the laundry, the education building, and various offices. Convicts lined it, leaning on the railing and studying the fresh fish. Some were merely curious; others looked for friends or enemies among the new faces; and the predators were there searching out the weak to enslave.

Slavery was commonplace at Angola, with perhaps a quarter of the population in bondage. Slaves met many needs in an all-male world shaped by deprivation. They served, of course, as s.e.xual outlets and servants. But as capital stock, they had value and produced income. A slave also conveyed status and symbolized his owner's power. Whites, especially gangs, would enslave inmates in protection rackets, a nons.e.xual form of bondage in which the slave-called a "prisoner"-regularly paid money or worked for his owner in moneymaking activities. But most owners had only one slave, referred to as a "galboy," "wh.o.r.e," "old lady," or "wife." While most prisoners did not own slaves, many used the s.e.xual services of slaves.

The enslavement process was called "turning out," the brutal rape symbolically stripping the inmate of his manhood and redefining his role as female. A prisoner targeted for turn-out had to defeat his a.s.sailant; otherwise, the rape forever branded him as property. In a violent world that respected only strength, the victimized inmate had to satisfy his master's every whim, as a displeased owner could brutalize or prost.i.tute the slave. It was a role the victim played for the duration of his imprisonment. As property, slaves were often sold, traded, used as collateral, gambled off, or given away. They were even used as mules to transport contraband for their owners. They had no recourse. Everything in Angola reinforced the slave trade, including the security force, which benefited enormously from the oppression of one segment of the inmate population by another and the junglelike atmosphere that kept inmates paranoid and divided. These relationships were generally regarded as "marriages," and a complaining slave was more often than not returned to his old man and "counseled" by guards to be a better wife. The slave's only way out was to commit suicide, escape, or kill his master, the latter two actions drawing additional punishment.

That's what happened to James Dunn.

Dunn arrived at Angola in March 1960 at age nineteen with a three-year sentence for burglary. He was beaten and raped in the prison library by two inmates, one of whom wanted him for a wife. Since he wasn't doing much time and looked forward to making parole, he decided to make the best of it. He became a good wife, doing his old man's laundry, keeping his bunk area clean, preparing his meals, popping pimples on his face, giving him ma.s.sages, and taking care of his s.e.xual needs. He paroled out but returned to Angola at age twenty-one with a five-year sentence for burglary. His former owner was still there. "[He] let me know in no uncertain terms that things hadn't changed, that I still belonged to him, and that I was still his old lady," he told me. Eligible for parole again in two years and not wanting to ruin his chance of making it, he became an obedient wife once more. All went smoothly until his master became eligible for release. If his master was released, Dunn wanted out of enslavement. He shared his feelings with his owner, who, instead of selling or giving Dunn to a friend upon his release, gave him his freedom. In an attempt to reduce his attractiveness to others, he stopped showering and cultivated a filthiness that earned him the nickname Stinky Dunn. But it wasn't enough. He fought off a number of attempts by others to claim him, finally killing Coyle Bell, a rapist. Dunn was punished with an eighteen-month stay in a cell by himself and sentenced to spend the rest of his life in prison.

While other inmates facing the prospect of going to Angola often fought and raped each other in jails to build a reputation for dangerousness that might protect them when they got to the feared prison, I was less anxious entering general population than I had been when I first stepped into the inmate bullpen in the Baton Rouge jail in 1964. Twelve years spent contemplating the prospect of being executed had brought me to terms with dying; prison had taught me not to be intimidated. I knew that I'd probably be tested and I'd probably have to fight, but I was determined to stand my ground or die on it. My eyes scanned the Walk for a familiar face, someone from whom I might be able to obtain a weapon. If I knew nothing else, I knew I would need a weapon.

In 1973 in Angola, everyone needed a weapon. Not only was the prison in the throes of major systemic change precipitated by the civil rights movement, it was also seriously overcrowded and underfunded. C. Murray Henderson, a progressive penal expert and former head of prisons in Iowa and Tennessee, was the warden. Elayn Hunt, an attorney and reformist, was the new director of corrections. "I'm hoping I'm just overreacting," she told the state's largest newspaper, the New Orleans Times-Picayune Times-Picayune, "but my concerns now are food and clothing; I don't even know what rehabilitation is anymore." Shortages of basic needs guaranteed violence, as convicts sought to redistribute existing goods and resources by whatever means possible. The prison was seventy guards short that summer. Sixty-seven inmates were stabbed, and five died. The clanging of steel was a familiar sound emanating from behind dormitories as men fought like gladiators with handmade shields and swords, pieces of wood, or mail-order catalogues strapped to their chests. Even in maximum-security cellblocks, men tied their doors shut for an extra measure of safety. Survival of the fittest was the only law, and fear was the supreme ruler of all.

As I stepped onto the Walk, the first familiar face I spotted was Ora Lee's. It was hard to miss his big, muscular, six-foot-seven-inch frame as he waved his arms to get my attention. I was enormously relieved. Near him I saw several death row alumni, all friends. They were waiting for me, "just to make sure you didn't have problems with any of these old b.i.t.c.h-a.s.s n.i.g.g.e.rs," Daryl Evans said loudly for all to hear. The slender, gregarious youth was my best friend after Ora Lee. He and Bernard "Outlaw" Butler had been sent to death row for killing a man during a New Orleans robbery. Like all the others except me, they had gotten off death row the year before and had established themselves in general population. Outlaw had earned the distinction of being a fearless fighter. Daryl, a loud but responsible-minded individual, was a popular leader and athlete.

They a.s.sured me that I had little to fear.

"These dog-breath motherf.u.c.kers not crazy," Daryl said. "They ain't challenging n.o.body coming off death row, not with the kind of charge you're carrying. They know who you are, and they ain't gonna f.u.c.k with you-not unless you get to messing with galboys or dope, or you let these fools think you're weak. But you not gonna do any of that. You got what you prayed for-a second chance. You don't want to blow it by getting caught up in all the dumb s.h.i.t going on around here."

"Dumb s.h.i.t" hardly covered what was going on at Angola, which was in turmoil on every front. In an effort to stave off a federal court order after prisoners murdered security officer Brent Miller in 1972, corrections officials and inmate representatives negotiated changes in policies and procedures, in sessions mediated by the U.S. Department of Justice, to improve conditions at Angola. The Department of Corrections agreed to improve medical care and to allow inmates to marry their outside girlfriends and wear long hair and beards. They also implemented a host of other quality-of-life changes, many opposed by security: They agreed to remove restrictions on inmates' correspondence, magazines, and literature; to install unmonitored "collect" phones for inmates to use; and to allow full media access to the prison, its inmates, and its employees. Mail between prisoners and the media was granted confidential status, the same as legal mail-meaning the inmate could seal the envelope himself and authorities could not read its contents-which was, to my knowledge, unprecedented in any American prison. Most significantly, the disciplinary system-the foundation upon which prison security, order, and stability rests-was changed. Whereas historically inmates had been locked up and punished at the whim of authorities, with no appeal, under the new system, rules would govern lockdown, the disciplinary process, and punishment, and inmates were given meaningful appeals.

Corrections director Hunt ordered an end to the racial segregation of inmates in housing, jobs, visiting, and rehabilitative programs. She banned the word "n.i.g.g.e.r" from the everyday language of prison management and decreed that blacks had to be permitted to join the prison workforce. That was apparently too much for security warden Hayden Dees, who resigned.

Workers who lived with their families in a residential section of Angola called B-Line-so named because it was built adjacent to Camp B, now defunct-formed the backbone of the security force and power structure that for generations had ruled the prison; they regarded the changes as a repudiation of them and a diminution of their authority vis-a-vis the prisoners. As if that weren't bad enough, Warden Henderson had succeeded in getting money from the state to hire three hundred new guards to replace the army of gun-toting inmate khaki-backs, which introduced a new element into the struggle for power and control of the prison. Many of the old guard, alienated and feeling threatened by the changes, abandoned the personal responsibility they had formerly taken for prison affairs, opting to "let the prison go to h.e.l.l" and just collect their paychecks. They were certain the prison situation would get so bad that the governor would ultimately oust Hunt and restore power to the old guard. The new guards, who got on-the-job training and, if lucky, guidance from responsible inmates, had no stake in the old ways of doing things and were mostly open to change. The personnel, like the inmates, formed factions vying for power. Angola was a prison at war.

Daryl, despite the a.s.surance he gave me that I would not need a weapon, owned one himself. So I followed suit, ordering a custom-made knife from an inmate who worked in the tag plant, where they turned out license plates, street signs, and other items made of metal. My knife was the length of my forearm, and I fashioned a sheath to strap it on under my sleeve, which allowed me to appear to be unarmed, unlike many inmates who wore long coats to conceal (and thereby announce) their weapons even in the summer heat. Like others, I armed myself only when there was the prospect of danger, but followed the Angola inmates' credo: I'd rather be caught by security with a weapon than by my enemy without one.

Ora Lee, Daryl, and Outlaw accompanied me down the Walk to the Main Prison control center, where I checked in, and then to Walnut 4, a dormitory for "big stripers"-as opposed to trusties-that had not yet been racially integrated. After helping me stow my belongings in a footlocker beside my a.s.signed bunk, Ora Lee and Daryl walked me along the fence of the Big Yard, giving me a quick education about the place, the inmates there, and what would be required of me.

Unlike the silence and solitude of death row, noisiness and bustle marked life in general population, which ran according to piercing whistles. At 5:00 a.m. a whistle woke us up; fifteen minutes later, another whistle told us to sit on the end of our bunks to be counted, although some guys just rolled over and slept through it. Inmates were counted simultaneously all over the prison-at the Main Prison, the out-camps, the hospital, administrative lockdown-and the count had to "clear" before any inmate could move. The process took about forty-five minutes when there were no problems; it could take hours if the numbers didn't add up.

After the morning count, men walked single file to the dining hall as their dormitories were called. Breakfast, like all our meals, was served cafeteria-style. We got bacon about twice a week and were limited to one ration, but we could have as much as we wanted of whatever else they were serving-grits, oatmeal, biscuits, French toast, cereal, and eggs. Men went straight from breakfast to their jobs, where they were required to check in by 7:00 on pain of being written up for a disciplinary infraction, "late to work," and given weekend duty in the field, even if they weren't ordinarily a.s.signed to fieldwork. Fieldworkers gathered at a spot near the back gate of the Main Prison called the Sally Port at 7:00 and were marched out to the farm lines or the fields by rifle-ready guards on horseback. Fieldworkers, who labored under hot sun and in bitter cold, always hoped the count got screwed up, as it meant less time in the field for them.

The 10:30 a.m. whistle signaled everyone to get back to their dorms. About half an hour later, another whistle told us to sit on the end of our bunks to be counted again. After the count cleared, we filed to the dining hall for lunch. We had to return to our jobs by 1:00 p.m. A whistle at 3:30 marked the end of the workday. Another put us on our bunks for the four o'clock count, after which we filed out for supper. The evening was ours, and men were free to stay out in the yard exercising or just hanging around until the next whistle, half an hour before nightfall, when everyone was required to be indoors. In the dorms, men showered, read, played Ping-Pong, gambled, argued, or listened to personal radios or the television over the constant sound of loud voices and toilets flushing. With sixty men using five toilets in each dorm, the commodes stayed busy.

Some men belonged to one or more of the thirty or so inmate clubs and religious groups at Angola and would attend church services or club meetings in the evening. There they could learn public speaking, practice dramatic performances, or work on staying sober, among other things. Many attended to socialize with friends from other dorms or out-camps. Those inmates fortunate enough to have a designated s.p.a.ce and a locker in the hobby shop would pa.s.s their evenings handcrafting belts, purses, paintings, wooden wall art, rocking chairs, and chests, which were sold in the visiting room and at the annual inmate rodeo-a spectacle open to the paying public that featured unskilled and largely urban inmate "cowboys," desperate for money and attention, in daredevil events prohibited in regular rodeos, such as s.n.a.t.c.hing a silver dollar from between a charging bull's horns-which drew thousands of outsiders to the prison. Once a week, hundreds of inmates poured out of the dorms for movie night in the dining hall.

As long as a prisoner was previously approved to be on a "call-out" outside his dorm, he could be wherever the meeting or activity was taking place, from church to the gym to the education building to the visiting room. Angola was an ant pile of nonstop movement and activity, even after dark. The 7:00 p.m. whistle marked the last major count of the day, and men were counted wherever they were without having to return to the dorm until 10:00, which was followed by lights-out half an hour later.

"Are the guards going to ha.s.sle me about my charge?" I asked Ora Lee, referring to the interracial nature of my crime.

"Play safe and stay in population, where there's protection. The guards won't do anything to you in front of witnesses," Ora Lee said.

"As for the white convicts, they may be racists, but they criminals first. Problem is, they'll do a favor for your DA, the cops, or an enemy in return for help in getting out of here. Except for those on the row with us, I wouldn't go anyplace alone with white boys, not until you get to know them better. Stay around blacks, especially the Baton Rouge dudes: You got a reputation among them from the jail."

Before falling asleep that night, I thought of the armed inmates in the dark, overcrowded dorm with me and hoped Daryl was right that guys getting off death row generally weren't being messed with. I recalled Thomas "Black Jack" Goins telling me a decade earlier: "You're lucky them white folks sent you to death row, 'cause your little a.s.s wouldn't survive this prison." I didn't understand then, but I did now. At arrest, I was just a kid, emotionally stunted, scared of my own shadow, saddled with an inferiority complex as wide as a Parisian boulevard, and sorely lacking in life skills. I was booked into the jail at five feet, seven inches tall, 115 pounds-two and a half inches shorter and considerably lighter than now. Had I been placed in Angola in 1961 with a life sentence, the prison world would have devoured me. In supreme irony, my death sentences had been blessings, protecting me long enough for me to learn and grow, literally.

When I met the Initial Cla.s.sification Board, I told them I wanted to write and asked for a job on the prison paper, The Angolite The Angolite. It was a brash request, because the paper had always been produced by an all-white inmate staff. The officials exchanged meaningful looks, then told me there were no vacancies on the paper. Security Colonel Robert Bryan observed that the prison could use my writing ability-but in a different job. The next morning, I went to the industrial compound, adjacent to the back of the Big Yard, with Daryl and Ora Lee and reported for work at the prison cannery, where food from the farming operations was processed.

I approached the foreman. "Colonel Bryan sent me to serve as your clerk."

"My clerk?" The stringy white supervisor spit a stream of tobacco juice in the dirt and stared hostilely at me. "No, you ain't gonna be my clerk. Ain't never had a n.i.g.g.e.r clerk and ain't gonna start now. Tell you what-you go back up there to the colonel and tell him I say that if he wants you to have a clerk's job, he can make you his own clerk in the security office." He angrily returned to his office, where several white inmates had watched from the windows.

Black inmate workers had also seen what transpired. They believed Bryan was using me to taunt the cannery supervisor, with whom he was feuding. The foreman knew that the only clerks allowed to work in the security office were gay white inmates, so relaying the foreman's message would have been merely pa.s.sing along the taunt. Yet, if it was learned that I wasn't working at the cannery, I would probably get sent to the field to clear land, dig ditches, pick cotton, or harvest beans-the hardest work a.s.signments. To avoid that prospect and to give myself time to find another job, I reported to work at the cannery every day as a manual laborer, joining the other blacks in cutting okra, making syrup, canning vegetables, sweeping floors, and performing menial tasks. I ignored the derisive laughter of the foreman and his white clerks each day when I checked in and out of the cannery, taking comfort in a rebellious determination forming within me: I refused to remain powerless in a jungle where only power mattered. I would somehow acquire some control over my life. I was determined to become a writer and to make the prison recognize me as one.

I turned for help to Sister Benedict Shannon and Clover Swann, a New York book editor who had coached me on writing through a pen-pal correspondence when I was on death row. When they learned about my present job situation, their complaints and inquiries to officials initiated a quick response.

Returning from the cannery one afternoon, I was picked up by prison security guards, who drove me to the administration building. Sweaty and dirty, I was shown into the warden's office, where Henderson, Deputy Warden Lloyd Hoyle, and the prison's business manager, Jack Donnelly, were waiting for me. Henderson, a tall, lanky man, introduced me to the others, offered me coffee, and politely inquired about my transition to the general population.

"My adjustment?" I said. "I've had no problems with the inmates. My only problems come from having to deal with a white administration that has no respect for blacks. I've been jerked around because of my color. Apparently you've heard about it, if my guess is right."

Those were dangerous words to toss at all-powerful white prison officials, but I wanted them to understand that I was not the "good n.i.g.g.e.r" they were used to dealing with. Henderson surprised me by apologizing for what had happened, telling me he didn't condone racism.

"I'm glad to hear that," I said. "Does that mean you're going to move me out of the cannery and put me on The Angolite?" The Angolite?"

"We'd like to," Hoyle said, "but we can't do it right now. The Angolite The Angolite already has a full staff. But we can do something even better, and it would allow you the time and freedom to do all the writing you want to-work on a book or something. already has a full staff. But we can do something even better, and it would allow you the time and freedom to do all the writing you want to-work on a book or something.* If you'd like, we can put you at Camp H. It's about a mile away from the Main Prison-real quiet place, the kind of environment writers like." Camp H, which held both medium-security prisoners and trusties, was popularly perceived to be a dumping ground for h.o.m.os.e.xuals, the mentally ill, and the weak. If you'd like, we can put you at Camp H. It's about a mile away from the Main Prison-real quiet place, the kind of environment writers like." Camp H, which held both medium-security prisoners and trusties, was popularly perceived to be a dumping ground for h.o.m.os.e.xuals, the mentally ill, and the weak.

Interpreting this as an attempt to isolate me from the Main Prison population, I declined. But I accepted Donnelly's offer of a clerical job in the Main Prison's canteen. Canteen jobs were much sought after for access to the store's inventory and the opportunity to steal. Of more value to me was the ability to retreat to the seclusion of an office with a typewriter whenever the store was closed.

I hadn't been working at the canteen long when I read in a newspaper that one of the wardens said there were no blacks on the staff of The Angolite The Angolite because it was difficult to find black prisoners who could write. Considering my conversations with Henderson, Hoyle, and Donnelly, I was peeved. I took up an offer from the all-black Angola Lifers' a.s.sociation, one of the prison's biggest inmate self-help organizations, to produce a newsletter for them. I put together an all-black staff and produced not a newsletter but a newsmagazine, twice the size of because it was difficult to find black prisoners who could write. Considering my conversations with Henderson, Hoyle, and Donnelly, I was peeved. I took up an offer from the all-black Angola Lifers' a.s.sociation, one of the prison's biggest inmate self-help organizations, to produce a newsletter for them. I put together an all-black staff and produced not a newsletter but a newsmagazine, twice the size of The Angolite The Angolite. I introduced it to the membership as The Lifer The Lifer magazine, "a publication by and for black prisoners," deliberately tapping into black resentment. Blacks made up 85 percent of the inmate population and, having been historically shut out of the all-white magazine, "a publication by and for black prisoners," deliberately tapping into black resentment. Blacks made up 85 percent of the inmate population and, having been historically shut out of the all-white Angolite Angolite, they embraced the idea of having their own magazine and competing with it. Surrept.i.tiously printed on the cla.s.sification department's copy machine, The Lifer The Lifer was distributed free in the prison and sent out to a network of outside supporters who sold it in churches and meetings in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Revenue from the sales financed the next edition. The New Orleans chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union served as legal counsel and held our funds in a local bank account. We succeeded in making our point that black prisoners was distributed free in the prison and sent out to a network of outside supporters who sold it in churches and meetings in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Revenue from the sales financed the next edition. The New Orleans chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union served as legal counsel and held our funds in a local bank account. We succeeded in making our point that black prisoners could could write and produce a publication. It did not mean the prison administration had to a.s.sign blacks to write and produce a publication. It did not mean the prison administration had to a.s.sign blacks to The Angolite The Angolite, but it did give the lie to its claim of a lack of black writing talent.

The compet.i.tion between The Lifer The Lifer and and The Angolite The Angolite divided the to publishers. Nothing had come of it. inmate population along racial lines and catapulted me to instant prominence in Angola, especially among the black prisoners, as they regarded me as being unafraid to take on the white administration. For the first time in my life I was popular. I began writing press releases for black prison organizations, and as leaders of the prison's numerous self-help organizations saw positive articles about the black clubs' activities in mainstream newspapers, they asked me to do public relations for their organizations as well. divided the to publishers. Nothing had come of it. inmate population along racial lines and catapulted me to instant prominence in Angola, especially among the black prisoners, as they regarded me as being unafraid to take on the white administration. For the first time in my life I was popular. I began writing press releases for black prison organizations, and as leaders of the prison's numerous self-help organizations saw positive articles about the black clubs' activities in mainstream newspapers, they asked me to do public relations for their organizations as well.

In 1973, as I was establishing The Lifer The Lifer, I decided to apply to the Louisiana pardon board for executive clemency. By the standards of the day, I was overdue for release from my life sentence, as Louisiana's practice, since 1926, had been to release lifers who had a record of good behavior after ten years and six months, upon the virtually automatic recommendation of the warden and pro forma approval by the governor. As Louisiana Supreme Court Justice Sanders had declared in 1971, "No true true life sentence exists in Louisiana law." My Master Prison Record reflected a long-pa.s.sed "106" discharge date of August 16, 1971. Other lifers, including those once condemned to death, were flowing out of the penitentiary in a steady stream. life sentence exists in Louisiana law." My Master Prison Record reflected a long-pa.s.sed "106" discharge date of August 16, 1971. Other lifers, including those once condemned to death, were flowing out of the penitentiary in a steady stream.

Shortly after the U.S. Supreme Court voided all death sentences in 1972, Freeman Lavergne, a lifelong friend of my mother and one of the most powerful black leaders in Lake Charles, came to see me one day in the Calcasieu Parish jail. The first black business manager for Labor Local 207, who eventually became vice president of the local AFL-CIO chapter, Lavergne was a close ally of district attorney Frank Salter, who was part owner of a construction business that hired union labor. Lavergne was the first person from the local community, besides my mother and Sister Benedict, to visit me in the eleven years since my arrest. Because of his standing in the community, I was brought to a private office for the visit.

"I have a message for you, son, and I think you'll see it as good news," the stocky Lavergne said, leaning back in his chair. "Your case has been dragging on in the courts through three trials and for more than a decade. Frank Salter wants it to die a quiet death. He doesn't need another reversal of your conviction by the federal court. So here's the deal. You don't appeal your conviction. You take the life sentence the Supreme Court's going to give you, lie low for a couple of years, apply for a ten-six time cut, and Salter won't oppose executive clemency for you."

It sounded like business as usual. It was the way the back end of the criminal justice system worked. You got your time, kept your nose clean, and got your "gold seal"-the commutation of sentence. A first offender with a sterling prison record, I had no reason to think the gold seal wouldn't come to me as it did to everyone else. But I was relieved to know the district attorney would not oppose my release via executive clemency, the only exit for lifers.

However, rather than lie low and wait a couple of years, as Lavergne advised, I sought clemency in 1973. In January 1974, the pardon board denied my application, which was not unusual. They often turned an inmate down on his first request, to see how he would respond to adversity: Would he become angry, develop discipline problems, give up trying after suffering a setback? The hearing was a low-key a.s.sessment by the lieutenant governor, the attorney general, and the sentencing judge. It didn't make the newspapers. Salter made no attempt to appear before the board to oppose my request. I took the board's rejection in stride and figured that with one denial under my belt, I'd wait a couple of years and try again.

When the canteen replaced its inmate workers with female employees to end the chronic problem of inmate theft, Donnelly arranged for me to be a.s.signed to the cla.s.sification department, where I enjoyed the support of the officers in my varied prison endeavors and freelance writing.

The popularity of The Lifer The Lifer outside prison made me realize there was an audience for my writing. The 1971 Attica uprising and ma.s.sacre followed by the San Quentin bloodbath that claimed the lives of militant convict George Jackson and five others hung over the nation's penal system and generated serious interest in what was going on behind prison walls. Questions about justice and equality were being raised everywhere. Angola was a place everyone had heard of but few knew much about. And the more I learned, the more I felt the public needed to know. outside prison made me realize there was an audience for my writing. The 1971 Attica uprising and ma.s.sacre followed by the San Quentin bloodbath that claimed the lives of militant convict George Jackson and five others hung over the nation's penal system and generated serious interest in what was going on behind prison walls. Questions about justice and equality were being raised everywhere. Angola was a place everyone had heard of but few knew much about. And the more I learned, the more I felt the public needed to know.