The night before my trial my brother and his then wife Pam had people stay at their house who came to my trial from outside Louisiana. Malik had people staying over in his mother’s house and garage. New Orleans activist Opal Joyner had supporters staying in her house. Opal and Pam fed everybody. Malik was able to rent a car and a hotel room in Hammond, 19 miles outside Amite City, with funds raised from supporters including Luis Talamantez, a member of the San Quentin Six and longtime prisoner organizer and activist.
I knew the trial would be rough. “It is the position of the state,” prosecutor Julie Cullen wrote in a pretrial memorandum, “that Brent Miller was the victim in this case, not because of who he was personally or because of anything he personally did, but rather because he was a white correctional officer.”
In spite of that I was hopeful. We had proof that former warden C. Murray Henderson paid Hezekiah Brown for his testimony against us. We had former captain and warden Hilton Butler saying you “could put words in [Brown’s] mouth.” We had new supporters. The feeling of hope came with strong emotions of gratitude. Herman, King, and I had been on our own for so long.
I didn’t yet know that my attorneys received money from the state to hire experts and track down all my alibi witnesses but did neither. I didn’t know yet that a first-year law student would have known better what to do than they did.
Chapter 38
My Trial, 1998
I recognized Malik sitting with my brother as soon as I walked into the courtroom. We both had gray in our hair now. Everyone else, except for my family and my childhood friend Ernest, was a stranger: Geronimo Ji-Jaga’s wife, Ashaki Pratt, was there, as well as Luis Talamantez, former Panther Gail Shaw from Sacramento, and several activists from New Orleans. I hated that I had to sit with my back to everybody during the trial. During recesses, I turned and spoke to people, even though I wasn’t supposed to. Some guards kept trying to get between us but I felt such an overwhelming gratitude for these people that I kept turning to acknowledge them, to meet their eyes and nod my head to thank them.
From the first moments of my trial it was clear my lawyers Bert Garraway and Clay Calhoun were no match for Julie Cullen. No fewer than five lawyers from the DA’s office sat on the prosecution’s side every day. My attorneys were underprepared and outmaneuvered in every way. Cullen used every dirty trick she could to establish doubt of my innocence and to cover up the truth. She also made inflammatory statements about the Black Panther Party and about Brent Miller’s murder. Miller had 32 stab wounds, including a 5¾-inch stab wound that punctured his trachea from the top of his left shoulder, allowing blood to get into his lungs, which is what killed him. Cullen asked the coroner if Miller felt pain before he died. “Yes,” the coroner said.
The guard who found Miller’s body said there was “a lot of blood” and Miller was lying in a pool of blood. In spite of that, Cullen got the coroner to say it was possible that Miller could sustain the stab wounds that killed him seated on Hezekiah Brown’s bed (which is where Brown swore Miller was sitting when he was surrounded by four men and attacked) and not bleed on the bed. Miller could have “jumped up” from the bed immediately, the coroner said, resulting in “no blood” on the bed. Nobody asked how he could have been pulled off the bed to the floor behind where he was sitting, which is what “witnesses” testified, without ruffling the bedcovers.
Prosecutor Cullen told jurors I killed Brent Miller because I hated white people and that my affiliation with the Black Panther Party proved that I advocated violence against white people. The murder of Brent Miller, she said, was a “hate crime,” a “racially motivated Black Panther murder.”
To help her paint the picture of my supposed racism and militancy, Cullen told jurors about the letter I wrote—that authorities had apparently lost, because the letter was never produced—to former Panther Shirley Duncan from CCR in 1972, in which I wrote that white racists should be killed and I spelled America with three ks. Since Cullen didn’t have the letter, she called the former classification officer who worked at Angola at the time to review a note he wrote to the warden about the letter. From reading that note he described the letter, testifying that Shirley Duncan was removed from my visitors list after I wrote the letter. The letter was supposedly bad enough to remove a visitor from my list but the classification officer never wrote up a disciplinary report on me for writing the letter. (His memo to the warden about the letter was also dated seven months after Duncan was actually removed from my list.)
After Hezekiah Brown’s testimony from my 1973 trial was read to jurors in full (by a police officer sitting in the witness stand), Cullen called John Sinquefield, the DA who prosecuted me in 1973, to the stand. Sinquefield was allowed to describe Brown’s “truthfulness,” demeanor, and alleged sincerity when he questioned Brown back in 1973, saying that Brown “testified in a good strong voice, he was very spontaneous, he answered questions quickly and he was very fact-specific.” Continuing, Sinquefield said, “I was proud of the way he testified. I thought it took a lot of courage.” Garraway didn’t object.
Furthering their narrative that I was a racist who hated white people Sinquefield testified he was in the courtroom in New Orleans the day I entered in 1970 after being gassed while wearing restraints and I raised my fists, saying, “Look what these racist fascist pigs have done to me.”
Since we couldn’t question Hezekiah Brown on the stand about the lies he told, we had to try to show through the testimony of other witnesses that Brown had lied. We put former warden C. Murray Henderson on the stand, and he testified that immediately after Brown “told us his story” about me, Herman, and Chester Jackson he was transferred to the more comfortable “dog pen” to live. Henderson acknowledged that he requested that Brown receive a carton of cigarettes each week in exchange for his “help” in the Miller murder and that he sent a letter to the governor asking the governor to pardon Brown. He sent another letter to the trial judge asking for a recommendation for Brown’s pardon and offered to appear before the pardon board on Brown’s behalf. Brown’s clemency advertisement, he said, came from prison funds. (In those days prisoners had to place ads in local papers when asking for a pardon, to give the community a chance to react.) When Brown’s sentence was commuted to “time served” in 1986 he had more than $900 in his prison account, even though, Henderson testified, Brown didn’t have a job, suggesting that Hezekiah Brown was also paid in cash for testifying against us. “He didn’t earn money at Angola,” Henderson said. “He had no relatives or anybody that came to see him.” Henderson also acknowledged that when Hayden Dees sent two prisoners—Joseph Richey and Paul Fobb—to the very comfortable police barracks in exchange for their testimony against me, it was not with his permission and, he confessed, it was “outside the scope of a normal investigation.” The state police barracks was reserved for the most privileged inmates in the state prison system. Prisoners there worked as servants at the governor’s mansion.
On the subject of Gilbert Montegut, who was placed at the scene of the murder by Hezekiah Brown but found not guilty at his trial with Herman in 1973, former warden Henderson admitted, “In my presence he [Brown] never, ever named Gilbert Montegut.” Former captain Hilton Butler also admitted on the stand that he didn’t think Montegut was present for Brent Miller’s killing. This hadn’t stopped either of them from allowing Montegut, a man they knew was innocent, to go to trial and possibly be convicted and sentenced to life in prison.
Former captain Wyman Beck repeated the testimony he gave at Herman’s trial: that he saw Montegut at the hospital the morning of Miller’s murder. A former prison hospital worker also testified he saw Montegut in the hospital’s bullpen on the morning of the murder and that after he heard that Montegut was charged with murder he discussed it with Beck, who “didn’t think he [Montegut] could have been involved,” at which point his testimony was cut off by Cullen’s objection. The hospital worker testified that he and Captain Beck agreed that “it would be pretty di
fficult for Montegut to be involved in [the murder] and be in the hospital at the same time.” Meanwhile, Joseph Richey testified that after he “saw” me run from the dorm he “saw” Gilbert Montegut exiting Pine 1 after the guard’s murder, “walking at a pace that made me think he was late for chow.”
Former captain Hilton Butler took the stand and testified he recalled being interviewed by Anne Butler and C. Murray Henderson about the Miller killing for their book, but he “wasn’t sure” if he said “you could put words in Hezekiah’s mouth.” The judge wouldn’t allow us to play the taped recording of Butler saying that. My attorney read what he said to the jurors. The state knew there was no physical evidence linking me to the murder, so Julie Cullen presented a new, purposefully confusing theory—that the bloody fingerprint left at the scene of Miller’s murder that didn’t match me, Herman, or anyone officials accused of the murder wasn’t really a fingerprint. An “expert witness” who worked in the State Troopers department testified the fingerprint was a “partial palm-print,” undermining the significance of the fingerprint not matching me, even though it was deemed “strongly identifiable” in 1972 and 1973. The fact that the bloody fingerprint left at the scene of Miller’s murder didn’t match mine—along with the fact that deputies and prison officials never tested that print against every prisoner who was on the walk the day Miller was killed—might have exonerated me in the eyes of the jury. Prosecutor Cullen knew that. She intentionally muddied the waters. And she didn’t inform my lawyers about her new “partial palm print” theory until right before the expert took the stand on the day of the expert’s testimony, a violation of courtroom procedure. She told the judge she had not received a written report on the palm print theory. Later her own expert testified that she had told Cullen about the theory the previous year, in 1997.
I told Garraway to ask the judge for a mistrial on grounds of prosecutorial misconduct. The court denied the motion, ruling that we should have had our own fingerprint expert in court who could have disputed Cullen’s witness. He reminded Garraway that state funds had been available to us for that.
Cullen repeatedly used underhanded tactics to confuse the jury. Through her line of questioning she revealed the substance of evidence the judge had ruled inadmissible. For example, she wanted jurors to see an unsigned, undated statement handwritten by a former Angola captain the night after Miller was killed that the judge ruled inadmissible. The statement was attributed to Leonard “Specs” Turner and was supposedly given to former Angola captain C. Ray Dixon the day before Turner was to be paroled. She put Turner on the stand and he testified he didn’t make the statement. While she questioned Turner, Cullen essentially revealed the contents of the statement.
My attorneys didn’t object once. This exchange has been edited to show Cullen’s tactic, with other questions she asked in between removed.
Cullen: Do you remember us talking about Albert Woodfox’s involvement in the murder of Brent Miller?
Turner: Again, I don’t remember. I keep telling you the same thing.
* * *
Cullen: Now, do you remember telling me what you saw Albert Woodfox do on April 17, 1972?
Turner: No, ma’am, I surely don’t remember that.
* * *
Cullen: Well, did you see Albert Woodfox do something on April 17, 1972?
Turner: I don’t remember, I just told you.
* * *
Cullen: Now, did you see Albert Woodfox kill Brent Miller April 17, 1972?
Turner: I don’t think I did, no ma’am.
* * *
Cullen: If you had seen someone stabbed 32 times, you wouldn’t remember it?
Turner: I think I would.
Cullen: If you had been about five or six feet away from someone being stabbed 32 times, don’t you think you would remember it?
Turner: May, and I may not, you know. I—I can’t say what I would do and what I couldn’t do.
Cullen: Didn’t you tell me that Albert Woodfox and others killed Brent Miller?
Turner: No, ma’am, I never told you that.
* * *
Cullen: Did you tell C. Ray Dixon back in April of 1972 that Albert Woodfox and others killed Brent Miller?
Turner: I don’t remember tellin’ him that, if I did or not.
* * *
Cullen: Do you remember telling Murray Henderson that you weren’t in a position to see anything, but that Hezekiah was there?
Turner: No, ma’am, I don’t.
* * *
Cullen: Did you ever tell [Angola officer Bobby] Oliveaux what you had seen?
Turner: I don’t remember ever tellin’ him anything.
* * *
Cullen: All right, did you ever talk to [Angola officer Carl] Kimble about what you saw in the Pine 1 dormitory?
Turner: Not that I remember.
Cullen: Okay. You’re not denying that you said—that you told him that, you just don’t remember?
Turner: Told him what?
Cullen: That you saw Albert Woodfox kill Brent Miller? Let’s cut to the chase Mr. Turner.
Turner: Let’s see, I never—
Cullen: You know what we’re talking about.
Turner: I never told him that.
* * *
Cullen: All right. Do you remember giving that statement to C. Ray Dixon?
Turner: No, I don’t remember givin’ that statement to anyone.
Cullen: All right. Do you deny giving that statement to C. Ray Dixon?
Turner: I really do.
C. Ray Dixon testified he didn’t remember taking Turner’s statement and that he didn’t remember what the statement said, but when shown the statement, he recognized it was in his own handwriting. The judge allowed him to read portions of the statement aloud to the jury—sections that implicated me in Miller’s murder. He instructed the jury that the statement was only admitted to attempt to “discredit the witness [Turner],” not to show that the contradictory statements were true. But how does a jury unhear something? (Even if Turner had made the statement, it should have been discredited by former warden Henderson’s testimony. Henderson pointed out that Turner was due to leave on parole two days after Miller’s killing and that he told him, as Henderson testified, “If you don’t give me some information, I’m going to call the parole board and see that you do the rest of your eight years, flat.”)
I had three witnesses in 1973 who testified they saw me in the dining hall at the time of Miller’s murder, and two witnesses who were in or near Pine 1 that morning and said I wasn’t there. I assumed my attorneys would either get them all to appear in court to testify or at least make sure their testimony from my first trial would be read to the jury. They only found one of my alibi witnesses to testify in person and could only prove they had searched for one more. The judge wouldn’t allow us to read the testimony of anyone unless my lawyers could prove they had searched for that witness.
As the names of my missing alibi witnesses were discussed in open court, Violetta’s husband, Michael Augustine, and our old childhood friend Ernest Johnson recognized the name Herbert “Fess” Williams. They heard he had died in New Orleans, and they thought they could get proof of his death so his testimony could be read. Williams was the inmate who was in front of the Pine 1 dorm at the time of Miller’s killing and testified I wasn’t there and Joseph Richey (who claimed he saw me run out of the dorm) wasn’t there. Williams never changed his original statement, even after he was put in the dungeon and injured there, then housed in a cellblock. Michael and Ernest left the courthouse that day, drove the 74 miles back to New Orleans, and confirmed Williams had passed away by talking to his family. They contacted the coroner’s office, obtained Williams’s death certificate, and were back in court by noon the next day. In a small break, the court allowed the transcript of Herbert Williams’s testimony to be read to the jury.
Sheriff Bill Daniel testified he never threatened me in the clothing room when I was being interrogated, saying, “At no tim
e did I go in that penitentiary and interview inmates with a gun. I would always check my gun at the front gate.” Years later, my attorneys found witnesses who gave statements that Daniel did not always “check his gun at the front gate” in those days. One of them said that when they were questioning prisoners, sheriff’s deputies Bill Daniel and Thomas Guerin “were very agitated; they were armed.”
My defense attorneys didn’t call any expert forensics witnesses to dispute the state’s case against me. My lawyers did not consult forensic experts who could have shed light on the sequence of events in Miller’s murder by analyzing blood drops, spatters, and trails; they didn’t talk to fingerprint experts. They didn’t force the judge to require that the bloody fingerprint left at the scene of the murder be tested against other prisoner fingerprint files. They didn’t have anyone review Miller’s autopsy. They hadn’t even ensured that all the alibi witness testimony from my first trial could be read to jurors. I was frustrated.
When I took the stand, I testified that I didn’t know Miller except by sight; I had no altercations with him; and Miller had never written me up for misconduct, which was corroborated by prison records. On cross-examination Julie Cullen kept pushing me, asking if I was a racist. “In a letter to Sister Diane, why did you write AMERIKKKA?” she asked, “Are you a racist?” “Did racism give you the right to pull a gun on guards to escape from parish prison?” “Did being a victim of racism cause your armed robbery conviction?” “Were you a victim back when your raised your hands in the courtroom and shook your shackles and complained about white racist fascists?” I was getting tired of her innuendos and her deliberately twisting my words. At one point, she asked what I was wearing. Garraway asked what time she was referring to and she responded, “When you were killing Brent Miller.”
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