Solitary
Page 37
Dr. Brie Williams told George that between Herman’s rapid weight loss, his medical history, the bloodwork, and the tumor protruding from his abdomen, there was no way any doctor could have missed Herman’s liver cancer diagnosis. Yet Pam Laborde, spokeswoman for the Department of Corrections, insisted the prison “provides adequate health care to inmates.” (In May 2015, a group of prisoners at Angola would file a class action lawsuit on behalf of thousands of men incarcerated there, claiming the prison’s substandard medical care violated the 8th Amendment prohibition against cruel and unusual punishment. Their attorneys, who came together from four organizations—the Advocacy Center of Louisiana, the ACLU of Louisiana, the Promise of Justice Initiative, and Cohen Milstein Sellers & Toll PLLC—interviewed hundreds of men to build their case, documenting “one medical horror story after another,” wrote journalists James Ridgeway and Katie Rose Quandt for In These Times. One prisoner repeatedly requested medical attention, starting in 2010, for extreme pain in his side. He was told he had gas. Over the next five years, Ridgeway and Quandt wrote, the prisoner “developed numbness in his feet, legs and fingertips, lost his appetite, and dropped nearly 100 pounds. When he finally received a CT scan in 2015, he was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer in his kidneys and lungs.”
Angola routinely hired doctors with suspended licenses, a practice that is condemned by the National Commission on Correctional Health Care and the American College of Correctional Physicians. Between 2011 and 2016, when the article was published, Ridgeway and Quandt wrote, “14 physicians have been employed by Angola. Twelve came to Angola after receiving disciplinary sanctions from the state medical board for misconduct.” The medical director at Angola in 2016, they wrote, “served a two-year prison sentence and had his license suspended from October 2009 to October 2014 for purchasing crystal meth with the intent to distribute in 2006 (he was hired at Angola in September 2010). The state medical board noted that [he] was diagnosed with amphetamine, cocaine and cannabis dependence, in addition to adjustment disorder and personality disorder with antisocial, narcissistic and avoidant features.” Unsurprisingly, the death rate for prisoners at Angola, they wrote, dwarfed the nationwide average in state prisons.
On July 12, two days after Amnesty tried to meet with the governor, Rep. John Conyers wrote a letter about Herman’s situation to the Civil Rights Division of the U.S. Justice Department, cosigned by ranking member of the U.S. House Judiciary Committee Congressman Rep. Jerrold Nadler (NY); ranking member of the Subcommittee on the Constitution and Civil Justice Rep. Bobby Scott (VA); and ranking member of the Subcommittee on Crime, Terrorism, Homeland Security, and Investigations Rep. Cedric Richmond (LA). The letter called for an investigation of the Louisiana Department of Public Safety and Corrections for its “abysmal history of protecting the rights of its prisoners,” of which the “tragic story of the Angola 3 is a case in point.”
About Herman, the congressmen wrote, “We have heard that he lost over 50 pounds within 6 months. Despite that dramatic weight loss, and at 72 years old, the prison did nothing to treat or diagnose him until he was sent to an emergency room on June 14. Given the late stage of his diagnosis, his treatment options are now limited. He is frail and ill, but is still being treated as if he is a threat to security, and we hear that he remains under lockdown conditions. This is unconscionable.”
Our attorneys petitioned the court to get bail for Herman. His friend and A3 supporter Ashley Wennerstrom and her husband said they would take Herman into their home if he was released on bail, vowing to ensure Herman would comply with any restrictions placed on him by the court, whether it was electronic monitoring or curfew. They lived a block from his childhood home. Nick Trenticosta, Herman’s friend and lawyer, who had known Herman for 17 years, also promised the court he would make himself available to personally monitor and ensure Herman complied with court orders if he was released on bail. Bail was denied.
My first meeting with Herman, King, and our lawyers took place on July 31. Wade transport officers drove me the five hours to Hunt and escorted me to the meeting room. Herman walked into the room swinging his arms, smiling, wearing his beret at a tilt on his head. He was very thin but relaxed, and animated. He told us not to worry about the cancer. With proper treatment now, he was going to beat it. I wanted to believe him. And I admit, looking into his eyes, I thought if anyone could beat cancer Herman could. We talked about his chemotherapy, which made him sick. He said he could handle the pain, but the air-conditioning in the prison hospital got to him. He was used to being in a steaming-hot cell in CCR. He was always cold in the hospital. We talked about legal strategy in our civil and criminal cases. We talked about world events, the latest news. When guards locked up my transport shackles to drive me back to Wade, I somehow felt hopeful. By the time I got to Wade reality had set in. Herman and I exchanged letters.
“I knew how you would face this,” I wrote. “Like you said we have been friends/comrades for a lifetime. . . . I can’t bring myself to talk to anyone about this now, the pain and fear is just too raw right now. Michael took the news very hard. . . . As for me I’m not gonna lie, I’m filled with so much pain and fear that I’m having trouble functioning day to day. Don’t waste your time it is what it is. Stay strong comrade. Never apart.”
At our next meeting, less than a month later, Herman was in a wheelchair. It was devastating to see. He’d lost even more weight. After we talked about our court cases, King and I forced ourselves to keep it like old times. We talked about Black Lives Matter, the civil rights movement that was just beginning to grow out of the injustice around the murder of Trayvon Martin, the black teenager who was shot and killed in broad daylight while walking home to his dad’s house after buying candy at a store. Trayvon’s killer, George Zimmerman, had just been acquitted of murder by a Florida jury. Herman spoke about how we had to protect Black Lives Matter. But he was also confused, talking about the past as if it was the present, talking about LSU games that happened years before. That’s when I realized the seriousness of the cancer, because it was affecting his sense of time.
In August 2013, my attorneys Katherine Kimpel and Sheridan England, working with George Kendall and his team, filed a motion for a temporary restraining order on the strip searches at Wade, noting: “Defendants now strip search Plaintiff Woodfox and inspect his anus . . . even though he is shackled in wrist, ankle and waist chains when outside of his cell; is under constant observation or escort; and typically has no contact with individuals other than correctional personnel. Defendants continue this practice despite the fact that they are on notice that these strip searches are unlawful and previously agreed via consent agreement not to conduct such strip searches.”
In early September, Herman released this statement:
On Saturday, August 31st, I was transferred to LSU Hospital for evaluation. I was informed that the chemo treatments had failed and were making matters worse and so all treatment came to an end. The oncologists advised that nothing can be done for me medically within the standard care that they are authorized to provide. They recommended that I be admitted to hospice care to make my remaining days as comfortable as possible. I have been given 2 months to live.
I want the world to know that I am an innocent man and that Albert Woodfox is innocent as well. We are just two of thousands of wrongfully convicted prisoners held captive in the American Gulag. We mourn for the family of Brent Miller and the many other victims of murder who will never be able to find closure for the loss of their loved ones due to the unjust criminal justice system in this country. We mourn for the loss of the families of those unjustly accused who suffer the loss of their loved ones as well.
Only a handful of prisoners globally have withstood the duration of years of harsh and solitary confinement that Albert and myself have. The State may have stolen my life, but my spirit will continue to struggle along with Albert and the many comrades that have joined us along the way here in the belly of the beast.
In 1970 I too
k an oath to dedicate my life as a servant of the people, and although I’m down on my back, I remain at your service. I want to thank all of you, my devoted supporters, for being with me to the end.
In September 2013, Herman was deposed again, this time on videotape, so it could be shown to jurors when our civil suit against cruel and unusual punishment finally went to trial. Our lawyers wanted jurors to see for themselves who Herman was. The state was against it; in my opinion, the state’s lawyers would have preferred to continue to slander him in the third person. There was no judge at the deposition. Any objections that were made by either side throughout the questioning were made for the record, for the purposes of future litigation. By then, Herman was in a great deal of pain even though he was on strong painkillers. He answered questions while lying on his side in his prison hospital bed. Speaking took a tremendous amount of effort and energy. He wanted to go through with it, in spite of his suffering and exhaustion. Our lawyer Carine Williams tried to make him as comfortable as possible, helping him take sips of water and covering him with blankets. She insisted a nurse sit with him during the deposition and alert them if she thought any part of the proceeding became too much of a strain. He threw up between some of the questions. Our lawyers repeatedly checked to see if he wanted to stop the deposition, and Louisiana’s lawyers were definitely willing to end it. When they offered to pull back from questioning him, he insisted on doing it. “C’mon. C’mon,” he said.
Attorneys Richard Curry and Ashley Bynum represented the state. Most of their questions centered on Herman’s involvement with the Black Panther Party, conditions in CCR, and the fact that Herman at one time lived in the Pine 1 dorm and knew Brent Miller. They pressed him on whether or not he got along with Miller. (The state had always put forth a story that Herman and Brent Miller had been in an altercation in the Pine 1 dormitory when Herman lived there, before Herman was moved to Pine 3. Herman would have told me if that happened.)
On the second day of questioning, Curry asked, “Mr. Wallace, do you have any remorse today for killing Brent Miller?”
Herman didn’t hesitate with his response: “I’m totally innocent of any killing of anybody, let alone that man,” he said.
Attorney Sheridan England questioned Herman for our side.
Q. Mr. Curry asked you a number of questions yesterday and today about the murder of Brent Miller. Do you remember those questions?
A. Yes, I do.
Q. You’re on your deathbed, isn’t that right?
A. I beg your pardon?
Q. The doctors have told you that you don’t have much longer to live; isn’t that right?
A. Yes.
Q. And you’re on your deathbed, is that your understanding?
A. Yes.
Curry: Objection.
Q. Do you believe that you will survive long enough to testify in open court in this trial in this case?
A. No.
Q. Are you able to say with a clean conscience, as you prepare to meet your maker, that you did not murder Brent Miller?
Curry: Objection.
A. Yes.
Q. I’m going to ask you, Mr. Wallace, because you know that you won’t be around to say that directly to the jury, but I would like you to look straight into the camera and answer the question, with a clean conscience as you prepare to meet your maker, can you look into that camera and testify truthfully that you did not murder Brent Miller?
Curry: Objection.
A. Yes, I can.
Q. Are you able to look Mr. Curry in the eye and state truthfully that you did not murder Brent Miller?
A. Yes.
Curry: Objection.
Q. Are you able to look Ms. Bynum in the eye and tell her truthfully that you did not murder Brent Miller?
Curry: Objection.
A. Yes. Yes, I can with the slightest movement of my head.
Q. And if the jury were here today, would you be able to look each one of them in the eye and testify that you did not murder Brent Miller?
Curry: Objection. It’s awfully repetitive for a dying man.
A. Yes.
Q. Mr. Curry asked you no less than 13 times whether or not you knew Brent Miller. Do you recall those 13 separate questions?
A. I recall.
Curry: Objection.
Q. And did I understand you correctly that you knew of Mr. Miller, but that you did not personally know Mr. Miller?
A. True.
Q. All right. And I believe Mr. Curry asked you some questions regarding burning down a prison. [This was referring to a prisoner protest Herman had participated in at Orleans Parish Prison before he was sent to Angola.] Do you remember those questions?
A. Yes.
Q. Can you describe to me what, if anything, you did in that incident?
A. We in that incident, we were making a statement basically because of the conditions that were a part of the prison. There were many people outside the prison and they wanted to know what was going on. And that was an opportunity for us to make a statement. It wasn’t all that much of [what] you’re talking about burning down the prison, . . . with all of us in it. It was an idea that culminated from that. . . . It was a victory in order to force the sheriff at that time to make changes. That’s what we wanted.
Q. And were there any changes that were made?
A. We wanted—we really wanted changes in that prison. And the changes came about through the sheriff himself negotiating with us. So he began to—to agree that what was going on would stop.
Q. I would like to read you a portion of this article and I want to ask you if you wrote this statement. I’m reading from Page 133, quote, “I have always tried to help them,” inmates, “overcome their destructive behavior by bringing them together and making them realize that being kind to one another is the best solution to making all of our lives more tolerable.” Did you write that statement, Mr. Wallace?
Curry: Objection.
A. Yes. Yes.
Q. And do you still stand by the statement that you tried to help individuals overcome destructive behavior by bringing them together?
A. Yeah.
Q. And I believe Mr. Curry asked you a number of questions regarding Black Pantherism or your involvement with the Black Panthers. Do you remember those questions?
A. Uh-huh.
Q. Would it be fair to say that as part of your involvement, you were attempting to help inmates overcome their destructive behavior by bringing them together?
Curry: Objection.
A. Yes.
Q. At any time during your involvement with the Black Panthers, did you ever try to organize violent protests to kill anyone?
A. Never.
Curry: Objection.
Q. Are you aware whether any persons in the Black Panthers that you personally were involved with ever arranged to hurt or kill anyone?
A. Never.
Curry: Objection.
At the end of the deposition Sheridan England asked Herman:
Q. Yesterday you were asked a series of questions about what it was like for you in CCR. Do you remember those questions?
A. Yeah.
Q. I believe Mr. Curry asked you a number of questions regarding whether you had volunteered to go back to CCR and things of that nature. Do you remember those questions?
A. Yes.
Q. Can you please describe again how CCR affected you as you lived there?
A. CCR, you’re asking me a question that when I think of CCR, it takes me into a cave. It takes me into a place where—where I don’t want to be.
Q. Is it hard for you to talk about your time at CCR, Mr. Wallace?
Curry: Objection.
A. Oh, yeah. Yes, it do.
Q. And why is that?
A. As I just said. CCR, it’s a place where—it’s like a killing machine, mentally and physically. It’s not a place where I can sit and isolate my thoughts, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Louisiana prison officials wanted to cance
l my next meeting with Herman and King at Hunt. They said Herman was too sick to be moved from his prison hospital room to a visitation room and expressed some made-up security concerns. George Kendall and Carine Williams refused. Not wanting to go to court, Wade’s warden finally said that if I agreed to wear the black box over my restraints the whole time, they would allow the joint attorney-client visit to proceed in Herman’s prison hospital room. The black box is usually used only during transport. It is worn with a waist chain, leg chain, and leg irons and covers the keyhole to these restraints so that the lock cannot be picked. A chain runs through it that is used to tighten a prisoner’s wrists against his stomach. Because the black box cuts off circulation in the hands, wearing it for just one or two hours can be extremely painful. Keeping one on during the entire attorney-client visit meant I’d be wearing the black box for 15 or more hours: on the five-hour drive to Hunt and back, as well as during the meeting. Prison officials obviously didn’t think I’d accept their terms. What they didn’t know was that nothing short of death would have prevented me from seeing Herman again. I didn’t care if my hands fell off. On October 1, 2013, I was put in the black box and driven down to Hunt prison to see Herman.
While I was in the van, Carine Williams was driving King and attorney Katherine Kimpel up to the prison for our meeting from New Orleans when George called her on her cell phone with news: U.S. Middle District chief judge Brian A. Jackson had issued his decision that morning as to Herman’s pending petition for habeas review. George read the decision over the phone, skipping over much of the legal analysis to get to the ruling: Judge Jackson’s decision granted Herman full habeas relief because in violation of the 14th Amendment, women had been wrongfully excluded from the West Feliciana Parish grand jury that indicted him in 1973. Judge Jackson had taken the unusual step of not only granting habeas relief but also ordering Herman’s immediate release.
We gathered around Herman in his hospital bed before telling him. He was curled up in a ball and extremely weak. He had stopped taking food and fluids days before. I sat on one side of his hospital bed and could just reach him with my hands in the box. I put my hands on his arm. King sat opposite me on the other side of him. At first, when Carine told him that habeas relief had been granted, Herman thought she said I was the one who had won. He smiled and pointed to me, nodding his head. When we clarified that his conviction had been overturned, it took a moment for him to process. “Herman, this is your case,” Carine said. He looked at her and said, “My conviction?” It was extremely difficult for Herman to speak. Struggling, he said, “If he only knew,” pausing. “If Judge Jackson only knew what it was like in that cell,” he said.