In The Place of Justice: A Story of Punishment and Deliverance

by Wilbert Rideau

  Judge Ritchie announced that the jury had him sent a note. They wanted to see the old “interview” in which Sheriff Reid asked me leading questions for the TV cameras the day after the crime. They asked for the magnifying glasses. (We had bought twelve magnifying glasses for them to examine photos with.) And they wanted a copy of the murder and manslaughter statutes to take into the jury room. The judge said they couldn’t have in the deliberation room any of the things they asked for, but he read the statutes to them again. They filed out, stony-faced, looking neither at me nor at Bryant.

  Back in the holding cell we speculated as to what their requests might mean. The magnifying glasses were definitely a good sign for us because the jurors wanted to see for themselves that Bryant had lied. The 1961 “interview” wasn’t bad because it showed that I told the same story forty-four years before as I did on the stand. Inquiring about the statutes indicated that the jurors were at least considering manslaughter. Still, we were all less jovial now. As the hours passed, speech gave way to silence. At about 9:45, we were again called to the courtroom. The jury filed in once more, still stony-faced, looking straight ahead. Judge Ritchie announced that the jury wanted to have the murder and manslaughter statutes read to them again. Afterward, only Linda came back into the holding cell with me.

  I asked her what she thought.

  She leaned forward, reaching across the small space that separated us, and placed her hand over mine. “The way I see it,” she said, “if they believed Rick Bryant’s version of the crime, manslaughter wouldn’t even be a possibility. Think about it. This is the second time they’ve asked for clarification between murder and manslaughter. To me, that means they’ve rejected the DA and his witnesses.” She leaned back against the wall. “The good thing is, they believe you. The question now is whether they decide the crime was manslaughter or murder.”

  I leaned toward her and took hold of her hand, even though I knew it would look wrong if a deputy entered the cell. “There’s just one thing I want to say, and I hope they don’t have this fucking place bugged. But whatever happens, Junior, I just want you to know that I’ll be okay. I mean, I have survived the worst they could throw at me for four decades, and I will survive whatever else they have in store for me.” I looked her straight in the eye. “I need you to promise me right now that you will put your own best interest first if things don’t go our way.”

  She gently extracted her hand from mine and smiled. “There’ll be plenty of time to make these decisions if they are necessary. For now, let’s keep a good thought.”

  It seemed as though only moments had passed, but it had been more than twenty minutes when George stepped into the cell and said, “The jury has reached a verdict.”

  Linda took my upper arm and guided me out the door. Smiling, she whispered, “It’s gonna be okay. Let’s go.”

  We took our places in the courtroom. Despite the late hour—10:10—it was packed with spectators, blacks on one side, whites on the other. We waited for the jury to make its entrance. When we had waited ten minutes, I turned to Julian for an explanation. He had none. It seemed to be getting very warm in the normally cold courtroom. I began sweating. My palms were wet. I reached for the bottle of water in front of me. Now it was 10:30, and the jury still had not returned. The tension in the room was electric, and the wait, for me, nearly unbearable.

  The judge entered the courtroom and told everyone that, whatever the verdict was, no outbursts of any kind would be tolerated and that deputies would remove anyone who violated his order of silence. At 10:37 we rose as the jurors filed past us, looking neither to the right nor to the left. They all took their seats and stared straight at the judge—except for one woman who glanced at me fleetingly, with just the hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

  My heart was pounding in my ears as George, Julian, and Ron rose with me to hear the jury’s verdict. The bailiff took the written ballot from the foreman and gave it to the judge, who looked at it and handed it to the chief deputy clerk, who, with her voice breaking, announced that the jury had reached a unanimous decision. They had found me guilty. Of manslaughter.

  My knees went weak and I was afraid I would fall. I turned to the jury and bowed my head in thanks and gratitude, but it was as if I were in a dream. The whole scene seemed unreal, as if it were happening to someone else. Julian, smiling, took my arm and gave it a victory squeeze. George was smiling. The jury filed out, and we took our seats—just in time, as I was light-headed, blood pounding in my ears.

  The judge gave me the maximum sentence for manslaughter: twenty-one years. Because I had served more than double that, I was freed on the spot. Court was dismissed. Two deputies escorted me out the back door of the courtroom and put handcuffs on me for the ride back to the jail, where I’d be processed out.

  “Hey,” I said, balking at the cuffs. “Didn’t you hear the verdict?”

  “Just go with it, Wilbert,” said Ron Ware. “I’m right behind you.”

  As Martin Luther King, Jr., day came to a close, I walked out of the Calcasieu Parish Correctional Center at midnight a free man. A crowd of mostly black citizens had gathered to celebrate my release and cheered wildly when they saw me. Surrounded by my legal team, I stopped briefly for the television cameras and print reporters.

  “First of all I’d like to thank the jury from Monroe who gave me my freedom,” I said, “and I’d also like to express my heartfelt apologies to the victims in this affair—their families, their relatives, and all of the lives in this community that my actions caused some suffering or misery or adversity. I know words are inadequate, but…” I choked up. Escorted through the crowd by deputies, my whole legal team moved in unison around me as we walked to two cars waiting in the parking lot, to the hooting and hollering of well-wishers. Moments later we were in a room at the Holiday Inn with my family. Someone brought in a couple of bottles of champagne so we could toast our victory. The unfamiliar brew was tart and sour on my tongue, not at all like the sweet taste of freedom.

  After a couple of hours, I was alone with Linda. This too seemed unreal. Too drained even to shower, I lay down on the bed and pulled the covers over me.

  “You’re going to sleep fully dressed?”

  I nodded. How could I explain that I was afraid to take off my lucky trial clothes, afraid that if I did I might wake up to find the verdict was just a dream? As it was, the cloud-soft mattress and cozy, warm comforter transported me far away from the steel bunk and thin waffle blanket that had been cold reality for most of my life. With Linda holding my hand, I exhaled and just let go.

  14

  Heaven

  2005

  I wake up in heaven every day.

  I watch the sun rise on the face of the woman I have loved for twenty years, as she lies sleeping at my side. Curled into the hollow of Linda’s bosom is one of our cats, Rodeo Joe, and on the pillow at my head is his brother Willie B, formerly the patriarch around here, who has yielded to me his job of watching over the household. When I rise, Willie B follows me to the back door to be let out and waits patiently with Ladybug, our third cat, for food to be put in their bowl. They now rely on me for their morning kibble, and I take it as a sign that I have become part of the clan. For reasons I can’t quite articulate, their acceptance thrills me. It amazes me that cats can give me such pleasure and teach me so much about unconditional love and connections.

  I rise early because I don’t want to miss a thing. I know that in my mid-sixties, I’m on a short calendar.

  Having so long dwelled in a hellish place, I recognize paradise when I see it. No, the streets are not paved with gold. They’re common asphalt over which very little traffic flows. It’s peaceful here. Chirping birds of all varieties nest in the old live oaks and make this place feel more like a park than a subdivision. I come from a world denuded of trees because they can be used to hide behind and obstruct the view of guards in the watchtowers on the lookout for signs of trouble. I love this green world—th
e fragrant, freshly mown grass, the flowering bushes that frame the property, the leafy boughs that canopy the house, the yard, the streets that carry normal people to and fro.

  I brew coffee and listen to the cardinals sing and the woodpeckers tap as they rout out insects in the folds of the bark. I’m mesmerized by the aerial artistry of the hummingbirds as they hover at the feeder outside the picture window overlooking the backyard, then zoom off like cartoon UFOs. Who would believe this? I ask myself, for the umpteenth time. I stare in disbelief at my legs, bare from the knees down, leading to my sandaled feet, and feel the excitement of liberty. In prison I had to remain fully covered at all times, except when wearing flip-flops in the shower and shorts in the gym. I wiggle my unshod toes just for the fun of it, like a child playing with a new toy, and smile. Who would believe that I am really here?

  I’ve been transported from a drab and colorless realm: a world almost totally devoid of love or beauty; a world in which our basic impulse to trust—that virtue by which we know ourselves and connect to others—makes treachery nearly inevitable; a world where decades-long friendships are betrayed overnight for an imagined chance at freedom or for the faintest hope of bettering one’s conditions of confinement; a world where chaos and depravity are the norm and normalcy is the rarest feature of daily life; a world where softness has all but vanished in the hardscrabble struggle to survive; a world where brightness atrophies year by year as friends and family either die or just get on with their own lives, leaving you increasingly alone. To suffer deprivation on such a scale is a terrible punishment; to see its effects reflected in the lifeless or ferocious eyes of so many around you is worse, terrifyingly worse. I understand that prison is where society sends offenders to be punished for their crimes, but does any civilization really intend to create infernos that stamp out the humanity of those it sends there? I will never believe that about the ordinary men and women in whose name this is done.

  Some people never recover from the deadening or coarsening effect of long-term deprivation. I was one of the lucky ones who had support and lifelines to the outside and an abiding belief that some unforeseen event or circumstance would eventually free me, and for me deprivation had an upside. Now that I’m free, I take extraordinary pleasure in life in all its diversity of forms, colors, and textures in a way I suspect few ordinary Americans can. Of course, I don’t have the basic problems of sheer survival that confront many other long-termers upon their release: I have a roof over my head in a safe neighborhood, food to eat, and a partner with whom to build a new life. This is what I have longed for as long as I can remember. To me, this is heaven.

  Life is so good I even love the Department of Motor Vehicles. One day I went there because I needed a photo ID. Even though I don’t know how to drive, I still have to go to the DMV to get an official, state-issued identification card. As I enter the building, a white officer walks by, shakes my hand, and pats me on the back in congratulation. The place is packed and I take a number, like in the bakery I recall from childhood, and wait to be served. Several more people recognize me and wish me well. When my number is called, a pleasant, white, middle-aged woman instructs me to follow her to her workstation, where she asks what she can do for me.

  “I need a photo ID,” I tell her.

  “Birth certificate?” she requests, all business.

  I explain that I don’t have one, that I’ve just gotten out of prison.

  “Discharge papers?”

  “No. I wasn’t released through the normal process.”

  “How do you plan to get an ID without identification?” she asks.

  I nervously offer her the only evidence of my identity I have, placing on her desk the New Orleans Times-Picayune front-page story on my release and pointing to the photo: “See? That’s me. I’m even wearing the same clothes as in the picture.” I hand over the front page of the Lake Charles American Press, which also has a photo of me, along with the Baton Rouge Advocate, and make my plea: “I was hoping you’d accept these as identification.”

  Suddenly her eyes light up and she smiles mischievously. “Oh, we know who you are. We heard you were in Baton Rouge and wondered when you were gonna show up.” Stepping around her station to face the other women workers, she holds the newspapers up: “Get a load of this! These are his identification documents! Would you believe it?”

  She has to get approval from her supervisor to accept them and is soon walking me through the other departments. Another white woman tells me to stand against a wall so she can take my picture. Neither of the women is happy with the result.

  “You have to smile,” says the photographer. “You have a beautiful smile.” I flash my teeth at the camera. Both women approve the result. I ask the cost and reach for my wallet.

  “Don’t worry about this,” one of the women says. Her eyes take in the roomful of women workers. She adds, “We’ll take care of it. Keep your money. You’ll need it. And good luck!”

  Back home, Linda returns to find me in my study.

  “I need to get a padlock to use at the Y,” she informs me, dropping onto the sofa under the window.

  “Look, I have the lock I used on my footlocker at the Calcasieu jail. You can have that if you want,” I say, pleased to be able to offer something material to the household. I fish it out of the net sack holding the meager belongings I brought from the jail and explain to her how to use it. I tell her the combination.

  She stares at me intently. “Do you realize that the numbers that open that lock—1, 15, 5—are the same as the date the jury freed you, January 15, 2005?”

  I stare back at her. The one thing someone in jail always wonders is when he or she will get out. For nearly four years, while I was awaiting trial in Calcasieu Parish, I had the answer in the palm of my hand.

  In John Blume’s class at Cornell Law School, I look out into a sea of bright, young faces. I’ve come to the university to give the keynote address at a habeas corpus symposium, and the trip to his classroom is a bonus. I speak to the students about change of venue, and afterward, during the question-and-answer session, one of the students asks me what it’s like to be free after so many years in prison. It’s a question I get a lot.

  “I understand why some immigrants fall to their knees and kiss the ground when they arrive in America,” I begin. “I understand that gesture in a way you never will, never can.” I pause, hoping that silence can add weight to my words. “You’ve lived your entire life in freedom. Like the air you breathe, it’s always been there.”

  I can’t find the words to adequately convey what I feel. How can I relate the simple joy of watching squirrels play a game of chase up and down the oak trees, the grandeur of a rose-colored camellia tree in full bloom, or the pleasure of looking in my closet and seeing a rainbow of shirts, jackets, trousers, jeans, and sweaters?

  “Like refugees from other totalitarian societies,” I tell the law students, “I understand that liberty means being able to speak freely, associate with whom you want, worship how and if you want, gather together without permission, live where you want, and move freely in the world without carrying identification on pain of being punished.”

  What I don’t tell them is that, like other refugees, I bring with me to this free society the vestiges of life under the old regime: constant watchfulness, studying the faces around me, routine examination of the motives of newcomers in my life, and a lingering sense that I should have a witness with me at all times. I can’t step out of my ingrained wariness as easily as I shed my prison denims. So despite my newfound liberty, I socialize very little and keep my business to myself. These mind-sets will fade, I hope, but it may take more time than I have.

  Besides being a refugee, I am also a tourist here in this English-speaking country that is so different from the America I left behind in 1961. I’m not talking about just e-mail, iPods, cell phones, and the rest of the technology that has made people at once both more accessible and more isolated. Not even two decades of speaking
trips outside the prison has prepared me for what I run into every day.

  A visit to Walmart—there was nothing like this in 1961 Lake Charles—tells me a lot about my new world and how I might cope with it. I’m in search of a razor. When I finally find the right area, I am confronted with a mind-wrenching display that runs the entire length of one side aisle devoted to every kind of shaving apparatus imaginable. When I entered prison, there was just the metal razor that you screwed open and shut to change the blade. Bic then pioneered the plastic disposable. Here, I count at least twenty-five kinds of disposable razors cross-pollinating in bins below the racks of more upscale and durable devices, some with double, triple, or even quadruple blades or rotating heads to ensure a close, really close, shave. I have no way of knowing which of these instruments will do the job for me. And some of them cost as much as $100. In Walmart! The plethora of choices, the decisions that constantly must be made, are at first difficult for me. In the end, I leave with a pack of the same cheap Bics they sold in prison.

  In the checkout lane I’m amazed to notice that at least three-quarters of the cashiers are black. I’m still very conscious of race because the outside world I left in 1961 was sharply divided and defined by race, as was the justice system during my long sojourn. In 1961 Lake Charles, I never saw a Negro cashier in any store outside the black neighborhood. Now I see African Americans working with money in stores, restaurants, banks, many of them in managerial positions supervising white employees. I’d heard and read about such things, but to actually see it amazes me.

  This is definitely a more advanced society than the openly racist one I left behind, but it’s a mystery to me. On a trip to the mall, I again see excess everywhere. I step into a store devoted entirely to gym shoes—excuse me, “sports shoes”—calibrated to accommodate the foot’s every nuanced need while running, walking, strolling, jumping, biking, and cross-training. I gaze upon the floor-to-ceiling displays as if I’m taking in a cultural artifact like the Eiffel Tower. The old black-and-white high-tops I grew up with are here, too—I think as a fashion statement. They remind me that I’m a dinosaur who’s been dropped into twenty-first-century America and, right now, the idyllic environs of Cornell Law School.