I now lived with sixty other men in Cypress 3 dormitory on the Trusty Yard, which encompassed a recreation yard and half of the Main Prison’s thirty-two dormitories; the other half belonged to the Big Yard, where prisoners who had not attained the status of trusty lived and exercised. Each yard was a grassy rectangle that accommodated several baseball diamonds, football fields, basketball courts, volleyball courts, weight piles, and jogging areas. The Big Yard was defined by a barbed wire-topped cyclone fence; there was no fence around the Trusty Yard. The yards were the after-hours complement to full workdays in Angola’s effort to reduce violence by keeping inmates busy and physically spent.
One guard stationed outside in a booth supervised our dorm and three others—a total of 240 men. Under such circumstances, control and order in a dorm rested with the largest or dominant “family” living in it. The tone and quality of life in Cypress 3 was shaped by a coalition of settled lifers and the family of black clerks, artists, and prison politicians to which I belonged. Stealing, raping, fighting, and other forms of disruptive behavior were not tolerated. It was a rule our family had reinforced just the week before by throwing out a black thief who had burglarized a white inmate’s locker. Ours was the most peaceful dorm in the prison, which made it a preferred choice when security needed a safe spot to house an inmate. On occasion this forced us to exert our influence with administrators to avoid having undesirables placed among us. If all else failed, an unwanted inmate was met at the door and advised bluntly that entering Cypress 3 would prove hazardous to his health. He would relate that to security, who would find somewhere else to place him. No one ignored the warning.
Like inmates all over the prison, we were sitting at the end of our bunks waiting for security to conduct the four o’clock count so we could go to the dining hall. I told three of my closest friends about my meeting with the warden. Robert Jackson, like Daryl Evans, had been on death row with me. He’d raped a Baton Rouge college student he imagined liked him, to the point of telling her his name and how to contact him. The police did. Now serving a life sentence, he was leader of Vets Incarcerated, a self-help organization for the prison’s military veterans. Robert relished politics and was delighted at the prospect of acquiring more influence and power for our “family.” Daryl liked it, too, but immediately recognized, “Just ’cuz the warden says that’s the way it’s supposed to be, don’t mean it’s gonna go like that. Brown might not go for it and might do some instigating with the white boys or security. On the other hand, he don’t even have to say nothing, ’cuz there’s other people who’re not gonna like it. And the solution is real simple: If you suddenly get locked up or knocked off, the paper stays with Brown.”
“Security didn’t go for us putting out The Lifer,” said Tommy Mason, the youngest member of the family. “I can’t see where they’re going to be any happier about a nigger taking over The Angolite, the prison’s official paper.” After unintentionally killing a woman who refused to pay him for mowing her lawn, Tommy voluntarily turned himself in to authorities. At fifteen, he was sentenced to a life term in Angola. He became the first prisoner in the cellblocks—where men lived in cells rather than dormitories—to earn a GED, and when he was released from the cellblock in 1973, I offered him the associate editor post on The Lifer. He was a drafting student at Angola and president of Community Action for Corrections, a statewide prison reform organization.
I had decided to talk privately with Brown after the evening meal, to try to reach an understanding with him. If nothing else, I told my friends, I might get some insight into his thinking.
Supper was awful—unseasoned boiled spinach, tasteless boiled potatoes, and boiled wieners—so I freelanced (not everyone could afford to). Daryl and Tommy sold blood to the prison plasma company, so they could also make use of the ever-present black market. The most actively traded commodity in the thriving underground prison economy was contraband food, followed by sex, narcotics, pornography, lingerie, and weapons. While eggs, bacon, and pastries were usually available, fried chicken was the special that day.
Tommy, Robert, and I left Daryl to find a food connection for us, while we headed for the education building, walking behind a squadron of Black Muslims marching in military formation to the chant of their leader, Russell X. Wyman. They marched in pairs, in lockstep, behind the flag bearer, their backs straight and eyes fixed directly ahead of them, the Islamic flag snapping in the breeze. Even in the prison’s blue denim uniforms, they were a distinctive lot—neat, clean-shaven, with black fezzes, armbands, black bow ties, and spit-shined shoes. Both whites and blacks feared the Muslims and found Islam’s popularity among black convicts alarming. As their public image had been shaped by the fiery Malcolm X and much-publicized street clashes with police, many regarded all Muslims as racist, militant, and violent. I found them to be a generally reserved and peaceful group, functioning as a unit and adhering to an all-for-one principle. Some youths targeted for enslavement found instant sanctuary in joining the Muslims. Penal authorities, left to their own devices, would have crushed them. But the federal courts had recognized Islam as a religion protected by the U.S. Constitution.
Penal officials, at varying levels, maintained relations with virtually every inmate group, even criminal ones, except the Muslims. Russell wanted to change this, to improve their image. I tried explaining the Muslims in one of my early “Jungle” columns, but it had little discernible effect other than winning me their support. An opportunity had arisen the previous year while several of us were trying to broker a peace between two feuding black families, neither of whom trusted the other. I suggested to Russell that he use his group to guarantee a peace between them.
“And how are we supposed to do that?” he asked.
“Simple,” I said. “Each side will understand that whoever breaks the peace will have to fight not only the other family but the Muslims as well. Not only would they be outnumbered, but who wants to fuck with you guys?” I knew word would get to the authorities that the Muslims prevented a conflict by guaranteeing a peace between the hostile sides; I figured that might cause authorities to reexamine their perception of the Muslims.
Russell liked my idea. Representatives of the combatants agreed to come to my office. Once Russell’s role was explained, both leaders readily agreed to a truce. Russell immediately grasped the potential of his group to prevent bloodshed and joined us on several other similar occasions. The Muslims’ image gradually improved as white administrators came to see them in a more positive light.
The education building was a two-story rectangle that housed the education department on the top floor and, on the bottom, numerous offices for security, classification, legal aid, the library, the chaplain, and a variety of inmate organizations. There were more than two dozen inmate clubs and religious organizations, and, on an alternating basis, they kept the classrooms occupied with meetings every night. Meetings attended by outside guests were held in the visiting room after hours. Inmate organizations had flourished under Henderson, who encouraged the formation and operation of self-help programs, permitting inmates to run food and photo concessions in the visiting room to fund their programs and allowing them to buy and keep property related to their organizations, such as food and food-preparation equipment, cameras, and office equipment, including typewriters. Every club had an office, vacated by prison employees when their workday was done, and its officers were permitted to work in them when not on their assigned prison jobs.
The building teemed with activity, not all of it business. The education building (like the visiting room) served as the watering hole for prisoner-politicians, their friends, inmates with offices who wanted privacy, and guys out with their “old ladies” for the night. Since only one, sometimes two guards were on hand to count and supervise the hundreds of inmates involved in an evening’s activities, there was ample opportunity for prettied-up gays and galboys to meet dates and for prostitutes to turn tricks wherever opportunity presented itself—in emp
ty rooms, restrooms, mop closets, staircases, behind counters, desks, and any other nook available. Some inmates rented or loaned their offices to facilitate brief trysts between lovers who needed to keep their affairs secret. (Owners usually had sex with their slaves in more convenient locations, like their beds in the darkened dormitory or on their respective jobs.) Control and supervision of what went on in a specific location rested with the organization hosting the activity there.
We made our way through the crowded lobby to the security window to sign in for the night, then went about our business. I headed down the hall toward the Angolite office, which faced a restroom and the office for the Narcotics Anonymous Club. A classification office adjoined it on one side, and the Jehovah’s Witnesses’ office was on the other. The Angolite office was also used as an office for the United States Junior Chamber—or, as it is familiarly called, the Jaycees, a nationwide group that cultivates leadership among those younger than forty—since the paper’s staff controlled the Angola chapter of that organization.
The office was locked. I called to Tommy, who was walking out of the nearby classification office, to tell Kenneth Plaisance, another inmate, that I wanted to see him. I went into the blue-and-red-checkered room in the classification department that I was allowed to use as an after-hours office. It was my refuge from the jungle. A place in prison where you could be alone was priceless. I had just crossed my feet on my desk, lit a cigarette, and gotten comfortable when the door opened.
“Tommy said you needed to see me,” Plaisance said. He was a white, balding, and bespectacled typing instructor who was allowed to leave the prison as a Jaycee speaker. “I need to see you, too.” He perched on the edge of my desk and spoke with a kind of hurried breathlessness. “You’re jammed with some of the guys in Spruce?” Spruce was one of the tree-named dormitories at the Main Prison, along with Cypress, Ash, and Magnolia on the Trusty Yard, and Walnut, Hickory, Oak, and Pine on the Big Yard.
I nodded.
“Good,” he said, leaning forward, eager. “There’s this black kid. He’s not a whore or anything like that. He comes from a good family, and this is his first time in prison. One of the officers of the local Jaycees asked me to see what I could do to make sure that nobody turns the guy out or messes over him when he gets here. If you could talk to some of your friends in Spruce to kind of look out for him, it would make this guy owe me a favor, and that would help me in drawing their chapter into a project I’m working on.” He handed me a piece of paper with the inmate’s name and number scribbled on it.
Plaisance shunned prohibited behavior and worked hard at reinforcing his image as a model prisoner. A lifer, he was dedicated to regaining his freedom and joining the woman he loved. He had no real friends in prison, but he liked me. It was a fondness that began when I unsuccessfully pushed to get him on the staff of The Lifer. Plaisance was an asset, an ambitious, shrewd individual with immense knowledge of the prison and the politics governing it. He cultivated officials, community leaders, security personnel, assistants, secretaries, wives, sons, and daughters, knowing that the key to success for a prisoner—whether in job assignment, housing, earning privileges, or finding help in winning release—rested upon both knowledge and the ability to influence those who exercised power, or their intimates. My prison family had a wide network of friends and allies among both inmates and personnel, but we had not penetrated the inner sanctum of power— the administration. Plaisance knew that the inmate power structure was shifting racially as more blacks moved into jobs and organizations with clout, and he had decided to cast his lot with us. He gradually educated me about administrative personalities and factions, the strengths and weaknesses of management, and the art of maneuvering a minefield of egos and prejudices to get things done.
“No problem,” I told Plaisance, “unless he’s got an enemy in his past.” I paused. Now was the moment to mention what was on my mind. “Kenny—is Bill Brown in any kind of trouble with the administration?”
Plaisance became alert. He hated Brown. “What do you mean—in trouble?”
“Would the administration have any reason for wanting to move on him?”
Plaisance thought for a moment. “He’s in trouble with the parole board. I heard that the chairman and one of the board members were in Henderson’s office not too long ago, demanding he fire Bill. Henderson, according to my source, refused.”
That explained Beaubouef’s behavior in the warden’s office. He worked with the parole board and was apparently playing hatchet man for them, knowing that placing me as editor of The Angolite would push Brown out.
Plaisance left and I went to the Angolite office, which was now open. The neat room was outfitted with black-and-white décor. Brown sat behind one desk, and Joe Archer, a friend of his, sat at a facing desk. They both looked up at me, halting their conversation. Brown was a trim, well-built blondish man in his late thirties, though his Ivy League good looks made him appear much younger. Like Plaisance, he was allowed to travel outside the prison to give speeches for the Jaycees. He was rumored to be carrying on an affair with an attractive state official. My relationship with Brown was cordial but artificial, tainted by our past as competing editors, he of The Angolite, me of The Lifer.
“What can I do for you, my man?” he asked.
“I’d like to talk. Privately,” I said. “It’s important, and in your best interest to hear what I’ve got to say.” Brown asked Archer to leave, and I took his seat. I told Brown about my meeting with Henderson: “Apparently, the warden wants you out, but I don’t particularly like being used as the hatchet. And, if you’re suddenly ousted, people will assume you’ve done something wrong to warrant being fired. That’ll hurt your efforts to get out of here.”
Brown looked crestfallen. “It’s hard to believe Henderson would do that to me,” he said in a voice marked with disbelief. “It’s catching me at a helluva time. If everything goes right for me, man, I could be out of here in a matter of months.” He shook his head. “This will hurt. How do I explain it to people?”
“You don’t have to, Bill. If we cooperate and handle this thing right, the transition can be made to look natural. I’ll get assigned in here as associate editor, and we’ll simply pass it off as the prison complying with the federal court orders to integrate.”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?” He forced a slight but false laugh.
“You can fight it—but, if you ask me, that would be stupid since it’s inevitable. All our cooperating does is make sure that neither one of us gets fucked. You help ease my coming in, and I help ease your going out. You’ve got to trust me, much like I’ve trusted you in telling you this.”
Brown shook his head emphatically. “I wouldn’t jerk you around, not when you’ve laid your cards on the table. Believe me, I appreciate this, and your willingness to help with it. You can count on me—there won’t be any problems.”
I stepped across the hall to the office of Narcotics Anonymous. I knew that’s where I’d find Silky, whose family controlled all four Spruce dormitories. He was a suave young black who rarely got excited about anything and who silently conveyed strength. We were good friends. He was dictating a letter to Shaky, his favorite slave, who doubled as his personal secretary. They greeted me warmly. Rhythm and blues from a tape player filled the room.
“Get up, baby,” Silky instructed. “Let him have a seat.”
Shaky rose, smiling. He wore tight, light brown shorts that barely covered the cheeks of his ass, with panty hose underneath to accentuate his shaven café-au-lait legs. A scarf was wrapped around his head, hiding his hair, and he wore lipstick. He stepped slowly in high-heeled slip-ons, his ass rolling deliberately and provocatively. He had fully embraced his prison-imposed female role. Shaky moved around to stand behind his owner, his hand on Silky’s shoulder, throwing a teasing smile at me.
Silky laughed. He enjoyed Shaky’s taunting games with me. “Man, when you gonna come down from wherever you living at and join the real w
orld?” He smiled. “You ought to try it—you might like it. They got whores in here that’ll make you forget women. And Shaky is the best—ain’t you, baby?” He pulled Shaky around, embracing him and kissing him behind his neck.
Shaky slid out of Silky’s arms, moved to me, and slipped his arm around my neck. “I can show you a lot better than him telling you,” he said in a soft voice, as I closed my hand around his arm and gently pushed the effeminate boy back to Silky.
“I’m sure you could, but it’s not my piece of cake. Look, I need you to take care of something for me—look out for a fish coming in.” I gave him the slip of paper with the name and number on it.
Silky studied it. “A friend of yours?”
“Don’t even know the dude. It’s business. An organization in the streets is interested in him and asked us to look out for him.”
Silky handed the note to Shaky, nodding okay to me.
I returned to my friends and told them I had talked with Brown, and that all appeared to be well. It wasn’t. The following night, a breathless Plaisance rushed into my office. “You didn’t tell me you’re taking over The Angolite from Bill Brown.” He relished the idea. “Bill was on the phone first thing this morning, calling people he’s tight with in the warden’s office, wanting to know if it’s true that he’s being moved out.” Plaisance had been listening in on an extension. “Damn, Wilbert, why didn’t you let me in on something this big?”
I told him everything, including my concerns. “You should never have tried to reason with him,” Plaisance said. “He’s a snake and he’ll lie in a minute.”
I cut the conversation short and headed for the Angolite office. I shoved the door open. Archer was typing at the far desk. Brown, seated at his own, looked up. “You lied to me, Bill Brown,” I said. “You’ve been discussing what I told you with every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the administration building.”
Wilbert Rideau Page 13