Solitary
Page 24
Head sheriff Bill Daniel from West Feliciana Parish, who as a deputy had pointed a gun at my head in the clothing room almost exactly 24 years before, would take me to the small city jail in Amite, where I would live during my trial. I was put in full restraints in my cell and walked outside to meet him. I didn’t see any rank except for one lieutenant. I knew then that some shit was going down so I mentally prepared myself. No matter what, I would not break. They could kill me, injure me, jump me; I would not beg, scream, or plead for mercy. I would give them nothing. I would leave nothing behind in that prison, especially not my courage.
Members of the Miller family were waiting for me at the front gate dressed in camouflage and wearing sidearms. I was signing out of the book when one of the Miller brothers began to curse and threaten me, calling me “nigger, motherfucker,” telling me, “You’ll be back” and “You’re going to die at Angola, nigger” and that they were going to kill me. I had the ink pen in my hand and slowly made a fist around it, hiding it; I would use it if I had to. I let my cuffed hands drop in front of me, still holding the pen. He made an attempt to come around the concrete partition that separated us and a deputy put a hand on his chest to stop him. Daniel told me to get in the van. I started walking away from him toward the van, thinking any minute I’d hear gunfire ring out and I would die.
I got in the backseat and turned my head to look through the rear window. Bill Daniel and the Miller brothers were in a heated discussion. Daniel walked to the van and drove me to St. Francisville, where I was booked.
Chapter 36
Amite City
At the Amite City jail I was processed and put in a new cell for 23 hours a day. First, one with a concrete bunk and a hole in the floor as a toilet. After complaining to the deputies, I was told a cell was being prepared for me and I’d be moved soon. I waited for hours. Eventually I was moved to a cell called E-1, used for psychiatric patients, which had a big picture window built for observation. I had no privacy. One day I was sitting on the toilet with my sweatpants and underwear down to my ankles when a group of schoolchildren were brought in front of my cell on a tour. When they passed the plate glass window, the children paused and stared through the glass. It was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. I stared ahead, trying to project as much dignity as possible in that situation. After this incident, I banged on the door of the cell until one of the guards came and I demanded to see someone with authority. I talked to a lieutenant; it was decided they would give me a garbage bag that I could place over the window when I used the toilet.
I wrote to the warden telling him I had an exemplary record of conduct at Angola and asked him why I was in solitary confinement and asked to be placed in the general population. He came to my cell and told me that based on the information placed in my prison file by Angola officials I was a “high-priority” prisoner, “dangerous to self or others.” The stupidity and hypocrisy of it was that while they kept me locked up by myself for 23 hours a day because I was supposedly a threat to others, they let me on the yard three times a week with other prisoners. That was a surprise. When it was time to go to yard they electronically opened my door from the control center and I walked out by myself down the hall. They told me which door to walk to and when I reached it they opened it and I got to the yard. On my first time out in the yard I started running laps when suddenly the door opened again and all the prisoners in the general population came out. It was nerve-racking because I’d just been told that because of my “high-priority” status I couldn’t be around other prisoners. I thought prison officials were creating a situation in which I’d have to fight for my life. I slowed down my running and started looking at the men to see which one of them might attack me. To my surprise, nothing happened. There was no setup. Because of the prisoner grapevine, and the fact that many of these prisoners had been to Angola, a lot of these men knew who I was, what I believed in, and what I fought for. They left me alone.
After I’d been at Amite for six months a group of Cubans—some of whom had been in jail since they came to the States on the Mariel boatlift in 1980—attempted to escape from a nearby parish jail not far from where I was. One of them thought he’d be able to jump from the rooftop over a fence that surrounded the jail but he fell and shattered his leg. After he was treated at a hospital he was transferred to the Amite jail. A captain came to my cell and asked me if it would be OK to put him in the cell with me. “It’s OK,” I told him, “but I thought I was too dangerous to be housed with other prisoners. Tell the warden that if he’s OK with putting a man in my cell why can’t I be released into the main prison population?” The guard came back within the hour. “Pack up your shit,” he told me. “We’re putting you on the west wing.” I put my possessions in a bag and picked up my mattress. At the Amite jail we had to carry our mattresses wherever we were moved. They took me to what everybody called the immigrant dorm, where they had prisoners from other countries, mostly Cubans. It was a small cellblock (called a “pod”) with a day room and shower. There were eight cells total in the pod, four on an upper tier and four on the bottom tier. The cells were made for one prisoner but each held bunk beds for two. Our cell doors were opened at six a.m. and stayed open throughout the day. At count time the sergeant would tell us over the loudspeaker to “freeze” and he’d come to the door to count us. Some sergeants wanted guys in the cells for the count so we’d pile into the first-floor cells, five or six at a time, to be counted. Theoretically we were all locked down in our cells at night but sometimes they had 30 prisoners in a pod made for eight. Prisoners slept on the floor of the day room, under the stairway, or on tables. There was a food slot under the window of the pod that could only be unlocked from outside. At mealtime we stood in line and our trays were passed through the food slot.
I didn’t speak a word of Spanish but through sign language and broken English the other prisoners and I were able to communicate. Since none of them could read or write in English they hadn’t been able to do the proper paperwork for sick call. Unless they filled out the sick call forms authorities wouldn’t let them see a doctor. I started filling out sick call forms for them and that led to some asking me to write letters to their families. Some hadn’t been able to tell their loved ones where they were for months. The next thing I knew I was writing to the Immigration and Naturalization Service on behalf of many of them. Over time I started to comprehend some Spanish: “sí” for yes; “alto” for stop; “no tengo nada” means “I have nothing.”
Eventually some prisoners came in who were bilingual and translated for us so I could help inmates prepare for the immigration board that met at the prison once a month. I had no idea that word spread among the Cuban prisoners in the jail. One day on the exercise yard about five or six young Cuban prisoners I didn’t know started to walk toward me. I mentally prepared for a physical confrontation. When they got close they stood around me and greeted me like a friend, thanking me for helping the Cuban immigrants in my pod. It reconfirmed my faith in humanity.
Being out of the cell after 24 years was strange. When I was in CCR at Angola, everyone I talked to was always in front of me, standing at the bars outside my cell. In the pod it was unnerving at first to have people moving all around me, talking to me from all sides, coming up behind me. Being able to move around without restraints also took some adjustment. I wasn’t accustomed to walking around the jail without an escort. They used cameras and electronic doors to lead prisoners from one area to another. The first time I had to go to central control for a call-out to see my lawyer, I stood at the door and heard the lock pop but didn’t open it. I was waiting for a guard to come and get me. The prisoners behind me told me to open the door. I pushed the door then walked down a long hallway by myself. The whole time I thought about how for almost half my life I’d been wearing shackles and wrist restraints, with two escorts alongside me wherever I went.
In the day room, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d held a phone receiver with my hand, in
stead of between my ear and shoulder, or watched television out in the open, instead of viewing it between the bars of a cell door. I was very conscious that I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Do I put my hands in my pockets? I asked myself. Should I put them on the table? Gradually I became more comfortable and more self-assured. I ate meals with other prisoners and we played cards and dominoes at the metal tables. But the unknown factor was always there. There was the potential for danger every day, 24 hours a day. Everybody makes associations or friendships for his own protection. I did that too, but I didn’t trust anyone. I was always aware that at any moment I could be attacked. It was a state of existence that I lived with.
The turnover in the pod was constant. After several months, we weren’t an “immigrant dorm” anymore; there were more Americans than any other nationality. Prisoners were moved to other jails, other parishes, other pods in the Amite jail; some left to go to trial, others were released on bail, others took plea deals and got out.
I could have three to four cell partners in one day. From my bed I’d hear the cell door pop at one a.m., someone would be brought in, he’d put his mattress on the bunk to sleep, by seven that morning he’d be gone. Sometimes the guy they brought in would be so drunk he’d pissed himself. He’d throw his mattress on the floor and pass out, then they’d take him out the next day. Every time I had to be wary. I had to read the signs, the body language, how a dude talked when he came into the cell; is he normal, is he a bullyboy, is he crazy, is he timid? I had to make an instant analysis based on his body language and how he conducted himself to categorize him so I knew how to deal with him. As soon as I got used to one guy he was gone and somebody brand-new was brought in. I tried to get a cell partner who had a more serious charge, like murder, so I wouldn’t have the constant turnover. I wanted somebody in my cell who would be there for a while. Even with that, there were no guarantees. My cell partner could seem normal for weeks and then go wacko and start messing with me, looking for a fight, or start beating on the toilet one night out of the blue, screaming.
Most of the prisoners were so young it broke my heart. I listened to them, trying to understand them. I asked them why they were in prison. From what they described the techniques used on them by police and the criminal justice system were the same used in black and Latino communities in the sixties. Targeting blacks and Latinos on the street, cleaning the books on them so they’d be pressured to take plea deals, sentencing them to long jail terms for minor offenses. One kid told me his parole officer had him picked up for “consorting with a known convicted felon” who turned out to be his grandmother. She had done two years in jail 30 years earlier on a drug charge. I talked to them about how important it was for them to stay focused on life outside the jail. They called me OG, for old gangster. They meant it as a term of respect.
From the beginning, I was concerned about the jury pool in Tangipahoa Parish. I knew some of the guards were Klansmen. I was in the heart of what was known as “David Duke territory.” The town was very conservative. I wrote to my lawyers about it. Richard Howell wrote to me to say he was running for district attorney in Baton Rouge and would no longer be able to represent me and that a new attorney would take over my case. Clay Calhoun, an attorney practicing law in East Feliciana Parish, was named to replace him. The months passed. Two years passed.
On March 27,1998, five years after Herman had filed his postconviction relief application, he got a hearing before the 19th Judicial District Court on the issue of whether he received ineffective assistance of counsel because of the conflict of interest created when his codefendant Chester Jackson turned state’s evidence against him. Our former attorney Charles Garretson testified that all the information about a deal between the state and Jackson had been withheld from him. Garretson testified he was “blindsided” when he returned from lunch and was “missing a defendant.” “I felt that I was the only one in the courthouse that didn’t know,” Garretson said. “I felt that—I know all the deputies knew it. I felt the judge knew it, you know, and I felt I was the only one who did not know this.” Garretson testified that before he cross-examined Chester Jackson at Herman’s trial, Jackson’s mother told Garretson that there was a “done deal” and if her son testified he would “get manslaughter” and “he would get a much lesser sentence” than what he was then serving. In addition, she told him, “he would get moved out of the Angola facility and put in a camp.” When confronted with questions about a deal at trial, however, Jackson denied one existed.
In September 1998, Commissioner Allen J. Bergeron denied Herman’s petition. He determined that when Chester Jackson took the stand and denied that he had been promised anything in exchange for his testimony against Herman, he “spoke the truth in the most narrow sense.”
Chapter 37
The Crusaders
My trial was scheduled to take place at the end of November 1998. A couple of months before it was to start, two things happened that would alter the course of my life. First, a 25-year-old law student named Scott Fleming, who was volunteering for Critical Resistance—an Oakland-based organization seeking to abolish the prison-industrial complex—was reading a stack of letters from prisoners when he got to a letter Herman wrote to the organization, seeking support for my upcoming trial. Herman told our story, including how we’d been in solitary confinement for 26 years. He put my address at Amite in the letter as well as his own. Scott wrote back to both of us and asked us to call him. He wanted to help.
Second, Malik Rahim, the former Panther who had mentored and befriended both me and Herman at Orleans Parish Prison, was attending a Workers World Party event—also, coincidentally, in Oakland—when our former comrade from CCR, Colonel Nyati Bolt, approached him and told him my trial was coming up. Until that time Malik thought Herman and I were free. Malik tracked down my brother and called my lawyer.
Scott assumed we’d have a base of support somewhere in New Orleans, so while waiting to hear back from us, he called around looking for it. At a small anarchist bookstore called Crescent Wrench he found a group of activists who not only didn’t know anything about us but didn’t know anyone who knew anything about us. But they wanted to know more. Shana Griffin, Anita Yesho, Brice White, Icky, Brackin Kemp (Firecracker), and others created flyers about my upcoming trial and posted them around the city. They started to make arrangements to share transportation so they could attend my trial.
Malik flew to Louisiana with funds raised by Workers World Party activist Richard Becker and community organizer Marina Drummer to meet with my lawyer Bert Garraway. Garraway told Malik there was no reason for him, or anyone, to come to my trial—all he had to do was “get ready for a victory party.” Malik left Garraway’s office, flew back to Oakland, and with Becker in the Workers World office made 10,000 copies of a flyer about my case, all of which were distributed at events in the Bay Area the following week. He spread the word about my trial to activists and former Panthers throughout the country. (Through Malik’s connections at Pastors for Peace our story even reached Cuba.) At a Workers World conference in New York City Malik printed hundreds of postcards featuring a statement from former attorney general and founder of International Action Center Ramsey Clark expressing concern about the fairness of my trial, stating that it would be monitored. While my jury was being selected hundreds of these cards were mailed to the offices of Judge Bruce Bennett and the district attorney.
When I got Scott’s letter I called him collect that same day. He asked me about my lawyers and we talked about my upcoming trial. At the end of our conversation he asked me to call him every night during my trial to tell him what happened because he wanted to email the news to his network of friends, lawyers, and activists. I told him I would.
Malik talked about us to former Black Panther Party member Elmer Pratt (Geronimo Ji-Jaga Pratt)—a wrongfully convicted decorated Vietnam veteran who had been a victim of COINTELPRO and was recently released from prison. Ji-Jaga survived 27 years in the California pr
ison system, several of them in solitary confinement, convicted for a murder that the FBI and other officials knew he was innocent of the entire time. (FBI surveillance records showed Ji-Jaga was in Oakland at the time of the killing, which took place in Los Angeles.) Ji-Jaga’s conviction was finally vacated and he was released in 1997 on a judge’s order based on evidence that the main witness against him was a police and FBI informant who had lied under oath. Upon his release from prison Ji-Jaga said, “I want to be the first one to call for a new revolution,” describing himself as a “soldier . . . dedicated to the liberation of my people and all oppressed people.” Originally from New Orleans, Ji-Jaga spread the word about me and Herman to his vast network of supporters, telling people who doubted us, because nobody had heard of us before, that we were Panthers and political prisoners, regardless of the original charges against us.
In November 1998, about a week before my trial was to start, I was reading in my cell in Amite when a young inmate came to my door and said, “Woodfox, some guy is getting ready to rape a white boy downstairs.” He walked off. I put on my tennis shoes and went downstairs. I walked to the one cell on the tier that the guard couldn’t see into with a camera, cell 15. There were three guys in there.
“What’s going on here?” I said.
“What you got to do with it?” one of them asked me.
“You’re trying to rape this kid, that’s what,” I said.
“It’s not your fucking business.” he said.
I told him I was making it my business. I punched the guy in his face, he pushed me, and we started exchanging blows. The other prisoner ran out. The white kid left. At some point during the fight I hit my face on the top bar of the bed, which blackened both my eyes. On my next attorney visit Garraway told me he wanted to push back the date of my trial. “I can’t bring you in front of a jury looking like that,” he said. He went to court and had a bench session with the judge. I don’t know what he told the judge but he got us a two-week delay. My new trial date was December 7, 1998.