Herman is with us when we speak out about criminal justice issues that have an impact on the poor. In just one example, bail for poor people today is as much of a problem as it was when I was in the Tombs back in 1970. Excessive bail for petty crimes keeps people locked in public and private prisons. It’s a business. The overwhelming majority of people held in city and county jails have not been convicted of a crime; many of them simply can’t afford bail. Too often the families of people in jail have to choose between paying bail or buying groceries. The cost to these human beings who can’t make bail cannot be calculated: people lose their jobs; their children are taken by social services. That’s just one example.
Herman is with us when we talk about abolishing solitary confinement. People have to see solitary for what it is, morally reprehensible. Solitary confinement is immoral. There are still more than 80,000 men, women, and children in solitary confinement in prisons across the United States, according to the Bureau of Justice Statistics. That figure doesn’t include county jails, juvenile facilities, or immigrant detention centers. “We have abused the practice of solitary confinement to the point where it has become modern-day torture,” Rep. Cedric Richmond said in 2015. “Too many prisoners, including the seriously mentally ill and juveniles, are locked away for 23 hours a day often with little to no due process and at steep cost to the taxpayer. . . . Instead of being reserved for the worst of the worst, solitary confinement is too often being overused for ‘administrative’ reasons to avoid providing treatment for the mentally ill and rehabilitation for those who will return to society.”
In May 2018, King and I spoke at the University of California, Santa Cruz at a conference on the psychological and physical effects of solitary confinement. Craig Haney, the psychologist who had met with us several times in preparation for our civil trial, brought together the world’s experts in the field to develop principles that would limit the use of solitary confinement based on the scientific evidence that shows the devastating physical and mental effects of isolation and loneliness. There was strong support at the conference for the United Nations’ “Nelson Mandela Rules,” which would prohibit solitary confinement for juveniles, pregnant women, the mentally ill, the elderly, and the physically infirm and limit solitary confinement to no more than 15 continuous days for anyone else. King and I asked those assembled to go one step further, calling for an absolute ban on solitary confinement, for everyone.
We need to admit to, confront, and change the racism in the American justice system that decides who is stopped by police, who is arrested, who is searched, who is charged, who is prosecuted, and who isn’t, as well as look at who receives longer sentences and why and demand a fair and equal system. Racism in police departments and in courtrooms is not a secret. It’s been proved. Racism occurs at every level of the judicial process, from people of color being disproportionately stopped by police (racial profiling) to their being sentenced.
The U.S. Sentencing Commission found that between 2012 and 2016 (the length of the study), black men got sentences 19.1 percent longer than white men for the same federal crimes. A 2014 study published by the University of Michigan Law School found that, all else held equal, black arrestees were 75 percent more likely to face a charge by prosecutors with a mandatory minimum sentence than white arrestees, for the same crime.
In 2018, black people in Manhattan were 15 times more likely to be arrested for low-level marijuana charges than whites, according to a New York Times investigation. In Missouri that same year, the state attorney general’s office reported that black drivers in Missouri were 85 percent more likely than whites to be stopped by police—a 10 percent increase over 2017. Also in 2018, two professors at Harvard Law School found by examining the sentencing practices of 1,400 federal trial judges over more than 15 years that judges appointed by Republican presidents gave longer sentences to black defendants. The study also showed that white men were more likely to get their sentences reduced under the judge’s discretion than black men and that white men got larger reductions than the ones black men got.
We need to confront the realities of the prison-industrial complex. America has the largest prison population, per capita, in the world. Money is made off prisoners’ backs. Prisoners are forced to shop in prison stores. They (or their families) are forced to pay astronomical fees to outside companies to make phone calls, and in some cases, forced to visit through video services, which also cost the prisoner money. In some prisons, inmates are forced to work full-time making products for multinational corporations for almost no pay. The legal definition of “slavery” is “the state of one person being forced to work under the control of another.” The U.S. prisons are contracted by a range of government entities and private corporations to make their products. In most prisons, wages are well below poverty level. In some states prisoners aren’t paid. These working prisoners aren’t allowed to get benefits, they aren’t allowed to form unions, they aren’t allowed to negotiate the terms of their work conditions. It’s legal slavery to exploit prisoners in this way. Under the 13th Amendment prisoners are slaves of the state and are treated as such.
Private prisons—prisons run by corporations in order to make a profit, are dangerous. When the goal of a prison is to make a profit, human beings suffer. Corners are cut; rules are devised to keep people in prison longer; there is no incentive to rehabilitate prisoners. A 2016 Justice Department report issued by the Obama administration found that there is more violence at privately run prisons and less medical care than at government-run facilities. In 2016 President Obama directed the Justice Department to reduce the use of private prisons. The following year, under President Donald Trump, Attorney General Jeff Sessions rescinded Obama’s order within three weeks of being sworn in. The private prison industry is booming.
If there is something you can do, even one thing, to ensure humanity exists behind bars, do it. If you don’t know where to start, follow Solitary Watch and Prison Legal News on social media to find out what’s going on. There are organizations that are trying to change prisons as we know them, such as Critical Resistance and the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement. As human beings, we need to insist on the humane treatment of prisoners and the rehabilitation and education of prisoners. Prisoners who are mentally ill need treatment, not paralyzing drugs and 23 hours a day in a cell. Prisoners who are uneducated need education. The RAND Corporation has published study after study showing that educating prisoners who lack basic academic and vocational skills reduces future criminal behavior. RAND research has shown that every dollar invested in correctional education creates a return of four to five dollars in the reduction of future criminal justice costs. Don’t turn away from what happens in American prisons.
On October 3, 2016, I was invited to speak at the Southern University Law Center. Afterward I was approached by the Honorable Judge James Brady. I’d never met him before. He graciously introduced me to his wife. I was so humbled that he took time out of his day to be there. I thanked him for saving my life. “Judge Brady, I’m honored to shake your hand,” I told him. “I want to thank you for the integrity you showed during my case and with the rulings you made.” He said, “Well, you had the law on your side, and I was just doing my duty as a judge, following the law.” Just over a year later, on December 9, 2017, Judge Brady died after a brief illness. “He believed in justice for all,” his obituary read, “regardless of wealth, power or position. He believed that whether prince or pauper, in his court you were equal in the eyes of the law. He was, as friends and family called him, ‘Atticus Finch in the flesh.’”
If there’s a moral to my story it’s that salvation comes with the will to be a better human being. I have been asked many times what I would change about my life. My answer is always the same: “Not one thing.” All I went through made me the man I am today. I had to be a better person, a wiser person, a more disciplined person to survive. I paid a heavy price. Herman and King did too. In his autobiography, From the Bottom of the Heap
, King wrote, “My soul still cries from all that I witnessed and endured. It mourns continuously.” The agony and pain from all we saw and experienced will never leave us, it will always be part of us.
To those of you who are just entering the world of social struggle, welcome. To those of you who have spent years struggling for human rights and social justice: Don’t give up. Look at me and see how the strength and determination of the human spirit defy all evil. For 44 years I defied the state of Louisiana and the Department of Corrections. Their main objective was to break my spirit. They did not break me. I have witnessed the horrors of man’s cruelty to man. I did not lose my humanity. I bear the scars of beatings, loneliness, isolation, and persecution. I am also marked by every kindness.
Acknowledgments
With eternal gratitude and love to Herman Wallace and Robert King, to my brother Michael Mable, and to the brave and inspiring members of the Black Panther Party, who accepted me as I was and taught me the principles and values that saved my life.
I give thanks to all who came together on behalf of the A3.
To our tireless and dedicated lawyers who stood with us and never gave up, going above and beyond to help us in our darkest hours: Scott Fleming, Nick Trenticosta, Chris Aberle, George Kendall, Sam Spital, Harmony Loube, Carine Williams, Corrine Irish, Katherine Kimpel, Sheridan England, Billy Sothern, and Robert McDuff. (And to Scott, George, Carine, Corrine, and Billy, for your help with this book.)
To the International Coalition to Free the Angola 3—our support committee and advisory board—I think of you always, for your unending faith, hope, trust, and strength, and the many actions you took and sacrifices you made on our behalf.
To Anita Roddick, I miss you; your passion still inspires.
To Gordon Roddick, Samantha Roddick, and the Roddick family for your vision and love, and for the support of the Roddick Foundation.
To Marina Drummer for taking care of us and keeping us on the rails.
To my comrade, mentor, and brother, former Black Panther Malik Rahim, for all you have given in more than 50 years of social struggle and continue to give.
To Tory Pegram for your passion, commitment, and friendship; for helping me gather materials for this book (and to your children, my godchildren, love always),
To Maria Hinds, for your heart.
To my comrades Gail Shaw and BJ, for your friendship, activism, and for keeping the flame for the Black Panther Party at itsabouttimebpp.com.
To artist Rigo 23 for your A3 murals, for making art that inspires change, and for your strong support.
To Jackie Sumell for your friendship, and devotion to Herman’s vision, and for the art exhibit Herman’s House.
To Angad Singh Bhalla for making the film Herman’s House.
To Rebecca Hensley, for your friendship and wisdom during many visits.
To Anne Pruden, my Brooklyn connection.
To Nina Kowalska, Ambassador of Truth.
To Amnesty International and the staff involved in the A3 campaign: Tessa Murphy (USA), Angela Wright (USA), Jasmine Heiss (USA), Everette Thompson (USA), Kate Allen (UK), Kim Manning-Cooper (UK), Nicolas Krameyer (France), and all the members and supporters of Amnesty International, for your thoughtful letters, your commitment to justice, and for broadening awareness of and the discussion about the abuses of solitary confinement in the United States of America.
To filmmaker Vadim Jean, producer Ian Sharples, and the Mob Film Company for the documentaries In the Land of the Free and Cruel and Unusual.
To our investigator and friend Billie Mizell and all of our investigators over the years.
To Shana Griffin, Brice White, Anita Yesho, Brackin Kemp, Luis Talamantez, Ashaki Pratt, and everyone else who attended my trial in 1998: you blew my mind.
To Parnell Herbert for your friendship and social activism, and for writing the A3 play.
To Bruce Allen, for your many years of dedicated friendship and support.
To Noelle Hanrahan for Prison Radio and for giving voice to the voiceless.
To Mumia Abu-Jamal for your courage and dignity and for being a role model—thank you for speaking out about us.
To Black Panther Party alumnus Emory Douglas, valued comrade, for your support and your creative art on behalf of the Angola 3 and all political prisoners.
To all alumnae of the Black Panther Party who spoke out for us, fought for us, and welcomed me and Herman and King home.
To my good friend Professor Angela Bell, for being a lighthouse, and for keeping us all connected to the news we need to know.
To Emily Posner and Jen Vitry, for being fierce supporters and valued friends.
To Yuri Kochiyama and Kiilu Nyasha, for your friendship and support all these years.
To Kenny Whitmore (Zulu), comrade, friend, brother,—your time is coming.
To Rep. Cedric Richmond, to former representative John Conyers, and to the members of Congress and the Louisiana state legislators who fought for us and are trying to make laws against the abuses of solitary confinement.
To Teenie Rogers, for seeing through hate to find truth and for having the courage to speak that truth.
To “The Twins,” Deidre and Donna, for your principles, honesty, and bravery.
To James Ridgeway, Amy Goodman, Brooke Shelby Biggs, and all the journalists who kept our stories alive over many years.
To Richard Becker for spreading the word about us from the beginning, and for calling the WBAI–Pacifica Radio newsroom in New York City to report on my 1998 trial.
To the Prison Activist Resource Center, for all the work you do on behalf of prisoners and to change prisons, and for working with Scott Fleming to set up our first website in 1999.
To Colonel Nyati Bolt, for being a true comrade.
To Mwalimu Johnson, your steadfast wisdom is greatly missed.
To every person who visited us in prison: your friendship is priceless.
To every individual who wrote to us, signed a petition, wore a button, appeared at a hearing, held a banner, and made art, music, or theater telling our stories: your actions touched my heart.
To my family, for your embrace.
To my agent, Gail Ross of Ross Yoon Agency, who believed in my story.
To Jody Hotchkiss, for your dedication to getting the Angola 3 before a wider audience.
To Leslie George for having the courage, above all, to put up with me while helping me write this book. You might think that this is her strongest point, but how far from the truth that is. Les is a woman of infinite wisdom and heart, not to mention patience. Good or bad, right or wrong, she is always honest. Make no mistake, without her support and love, this book could not be.
To Grove Atlantic, for taking me in.
To the entire team at Grove Atlantic behind this book, including Julia Berner-Tobin, Justina Batchelor, Deb Seager and Michael O’Connor.
To George Gibson, my editor, for your deep humanity.
I am humbled, inspired, and awed by all of you; by your loyalty, your hope, your spirit, your belief in justice, and your love. Thank you for being there for me, Herman, and King. You have proved to me that “Power to the People” is an achievable goal, as long as we never give up our commitment to serve and protect one another.
And to my mom, Ruby Edwards Mable, most of all: I want to thank you for giving me life and the lessons that have carried me through for 72 years. You are truly my hero.
—Albert “Shaka Cinque” Woodfox
Index
The pagination of this digital edition does not match the print edition from which the index was created. To locate a specific entry, please use your ebook reader’s search tools.
Note: Abbreviation AW stands for Albert Woodfox.
A3. See National Coalition to Free the Angola 3
A4 (Angola 4). See Free the Angola 4
Aberle, Chris, 275, 292, 323, 326, 329, 332
Abu-Jamal, Mumia, 409
Acoli, Sundiata, 409
administrative
remedy procedure (ARP). See also petition of grievance, 123, 201, 204, 255, 336
Advocacy Center of Louisiana, 354
African American, incarceration rates, 345, 407
African National Congress (ANC), 287
Ailsworth, Ronald (aka Faruq), 80–81
Al-Amin, Jamil Abdullah, 409
Ali, Muhammad (aka Cassius Clay), 71
American College of Correctional Physicians, 354
Amnesty International, 264, 332, 344–45, 347, 349, 353–55, 369–70, 372, 374
Angola prison
about the slave plantation origin, 24–25
arrival/classification of new inmates, 25
AW walking out the door, 402–03
“the B-Line,” 304
being “turned out” (raped), 25–29
comparison to the Tombs, 59–60
Conyers’ investigation, 99, 304, 306, 313–15, 341, 355, 368
culture of violence, rape and sexual slavery, 25–28, 84, 88, 93–95, 389
federal government takeover, 160, 191
games as diversion (cards, chess, dominoes), 37, 60, 180–81, 233, 283, 313
headcounts, 36, 37, 44, 115, 225, 231–32, 338
militants, labeling/punishment, 99, 105–07, 109–10, 150, 215, 388–90
Prison Radio, 323–24, 326
prisoner locker box, 28–29, 111, 307–08
prisoner wages, 32, 87, 98, 225, 283, 412
reforms/changes, 98–99, 119–20, 160
violation of constitutional rights, 124
yard time/yard days, 32, 34, 37, 86, 88, 92, 98, 108, 124, 154–55, 177, 183, 201–04, 253–55, 332, 334, 347, 349–50
Angola prison facilities. See also Closed Cell Restricted; dungeon
blood plasma unit, 130, 139
Camp A, 91–92, 147
Camp D, 314
Camp J, 159–60, 167–69, 201–02, 205, 250–55, 261–62, 278–87, 307, 327, 409
clothing room, 28, 86
Cypress (dormitory), 27–28, 43
Death Row, 42, 103, 122, 124, 146, 180, 183, 201, 205
Solitary Page 43
