Defense of an Other

by Grace Mead

  On the driver’s side was a tan booth with glass windows—the guard within controlled the black bars that bisected the roadway; a witness to the toll on those who arrived and the few who left. Sand-colored guard towers dominated the horizon.

  As the bus continued through the prison, Matt noticed that at least two-thirds of the prisoners were black and only a third white—the opposite of Louisiana’s population outside. It drove past two blue water tanks with swirls of white and paintings of a fisherman in a Louisiana bayou, a Native American chief and the eye of Mike the Tiger. It then traversed a small part of Angola, formed from 18,000 acres of a former slave plantation and holding some 5000 prisoners, almost all convicted of violent crimes and sentenced to life without the possibility of parole.

  A file of convicts marched past, all black, carrying hoes and wearing jeans and white shirts. Most wore head coverings—fashioned from t-shirts or bandanas or rags—to shelter them from the sun but all still sweated heavily. Above them loomed a horse supporting a squat, ogre-like guard. In the distance, Matt also spied, through razor and concertina wire, a silent church steeple with a belfry but no lantern.

  The driver finally pulled through another gate with a large sign that said Wheaton State Penitentiary, located within Angola’s boundaries, at the edge of Lake Killarney. The bus came to a stop.

  “Get up. Get off,” a guard said.

  The new prisoners staggered out of the bus and uniformed officers used nightsticks to prod them into some semblance of a formation. They assembled in front of a low, sprawling complex of buildings.

  A priggish man with a belly overhanging a large belt buckle strode out of the building and into the yard. “I’m Warden Paxson and I’d say welcome to Wheaton, but I don’t expect you’re too glad to be here. Lots of you spent some time in jail before coming here. I know they call Orleans Parish Prison a prison, but it’s mostly a jail. I want to make sure you know the difference between jail and a real prison. Jail’s where they hold you before you get tried and sentenced. Jail’s temporary and there ain’t much to do there other’n wait. This is prison, where you’ll serve a very long sentence, and I’m gonna tell you the most important rule we have. Nobody just waits. Everybody works.”

  Paxson continued: “We grow some cotton and some sugarcane and we try and make a profit. You’re gonna work hard so the good people of Louisiana don’t spend more money than they have to housing and feeding a bunch of criminals. The guards and other prisoners will tell you the other rules. You should follow ’em if you want to stick around. You mess around, we’ll send you over to Camp J at Angola, and I figure some of you’ve already heard about that.” Matt shuddered, thinking of the factual findings by courts he’d read that had compelled a federal court in New Orleans to run the prison for decades and hoping the judicial supervision had improved conditions. The warden turned and walked away.

  The prisoners entered a processing area, their handcuffs were removed, and they turned in their clothing and personal belongings. They were then escorted into group showers complete with soap dispensers that claimed to exterminate lice.

  Matt was nervous, but everyone in the group looked anxious. Though none of the guards accompanied them into the showers, cameras were sprinkled throughout. Their LED lights glowed red and reassured Matt that the cameras, at least, were watching.

  After showers they received state-issued blue jeans, white t-shirts, boxer shorts, socks and sneakers. They were then marched into a barber shop, where wizened, elderly inmates shaved their heads. The guards were present for the shearing, so the new arrivals had little opportunity to interact with the veterans.

  The men were then released into a broad yard surrounded by a seven-foot chain-link fence.

  After the last of them had made their way into the yard, a large-boned uniformed guard with a sunburnt face and sandy hair addressed the group. “My name is Lieutenant Dietrich. You’re gonna go directly to your cells for the rest of the day. You’re each bunking with an inmate who’s been here at least five years. Enjoy your afternoon rest because y’all are gonna work tomorrow.” Lieutenant Dietrich motioned to a group of waiting low-level officers who escorted the prisoners to a building with a sign on the front that described it as Building 6.

  As they stood in front of Building 6, Matt sized up the small black inmate in front of him and considered Frank Hodges’s advice. He visualized pushing the man’s shoulder and spinning him around to launch a finger strike at his eyes. It would only take seconds and he might even blind him. Word of that could get around quickly and establish a reputation that could protect him. He shook his head—he couldn’t do it; he’d already killed a man and he couldn’t cripple a stranger just to improve his odds of staying safe.

  He didn’t have the chance to move beyond these thoughts before he found himself alone in a cell with the door slammed shut, where he eventually drifted off to sleep.

  Late the next afternoon, as the window bars fragmented and attenuated light from a low sun, about forty prisoners filed down the corridor of Building 6 and lined up in front of the cell doors. A black man with a rangy frame—a walking skeleton with little flesh, let alone fat—and a bushy afro stood several inches taller than Matt in front of the cell door. After half a minute, a guard tripped the electric switch that opened the doors and the man ducked his head as he entered.

  “Matt Durant,” Matt said. He stood and offered his right hand.

  “Tyrone Jansen. I guess you’re a fresh fish.” Tyrone ignored Matt’s hand, sat on the bottom bunk, folded his frame into the confined space and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Matt stayed standing next to the locked cell door, reluctant to approach the bunks and close the space with Tyrone. “Why are we in individual cells? I thought Angola had a dormitory layout,” Matt asked.

  “Well, this here’s a medium-security wing. They started puttin’ the newbies in here to give ’em a chance to get used to prison before sticking ’em in with everyone else. S’posed to protect you, I guess.”

  “Why are you in the medium-security wing?”

  “They put some of the so-called model prisoners in this wing. I guess they figured we could show you the ropes.” Tyrone settled back in the lower bunk and closed his eyes.

  “What’s it take to be a model prisoner?”

  “Mostly just stayin’ out of trouble.”

  “What happens next?”

  “In ’bout thirty minutes we go eat with everybody else. The old cons and the fresh fish eat together.”

  “Should I be worried about dinner?” Matt asked. He felt like a six-year-old harassing an adult with questions.

  “Naw,” Tyrone shook his head, eyes still shut. “There’s lots of guards at dinner. Guards and cameras, those’re your friends if you wanna stay safe. I know you.” Tyrone sat up and rested his elbows on knees higher than his bunk. “You that faggot lawyer from New Orleans.”

  Matt’s stomach sank. “I was convicted of killing a guy outside a gay club, yeah.”

  “Well, I ain’t into that shit. Just keep your hands to yourself. I’m not looking for a sweetheart.”

  “Do I need to worry the other prisoners will think I’m gay?”

  “Yeah, you need to worry,” Tyrone said. He raised his eyebrows and gave Matt an incredulous look. “Those guys out there’ll think you want it, and that’s a problem if you don’t wanna give it.”

  “When’s that going to be a problem?”

  “Well, maybe as soon as tomorrow, when you gotta go out and work. But you gonna work as part of a crew from this block for now, and that ain’t so bad. The gang leaders got their spies in here, but they don’t want to lose ’em by having ’em do anything too nasty. You gotta worry when you get tossed in the general population. So ’less you really piss somebody off, that means you gotta worry after you’ve been thrown in the buildings with the older cons.”

  “Who are the gang leaders?” Matt pressed, willing to run the risk of irritating his new cellmate for inside inf
ormation that could potentially keep him safe.

  “There’s only one white leader here, name’s Bill Sands, and he’s head of the White Brotherhood. There’s a brother too, Parnell Jefferson. Makes sense ’cause it ain’t like Angola. It’s about half whites an’ half brothers here.”

  “How do I protect myself?”

  “You should prob’ly become some big, mean guy’s bitch. You like that shit anyway, right?” Tyrone smiled. “I figure you get some big motherfucker to protect you, you don’t need to worry so much about takin’ a beating or getting the HIV.”

  “And if I don’t want to be some big guy’s bitch?”

  Tyrone laughed.

  “If you got the answer to that one, you really must be as smart as you s’posed to be.”

  “Any of these leaders recently convicted?” Matt had begun to irritate even himself with his questioning, but learning more helped keep his fear under control.

  “Yeah, Parnell just got convicted about six weeks ago. He was in Angola before and his gang has peeps inside and outside so he became a leader real quick. Why you ask?”

  “It’s easier to get a criminal conviction reversed the first time the appellate courts hear the case. Do you know Parnell? Can you introduce me?”

  “Yeah, I know him. But I’m on this block ’cause I stay out of that shit. What in it for me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “If I could get a hundred bucks in the store, it’d make my life a whole lot nicer.”

  “Done. I can deposit a hundred bucks on your behalf. I’ll write my mother.” Matt wanted to take back the reference to his mother immediately, but Tyrone didn’t react. He thought it sounded juvenile—and his instinct toward a prissy word like behalf didn’t help either—he needed to pay closer attention to how he structured his thoughts and make certain they didn’t infect his speech. He also knew from Hodges that most inmates quickly lost all contact with the outside world and he didn’t want to add to any jealousy.

  “When the money’s there, I take you to meet Parnell.”

  A guard shouted down the hallway, “Suppertime.”

  Tyrone joined Matt in front of the cell door. A buzzer sounded, the door opened, and the prisoners went to dinner, but there was no trouble there. Matt suffered interested stares, but the presence of the guards and cameras persuaded the other inmates to look rather than touch.

  He choked down the bland meal and followed Tyrone’s lead by avoiding conversation with others at the table. Then they returned to their cell. After lights out, he could hear the wracking sobs of other new prisoners. Matt, at least, had learned to cry silently.

  Chapter 18

  The guards’ shouts woke everyone in Building 6 and, out of habit, Matt glanced at the top of his wrist—where his watch used to be—but instead found a patch of white skin. Soon even the patch of white skin would fade and there were few clocks in the prison. Why bother? Most prisoners would be told when and where they needed to be for life.

  After breakfast, the inmates were led out into the yard.

  Lieutenant Dietrich walked out to meet the group in front of the bunker-like cafeteria. “Today ya’ll will start working to earn your keep. The great state of Louisiana will give you four cents an hour toward your commissary accounts for your work. As new prisoners, we’re assuming you lack any skills. But we hope you can dig ditches. You’re being issued shovels. Don’t abuse them. If you do, you’ll get a ticket straight to Camp J next door, and I promise you don’t want to spend time there. It makes this place look like Sunday school.”

  The guards corralled the prisoners into a line, issued a shovel to each inmate, and marched them out along a black tar roadway. After a mile or so, the group took a right onto a dirt road that cut through a cotton field, which they followed until it intersected another black surface sweating noxious petrochemical fumes.

  Matt plodded toward the ditch and thought about how hard he’d worked to get an education to fulfill his parents’ dream that he earn his living with his head, not his hands. At an early age, before his father’s death, he’d seen the effects of constant physical toil on the body and mind. His father had been up before the crack of dawn, worked until dusk and came home reeking of sweat, too tired at dinner to talk. That memory lingered.

  “All right. This is where you start,” Lieutenant Dietrich said. “You’ll get out of Building 6 and become eligible for more glamorous employment when you’ve finished the ditches on the sides of this road.”

  Matt found himself standing next to Tyrone. He hefted his shovel and then stomped down to drive the blade below the top layer of hard-caked dirt and into the loamy subsoil deposited by the Mississippi. He felt the weight of each shovelful in his shoulders and back. After an hour and a half, beneath work gloves worn thin many years before, blisters formed. By the time a guard ordered a break, the sun had begun to blaze.

  As they rested, Matt kept to himself as he gazed across the fields and saw other inmates working with hoes. The job was hot, hard and unpleasant, but the presence of the guards comforted him. He only faced discomfort, not any sort of real threat. After about fifteen minutes, a guard shouted for the prisoners to return to work.

  The remainder of the day passed slowly and the burning in Matt’s hands and the strain in his back worsened. New blisters developed and the ones from the morning burst. Late in the afternoon, Lieutenant Dietrich returned and marched the men back to Building 6. Matt reconsidered whether the labor had only caused discomfort and thought he might collapse from relief.

  He entered the cell, adding his stench to Tyrone’s strong body odor.

  “Don’ worry ’bout the stink. It’ll get better. We’ll be dry by mornin’. And I’m guessin’ you don’t want to spend any more time in the showers than you have to,” Tyrone said and snorted.

  “Do you have paper, an envelope and a stamp I could use?” Matt asked. “I want to get a letter off to my Mom as soon as possible so I can get your hundred dollars.”

  “Sure. I’ll give it to ya for only five bucks. You can add it to the hundred,” Tyrone said.

  “Thanks.”

  Matt lay on the scratchy wool blanket covering his bunk and tried to write a letter on a cheap legal pad with a flimsy cardboard back:

  Dear Mom,

  I’m safe in Wheaton State Penitentiary. My cellmate, Tyrone, loaned me the materials to write this letter.

  The new inmates are housed in a medium-security facility called Building 6. We get three meals a day that are large enough to keep us going. On my first full day, they put us to work digging ditches. I think prison may put me in the best shape of my life. I haven’t had the chance to visit the library yet.

  I was hoping you could do me a favor. You know I gave you power of attorney over the bit of money I had managed to save. Could you please deposit $200 in my commissary account as well as $105 in Tyrone Jansen’s account? He’s been in prison for over five years and has no one on the outside to help him out. The money at the commissary allows us to buy better toothpaste, toothbrushes and writing materials. If you could also send me a package of letter-sized legal pads with thick cardboard backs, some pens, stamps and envelopes, that would be great.

  I hope all is going well for you. I think of you often.

  Love,

  Matt

  Matt folded the letter, addressed the envelope, and added a stamp. He hoped his mother bought his “everything is fine” routine but doubted she would.

  The guards shouted out that suppertime had arrived.

  “You can send that from the cafeteria,” Tyrone said. “They take ’bout one, two days longer ’n the post office. Not quite sure why, but they’se probably reading our mail. And I’ll introduce you to Parnell soon as I get the money.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said. He found it difficult to believe his letter to his mother would stand out to a censor among the other inmates’ correspondence. He wondered whether he’d ever again have anything of interest he could report without causing her a
nervous breakdown. Censorship wasn’t his most pressing concern.

  Over the next week, Matt’s aching back and bloody hands adapted to digging ditches for eight hours a day. On Friday, he received notice that $200 had been placed in his commissary account. Tyrone also learned $105 had been placed in his account.

  After they returned from the fields on Friday, Tyrone asked, “You ready to meet Parnell at dinner tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Matt said.

  “You know this is goddam dangerous. I still think you’d be better off picking some big bull and giving him some for protection. Hell, you gay, ain’t you? People in here like anybody else. They like to think the guy they’re doin’ is interested. You could set yourself up real nice. You fuck up this thing with Parnell, you gonna be lucky if’n you end up in the infirmary for a long time.”

  “But if it goes well, I could be safe in here for years.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Tyrone shook his head.

  They received their slop in the cafeteria line. Tyrone led Matt to a table of large black men, where a dark-skinned man with a shaved head and broad nose sat at the head of the table: his arms were a mixture of crude prison tattoos forming intricate patterns with more professional, colorful ones, but Matt felt certain he’d heard or read somewhere he shouldn’t ask about them; they could be gang tattoos or just personal, and he didn’t want to offend by mistake.

  “Yo, Parnell,” Tyrone said. “My new cellmate wants to talk to ya.”

  “You shoulda taught him better ’n that, brother.” Parnell said. “No fresh fish should ever wanna talk to me. And they definitely don’ want me askin’ to talk to them. What’s he got to say?”

  Matt didn’t wait for a more direct invitation. He swallowed hard and said, “My name’s Matt Durant. I was convicted of murder in New Orleans, where I was a lawyer. And I wasn’t just any lawyer. I graduated first in my class from LSU law school. I also worked for an appellate court judge for a year doing criminal work, and then worked for the best litigation firm in Louisiana. I’m not asking you take my word for it. Ask your lawyer.”