In the Sanctuary of Outcasts

by Neil White

  The guard yelled out, “Too slow! You’re too slow, inmate!” I nodded, picked up the pace. “You ain’t got nothin’ comin’,” he said.

  This is what guards told all the inmates. You ain’t got nothin’ comin’. I’d heard it every day, but I figured anyone who worked as a prison guard didn’t have much coming either, so it really didn’t bother me. But I hated to be called “inmate.” I thought about asking him to call me by my name. I also wanted to ask why he never woke Jefferson and the prisoners from their slumber in the cooler. But I just mopped.

  I thought about my days of investigative journalism in Oxford, Mississippi. At twenty-four, I had launched an alternative newspaper to take on the small-town establishment. Though I garnered lots of accolades, I offended a number of politicians and powerful businesspeople. But I did have one very important champion: Willie Morris.

  The former editor of Harper’s and author of North Toward Home, Willie was the writer-in-residence at The University of Mississippi. He took great interest in my fledgling career as a newspaper editor and publisher. Not so much because he was impressed with my efforts, but because he had a huge crush on my mother, who had recently moved to town fresh from her third divorce.

  Willie would call our newspaper offices late at night, inebriated, after the bars had closed and the stores had stopped selling beer. “Mister Editor,” he would slur. “For a mere six-pack of chilled beer, I will pen a piece for your fine paper on the ten greatest dogs I have ever known.”

  I would stop working on the newspaper and take a six-pack to Willie’s home on Faculty Row. His guests partook of the beer while Willie sat at his dining room table and wrote out his piece with a black felt-tipped pen on white legal paper. Sometimes, to avoid interruptions, he would put the telephone inside his oven. When he finished, Willie would stumble over, teary eyed at his own prose, and hug me. Then he would insist I join the group for a beer and give him an update on my mother.

  After acquiring Willie’s dog story and another piece on the greatest Ole Miss football players of all time—paid for, in full, with twelve cold beers—Willie forever greeted me as “Mister Editor.” I believed it legitimized my place as a journalist.

  As I finished mopping the first side of the room and dragged the tables and chairs from the other side, I remembered Willie inviting his famous writer friends to Oxford. He seemed more than happy to introduce them to me, especially if my mother came along. Alex Haley, William Styron, and George Plimpton all visited Willie. He knew I was a Plimpton fan. Not so much for his literature, but for his participatory journalism.

  I’d always dreamed of being an undercover journalist, secretly documenting conspiratorial practices and exploring hidden worlds. Willie arranged for me to meet Plimpton, to interview him for my newspaper, but it was a pretext. For me, the meeting was personal. I wanted to know everything he knew about immersion into a strange culture, clandestine reporting, and impersonation. I wanted to know what it felt like to go undercover, to write about things no one has any business knowing.

  I asked Plimpton about his thirty-yard loss in a preseason professional football game when he posed as a quarterback with the Detroit Lions. And about his short stint in professional boxing. And, of course, about his astounding April Fool’s hoax in Sports Illustrated when he convinced the magazine’s readers, and most of the sports world, that a major-league pitcher who had studied ancient Eastern techniques would change the game forever because he had learned to throw a baseball over 120 miles per hour.

  Now, as I mopped the cafeteria floor, a hundred checkered blocks at a time, I imagined what Plimpton would do in my place. And it was obvious. He would write about it.

  With mop in hand, I decided. I would not be a federal convict. I would simply pretend to be an inmate. I would record the stories of the leprosy patients, the convicts, the actions of the guards, and the motives of the Bureau of Prisons. I would uncover why the government decided to experiment with mingling inmates and lepers. And if one of us came down with the disease, I would have the documentation for an exposé.

  This was a great plan. This was precisely what I needed to do. As a participatory reporter, I could earn respect. When the guards called me “inmate,” it wouldn’t matter—it would be my cover. I would play the role, but spend my days listening to and befriending other inmates and, from a safe distance, interviewing any leprosy patient who would talk to me.

  Suddenly I felt as if I had escaped. I imagined myself on a stage accepting a Press Club award for the magazine piece I had written about my astonishing adventure. To a standing ovation, I would reach the podium, modestly trying to quell the applause before regaling the audience with my spectacular tales of courage and compassion, bravery and sadness, grit and heroism. That moment would naturally lead to magazine features, newspaper reports, and radio interviews. And, ultimately, perhaps a television special.

  I put away my mop and bucket, returned the tables and chairs to their rightful spot, and admired the spotless floor. And I realized I no longer wanted to be transferred. Obviously, I was here for a reason. I was in a remarkable place—one beyond the reach of George Plimpton, even. This was the perfect plan. And I knew the perfect place to start.

  CHAPTER 10

  The prison library occupied two rooms in a building in the far back corner of the colony. A prisoner in a khaki uniform sat at a desk flipping through index cards. I asked if he could help me find some books on leprosy.

  “What size are they?” he asked.

  I shrugged, baffled.

  “Then you’re in trouble,” he said, pointing to the shelves. “The library is organized by book size.”

  Small paperback books occupied one set of shelves. Larger paperbacks covered most of two other walls. Hardbacks lined the windowsill.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

  He went back to organizing his cards. “Warden likes things orderly.”

  I looked around the room. The other inmates seemed perfectly content with a library that ignored author, subject matter, the English alphabet, and the Dewey decimal system. I moved to the second room, the prison law library, where three manual typewriters occupied a table next to a set of The Federal Code and a few shelves of reference books. A small man with wavy red hair was typing diligently. He was focused and fast. He looked up, and I asked if he could help me find some books.

  Frank, as he introduced himself, told me that a warden in Texarkana started the movement to organize books by size, and it caught on in other prisons. Frank and a couple of other guys came in when no one was working the desk and, clandestinely, organized the books alphabetically by author, albeit within the parameters of size.

  “It’s problematic for title and subject matter,” he said, “but if you know the author’s name, you can usually find the book.” When I told him I was interested in books on leprosy, he cringed. “Disgusting,” he said, shaking his head again. Then he led me to two books written by residents of Carville, as well as two reference books on the subject. Frank gathered his papers and left. One of the other inmates in the law library asked me if I knew what Frank did on the outside.

  Frank, he said, was Jimmy Hoffa’s lawyer.

  I was intrigued. Hoffa’s lawyer would make a perfect interview subject. He would add spice to the exposé, especially if I could convince him to divulge something about Jimmy Hoffa that no one else knew. I sat at a round table and had just begun to read when I recognized Link’s laugh from the hallway. Link had a new hobby—following me around, asking questions and making fun of my answers.

  “Where Clark Kent at?” he yelled. “I got something for him.” Link came in, followed by a couple of his buddies who never seemed to speak. “You made magazines on the outside, right?” he asked. Link laughed and looked at his friends. I told him I had been a magazine editor and publisher. Then he tossed a pornographic magazine onto the table, open to a particularly graphic spread of a man and woman performing a sex act. Link pointed to the publication and as
ked, “You make them kind of magazines!?”

  “Of course not,” I said. Most of the other inmates in the library were laughing now, too. This was beginning to feel familiar. I took a closer look at the magazine. The pale white woman with jet-black hair had recently had stitches removed from breast enhancement surgery. The scars were pink and swollen and obvious. She also had a vicious rash on her derriere. The man had grease under his fingernails, and the bottoms of his feet were filthy. His mouth was wide open, as if in ecstasy. A handful of teeth were missing.

  I pointed out these shortcomings to Link.

  “You is lookin’ at the wrong parts!” he said. This time, even the guy working at the library information table laughed. “Man,” Link said, “you is the borin’est person I ever met in my life!”

  I conceded that I probably seemed boring to him.

  “What’d you and your old lady do for fun on Saturday night?”

  “I don’t think it would interest you,” I said.

  “Come on, man. We ain’t got nothin’ but time. What you did on Saturday nights?”

  “Well…sometimes we’d get a babysitter and go out for dinner. Maybe catch a show. Sometimes we’d go to parties.”

  “They have crack at them parties?”

  “No. These were social events. Wine. Beer. Maybe mixed drinks.”

  “You not only the borin’est person in the world, you is the whitest man I ever met. You was the motherfucker they was talking about when they invented the word honky. You white to the core.”

  I gathered my books and went over to the desk to check them out. The clerk at the table handed me a form to fill out. Link watched over my shoulder, then grabbed the form from the clerk.

  “Goddamn!” he said. “Even the motherfucker’s name is White!”

  Carville’s two miles of covered corridors were built because it was believed the sun aggravated symptoms of leprosy.

  CHAPTER 11

  After work each day, I walked the perimeter of the prison side. Walking, even in circles, made the time pass. As I made my way around the corridors, I passed by patients and inmates. Best I could tell, about one-third of the inmates were white, one-third black, and one-third Hispanic. The number of healthy inmates (we were called work cadre) and medical inmates (called broke dicks by the healthy inmates) was about even. Work cadre inmates wore green uniforms. Medical inmates wore khaki. Over one hundred medical inmates were in wheelchairs. Combined with the leprosy patients, more than two hundred wheelchairs moved around the colony on a regular basis. The patients, except for Ella, owned motorized wheelchairs. Inmates had the basic kind, pushed by humans.

  My private walks were often cut short by Link. He had yet to get a job assignment, so he spent his days wandering the colony. “This place is a motherfuckin’ country club!” he yelled. “I ain’t never leaving this place!” If Link saw me, no matter how far apart we were, he would scream as loudly as he could to get my attention. “Clark Kent! You borin’ motherfucker!” Some of the older prisoners demanded that the guards assign him a job because he was disturbing their peaceful mornings.

  Link had spent time in other prisons, so I imagine Carville did feel like a country club. Six television rooms carried basic cable, as well as HBO. The recreation department had a pool table, a Ping-Pong table, an arts and crafts room, a music room, and a television dedicated to Nintendo. Outside there was a horseshoe pit, a shuffleboard court, a sand volleyball court, a walking track, four handball courts, a full-sized basketball court, stationary bicycles, and a fully equipped weight room.

  Link started making himself at home in my room, much to Doc’s chagrin. Link’s nonstop talking distracted him from his reading. If I happened to miss Link’s visit, Doc would say, “Your friend honored us with his presence again.”

  Confounded about why I spent time with him, Doc asked, “You find these people entertaining?”

  Link was entertaining, but that wasn’t the only reason I spent time with him. Link told everyone—inmates, guards, even the leprosy patients—that I was out of place. He reminded them I was an idiot criminal who forgot to keep any money. He imitated the way I greeted people, how I apologized when I bumped into someone, how nervous I acted when someone around me violated a rule. In his own way, he was saying exactly what I wanted them all to know. Link told them I was different. He made certain everyone knew I didn’t belong here. I didn’t have to say a word.

  And even though Link was making fun of me when he called me Clark Kent, I enjoyed being likened to a superhero.

  When I was five, Underdog was my favorite cartoon. In my parents’ bathroom in front of the large mirror, I would tie a towel around my neck and flex my muscles like the superhero.

  I loved to watch Shoeshine Boy run into a phone booth, transform into Underdog, and save Sweet Polly Purebred from the evil villain. On the rare occasion when Underdog was close to defeat, in need of extraordinary powers, he would open the secret compartment of his ring and recite a rhyme: “The secret compartment of my ring I fill, with an Underdog Super Energy Pill.” When he swallowed the red pill, Underdog became powerful enough to move planets.

  On a Saturday morning, I searched through my mother’s medicine drawer and found what I was looking for—a secret energy pill. I pushed the tiny pill out of the flat, plastic container, put it in my pocket, and walked down the block to my friend Mary Eliza’s house. Her mother greeted me at the back door. “That’s a fine cape, Neil,” she said, “I’ll get Mary Eliza.”

  Her mother poured us each a glass of apple juice. I turned up my glass and gulped it all down without taking a breath. I let out a sigh and put the glass down on the table, like I had just won a drinking contest.

  In the backyard, I put my hand next to Mary Eliza’s ear and whispered that I was going to fly. Mary Eliza had the highest tree house in the neighborhood. I tightened the knot in my cape and took off up the ladder. I climbed up to the tree house and then pulled myself up onto the roof.

  I stood at the edge of the shingles and looked down. The tree house was high, far above the basketball goal. Too far to fall. I needed to fly. In my pocket, I found the pill and bit into it. It was bitter and dry. I swallowed all that I could and moved my toes over the edge of the roof. I bent my knees and let my arms relax. I didn’t count. I had a cape, a secret energy pill, and the full belief I could do anything I put my mind to.

  I swung my arms out and dove off the tree house roof.

  In the doctor’s office, my mother told the nurse about the accident. Then she whispered, “And he took one of my birth control pills.”

  The nurse gave me instructions for a urine sample and handed me a plastic container. In the men’s room, I filled the cup. I wished it had been bigger. I could have filled it three times.

  “My!” the nurse said, carefully taking possession of the overflowing container.

  “I got more if you need it,” I bragged.

  Back in the waiting room I told my mother I could have filled a much bigger container. She kissed the top of my head and said, “You were put here to do great things. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Jimmy Harris

  CHAPTER 12

  My plan to write an exposé about the convicts and the leprosy patients fit perfectly with my mother’s early vision for me. I had an opportunity to turn this incarceration into a great piece of journalism. And the next thing I needed to do was get more of Ella’s story. I had seen her in the hallways and a few times in the patient cafeteria, but each time a guard was close by. I would have to catch her alone when we both had plenty of time to talk.

  In the meantime, I had met another leprosy patient, Jimmy Harris, who talked nonstop. He had been sent to Carville in 1938. He was writing his own book about life in quarantine and was happy to talk about it to anyone who would listen. He had already picked a title, King of the Microbes. Jimmy had a head of thick, white hair and a slight curvature of the spine. Except for a claw hand, he looked perfectly normal for someone eighty-two years old. />
  Jimmy discovered his own leprosy on a summer evening in 1937. His father was hosting a barbecue. Later that night, as Jimmy undressed and removed the short pants he had worn that day, he noticed a spot on his leg. A clean spot. Although the rest of his leg was covered in fine Texas dirt, none adhered to the oval on his thigh. Jimmy knew the signs of leprosy because his brother, Elmer, had been stricken with the disease four years earlier.

  “You lose your ability to perspire,” Jimmy told me with great authority. “I knew what I had, but I went to see a doctor anyway. Took my 1931 Chevy Coupe over to Beaumont. That sucker would fly.” Then he went on to talk about horsepower and cylinders and other mechanical stuff. He seemed more interested in automobiles than leprosy.

  I made notes on Jimmy’s stories, and I recorded conversations I overheard in the cafeteria between the other leprosy patients. They called themselves “secret people.” I felt like a voyeur listening to them talk about their confinement, misdiagnoses, lost families, and the heartbreak of love affairs. What I didn’t hear in the cafeteria, I discovered in the books from the library.

  In the 1850s, Carville was called Island, Louisiana. The land was owned by Robert Camp. Indian Camp plantation, as it was known then, was a successful sugar plantation, but it was abandoned when Camp lost his fortune after the Civil War. The plantation sat in disrepair, unoccupied for thirty years, before the State of Louisiana leased the land in 1894. The 360-acre plot, along with a decaying manor house and slave quarters, was then designated as the Louisiana Leper Home. After that, all lepers in Louisiana were sent to the remote colony. The geography was perfect for outcasts. The plantation was virtually impossible to reach by land: a washed-out road with no outlet, leading to a tiny drop of land that looked like gravity had pulled it into the river’s path. It was known primarily to boat captains who navigated the sharp 180-degree turn in the Mississippi River just south of Baton Rouge.