It has been my experience that because of institutional and individual racism

Chapter 35
Preparing for My Trial
In 1995 a new warden, Burl Cain, was hired at Angola. Outside the state he
would go on to become known as a “great prison reformer,” who believed in
“rehabilitation through Christ.” In Louisiana, he was caught up in scandal
after scandal over the years, much of it having to do with “side deals” he
made with contractors at Angola and the misuse of inmate labor. One of his
first deals at Angola was with Louisiana Agri-Can Co., a canning company
that paid prisoners four cents an hour to take the labels off rotten canned
goods and relabel them so they could be sold in Latin America and other
places. An Angola prisoner who worked as an inmate counsel reported it to
the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. Federal officials seized
cases of evaporated milk that were unfit for human consumption stacked
“wall to wall and floor to rafters” in a building on Angola grounds. After the
relabeling business at Angola was shut down Cain retaliated against the
inmate lawyer who reported the operation by putting him to work in the
fields.
Cain made other changes at the prison. He had razor wire wrapped in
coils around the barbed wire that ran across the top of all the chain-link
fences. He had time clocks installed at the end of every tier in CCR to
guarantee guards made a count of inmates every 30 minutes. We heard the
guards stamp their cards at the end of the tier every half hour. Cain replaced
the leather restraint that went around our waists with a chain.
I sent my lawyers Bert Garraway and Richard Howell detailed notes about
what happened during my 1973 trial, describing the witnesses, summarizing
what they had said, and pointing out the contradictions in their testimony. I
gave them lists of questions for each witness. For Joseph Richey alone I sent
them 30 questions. I asked them to find experts that could discredit the

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charges against me: a blood-spatter expert who could explain the
inconsistencies of the state’s theory, a fingerprint expert to identify the
bloody fingerprint that was found on the door of the dorm, an eye doctor who
could look at Paul Fobb’s medical records. I asked them to get the interview
tapes that Anne Butler and C. Murray Henderson used to write the chapter in
their book about Brent Miller’s murder.
During my attorneys’ attempt to review court records for my case we had
a big break. In a box containing all of my court records, my attorneys found
documents that had been withheld from my defense attorney during my first
trial and had been placed under seal by the court. These documents showed
that Warden Henderson and other prison officials paid Hezekiah Brown for
his testimony against me during my trial. There was proof that Henderson
agreed to pay Brown a carton of cigarettes every week; this was the highest
form of currency in prison, used for gambling, sex trade, and day-to-day
living, and the weekly payment was maintained for years by wardens after
Henderson left Angola—until Brown’s release. There were copies of letters
written by Henderson in 1974 to a judge and to the director of the Louisiana
Department of Public Safety and Corrections, asking them to support a
pardon for Hezekiah Brown, less than eight years into his sentence for
aggravated rape. There was even a letter from Henderson asking the prison to
pay the cost of the advertisement used for Brown’s clemency request. In
those days, requests for pardons by prisoners had to be advertised in local
papers so the community and victims of the felon’s crimes could weigh in.
In a 1975 letter to the Louisiana Board of Pardons and Parole purporting
to be from Hezekiah Brown, correctional officer Bobby Oliveaux,
correctional officer Bert Dixon, Associate Warden for Custody Hilton Butler,
district attorney for West Feliciana Parish Leon Picou (who prosecuted me at
my 1973 trial), and former warden C. Murray Henderson were listed as
“persons interested in appearing on [Brown’s] behalf.” Brown was released
from prison in June 1986. His sentence of death, which had been switched to
“life in prison” for aggravated rape in 1972 (when the U.S. Supreme Court
found the death penalty unconstitutional), was commuted to time served. We
could use all this to impeach Brown on the stand, because he testified in 1973
that he hadn’t been paid anything or promised any favors in exchange for his
testimony. I sent the copies of the letters that had been hidden from us to
Herman. He could use them to appeal his conviction. We never had a chance
to question Hezekiah Brown about his lies. He died before my trial began.

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Anne Butler refused to provide copies of the taped interviews she used to
write the chapter in her book about the Brent Miller murder, forcing my
attorneys to go to court to obtain copies of these tapes. At an evidentiary
hearing Butler argued that the reason she didn’t want to turn the tapes over
was that they could be damaged or destroyed. The court ordered her to turn
the tapes over to it, stating that the court would make copies of them and
return the originals to her. On the tapes prison officials must have been
feeling overconfident since Herman and I had already been convicted and
sentenced to life in prison for Miller’s murder. They spoke openly and freely,
not realizing that by doing so they were exposing their plot against me and
Herman. During his taped interview former captain Hilton Butler said,
“Hezekiah was one you could put words in his mouth. . . . Hayden kind of put
those words in his mouth,” thereby revealing that Brown was not a reliable
witness. They also admitted Gilbert Montegut was framed because Hayden
Dees wanted him to be framed.
Since Hezekiah Brown died before my trial, we asked presiding judge
Bruce Bennett to block Brown’s testimony from being read to jurors because
we had no way to confront him with this new information—not only that he
lied when he said he wasn’t paid for his testimony but that he lied when he
said he saw Gilbert Montegut stab Brent Miller. The judge denied our
request. Brown’s testimony would be read to jurors. (Judge Bennett would
also allow John Sinquefield, who prosecuted me in 1973, to testify on the
sincerity, honesty, and demeanor of Hezekiah Brown when Brown testified.)
Since Judge Tanner had overturned my murder conviction in 1992, my
sentence at Angola went from life in prison back to the 50-year sentence I
was serving for armed robbery. On April 29, 1996, I was discharged from
Angola on that original 50-year sentence, having done 25 years—half the
time, which was all that was required. If I hadn’t been framed for Miller’s
murder I would have gone home that day. Instead, I packed up my
possessions. I was to be transferred to a jail in Tangipahoa Parish, where I’d
be held during my second trial.
The day before I was to leave, a young white prison guard came to my
cell and told me I should get in touch with my family, my lawyer, and anyone
else I could because he heard through the grapevine that the Millers would be
waiting for me at the front gate when I was discharged and “it was decided”
that the ranking officers in the building would not be there that morning. I
immediately called my brother Michael, my sister Violetta and her husband,

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and both my attorneys. Each of them called the prison and the sheriff’s office
at St. Francisville and they were all guaranteed nothing was going to happen
to me, that I would be OK. I called Michael later that day and he told me Burl
Cain assured him I would be safe and there would be no problems.
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.

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