In the Place of Justice: A Story of Punishment and Deliverance

382 Pages·2011·4.76 MB·English

by  Wilbert Rideau

To the late C. Paul Phelps,
my mentor and friend
Success is relative.
It is what we can make of the mess we have made of things.
—
T. S. ELIOT
Contents
Author’s Note
Maps
1—Ruination
1942—1961
2—Tribulation
1962—1970
3—Solitary
January 1972
4—The Jungle
1973—1975
5—Mentor
1976
6—Crackdown
1976
7—Truth Behind Bars
1977—1981
8—Disillusion
1981—1986
9—Soldiering On
1986—1990
10—Hope
1990—1994
11—Censorship
1995—2001
12—Behind Enemy Lines
2001—2005
13—Deliverance
2005
14—Heaven
2005
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
All the material in quotation marks comes from court testimony,
contemporaneous notes made either by me or by others, published sources, or
the best of my recollection. I have worked scrupulously to ensure that all the
conversations within these pages are faithful in content, if not always to the
exact words spoken.
ANGOLA
MAIN PRISON
1
Ruination
1942—1961
“Kill that nigger!” a voice barked into the winter night.
The headlights of the state troopers’ car blinded me. I was handcuffed and in
my stocking feet on the shoulder of a two-lane road, standing between the
headlights of their car and the taillights of the one I had been driving before they
pulled me over. Murmurs ran like the scent of prey through the small crowd of
shadowy figures that rustled on the roadway beyond the lights. I wondered how
they had gathered so quickly. An arm punctured the pool of light as a man
lunged toward me, intercepted by the young trooper who, responding to a police
radio bulletin, had captured me. I didn’t need to see the faces to know that they
were white.
“Give him to us,” one man shouted.
“Just give us the boy, and go on your way,” another said, more kindly.
A second, older trooper looked indecisive as the crowd grew more restless. I
felt only fear. The younger trooper cautiously interceded. “Look, we’ve already
called this in to headquarters. They know we have him, and they’re on the way.
We can’t give him up. We’ll never be able to explain it.” The older cop fingered
his holstered revolver and told the men he couldn’t do what they wanted but
assured them that I would be “dealt with.”
It was a reprieve, but I felt certain this business could end only one way. It
was 1961, and we were in Louisiana.
Within minutes more official vehicles arrived, and the road was flooded with
law enforcement officers huddled in talk. Then two deputy sheriffs came over,
took me roughly by the arm, and hustled me to the troopers’ car. One of them,
red-faced, punched me in my side and shoved me onto the floor of the rear seat.
Then he kicked me hard with his cowboy boot as he climbed in. “Uh-uh—can’t
have that,” the older trooper said. “We’re taking him to the sheriff.”
“He’s a dead sonuvabitch anyway,” the deputy said, leaning back into the seat
and pinning me with his foot. The policemen drove in silence. When the car
slowed and turned into a gas station on the edge of the small town of Iowa, I
wondered if this was where they were going to kill me. My fear virtually
disconnected me from my body.
The deputy led me gruffly to a car occupied by two large white men, who got
out to talk to the men who had brought me. I was led into the car, where I sat
alone in the back seat, hands cuffed behind me. When the two big men returned
to the car and were settled in the front seat, they turned to introduce themselves:
The driver was Henry A. “Ham” Reid, Jr., longtime sheriff of the parish we were
in, Calcasieu; the other was Deputy Charles Barrios. The sheriff had questions.
My name? Wilbert Rideau. Address? 1820 Brick Street, Lake Charles. No, it’s
my mother’s home. Age? Nineteen. I work at Halpern’s Fabric Shop in the
Southgate Shopping Center.
Barrios got out of the car and went into the gas station.
“Where’s the gun?” Reid asked.
“Threw it away,” I said.
“You have any other weapons?”
“A knife.”
“Where is it?”
“Threw it away.”
Barrios returned. “They’re going to pick up his mother and bring her to the
jail,” he told the sheriff.
“My mother don’t have anything to do with this,” I said, alarmed.
“Well, you’re gonna have to help us understand that,” Reid said. “You can
start by showing us where you threw the gun and knife.” I directed them off the
highway and onto back roads until we reached the spot. In the dark, they
couldn’t find the weapons in the grassy pasture. Thirty minutes and eleven miles
later we were in Lake Charles, a booming oil city of sixty-three thousand.
Its four-story brick jail rose behind the parish courthouse on Ryan Street, the
major downtown traffic artery. Reid drove past the courthouse and came to an
abrupt halt when he saw several hundred whites gathered in front of the jail.
“We can’t go through the front,” Barrios said, staring at the scene before us.
“Let’s try the rear,” Reid said, as he put the vehicle in reverse.