Appeared in Burk Foster, Wilbert Rideau, and Ron Wikberg, The Wall Is Strong: Corrections in Louisiana, 2nd ed., Lafayette, LA: Center for Louisiana Studies, 1991, pp. 185-192. Originally appeared in The Prison Journal, Summer 1990, pp. 9-14.
What is a "lifer?" The dictionary definition sounds pretty conclusive: "A person sentenced to imprisonment for life." But as everyone who works in corrections knows (and most members of the public suspect), a life sentence rarely means life. Good-time, parole and executive clemency are important variables that combine to make a life sentence usually much less lengthy than natural life.
The Bureau of Justice Statistics reports that of those released from a life sentence in 1983, the median time served was eight years and seven months; about 20% served three years or less (BJS Data Report, 1986, 1987: 47). (On a life sentence? No wonder the public is suspicious.) An earlier report, comparing sentences for several serious crimes in twelve states, found that the average time served for criminal homicide (murder and manslaughter) ranged from a low of 39 months in Oklahoma to a high of 78 months in Ohio ("Time Served in Prison," 1984: 3). Not all of these were life sentences, obviously, but most of them sounded much longer in court then the three to six-and-a-half years they turned out to be in prison. We can understand, then, why "lifers" might be smirking when their life sentences are imposed; they know the odds are in their favor.
But aren't prisons filling up with old men? Haven't the experts been warning us that we have to begin preparing for the "graying" of our prison population? It is true that the prison population is aging, from a median age of 26 in 1979 to a median of 28 in 1986. Several circumstances appear to be involved here: increasing crime among those over 50; the gradual aging of the society from which prisoners come; a trend toward longer sentences for violent offenders, now in the statistical majority in the national prison population; and the accumulation of many older habitual offenders in prison.
Most of the inmates over 50 now in prison are there either for first offenses or for failing to "burn out" on crime as middle aged criminals are supposed to do. They are back for their third or fourth or tenth rap (likely a much longer rap than what they started with) instead of going into retirement. As Kevin Krajick pointed out in his article, "Growing Old in Prison," some years ago, "The inmate who had served a true life sentence for one crime committed in his youth is relatively rare."
But every big prison does have a few of them, worn, dusty men who might once have been black or white or brown but whose rightful color now is gray--prison gray from all the years they've lived behind bars. You can see them, tending flower gardens, working in hospitals, sometimes left to their own menial chores away from the younger men who nod at them and call them "Pops," afraid to look too long for fear that the old ones' bad luck will rub off and they too will end up old in prison. Somehow these old men have managed to beat the odds, but in reverse; they have "slipped through the cracks" and stayed in prison while their partners in crime got out and resumed their lives in the free world. They've done bad things, no doubt, murders and rapes and robberies and drug deals, but men who've done worse crimes have come after them, served their time and gone home. Somehow they remain, the old-timers, as permanent as the walls that define their world.
These are the men we call the "longtermers," the odd few for whom a life sentence truly meant life, or as close to it as most prisons are likely to come. There aren't many of them, though with sentencing trends as they are at present one day there will probably be a lot more. Our research here concerns an exclusive sample: the 31 inmates of the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola who had served a continuous sentence of 25 years or longer, as of early 1988. They are a select group, the present and soon-to-be-inducted members of the "million dollar club," based on recent cost estimates of the National Council on Crime and Delinquency to confine a prisoner for a natural life sentence (which they estimated at 30 years).
The statistical summary of these 31 convicts shows that 27 are black and four are white. Seventeen were confined for murder and 14 for aggravated rape. The four whites were all confined for killing whites; of the blacks 14 were confined for murder and 13 for rape (10 of the 13 for raping a white female). Nineteen of the crime victims were white and 12 were black. Seventeen of Louisiana's parishes are represented. Orleans Parish, which includes New Orleans, has nine. The inmates ranged in age from 42 to 71; most are in their 50s and 60s, after having been confined an average of 29 years. Although the longest-serving of them was imprisoned in 1948, most entered in the 1950s and 1960s, when a life sentence in Louisiana meant that inmates served only ten years and six months before going to the Pardon Board. The great majority were granted clemency and released right away. Angola's present Warden, Hilton Bulter, estimates that no more then 5% of the lifers were kept in prison beyond the arbitrary 10 1/2 year point. How did these 31 men get into the category of "the undeserving" and continue on in confinement?
From prison records and personal interviews conducted with each longtermer, several recurring themes emerged. There are circumstances relating to the prison experience, to the inmate's own personality or state of mind, and to how the outside world remembers him that seemed to have direct bearing on the length of his term of imprisonment.
All of these men came to Angola convicted of violent crimes. At the time they entered prison, they ranged in age from 16 to 41. The great majority of them were young, no older than 30. The Angola they came to, in the '50s and '60s, was a tough, old-fashioned prison farm. There were few "free world" guards. Inmates armed with shotguns and rifles guarded other inmates who worked the fields. Domination of younger, weaker inmates, with or without the cooperation of the inmate guards, was a common practice. Several of the longtermers spoke of their struggle to survive in this brutal, primitive environment. Inmate Parnell Smith, who came to the prison in 1952 to serve one life sentence and then got a death sentence after killing another inmate in a 1954 knife fight, remembers, "If you did not stand up as a man, you would end up being treated as a woman. Getting killed at Angola was a way of life here then."
Inmate Henry Patterson recalls being "brought down the Walk in 1961 and thrown into the jungle. The security captain told me, 'Son, get yourself an ole man, do what he say, and be a good prisoner.'" But Patterson was determined not to be turned into what Angola inmates called a "gal-boy," a prison whore. Instead he fought back, earning a reputation as a bad man to cross. He says today, "I ain't never figured it out. I got lost in the wild and violent ways of Angola during the bad years. You had to fight to survive. I think I hurt myself by trying to keep up with the fittest instead of trying other ways of coping. But I was young, ignorant--but I had no malice in my heart. I had to be macho to survive and maintain my manhood."
Similar attitudes and patterns of behavior show up in several of the longtermers who were young men in those days. At least three of them killed men in prison and others received additional time for assault or escape. If you look at their prison records in more recent years, however, you see that many of them have been model inmates over their last 10 or 15 years in confinement. The process of aging among the longtermers as individuals and the generally improved security environment at Angola after 1975 (accomplished by tripling the number of guards) have strongly reduced the incidence of violent behavior among the inmates in this group.
Not all of the longtermers were troublemakers. Louis "Pulpwood" Ducre is a first-offender with an excellent work record and no serious disciplinary infractions in 30 years at Angola. Jack Lathers, in 31 years, built a reputation as a quiet man, respected by both prisoners and staff. The only write-ups he remembers were many years ago, for "leaving his socks on his bed and stuff like that." And "Black Mattie" Robertson, in 37 years at Angola, had only 13 disciplinary reports.
One common thread connecting the longtermers is that as they have gotten older they have been given more freedom of movement and responsibility. Practically all of them are now trusties, except for half a dozen who are mentally or physically disabled that they cannot work at all. Many of them have held important work assignments, the kind where a man has to show up day after day and do a good job. Most of them, having accumulated enough age and seniority by now to avoid true hard labor, are in prison "retirement," assigned to light duty jobs as orderlies. Moreese Bickham, at 71 the oldest inmate, spends his time tending two beds of rose bushes at the Main Prison.
It is doubtful that prison authorities now consider him or any other of the longtermers as dangerous or escape risks. They have lived long enough to overcome the violence that marked their lives as young men.
Despite this evidence of change, there are those who do not see the longtermers as quiet, harmless old men. Frequently victims and their families, prosecutors and law enforcement officials continue to oppose the efforts of the longtermers to earn release from prison. A few of the inmates draw vehement opposition whenever their cases appear before the Pardon Board or Parole Board. Moreese Bickham's application for clemency was rejected three times in the '70s and again in 1981 because of strong opposition from the Mandeville community, where he killed two deputy sheriffs in 1958.
"Black Mattie" Robertson and Jack Turner were rejected for parole, according to the Parole Board chairman, because of strenuous objection from law enforcement and judicial officials, three decades after their crimes. In their interviews some of the inmates were disbelieving that there could be such opposition, that principals in the case could harbor such feelings for so long; or even worse, that their reputations could be handed down for the next generation to hate.
To counter outside opposition, the longtermers have few resources. Almost all of them had appointed counsel, who years ago performed only the most perfunctory role in assisting their clients. At least 16 of the 31 pleaded guilty, on the advice of counsel, to avoid the possible imposition of the death penalty; for several that was the last they saw of their attorneys. They have had to struggle in the years since to pursue legal appeals or to get their cases into clemency channels.
"Why am I still here? I'd sure like to know," Cleveland Harris said, after serving 25 years for killing another black youth in a knife fight in New Orleans in 1962. "I don't know how or why it works like that.... My momma is poor and I can't afford a lawyer, so maybe that is why."
Practically all of the longtermers are poor and most have gradually lost contact with their families. Their parents have grown old and died, their brothers and sisters have stopped visiting, they end up old men, alone. Prison authorities everywhere have long said how important maintaining contact with the outside world is for long-term inmates. But Billy Joe Garrett has had only seven visits in 30 years, Wilbert Augustine a dozen visits in 29 years, Earl Clark 10 visits in 28 years, James McNeal 10 visits in 26 years, Leroy Wiley one visit in 28 years, Woodman Collins one visit in 28 years, and Eugene Tanniehill no visits in 28 years.
Hearing accounts like these, from man after man, one begins to sense how estranged from the outside world the longtermers feel, how they come to think of prison as their natural home, how they gave up on a free world that long ago lost interest in them.
We heard repeatedly that they had come to prison believing in the "10-6" rule. Jack Lathers said, "The DA, the judge, and my lawyer said to plead guilty and I would be there ten years and six months if I kept my record clean. I did, but they never let me go."
Albert Wilson said almost exactly the same thing. "The judge, DA and the state-appointed lawyer all told me to be good and in ten years I would be out," Wilson, 59, said. "I've done ten years three times over and I'm still here, and I've done nothing bad since I've been here."
Woodman Collins, who came to Angola in 1960 for aggravated rape, said his attorney and the prosecutor told him "if I pled guilty, I'd be out in 10 1/2 years." Collins took them at their word; he didn't even bother to apply for clemency until he'd been in prison for 12 years and realized he would not be freed. When he was turned down, he didn't apply again until 15 years later.
This is another pattern that one sees with the longtermers: a first application for clemency, rejection, then a long period of confinement before another application is made. J.J. Carter applied to the Pardon Board for clemency in 1965, after six years in prison, was rejected and did not apply again until 1977, when he was recommended for a time cut that was never signed by the governor. When Clifford Hampton's first clemency request was rejected in 1961, he waited 20 years to reapply, hoping to build a record worthy of favorable consideration. Jack Lathers aplied for clemency in 1962 and was denied; he didn't apply again until 1987. Asked why not, he replied, "I just gave up. They wouldn't do nothin' for me no how." When Joe White's first application was rejected in 1973, after a blemish-free record of 11 years at Angola, he says, "I got so disappointed I just didn't care no more."
Call it what you may, passivity, resignation, withdrawal, lack of zeal, or naivete, the fact is that many of the longtermers simply put the thought of getting out of prison out of their minds. They quit trying to work through the system, went about their jobs quietly and kept a low profile. There are some exceptions, like Aaron Gill, who had been to the Pardon Board "over 30 times" and always been denied, but on the whole the longtermers have been a remarkably accepting lot, at least on the surface. They seem to lack the persistence or the aggressiveness to push for release that other inmates have displayed.
They still want to get out, but many of them express feelings of helplessness in regard to the process necessary to win their freedom. They feel frustrated in dealing with the corrections bureaucracy. Clemency for them is a three stage process: first to the Pardon Board for a positive recommendation, then to the governor for his signature, then to the Parole Board for a favorable vote (unless they are among the lucky ones cut to time
served). These three steps become like a series of ordeals. Some have never gotten past the first step, others have gotten the Pardon Board's approval but not been approved by the governor (particularly in the Louisiana of the 1980s, when commutations have been hard to come by), others have cleared the first two hurdles only to be rejected by the Parole Board.
They sound reflective and despondent when they talk about it. "I don't know what happened," Earl Clark says. "I guess it is the system... it just leaves people behind. I don't have any support, I don't know anyone who could make a phone call or would know what or how to do anything on my behalf."
Louis Ducre said, "I guess I just didn't try to help myself. I didn't know how and I didn't know anybody important to ask for help. All the others that came here with me have left a long time ago and I figured my time would come too."
Wilbert Augustine came to Angola for aggravated rape in 1961. Asked why others who came in with him and after him had been freed while he remained, Augustine said, "I don't have any answer why I am still here and everyone else had been released. It's an impossible situation that has no answer."
Eugene Scott, who served 19 years before asking for a time cut, said, "I do not have any money, no one powerful enough to help. Politics keeps you here and it gets you out. My problem is that I don't know any politicians."
Of all the longtermers interviewed, only Louis Singleton appeared confident of his release. "The President of the United States gave me a pardon and I will be going home May 5, 1989," Singleton said from his cell, where he has been under the care of the prison's mental health department since 1976. (His date is now passed and he's still in prison.)
In summary, then, we found four main circumstances in the longtermer's background that set them apart from other lifers who have won earlier release:
1. An early record of frequent, perhaps serious prison misconduct.
2. Strong opposition to release by the victim, the community, the court and law enforcement officials.
3. Lack of outside assistance.
4. Lack of serious, continuing effort by the inmate to win his release.
Not all of these circumstances apply equally to each of the 31 men, in a precise formula, but a model does emerge from their combination that describes how a longtermer is created. Our perfect model begins with a poor young man (usually black) who commits a homicide or a rape. He is legally ignorant and is given appointed counsel, who seems to take little interest in his case. He is about equally likely to plead guilty or be convicted at trial; he is given the same life sentence regardless.
When he gets to prison he gets off to a bad start, fighting with other inmates or staff and earning a reputation as a troublemaker. He fights the system long enough to earn a bad name that will follow him into middle age (and perhaps eventually old age as well).
For years he may make only the barest effort to be released. He does his time, works, settles down into the routine of prison life. When it begins to bother him that everyone else has gone home and he is still in prison, he finds that his resources are sorely limited. His family has forgotten him or is unable to help. The only ones who remember him, it seems, are his victims and officials of the legal system. So the longtermer waits, serving 20, 25, 30 years, hardly daring to hope that some day the right set of circumstances will somehow come together and he will go free.
That has happened to at least five of 31 Angola longtermers since our research was completed early in 1988. Five of them have been sent home, and doubtless others will be in the next few years as more attention is focused on their situation. Despite the severity of their crimes, it is hard not to feel sympathetic toward the ones who remain, a select few who because of their personal inabilities (or disabilities) and lack of resources defy the law of averages and serve three or four times as long as other men who have committed similar crimes. The longtermers seem almost like random choices, like the unfortunate woman selected to be stoned in Shirley Jackson's story, "The Lottery." They exemplify to the masses the worst that might happen.
The rest of us, seeing what has happened to them, can think of their edifying example and be grateful we have escaped their punishment. If all of the remaining 31 went home tomorrow, we would not be short of similar examples for long. Their replacements are already approaching, working their way up through the system: nearly 100 inmates who have served more than 20 years; two hundred more who have served more than 15 years; and literally thousands more who are good prospects, having come in after tougher sentencing laws began to take effect in Louisiana in 1977. Indeed, of the 4,700 men serving time in Angola in 1989, about two-thirds are either lifers or men serving such long mandatory terms (in the range of 35 to 140 years) that they, too, will grow old in prison, barring prolific use of executive clemency. As the retired head of the Louisiana Department of Corrections, C. Paul Phelps, said, "As things stand right now, the State of Louisiana is posturing itself to run probably the largest male old-folks home in the country."
The young lifers coming in this year, who will join the million dollar club 30 years from now, may well live to see Angola become a prison of old men. The only good thing about that future, from the point of view of the 31 longtermers in this present group, is that it won't matter to them: one way or the other, they'll be out of Angola by then.
Bureau of Justice Statistics (1978). "BJS Data Report, 1986." Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office.
Bureau of Justice Statistics (1984). "Time Served in Prison." U.S. Department of Justice, June.
Krajick, Kevin (1979). "Growing Old in Prison." Corrections Magazine, March, pp. 33-46.