In the Sanctuary of Outcasts (11 page)

Steve, the ultimate entrepreneur, managed to get the best job in prison. He was clerk to the chaplains. No guards supervised him. He answered only to Father Reynolds and Reverend Ray, the Protestant minister. He also organized the call-out lists that allowed inmates to leave the prison side to attend church, prepare for services, practice for choir, polish brass, organize hymnals, or perform other tasks to keep the chapels in good shape.

Steve had access to the chaplains’ library. He pulled a few strings to get permission for me to assist in organizing the collection. Steve and I spent hours poring over the books and videos and collections. I had access to documents the prison library could never acquire, including historic films and texts about the colony.

I discovered that Carville was planning a one hundredth anniversary celebration. Nearly a century had passed since 1894, when the first victims of leprosy arrived late in the night at the abandoned plantation. The anniversary event would include a barbecue, a golf tournament, speeches, and a visit from Louisiana’s reigning governor, Edwin Edwards.

I came across some fascinating facts in Father Reynolds’s study. One book speculated that St. Francis of Assisi had not experienced stigmata, but actually suffered from leprosy. The open wounds from advancing leprosy on his palms and forehead were, according to one historian, mistaken for the wounds of Christ.

Another book, about a leper colony in Hawaii, especially piqued my interest. The settlement, established before Carville was the na
tional leprosarium, was situated at the base of stunning cliffs in the Hawaiian Islands. In the 1860s, leprosy spread through the population. Hawaiians had little immunity to the disease, thought to be carried by Chinese immigrants, and by the 1870s more than eight hundred men, women, and children were quarantined.

Father Damien, a priest from Belgium, served as the resident priest to the lepers of Hawaii. Not much was known about leprosy in the 1870s, and most people, even physicians and priests, were terrified of the disease. Damien conquered his own fears, subjecting himself to repeated, extended exposure to the infected. He invited victims of the disease into his cottage. He embraced sufferers who had open wounds. He entered the isolated death huts to deliver last rites.

When he arrived on the island in 1873, he referred to those confined to the settlement—and himself—as “We lepers.” It was foreshadowing. Within the decade, Damien would contract leprosy. And when he did succumb to the disease in 1887, in the eyes of many, he left this life as a saint. A nun who sat at Damien’s deathbed claimed that, in passing, his face had lost its disfigurement.

The biggest perk that came along with volunteering in the chaplains’ library was freedom of movement. The library was the farthest point away from the prison side of the colony. As I walked to and from work each afternoon, I watched the Sisters of Charity, baskets in hand, wandering under the trees in search of fallen pecans. I noticed the smile and soft touch they shared whenever they passed a leprosy patient.

The sisters’ kindness inspired others, too. Carville’s top official, Dr. Jacobson, erect and imposing in his white naval uniform, softened when he greeted a patient. He treated each patient with tenderness and respect.

Many days I would pass Harry while he was pushing another patient to the foot clinic, or Ella on her way to the canteen, or Father Reynolds riding his bike, his brown Franciscan robe dragging just above the concrete floor.

Almost every day as I walked to Father Reynolds’s study, I passed Sister Teresa Pazos. She was one of the Sisters of Charity, but she was
also a leprosy patient. The disease had ravaged her nose and fingers. She navigated the corridors in a huge electric wheelchair. She could not have weighed more than ninety pounds. I had no idea if she contracted leprosy while caring for patients here, or if she chose to come to Carville after her infection. The soft hum of her wheelchair motor foreshadowed her appearance from around a corner. She never made eye contact with me, but I looked forward to seeing her. Whenever we passed, a visceral warmth flowed through my body. Just being in her presence made me feel light and peaceful.

I didn’t fully understand why she had that effect on me, but I was beginning to feel certain about one thing. Carville was sacred space.

One late summer afternoon while I was dusting the tops of books, Father Reynolds passed through his study, and I asked how long he had been at Carville.

“I came here in 1983.”

He was approaching a decade. The same amount of time it took Damien to contract the disease in Hawaii. Father Reynolds’s willingness to sacrifice so much, to confine himself here with the very last leprosy patients in America, made me feel like I was in the presence of a righteous and devout saint.

I told Father Reynolds that I admired his bravery. He looked a little confused. “You came here to help the leprosy patients,” I said, stating the obvious.

Father Reynolds smiled. “The golf course was the big attraction.”

I knew he was downplaying his own work. Father Reynolds was the first priest to leave the altar during the Eucharist and greet the patients. He touched their hands. He welcomed newcomers with a hug. He was committed to bringing faith and compassion to the outcasts.

“Do you worry that you’ll catch it?” I asked.

Father Reynolds’s perpetual smile left him. “No, of course not.”

Since the time Carville had opened a hundred years ago, he explained, no health worker had ever contracted the disease. I wanted
to ask about the little nun zipping about the colony, but I didn’t.

“No one has been forced to come, or stay, here in over thirty years,” he said.

Until that moment, I had believed the patients were still imprisoned. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose to stay inside the colony walls.

Then Father Reynolds told me a story. In the late 1950s, after medications were developed to control the spread of leprosy, the gates of Carville were opened. At that time, 297 patients lived at the leprosarium. One year later, 281 remained inside. Ella, Harry, and others, who were brought here involuntarily—sometimes in shackles—chose to stay, even after they had been set free. For them, freedom was more terrifying than imprisonment. The stigma of being labeled a “leper” had cut as deeply as any physical scar.

Frank Ragano, Jimmy Hoffa’s lawyer, was terrified he would catch leprosy. He refused to touch doorknobs or handrails, compulsively wiped the library typewriter keys, and scrubbed the cafeteria’s plastic utensils with his shirttail. So, naturally, the guards gave him a job picking up cigarette butts outside the cafeteria.

For five hours a day, Frank picked up the trash and cigarette butts left by the 500 inmates, 50 guards, and 130 leprosy patients who passed by. He wore sterile rubber gloves and a paper mask.

Link immediately picked up on Frank’s idiosyncrasy and one afternoon, while standing in line for dinner, yelled, “Who that is? Motherfuckin’ Howard Hughes!” A leprosy patient in a motorized wheelchair stopped to listen to the commotion.

“Look at that motherfucker,” Link announced, “wearin’ a goddamn mask and gloves. This ain’t no fuckin’ laboratory!” Link grabbed the stub of a cigarette from one of his friends and flicked it past Frank. It bounced against the wall. Link laughed again, knowing that Frank would have to pick it up, and the inmates standing in line laughed, too. Frank did not move.

The skin on Frank’s arms was thin and spotted with purple patches where capillaries had ruptured. The tiny wrinkles on his forearms looked like small waves on a lake. This man, who was now being ridiculed by a drug dealer, in front of leprosy patients, had been the highest-paid criminal defense attorney in Florida. He had argued before the U.S. Supreme Court and convinced them to overturn his
clients’ criminal convictions. He flew into Cuba in 1959 and stared down Castro’s lieutenants to get Santo Trafficante released from custody. For all his courtroom brilliance, Frank had no skill for dealing with this kind of humiliation. He stared straight ahead in his flimsy paper mask, arms at his side.

Later that afternoon, I saw Frank sitting on a bench in the inmate courtyard. I’d heard he was writing a book about his days as a mob lawyer, so I asked him about Jimmy Hoffa.

“What was he like?” I asked.

“Jimmy always preached ‘Charge a pistol. Run from a rifle,’” Frank said, grinning. During one of Hoffa’s criminal trials, a man pointed a pistol at his head. Hoffa charged like a bull toward the assailant and wrestled away the gun.

“What’s one thing,” I asked, “about Jimmy Hoffa that no one else knows?”

Frank looked surprised. “That’s the first question my book editor asked.” He leaned in a little closer, as if to prevent anyone from hearing his words. Frank had successfully represented Hoffa for years. During trials they had worked late into the night, exchanging confidential information. I was about to hear a private revelation about one of the most infamous men of the twentieth century—something no one else knew about the notorious Jimmy Hoffa. Everything was coming together again for me as a journalist.

Frank knew how to make the most of a dramatic moment. He pressed his lips together and swallowed, contemplating whether to reveal his secret. Finally, he motioned for me to move closer. Then he whispered, “Hoffa loved to fart.”

Frank smiled and reiterated, “He loved it.”

I imagined Hoffa banging his hand against the Teamsters podium, red faced, veins protruding from his neck, relieving himself during a sudden burst of applause. Or sticking his index finger in the face of Attorney General Robert Kennedy and barking, “Hey, Bobby, pull this.” Or leaving a little something for the passengers on the elevator at his headquarters in Chicago.

I laughed and said, “That’s not going in your book, is it?”

Frank shook his head and smiled again. The secret was all mine. But Frank obviously had other secrets. “Do you really know who killed Jimmy Hoffa and JFK?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”

Little Neil, Maggie, and me on a fall visit.

I missed my cologne. For years, I would douse myself with British Sterling every morning. I even kept a little bottle in my office, for a refreshing boost during the day, hoping the people around me would associate my presence with a classic, soothing smell.

I hated to walk into the visiting room to see Linda without my fragrance. In prison, cologne was contraband. My signature scent was beyond my reach, but I soon discovered a source. On Monday afternoons, the magazine subscriptions arrived in the prison library. I volunteered to help put them in their proper order so I had first shot at the scented advertisements bound into
GQ
,
Esquire,
and other fashion titles. As I organized the periodicals and flipped through the pages, I tore out the aromatic inserts. I stockpiled the samples in my locker, and before visiting hours, I opened the strips and rubbed them against my shirt until the fragrance permeated my green uniform. For the rest of the day, whether inside or out, cool or perspiring, I was the best-smelling inmate at Carville.

But the allure of cologne was no match for reality. Things weren’t going so well with Linda. The financial arrangements I had made to support my family while I was in prison were falling apart. As was our relationship. Lately, Linda and I had been arguing—on the telephone and in the visiting room. During a recent visit, Maggie told us, “Y’all don’t fight. Y’all hug.” But a hug wouldn’t solve the money problems.

I had loaned money to a friend who said he would send a monthly
check to Linda, but his lawyer advised him to stop making payments when we filed bankruptcy. It was money Linda had counted on, and I had no way to persuade my friend to do otherwise. Prior to reporting to Carville, I had also sold advertisements for a publication. Two of the advertisers were to send payments to Linda, but they had failed to do so. Linda was going to have to go back to work, and the kids would go to after-school care, something we’d hoped to avoid during this year while I was in prison.

To make matters worse, she ran into Bill Metcalf, the owner of the region’s premier publishing company, a generous man who made me publisher of
New Orleans
magazine while I was being investigated. I had left many unfinished projects when I went to prison. One project left prepaid contracts that couldn’t be fulfilled without more sales. Bill’s frustration with me was justified; I’d left him with a mess. But when Bill let Linda see his anger, she was again reminded of the terrible situation in which I had left not only my family but also my friends.

After seven years of marriage, we sat in a prison visiting room and argued. When we married, I assured Linda that, together, we would be free and independent. That we would have extraordinary adventures. I had not kept my promise. Now we were living off the charity of others. My mother was paying the rent on Linda’s apartment in the French Quarter. Grandparents paid tuition for Neil’s school at Trinity Episcopal; Linda’s parents were paying for Maggie to continue at the Louise McGee School, a private school just around the corner from the Garden District homes of Anne Rice and Archie Manning.

About the only thing Linda hated more than charity was pity, and she was getting it from everyone around her. From well-meaning friends. From fellow church members. Even from family.

And the apartment in New Orleans was a problem. It was located one floor above my mother’s weekend apartment. Mom thought it would be a good idea to be close enough to help care for Neil and Maggie. She was right, except that, despite my incarceration, she still talked about the high hopes she had for my future. For Neil and Maggie, it might have been a good thing. For Linda, who was trying
to make a clear, objective decision about what to do with her life, my mother’s praise of her precious son was hard to swallow.

On a visit in early fall, when Linda and the kids were planning for the beginning of school, I thought it was time to talk to Neil and Maggie about Daddy’s camp. If the talk of jail and prison conjured dangerous images, like the psychologist had said, I assumed it wouldn’t affect them now, since they had seen the place. They actually seemed to have a good time here. They loved playing with the other inmates’ kids; Neil particularly liked the vending machines that held frozen pizzas, Hot Pockets, and ice cream.

They could see that there were no bars, no really dangerous people. And I didn’t want them to be caught off guard at school if someone brought up the fact that their father was in jail.

“I want to talk to you about camp,” I said.

“I forgot,” Maggie said, “why did you have to come to camp?”

I reminded Maggie of what we had discussed—that I got a little bit greedy, wanted to buy too many magazines, and used money I wasn’t supposed to use to buy them.

“Boy, Daddy,” Maggie said, “you must’ve really loved magazines.”

Then I told them that this place, Carville, wasn’t exactly a camp. It was a prison camp. Kind of like a jail, but different.

Maggie had taken a bite of cookie. She looked up and asked, “Are you a bad guy, Daddy?”

“Of course not,” I told her. “Remember, camp is kind of like time-out for adults. Only adult time-out lasts longer than kid time-out.”

“Did you used to be a bad guy?” Maggie asked. I shook my head. I hated that I had put my daughter in a situation where she would have to ask such a question. I looked over at Little Neil. He didn’t ask any questions. He stared down at the floor. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about this. Or maybe he just wanted to go outside and throw the ball.

I took Neil and Maggie out to the visiting room deck and gave a coupon to Bean, the inmate photographer. Prisoners could purchase a family photograph for one dollar. All proceeds went to the inmates-in-need fund. Linda said she didn’t want to be in the picture, so I put
Neil on my shoulders, and Maggie stood on the bench next to me. As we posed for the photograph, Steve Read walked by.

“Ah,” Steve said under his breath, “prison memories.” Neil and Maggie didn’t seem to notice, so I let it go.

I continued to write letters to Linda and the kids every night, and I made collect calls from the pay phones that lined the walls in the hallways. But some nights the phone line was too long, and I went to sleep without speaking to them. Other nights, I would call about 9:00
P.M
. to say good night to Neil and Maggie. Sometimes, I would call late at night so Linda and I could have a conversation without the kids overhearing, though it wasn’t really private since inmates were usually standing close by waiting for their turn.

Every three minutes, a recording interrupted the telephone conversations:
This call originated from a federal correctional facility.
It was designed to discourage phone scams, but when it interrupted my conversations with Linda, it was just another reminder of where we stood.

The night before Neil started first grade, I called to talk to him. It seemed like an inopportune time. Linda was cooking dinner; Maggie was running around the house screaming; Neil was doing something that clearly irritated Linda. They had been arguing.

I wished I could have been there to help. I would have taken the kids into the courtyard to play, or I would have offered to cook dinner to give Linda a break. I wanted to climb through the telephone line, hug the kids, and tell Neil his first day of school was going to go just perfectly.

Linda handed the phone to Little Neil, and he took it into the closet and shut the door. He was crying. He didn’t cry very often. I told him how much I loved him, how proud I was of all that he did, but it was no substitute for a hug. If I’d been there, I would have picked him up, put his head on my shoulder, rubbed his back, and rocked with him until he felt better.

The best I could do was listen. “Tell me what’s going on?” Neil tried to keep from crying, but he couldn’t speak. “Tell me what you want, buddy?”

He cried until he caught his breath, and then the words came out. “I want you, Daddy.”