From: Kenny
Zulu Whitmore
August 2012
Greetings
my People:
I realize
that I have been absent for a while now. But there were things that needed my
full attention. No excuses. Then, there is the mental gymnastics from the
neo-overseers that comes with being a political captive being held behind enemy
line. But nevertheless here I am.
This day,
August 15th 1973, the ex-mayor of Zachary, LA, was found murdered on
his Rollins Rd farm in Zachary, LA, a small rural community that sits in the
northern section of East Baton Rouge, “E.B.R.” This was a huge episode in our
then small community. He was rich, white, and was still running Zachary.
Immediately,
the next day the li’l town was in a buzz, because a rumor had spread like a
California brush fire that was fueled on by Santa Ana winds, that the terrorist
of the day had murdered the mayor.
I was 18
years old then, and still feeling the sting of racism in its worst form, for
several reasons.
The first
being that I was a witness against a Zachary police, “Ted Donnaway”, who had
murdered my first cousin George Payne, Jr. on Nov. 19th, 1969.
Hearings began in 1971-’72. The terrorists were calling my parents, telling my
mother I was dead, or they would kill me, bomb our home, etc. etc. Needless to
say the cops were never put on trial for the murder of my cousin.
The second
reason being that school integration had finally hit all of E.B.R.P. including
Zachary. Our 1971-’72 school year, we Africans had to integrate Zachary High to
leave our beloved North West High N.W.H.S. behind. And what a trip: racial
fights every day. Shit spilled over into an already racist community. I became
one of the Student Leaders. We protested against the dress code only for us, no
power fist rule, etc. It was up to us to
change and do something about the way we African students were being
mistreated, and we did just that.
On Feb. 19th,
1975 I was arrested on trumped up charges of 2 counts of armed robbery and rape
of a female employee of a Zachary shoe store.
Five days later, while being held over in the E.B.R. Parish prison for
arraignment and evidentiary hearing on Feb. 24th 1975 between the
hours of 12:30 AM and one o’clock AM and mind you, this was my first time ever
being in anything that serious.
First time
in jail, one must fight or become something less than man. So while being in
the dungeon on Feb. 24, 1975, I was awoken by the steel door being opened. It
was already 8 of us packed into this hole built for 3 at the most. And naked.
Yes, they used to make you strip before going in there to promote
homosexuality, and to further humiliate you.
The door
opens, air rushes in – momentary relief. The captain and a fat guy in a suit.
In low voices guys are saying that’s Ossie Brown, the District Attorney. I had
heard of him, but didn’t know him from the first Adam.
“Whitmore.
Whitmore.”
“Yeah.”
“Come out.
Put on your clothing.”
“For what?”
“Whitmore,
come forward now.”
I step out.
Got my clothing. Black&white striped uniform and short.
I was led
into the interrogation room. Just this guy and myself.
“My name is
Ossie Brown. I am the District Attorney of E.B.R.P. You might have seen me on
TV before.”
“No.”
“Well there
are a few things that I want to discuss with you.”
Mind you, I
had a lawyer at this time. I was represented by the Public Defenders’ Office.
D.A.: “I
know you are charged with the robbery and rape that happened at Bill’s Shoe
Store out in Zachary. And the victims say you are not the perpetrator. These
charges will be dropped."
I am
starting to feel better, I am going home.
D.A.: “You
knew who Marshall Bond was?”
“Who?”
“Marshall
Bond, who was murdered at his farm out there in Zachary?”
That
question really threw me for a loop, because what does that have to do with
this? Had I known then that this nightmare was being born, I would have ran
through that concrete steel wall head first.
The D.A.
had a confession already drawn up. He wanted me to turn state evidence on a guy
he wanted to put this murder on. I didn’t know what state evidence was – he
says:
“I want you to take the stand against this guy and say what’s in this confession.”
I went crazy for real then. “I need my lawyer,
guard. I want my lawyer, guard. Man, I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Whitmore.
I am the district attorney. I am the only one who can help you. My word is 3x
that of yours. If I say you said something or did something, who are they going
to believe: me, or you?”
I said the
truth, he said his truth.
“I will
send you to Angola for the rest of your life. Do you know what they do in
Angola, Whitmore? Sign this, and I will help you…”
“I don’t
know what you are talking about.”
The D.A.
started to tell me things about me and my family that had me spooked. Where my
Mom & Dad, brother & sister worked. The things I was involved in during
integration. A fight that a friend and I had with a group of white boys in
1972. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that my family and I had been
under observation. Yes, plain old CoIntelPro.
After
his lengthy persuading of “I am the only
one who can help you, I will send you to Angola for the rest of your life if
you do not do what I say,” the D.A. Ossie Brown said: “I am going to step
out for a while. I am going to send someone in to speak with you.”
This whole
ordeal started between the hours of 12:30 AM and 1 AM.
Three guys
walk in in plain clothing: “We are with Mr Brown’s office. And we understand
that you are ready to cooperate with us. First we need you to sign this.” –
Speaking of the confession.
“I am ready
to go back to the hole. I need my lawyer.”
After the
hollering, punch here, there. Chokeholds. Grabbing. I was finally taken out of
the interrogation room and put into a holding tank – a big cell. This was at
4:00 in the morning, because right after that guys from all over the jail
started to fill the tank. I asked
someone: “Where is everybody going?” He said: “To court.” Court huh. A few
minutes later breakfast came. The steel trays. Milk & coffee, pancakes,
syrup & some pork. I drank the coffee, and gave the rest away. Later when
the trays were picked up, the guys were talking to their homies on different
topics.
About 8
o’clock guards with lots of handcuffs appeared. “Alright. Listen up. As I call
your name, step out. Two to a cuff.”
This is the
reason why I have been saying that I was kidnapped out of East Baton Rouge
Parish Prison, E.B.R.P.P.
Two plain
cloth detectives appear at the gate. “Whitmore, come forward. Hands behind your
back.”
“Where am I
going?” “Court. Turn around, hand behind your back.”
I was
cuffed, taken down the hall, stepped out where everyone is being stacked into
the patty wagon. That looked like an armored car. This way, we go around the
patty wagon to a car with no marking on it. I begin to feel strange. They leave
the prison. The car goes down Harden Blvd. At the light, taking a right, not a
left, that would take you to downtown Baton Rouge.
“Where are
you taking me?” About 15 times. Then one of them says: “You should have done
the right thing.”
I was taken
to the police station in Zachary, and put in a room. Minutes later, to another
building across the street from the bank, and the Bond’s family home. Then, a
detective came in.
“Whitmore, Mr
Brown wants you to know are you ready to cooperate?”
“I want to
talk with my lawyer. Let me call home. I need my lawyer.”
“You had your
chance.”
A few
minutes later, I was put back into the car, and was taken to the wooded area on
Bond’s property. Cops about 8 to 10, the D.A. Ossie Brown, 2 guys off in the
distance with dark glasses, jackets & jeans on.
The 2
detectives speak with Ossie Brown. He comes to the car.
“Whitmore, are you
ready to cooperate?”
“Get my
lawyer. I want to see my lawyer.”
I will be
lying if I said I wasn’t afraid. Fact is, I was scared to death. Who knew where
I was?
D.A. Ossie
Brown says, “Get him out of the car.”
I was
roughly pulled from the car. The D.A.:
“Are you going to cooperate?”
“I need my
lawyer.”
Ossie Brown
turns away. Still being cuffed, one of the detectives grabbed me by the neck
from behind in a choke hold. The other one started beating me on my body.
The D.A.
Ossie Brown: “Whitmore, are you ready to cooperate?”
“Why are
you doing this? I need my lawyer. Take the cuffs off.”
The Bond’s
car comes into sight. “Do you see that car?” the D.A. says, “you know who that
is don’t you. I can help you. “ The D.A.
says: “Stop the car.”
The cop
behind hits me directly in my spinal cord. I fall with his knee back and he
applies a chokehold on me.
“Let him
up”, D.A. Ossie Brown says. “You died trying to escape. Send the car on.”
“OK, ok. I
will help. I need you to sign this.”
“I don’t
know what it says.”
A hit to the stomach.
“I will tell you what it says."
“Man, I don’t know nothing about this.”
D.A.: “Are you going to cooperate?”
I was
cuffed, put back into the car, and taken to a backroom in Zachary City Hall.
Three guys come in. I was beaten some more.
Asked a million questions. That evening I was taken to a building in
downtown Baton Rouge. This has been going on forever. I have not slept since
leaving the dungeon at East Baton Rouge Parish Prison (“E.B.R.P.P.”).
While in
this room, still handcuffed, a cop put the phone to my ear. It was Ossie
Brown’s voice, saying:
“Whitmore. I am the only one who can help you. Sign that
document.”
They kept
questioning me. Hollering at me. Slapping me on the sides of my head and in my
face.
This is how
the so-called confession came about. The tape was spliced to get it to say what
they wanted. This is why the audio was so poor. And they, my lawyer, the
assistant D.A. & judge had to go into the judge’s chambers to make out what
was being said. The “judge” told the jury “It’s his voice,” but nothing was
said that could help him.
About 7:15
PM I was taken to another building, called the ‘Taylor Building,’ where they
wanted me to take a lie-detector test. This was torture in every sense of the
word. Deprived of sleep, food; hollering, shaking, beating, isolation, all of
those tactics are considered torture.
Another
phone call. D.A. Ossie Brown.
“Whitmore. Cooperate. I am the only one who can
help you.”
“I need my
lawyer.”
I was being represented by Alton Moran, of the Public Defenders’
Office.
I agreed to
take the lie-detector test. I was asked
what color blocks were. My Name. My
Mom’s name. I jumped up, pulled the wires off of my hand, and went to grab the
machine. Three of them bomb-rushed me
through the door and penned me to the floor. Cuffed me. “Man fuck y’all.”
It was 8:00
PM when 3 cops took me over to the downtown jail on the top floor. The three
signed a log book and time-in. They talk in low voices.
One of the
cops at the desk says “Come with me.” I was put in isolation right behind the
desk. I was put in the hole, handcuffs
removed. I was brought 2 sandwiches. I ate them and tried to go to sleep. But all night I was being woken up.
“Whitmore, Whitmore, wake up.” “What?” He laughed and walked off. This went on
all night.
Early the
next morning I was taken to another building. The torture started up again.
Until I broke down and said most of what they told me. And I signed that
confession. They got what they wanted.
I was taken
back to the downtown jail, put back into isolation, where I must have slept 2 ½
days.
The third
or fourth day, the lawyer shows up. I tell him everything. He got me moved to a
regular cell. And asks me how the hell did this happen? He left, headed for the
D.A.’s office, he said.
I stayed in
that roach-infected old downtown jail for 5 months before being transferred
back to the E.B.R.P.P.
In August,
1975, at my evidentiary hearing on the two counts of armed robbery and the rape
charge, they were all dismissed by judge Elmo Lear, because both victims said I
was not the man who committed the robbery and rape in that store, nor was I
there when it happened.
Although
the charges had been dismissed, I still could not go home with my mother,
father, sister Jeanette, because of the Aug. 15th 1973 murder of the
mayor.
Nearly one
year later, on July 14, 1976, the evil empire strikes. D.A. Ossie Brown made
good on his word. That he could send me to Angola even if I were innocent. He
filed a joint bill of information, accusing me and Perry Lee Payne of two
counts of armed robbery of the very store both victims 11 months earlier said I
did not commit. However, both victims picked my co-defendant out as the
perpetrator.
On Sept. 27th
our trial began of what was supposed to be 2 counts of robbery, but the whole
trial and evidence was of rape. In three days of rape trial my name never came
up. My state lawyer objected and asked for a verdict (post-verdict judgment) of
acquittal, because the trial was of Payne’s rape of the female victim. Denied.
Both
victims again took the stand and cleared me of any crime. On Sept. 29th
the jury deliberated, returned to the courtroom 20 minutes later to ask judge
John S. Covington how could I be charged or found guilty of anything, when I
have not committed a crime? The judge went on this long outdrawn shit,
confusing the jury.
I jumped
up: “Your honor, you are confusing them.”
“Sit down,
order in my court, Mr Whitmore. Sit down.”
My lawyer:
“Kenny, Kenny, let me handle it.”
He made the
objection. Overruled.
The jury
went back to deliberate. But returned to the court about 15 minutes later. The
judge asked “What is it this time?” The foreman: “We do not understand, how can
Whitmore be charged with anything?” The judge starts to read from a book . I
raise my hand and tell my lawyer to object. He does. I ask the judge could he
just tell the jury in plain language? No.
The D.A. follows the jury to the
jury-room door, hollering “You better
not find him not guilty, you hear
me?”
The jury
returns three minutes later for the third time and does as the judge
instructed. You must find them both guilty. “We have a verdict, your honor.”
As to Perry
Lee Payne: guilty on both counts. As to Kenny Whitmore: guilty on both counts.
Shortly thereafter,
the court ordered a pre-sentence investigation report. On March 14, 1977,
probation and parole agent James P. Patin submitted his report to the
sentencing judge.
A
pre-sentence investigation report is a background report into your life. From
pre-school to the present. And the judge will base your sentencing range from
that report and the seriousness of the crime.
This is my
first conviction. I have never been
in a ‘boys home’, ‘juvenile hall’ or any of those places.
On April 15th,
1977, judge John S. Covington sentenced me on count 1 to 75 years without
benefit of probation, parole or suspension of sentence. Count 2 he sentenced me
to 50 years of hard labor, with the sentence to run consecutively. I was led
off upstairs, when my dad and Sister asked the judge for 10 minutes to talk
with me. A 125 years for absolutely nothing.
It took me
until 1985 when the 5th Circuit of Appeals granted me a hearing, and
this is when I found out that the sentencing judge used the pre-sentence
investigation report to sentence me by. The report was padded with false
charges: it had me being charged with 8 counts of armed robbery, 2 murders. It
also gave me a juvenile record from age 12-16, saying I spent time in Juvenile
Hall for theft, felony theft, a count of aggravated burglary for which I was
placed in Juvenile Hall. My records were
padded with all of that erroneous information. To make sure that my appeals
would be denied. They have.
I will not
get a favorable decision. I did not, when I went before the State’s Pardon
Board in 2000. My alleged criminal history was the only thing they wanted to
talk about – and they did not want to hear that it was fabricated.
The Clerk
of Court continues to tell me that the pre-sentence report and the witness –
victim’s testimonies are under seal, and that I cannot get them. These are
issues that I continue to fight in court to this day.
On the 1973
robbery and murder of the mayor of Zachary, LA, I went on trial on January 3-6,
1977, for second-degree murder and armed robbery. The only evidence against me
was a splice partially audible so-called confession, and a rusty bucket. I have
yet to find out what the bucket had to do with anything. Ole. It’s the bucket
that the judge told the jury about, that on the inaudible part of the confession I said I took this bucket from the
mayor’s farm after he was killed. And took it to a park. A recreational center.
And that bucket was found in the exact same spot as I was alleged to have said.
That was it. No other evidence.
The jury
deliberated for about an hour before returning a verdict of ‘guilty as
charged.’ Two of them voted to acquit me of all charges.
On march 14th,
1977 I was sentenced to Life on count 1 without the benefit of Probation or
Parole or Suspension of Sentence for 20 years, meaning after 20 years I become
eligible for Parole; or the judge can suspend my sentence right now and
resentence me to twenty years.
On count 2,
armed robbery, I was sentenced to 99 years of hard labor. This sentence for the
robbery is an illegal sentence, because it was used as the underlying felony to
convict me of the murder.
I know from
research that I can win a reversal of both of my sentences, but I will need counsel to do so. I have tried
filing pro se, but anyone with any legal knowledge of the Louisiana judicial
system knows that a pro se application is stamped ‘denied,’ no matter how
grantable the application is. It’s like incarcerated individuals are punished
for becoming knowledgeable of a system that binds us. I dare you with an 11th
grade education. Sit there in prison and point out constitutional violations
that our system has denied. I am in grave need of an assistant of counsel.
I arrived
here at LA State Plantation at Angola, LA, in March 1978. Within an hour I was
thrown into CCR: solitary confinement. I was placed on D-Tier, the so-called
militant tier. I met and befriended some of the most righteous brothers in my
life, doing those hellish years in this battlefield.
I became a
member of the Angola Chapter of the B.P.P. and in keeping with the spirit and
ideology of the Panther Party, we did what we had to in order to perfect
change. And in doing so, I went through a political education that I was not,
and that I am still not afraid to use in my everyday life here behind enemy
lines. But as with juridical education, when one educates oneself politically
on the plantation, one is punished because of one’s views of what daily hell
is, or what rotten half-prepared food is, or what constitutes torture.
I say this
is torture: being held in this solitary confinement cage where I can stand in
the middle of the floor, extend my arms, and touch both walls.
For the last 34
years, 23 hours a day is by definition torture.
‘They say’
it is because of my political education, affiliation with the Angola 3: Shaka,
King, and Chairman Hooks, and my ties to the B.P.P.
I say it is
because of their white supremacy affiliation, and ties to the 1950s-1990s
terrorist groups here in The Boot.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced, nor cried aloud,
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.1
Forever , Zulu
August 15th,
“1812”
- From “Invictus,” by William Ernest Henley.
Kenny Zulu
Whitmore
86468 -
D/HAWK - 4L
LA State
Prison
Angola, LA
70712
USA
