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ANGOLA, La. – He walks out into the rodeo ring already in pain; soon his face will be covered in blood. His boots sink slightly into the dirt as he moves to the center of the arena, with the Louisiana sun beating down and the stench of sweat and manure all around him. The public address announcer calls his name, saying he's the best at this event, saying he might one day be the best ever. His name is Marlon Brown. Within these barbed-wire fences, they call him "Tank."
The contest is called "Guts and Glory," and it's the grand finale of the "Wildest Show In The South." An oversized poker chip is tied loosely to the horns of a bull, who is let loose in the ring where 20 or so men await. The goal is simple: take the chip from the bull. The din of the crowd swells as a fence swings open and a 1,500-pound animal emerges into the bright afternoon. There are other contestants here, all hoping for the $500 prize, but Tank is the man everyone is watching. Tank is the man who has won this 14 times before, the man who strides confidently to the front, locking eyes with the bull and shouting at him. The bull sees him and starts to approach, faster and faster.
This is the moment Marlon Brown has craved all year, the one he dreams about. He wants the $500, he wants win No. 15 (which would move him within just a few of the rodeo record) and he wants to please the fans who have come to watch, though he knows some in the stands – many, even – don't want him to win. There are some, he knows, who will be cheering for the bull.
That's because Marlon Brown has done something that most people could never fathom. Or forgive.
Only a few minutes from now, the rodeo will end and the crowd will leave. Brown and his fellow participants will not. They are here, on these grounds, most likely until they die. They are inmates at the Louisiana State Penitentiary, a notorious plot of 18,000 acres so massive that it has its own zip code. These aren't petty offenders, guilty of failing to pay traffic tickets or taxes. The average sentence here is 93 years.
Marlon Brown is a convicted murderer, and a great many of the prisoners in this rodeo have killed someone. The bald man with the clipboard, directing Brown and others to enter and leave the ring, killed his own father. The man with cropped gray hair getting ready to hop on the back of a bucking bronco slit the throat of his roommate. The baby-faced 27-year old about to ride bareback is in for murdering a friend.
Outside the rodeo ring, dozens of murderers are milling about the grounds, selling concessions and homemade souvenirs. Among them is a convict near the entrance of the rodeo complex, operating a carousel. Moms and little kids ride around on painted horses, laughing and squealing while the man controlling the carousel looks on. He's in for manslaughter; he killed an infant.
This is the Angola Prison Rodeo, a biannual event where convicts host civilians in what amounts to a two-day carnival. For the inmates who have proven themselves – "Trustees," they are called – the weekend is their reward for good behavior. For the civilians, it's an inexpensive day out with the family.
The inmates, dressed in white T-shirts and blue jeans, walk around the grounds free of any obvious supervision, while rodeo fans browse a flea market filled with furniture, leather goods, oil paintings, jewelry – all made by prisoners of Angola. When a parent drops a foiled hot dog on the ground, an inmate rushes to pick it up for him. Sex offenders are not allowed inside the rodeo grounds, and those who have not proven themselves must remain in a fenced-in area on the premises, which, aside from the massive amount of barbed wire, is about the only reminder that this is, well, a prison.
The warden is here, walking around like most of the officers: unarmed. He held an impromptu news conference, and the first question came from a local high school student. She stuttered as she asked him to pick the worst criminal in the prison's history. The warden could have avoided the question. He didn't. One of the inmates, he informed the girl with braces, was sentenced to 1,570 years in prison for rape. He had 120 victims. He was only one of thousands of men of Angola who have punctured the fragile fabric of our society.
It's a wonder how anyone could help but cheer for the bull to gore someone like Marlon Brown. It's a wonder how anyone could even attend this event, where society's worst offenders can win prize money. Every single participant has destroyed at least two families: the victim's and his own. Every single participant costs taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of his term. There are those at Angola who threaten, brawl, and fight – sometimes using their own feces. And yet this rodeo goes on, more popular by the year.
In this region, tucked in the corner of the Louisiana boot where the shin meets the foot, what started in 1964 as an internal distraction is now a mark-your-calendar happening. Both rodeos this weekend are sold out – 12,000-plus each day – and the event will be even bigger in 2014 when the 50th anniversary is celebrated.
Over that half-century, the rodeo has helped change the very meaning of life in prison. Angola's history is long and ugly. It was built on a former plantation in the 1800s, and stories of brutality date back as far as the prison does. In the 1950s, 31 inmates sliced their Achilles' tendons in protest of the working conditions and brutality. That wasn't even the worst of it. Inmates who have been here for decades talk openly about the horrors they've witnessed, including one prisoner beating a man to death with a rock and another inmate nearly decapitating a prisoner by swinging a blade used for cutting crops. Quite a few of the older men roaming around here on an April Saturday say they've seen killing with their own eyes on these grounds: murderers committing murder. Back in the '60s, this place became known as "the bloodiest prison in America." That was the decade the rodeo began.
Yet there's been hardly a hiccup lately. Visitors don't even stare at the prisoners in white as they line up to pay them for Po Boys and fried Coke, which tastes like beignets, served with powdered sugar, whipped cream and a cherry on top. There are no metal detectors, no vehicle searches, no K-9s and no pat-downs; in fact, the security at just about any major sporting event is more intense than what these fans go through to get onto the grounds of this maximum security prison. Over the past several years, the biggest crime problem has been shoplifting: civilians stealing goods from prisoners.
Inmates, wearing white shirts marked "Rodeo Worker," sell goods they make to the public. (Yahoo! Sports)"They get real offended when someone shoplifts from 'em, and that happens, and we laugh at 'em cause that's what you did one time," says Angola's warden, Burl Cain. "So they see how it feels."
To sell, prisoners first have to pay for all their materials. No taxpayer dollars here. Inmates earn the money first by serving as an apprentice on another prisoner's hobby-shop box, and eventually by becoming their own merchant.
Today, Darrell Jenkins is selling a mammoth armoire he carved and built himself. He's asking $1,200.
"I was 17 years old and 5 months when they sent me to Angola," he says. "I was a baby."
He was in ninth grade at the time, a 200-pound defensive end with a shot at a college scholarship and maybe more. His son was 3 months old then; he's 24 now.
"Murder," Darrell Jenkins explains flatly. "I was with a bunch of fellas. Peer pressure." Darrell has been in Angola for more than half his life. "I ain't that kid anymore," he says. "I'm sorry. Very sorry."
Many of the inmates show remorse, some without prompting. Any of these people could have been a relative. Then again, any of them could have killed a relative. The victims have no voice here at Angola. They have no voice anywhere. "I think about him every day," James Benefield says of his victim. "I think about his family."
Another inmate, Bryce Perkins, is only 27. He got here only a few years ago. He knew his victim well. "He was a good guy," Perkins says.
Is that enough? Not hardly. Nothing's enough. Yet at the same time, no good can come of these men wasting away. No good can come of prison riots and slashed tendons. Henry Fisher is 46 years old and 13 years into his sentence for selling drugs. He has a 17-year-old son and all he wants to do is raise a few bucks to send home to him. The rodeo gives him that chance.
"I want to help my kids," he says. "How else could I do that? This day is extremely important. I thank the Lord for Warden Cain."
The contest is called "Guts and Glory," and it's the grand finale of the "Wildest Show In The South." An oversized poker chip is tied loosely to the horns of a bull, who is let loose in the ring where 20 or so men await. The goal is simple: take the chip from the bull. The din of the crowd swells as a fence swings open and a 1,500-pound animal emerges into the bright afternoon. There are other contestants here, all hoping for the $500 prize, but Tank is the man everyone is watching. Tank is the man who has won this 14 times before, the man who strides confidently to the front, locking eyes with the bull and shouting at him. The bull sees him and starts to approach, faster and faster.
This is the moment Marlon Brown has craved all year, the one he dreams about. He wants the $500, he wants win No. 15 (which would move him within just a few of the rodeo record) and he wants to please the fans who have come to watch, though he knows some in the stands – many, even – don't want him to win. There are some, he knows, who will be cheering for the bull.
That's because Marlon Brown has done something that most people could never fathom. Or forgive.
Only a few minutes from now, the rodeo will end and the crowd will leave. Brown and his fellow participants will not. They are here, on these grounds, most likely until they die. They are inmates at the Louisiana State Penitentiary, a notorious plot of 18,000 acres so massive that it has its own zip code. These aren't petty offenders, guilty of failing to pay traffic tickets or taxes. The average sentence here is 93 years.
Marlon Brown is a convicted murderer, and a great many of the prisoners in this rodeo have killed someone. The bald man with the clipboard, directing Brown and others to enter and leave the ring, killed his own father. The man with cropped gray hair getting ready to hop on the back of a bucking bronco slit the throat of his roommate. The baby-faced 27-year old about to ride bareback is in for murdering a friend.
Outside the rodeo ring, dozens of murderers are milling about the grounds, selling concessions and homemade souvenirs. Among them is a convict near the entrance of the rodeo complex, operating a carousel. Moms and little kids ride around on painted horses, laughing and squealing while the man controlling the carousel looks on. He's in for manslaughter; he killed an infant.
This is the Angola Prison Rodeo, a biannual event where convicts host civilians in what amounts to a two-day carnival. For the inmates who have proven themselves – "Trustees," they are called – the weekend is their reward for good behavior. For the civilians, it's an inexpensive day out with the family.
The inmates, dressed in white T-shirts and blue jeans, walk around the grounds free of any obvious supervision, while rodeo fans browse a flea market filled with furniture, leather goods, oil paintings, jewelry – all made by prisoners of Angola. When a parent drops a foiled hot dog on the ground, an inmate rushes to pick it up for him. Sex offenders are not allowed inside the rodeo grounds, and those who have not proven themselves must remain in a fenced-in area on the premises, which, aside from the massive amount of barbed wire, is about the only reminder that this is, well, a prison.
The warden is here, walking around like most of the officers: unarmed. He held an impromptu news conference, and the first question came from a local high school student. She stuttered as she asked him to pick the worst criminal in the prison's history. The warden could have avoided the question. He didn't. One of the inmates, he informed the girl with braces, was sentenced to 1,570 years in prison for rape. He had 120 victims. He was only one of thousands of men of Angola who have punctured the fragile fabric of our society.
It's a wonder how anyone could help but cheer for the bull to gore someone like Marlon Brown. It's a wonder how anyone could even attend this event, where society's worst offenders can win prize money. Every single participant has destroyed at least two families: the victim's and his own. Every single participant costs taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of his term. There are those at Angola who threaten, brawl, and fight – sometimes using their own feces. And yet this rodeo goes on, more popular by the year.
In this region, tucked in the corner of the Louisiana boot where the shin meets the foot, what started in 1964 as an internal distraction is now a mark-your-calendar happening. Both rodeos this weekend are sold out – 12,000-plus each day – and the event will be even bigger in 2014 when the 50th anniversary is celebrated.
Over that half-century, the rodeo has helped change the very meaning of life in prison. Angola's history is long and ugly. It was built on a former plantation in the 1800s, and stories of brutality date back as far as the prison does. In the 1950s, 31 inmates sliced their Achilles' tendons in protest of the working conditions and brutality. That wasn't even the worst of it. Inmates who have been here for decades talk openly about the horrors they've witnessed, including one prisoner beating a man to death with a rock and another inmate nearly decapitating a prisoner by swinging a blade used for cutting crops. Quite a few of the older men roaming around here on an April Saturday say they've seen killing with their own eyes on these grounds: murderers committing murder. Back in the '60s, this place became known as "the bloodiest prison in America." That was the decade the rodeo began.
Yet there's been hardly a hiccup lately. Visitors don't even stare at the prisoners in white as they line up to pay them for Po Boys and fried Coke, which tastes like beignets, served with powdered sugar, whipped cream and a cherry on top. There are no metal detectors, no vehicle searches, no K-9s and no pat-downs; in fact, the security at just about any major sporting event is more intense than what these fans go through to get onto the grounds of this maximum security prison. Over the past several years, the biggest crime problem has been shoplifting: civilians stealing goods from prisoners.
Inmates, wearing white shirts marked "Rodeo Worker," sell goods they make to the public. (Yahoo! Sports)"They get real offended when someone shoplifts from 'em, and that happens, and we laugh at 'em cause that's what you did one time," says Angola's warden, Burl Cain. "So they see how it feels."
To sell, prisoners first have to pay for all their materials. No taxpayer dollars here. Inmates earn the money first by serving as an apprentice on another prisoner's hobby-shop box, and eventually by becoming their own merchant.
Today, Darrell Jenkins is selling a mammoth armoire he carved and built himself. He's asking $1,200.
"I was 17 years old and 5 months when they sent me to Angola," he says. "I was a baby."
He was in ninth grade at the time, a 200-pound defensive end with a shot at a college scholarship and maybe more. His son was 3 months old then; he's 24 now.
"Murder," Darrell Jenkins explains flatly. "I was with a bunch of fellas. Peer pressure." Darrell has been in Angola for more than half his life. "I ain't that kid anymore," he says. "I'm sorry. Very sorry."
Many of the inmates show remorse, some without prompting. Any of these people could have been a relative. Then again, any of them could have killed a relative. The victims have no voice here at Angola. They have no voice anywhere. "I think about him every day," James Benefield says of his victim. "I think about his family."
Another inmate, Bryce Perkins, is only 27. He got here only a few years ago. He knew his victim well. "He was a good guy," Perkins says.
Is that enough? Not hardly. Nothing's enough. Yet at the same time, no good can come of these men wasting away. No good can come of prison riots and slashed tendons. Henry Fisher is 46 years old and 13 years into his sentence for selling drugs. He has a 17-year-old son and all he wants to do is raise a few bucks to send home to him. The rodeo gives him that chance.
"I want to help my kids," he says. "How else could I do that? This day is extremely important. I thank the Lord for Warden Cain."
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