Introducing: The Journey of a Jailhouse Lawyer

A newsletter from educator and legal advocate Calvin Duncan

Hi, my name is Calvin. I often joke that my middle name should have been Sisyphus. For over 20 years, I served as an inmate counsel substitute—or jailhouse lawyer—at Angola Prison in Louisiana, while imprisoned for a crime I didn’t commit.

During that time, I taught a class to empower other incarcerated individuals to fight for justice under the law, even as my own case remained stalled. Yet, like Sisyphus, I kept rolling that ball uphill. In 2011, with help from Innocence Project New Orleans, I was finally released.

Today, I continue to teach and assist incarcerated people to access the courts through my Light of Justice program.

In this newsletter, I’ll share reflections on my work and stories from my time at Angola. Together, I hope we can encourage one another to keep striving for a better world, even in the face of impossible odds.

I’m glad you’re here.

From the Lockerbox

Each month, I plan to highlight an item from my personal archive—something I once kept in my lockerbox at Angola Prison. It might be a letter, a photograph, or a case I worked on during my years as an inmate counsel substitute.

With only two lockerboxes to hold all our personal possessions, every item I chose to keep carried special meaning.

Today, I’m sharing a photo of my friend Norman—who we called "Tiny Man"—and his wife, Rose, taken at the Lifers' Banquet at Angola in July 1993. When I first arrived at Main Prison in Angola, I was placed in a dormitory called Pine 2. Tiny Man occupied the bunk next to mine. Tiny Man introduced me to Rose in the visiting shed, and over time, they welcomed me as family, treating me like a son.

As it turned out, Rose played a crucial role in my case.

One of the hardest parts of being incarcerated was trying to prove I’d been wrongfully convicted without the ability to physically investigate my case. I knew there were likely documents in police files and district attorney records that pointed to problems with the state’s theory of the crime, but whenever I contacted the courts or law enforcement agencies for my records, they either ignored or denied my requests.

After nearly a decade of trying to obtain my records, Tiny Man knew I needed help. He encouraged me to speak to Rose, and she volunteered to go to the Orleans Parish District Attorney’s office to copy my files for me. In those files, I uncovered key exculpatory evidence that the DA’s office had never shared with me or my attorneys. Decades later, that very evidence helped me gain my freedom.

I will always be grateful to her and Tiny Man for their friendship. In Angola, when there was no help coming, we found ways to help each other from the inside out.

How the word is passed

This month, as we celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s life and work, I’m reminded of a message in Clint Smith III’s recent book, How the Word Is Passed. In Smith’s book, he takes us to historical sites and markers to show how slavery—and the ways we remember it—shaped our nation.

Smith, who grew up in New Orleans, writes:

My grandparents’ stories are my inheritance; each one is an heirloom I carry… My grandparents’ voices are a museum I am still learning how to visit, each conversation with them a new exhibit worthy of my time.

While I was in prison, I often listened to Dr. King’s sermons on cassette tapes. His words opened my eyes to the necessity of confronting injustice with honesty and integrity. As an inmate counsel, I came to understand that many of the injustices we faced daily were rooted in the legacies of states’ rights and systemic racism. Though I didn’t have a grandparent to guide me through the world, Dr. King became one of my greatest teachers.

I’d love to hear a story about one of your grandparents or another elder in your life—an “heirloom” passed down to you that you value to this day.

If you know someone who might enjoy receiving notes like this from time to time, please feel free to invite them by sharing this post.

Take care,

Calvin