Author: dadoonan

Former death row inmate Gary Tyler starts a new life in Pasadena

Pasadena Weekly
By Shirley Hawkins
June 29, 2017

Soft-spoken 58-year-old ex-prisoner Gary Tyler is finally at peace. The social activist has adopted the pastoral city of Pasadena as his home — a far cry from the grim, gray walls of the Louisiana State Penitentiary, infamously known as Angola, the worst and bloodiest prison in the nation. When Tyler was first incarcerated there 41-and-a-half years ago for a crime that he maintains he did not commit, he was the youngest person on death row.

“I feel free here,” declares Tyler, who resides in a small, picturesque guesthouse where he frequently invites local doctors, lawyers and other activists — several of his longtime supporters.

“I can wake up in the morning and hear the birds chirping, smell the fresh air and feel the fresh breeze,” Tyler says. “People here in Pasadena are really social and friendly. Everyone I encounter is very nice.”

SENTENCED TO DEATH

Tyler’s legal nightmare began at the age of 16, when he was charged with a murder and sentenced to the notorious Angola maximum-security prison in Louisiana, at 17 the youngest inmate to be incarcerated on death row.

It was 1974, when public schools across America were undergoing integration. Racial tensions flared at Destrehan High School in St. Charles Parish, Louisiana — even though the Brown v. Board of Education case desegregating public schools had been decided by the US Supreme Court 20 years earlier.

Tyler was sitting on a bus filled with African-American students when a crowd of approximately 200 white students began yelling racial slurs and throwing rocks and bottles. A shot rang out that wounded 13-year-old white classmate Timothy Weber, who later died at the local hospital.

“I was known for being outspoken,” Tyler recalls. During the turmoil, Tyler witnessed his cousin being harassed by sheriff’s deputies and spoke up in his defense. Tyler was subsequently arrested for allegedly disturbing the peace and interfering with a police officer’s duties.

The bus was searched for several hours, but no weapon was found. Sheriff’s investigators transported the students to the substation where they once again searched the bus. This time, they allegedly found the gun — a government-issue 45-caliber Colt automatic.

Police produced the gun as evidence at Tyler’s trial. Later, it was discovered that the weapon was identified as having been stolen from the sheriff’s firing range in Jefferson Parish 10 miles away. The gun later disappeared from the evidence room.

At the sheriff’s substation, Tyler was cursed at and threatened by police. “They kept asking me questions about what happened on the bus,” Tyler recalls. “When I said I didn’t know anything, six or seven police officers brutally beat me for two to three hours in the booking room at the substation.” Tyler’s mother, Juanita, arrived hoping to take her son home, but was horrified when she heard his muffled screams.

Tyler was subsequently tried by an all-white jury. He was sentenced to death by electric chair.

“When they accused me of murder, I told them that I was innocent, but no one listened,” Tyler sadly recalls. He was shipped to Angola, the largest maximum security prison in the country.

LIFE IN PRISON

Tyler still remembers the sense of fear he felt as the steel gate on his prison cell clanged shut. “When the prison gates shut behind me, I felt as if I was shut off from the rest of the world,” he remembers. “You knew you would not exit those gates once they were closed.”

Tyler languished on death row for nearly two years. While there, he constantly wrote letters pleading for help and support. “I sent letters to every news and media outlet I could think of,” he recalls. “Eventually my case made its way to the local and international news.”

In the case Roberts v. Louisiana, the US Supreme Court in 1976 ruled that the state’s death penalty was unconstitutional. Tyler’s sentence was commuted to life in prison without parole until after 20 years.

Tyler says that day-to-day life in Angola prison was a test of sheer survival. “Angola was the bloodiest, most infamous prison in the nation,” he recalls. “It was a place of turmoil where prisoners were killing each other and committing suicide.

“I saw horrible things in Angola — inmates being set on fire or stabbed with homemade spears. I saw inmates who were doused with acid by other inmates. Some prisoners even got beaten to death by guards,” he remembers.

Fortunately, a group of inmates formed a bond to protect the vulnerable, frightened teen. “They saw a little kid who was all alone,” Tyler recalls. “Many of them were uncles and fathers — and they stepped up as responsible men to make sure that nothing happened to me.”

Despite his dire predicament, Tyler became a model prisoner.

“I got my GED, studied graphic arts and printing, and attended paralegal school,” he proudly recalls. He also mentored other inmates and spent 17 years as a volunteer in the prison’s hospice care facility.

But it was an invitation to join Angola prison’s drama club that radically changed his life. For the next 20 years, Tyler headed the club, which led to him directing the Passion play “The Life of Jesus Christ.” Impressed with the production, directors Jonathan Stack and Nicholas Cuellar filmed a documentary about the project titled “Cast the First Stone.”

TROUBLING FROM THE BEGINNING

Tyler’s case, which was widely publicized off and on for four decades, continued to gather a groundswell of support from athletes, left-wing activists and celebrities of the times, such as the British reggae band UB40 and the Neville Brothers. Rallies eventually sprung up across the country and abroad to protest Tyler’s wrongful incarceration.

“I received cards and letters on a daily basis from people from all over the world,” recalls Tyler. “They told me to keep holding on and to continue to be strong.”

On the first appeal of Tyler’s conviction in 1981, a federal appeals court admitted that Tyler was “denied a fundamentally fair trial,” but refused to order a new one for him.

And despite the Louisiana Board of Pardons recommending that Tyler be released three times based on his positive work in prison, several Louisiana governors refused to act on his case.

When the board recommended a pardon for Tyler in 1989, Republican Gov. Charles “Buddy” Roemer denied Tyler a pardon not once, but twice. Roemer was running against Ku Klux Klansman David Duke for re-election and refused to consider Tyler’s case in a racially charged election, feeling that a decision to release Tyler would not be favored by voters.

“In a news release, Roemer said that since I didn’t have my GED yet, I wouldn’t be able to make it in society,” Tyler recalls. “After I obtained my GED, Roemer still denied me a pardon.”

“They would not let Gary out,” says longtime Los Angeles peace activist Bob Zaugh, a supporter of Tyler for 28 years. “When Gov. Kathleen Blanco was leaving office, we appealed to her, but she ultimately ignored his case.”

Undeterred, a battery of impassioned attorneys — Mary Howell, Majeeda Sneed, George Kendall, Pamela Bayer, Corinne Irish and Sam Dalton, among others — worked for decades to prove Tyler’s innocence.

“I worked on Gary’s case for 39 years, starting in 1977 up until his release in 2016,” Howell reflected. “The case itself was a clear miscarriage of justice. The 5th Circuit US Court of Appeals ruled that Gary was denied the presumption of innocence and had a fundamentally unfair trial, yet refused to give him a new trial. The case was permeated with racial issues and was deeply troubling from the beginning.”

DAY BY DAY

After enduring over four decades of incarceration, the St. Charles Parish District Attorney’s Office in Louisiana finally agreed to overturn Tyler’s conviction in 2016.

Tyler agreed to enter a guilty plea for manslaughter and received the maximum sentence of 21 years. Since he had already served more than twice that time, his sentence was overturned. Tyler was quietly released from Angola penitentiary on April 29, 2016.

It is reported that Angola Prison Warden Darrell Vannoy wept as he escorted Tyler to the prison gates, saddened to see a man released who had helped to transform the prison and many of its inmates.

Zaugh said he was ecstatic after hearing of Tyler’s release. He brought Tyler to California to start a new life.

“I have no doubt that Gary will be a positive force and resource in the Pasadena community,” says Zaugh. “He is one of the kindest, most polite, most engaging persons I’ve ever met.”

Due to the plea bargain, Tyler received no monetary compensation after spending four-decades behind bars. He does not qualify for Social Security since he has never been active in the work force.

Fortunately, Tyler now works as an outreach and engagement support worker at Safe Place for Youth in Venice, where three days a week he helps homeless youth get off the streets.

Tyler’s supporters have set up a re-entry fund to help Tyler adjust to life after prison. Zaugh arranges speaking engagements for Tyler, who talks to various organizations about his remarkable journey.

“I left prison rich in spirit and eager to embrace life,” Tyler declares, adding that despite his four-decade ordeal he remains unbroken. Remarkably, he harbors no trace of bitterness.

“I am happy to have an opportunity to live a life that had been denied me for four decades,” he reflected. “I’m taking life day by day. I want to write a book, travel and meet the people all over the world who have supported me for over 41 years.”

Contributions for the Gary Tyler fund can be sent to https://www.libertyhill.org/form/back-to-life-re-entry-fund

Sentenced to death at age 17, Gary Tyler is building a new life in Venice

The Argonaut
By Shirley Hawkins
January 28, 2017

Gary Tyler is finally at peace. The tranquil Craftsman homes and lush tree-lined streets of Pasadena are a far cry from the grim, gray walls of the Louisiana State Penitentiary, infamously known as Angola, the worst and bloodiest prison in the nation.

Tyler, 58, was incarcerated there for 41-and-a-half years for a crime he did not commit, arriving on death row before his 18th birthday.

“I feel free here,” says the soft-spoken Tyler, who now lives in a small, picturesque guest house where he frequently hosts local doctors, lawyers and activists — several of his longtime supporters.

“I can wake up in the morning and hear the birds chirping, smell the fresh air and feel the fresh breeze,” he says. “I enjoy the simple things — walking, talking to people, reading newspapers, learning how to drive and the fact that I can go anywhere without needing anyone’s permission.”

Despite having so much taken from him, Tyler spends much of his time giving back. Several times a week Tyler rides the Expo Line on the way to his job as an outreach and engagement support worker at Safe Place for Youth in Venice, where he helps homeless youth get off the streets.

“I see the potential in the kids who come from dysfunctional backgrounds. Even though they might be runaways, homeless or doing drugs, I tell them they are salvageable and that they still have potential,” Tyler says of his work. “I tell them to take advantage of all the opportunities that life affords them.

A CHILD SENTENCED TO DEATH

Tyler’s nightmare began at age 16, when he was charged with murder, hastily convicted and, at 17, became the youngest inmate in American history to be incarcerated on death row.

This was 1974, when public schools across America were still undergoing desegregation. Even though the U.S. Supreme Court had decided Brown v. Board of Education 20 years earlier, racial tensions flared at Destrehan High School in St. Charles Parish, La.

Tyler was sitting on a bus with other African-American students when a crowd of about 200 white students began yelling racial slurs and throwing rocks and bottles at them. A gunshot rang out above the clamor and the bullet struck 13-year-old Timothy Weber, a white classmate who later died at the local hospital.

During the turmoil, Tyler witnessed his cousin being harassed by sheriff’s deputies and spoke up in his defense. They subsequently arrested Tyler and initially charged him with disturbing the peace and interfering with an officer’s duties.

“I was known for being outspoken,” says Tyler.

Investigators searched the bus for several hours but did not find a weapon, then transported the students to the substation to search it once again. This time, they reported finding a gun: a government-issue 45-caliber Colt automatic. Police would produce the gun as evidence at Tyler’s trial. Later, it was discovered that the weapon was identified as having been stolen from the sheriff’s firing range in Jefferson Parish, 10 miles away. The gun later disappeared from the evidence room.

Inside the sheriff’s substation, police cursed at Tyler and threatened him.

“They kept asking me questions about what happened on the bus,” Tyler remembers. “When I said I didn’t know anything, six or seven police officers brutally beat me for two or three hours in the booking room at the substation.”

Tyler’s mother arrived hoping to take her son home and was horrified when she heard his muffled screams. He was tried by an all-white jury and sentenced to death by electric chair.

“I told them I was innocent, but no one listened,” says Tyler, his voice tinged by sadness at the memory of it.

A TEST OF SURVIVAL

Tyler still recalls the sense of fear he felt as the steel gate on his prison cell clanged shut.

“When the prison gates shut behind me, I felt as if I was shut off from the rest of the world,” he says. “You knew you would not exit those gates once they were closed.”

While languishing on death row for the next two years, Tyler wrote letters pleading for help and support from every media outlet he could think of, and eventually his case became national news. In 1976, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that Louisiana’s mandatory death penalty was unconstitutional, and Tyler’s sentence was reduced to life in prison.

Tyler describes day-to-day life in Angola as a test of sheer survival.

“Angola was the bloodiest, most infamous prison in the nation,” he says. “It was a place of turmoil where prisoners were killing each other and committing suicide. I saw horrible things— inmates being set on fire or stabbed with homemade spears. I saw inmates who were doused with acid by other inmates. Some prisoners even got beaten to death by guards.”

But Tyler did not have to face this without help. A group of inmates formed a bond to protect the vulnerable, frightened teen.

“They saw a little kid who was all alone,” Tyler recalls. “Many of them were uncles and fathers, and they stepped up as responsible men to make sure that nothing happened to me.”

Tyler went on to become a model prisoner, obtaining his GED, studying graphic arts and printing, and even attending paralegal school. He mentored other inmates and spent 17 years as a volunteer in the prison’s hospice care facility.

But it was an invitation to join Angola’s Drama Club that radically changed his life. For the next 20 years, Tyler headed that club, which led to him directing the passion play “The Life of Jesus Christ.” Impressed with the production, directors Jonathan Stack and Nicholas Cuellar filmed a documentary about the project titled “Cast the First Stone.”

TROUBLING FROM THE START

Tyler’s case, which was widely publicized off and on for four decades, continued to gather a groundswell of support from athletes, left-wing activists and celebrities of the times, such as the British reggae band UB40 and the Neville Brothers. Rallies eventually sprung up across the country and abroad to protest Tyler’s wrongful incarceration.

“I received cards and letters on a daily basis from people from all over the world,” recalls Tyler. “They told me to keep holding on and to continue to be strong.”

On the first appeal of Tyler’s conviction in 1981, a federal appeals court found that Tyler had been “denied a fundamentally fair trial” but refused to order a new one for him. And despite the Louisiana Board of Pardons recommending three times that Tyler be released due to his positive work in prison, several Louisiana governors refused to act on his case.

When the board recommended a pardon for Tyler in 1989, then-Republican Gov. Charles “Buddy” Roemer denied Tyler a pardon not once, but twice. Roemer was running for reelection against Ku Klux Klansman David Duke and refused to consider Tyler’s case in a racially charged election, avoiding the risk of political blowback by white voters.

“In a news release, Roemer said that since I didn’t have my GED yet, I wouldn’t be able make it in society,” Tyler says. “After I obtained my GED, Roemer still denied me a pardon.”

All this time in faraway Los Angeles, Tyler had an advocate in Bob Zaugh, a member of the progressive media collective known as Peace Press, which operated from 1967 to 1987. Zaugh’s dedication to Tyler’s case outlived Peace Press, and it was Zaugh who later found Tyler his home in Pasadena and a job in Venice.

“They would not let Gary out,” says Zaugh. “When Gov. Kathleen Blanco was leaving office [in 2008], we appealed to her, but she ultimately ignored his case.”

Undeterred, a battery of impassioned attorneys — Mary Howell, Majeeda Sneed, George Kendall, Pamela Bayer, Corinne Irish and Sam Dalton, among others — worked for decades to exonerate Tyler.

“The case itself was a clear miscarriage of justice,” says Howell, who worked on Tyler’s case from 1977 to his release. “The 5th Circuit U.S. Court of Appeals ruled that Gary was denied the presumption of innocence and had a fundamentally unfair trial, yet refused to give him a new trial. The case was permeated with racial issues and deeply troubling from the beginning.”

AND FINALLY, FREEDOM

In all, Tyler endured more than four decades of incarceration before the St. Charles Parish District Attorney’s Office finally agreed to overturn Tyler’s life sentence last year. Tyler agreed to enter a guilty plea for manslaughter, which carries a maximum sentence of 21 years. Because Tyler had already served more than twice that sentence, authorities quietly released him from Angola on April 29, 2016.

Angola Prison Warden Darrell Vannoy reportedly wept while escorting Tyler to the prison gates.

“He told me that we had grown up in prison together and considered me a real friend,” Tyler recalls. He said, ‘Enjoy your life, Gary.'”

Zaugh also speaks highly of his friend.

“I have no doubt that Gary will be a positive force and resource in the community,” he says. “He is one of the kindest, most polite, most engaging people I’ve ever met.”

For his part, Tyler is simply taking life one day at a time. He’s still figuring out how to use all the features on his smartphone — a “complicated and challenging” device he had no exposure to in prison — but he’s OK with that.

“Every day I wake up, I feel blessed that I’ve been given the opportunity to finally live a life of freedom,” he says.

Gary Tyler and Bob Zaugh will be at Arena 1 Gallery (3026 Airport Ave., Santa Monica) on Saturday, July 1, to discuss “The Art of the Cooks of Peace Press,” a retrospective of the group’s work that includes a room dedicated to Tyler’s case. Call (310) 397-7456 or visit arena1gallery.com.

Gary Tyler on Maintaining Hope and Compassion in the U.S. Prison System

truthdig
By Emma Niles
October 14, 2016

A life on death row is unimaginable for most people—but for almost 3,000 prisoners in the United States, it is stark reality.

Gary Tyler used to be one such prisoner, unjustly convicted and sentenced to death at age 16 for a crime he did not commit. After spending 41 years of his life at the Louisiana State Penitentiary in Angola, America’s largest maximum-security prison, Tyler was released in April.

Tyler sat down with the Truthdig team on Thursday for a live discussion on the U.S. prison system, streamed directly to our Facebook page.

gary-tyler-truthdig

Tyler recently sat for an interview with Truthdig Editor in Chief Robert Scheer for KCRW’s “Scheer Intelligence” podcast. They discussed how Tyler was able to hold on to hope during those dark decades—for himself and for the prison system itself.

“When I was in prison, I was introduced to a culture that I never thought existed,” Tyler told Scheer. “I’ll never forget that when I went to death row, they had these doors that were slamming and prisoners shouting and hollering. It was like being introduced to an insane asylum, I guess.”

During his time in prison, Tyler directed a passion play featuring other inmates as cast members. This project became the basis of the documentary “Cast the First Stone.” Tyler explains:

Of course, I was able to recruit people from all walks of life in the prison. Also, that we’re talking about some people that had disciplinary problems and I knew these guys. I knew that giving them a chance, an opportunity, I could help transform them. I like that I had opportunity to interview and audition, you understand, these guys, because I opened it up to the prison population and I was getting, if you consider the worst of the worst, and to hear these guys say, “Give me chance. Let me prove myself.” It’s like people asking society, “Give me a second chance.” So, I heard their cries and I gave them that chance. I found them to be the most committed and dedicated actors that I had in the production.

A New Way of Life Justice on Trial Film Festival Set for Sept.17-18

Los Angeles Sentinel
By Shirley Hawkins
September 14, 2016

Statistics from the Sentencing Project on Racial Disparities in the U.S.Criminal Justice System found that “one out of every three black American males born today can expect to go to prison in his lifetime.”

One of the victims of the penal system was Gary Tyler, who was only 16-years-old when he was charged with a crime he did not commit. Sentenced to the notorious Angola maximum-security prison in West Feliciano Parish, Louisiana, Tyler languished in prison for the next 41 years.

Tyler’s ordeal began in 1974, when public schools were undergoing integration. He was sitting on a bus filled with African-American students leaving Destrehan High School in St. Charles Parish, Louisiana, when a crowd of approximately 200 began yelling out racial slurs and throwing rocks and bottles.

A shot rang out that wounded 13-year-old white class mate Timothy Weber, who later died at the local hospital.

The bus was searched and sheriffs deputies claimed they found a gun hidden between the seats (which was never recovered) and arrested Tyler for the murder.

Within a week, Tyler was tried by an all-white jury and was sentenced to death by electric chair. The U.S. Supreme Court ruled that Louisiana’s death penalty was unconstitutional. Instead, Tyler received life in prison.

“When they arrested me, I told them that I was innocent, but no one listened,” Tyler sadly recalls.

Even though four witnesses on the bus later recanted their testimony about the teen shooting Weber, Tyler was subsequently shipped to Angola prison, the youngest inmate ever to be incarcerated in the country.

Tyler recalls his sense of fear as the metal gates clanged shut on his jail cell. “When the prison gates shut behind me, I felt as if I was shut off from the rest of the world,” he recalled. “You knew you would not exit those gates once they were closed.”

Tyler said that Angola prison turned out to be a test of sheer survival. “Angola was the bloodiest, most infamous prison in the nation,” he said. “It was a prison of turmoil where prisoners were killing each other and committing suicide. Some prisoners were beaten to death by guards.”

For the next 40 years, Tyler’s attorneys worked diligently to prove his innocence. His case gained national attention and he was finally freed on April 29, 2016.

Tyler, now 58, said he was relieved to flee his nightmarish four-decades of incarceration and has since relocated to Pasadena, CA.

“I’m taking life day-by-day,” said Tyler, who said he has been embraced by a team of people who are helping him to adjust to civilian life.

On Saturday, Sept.17, Tyler will serve as the keynote speaker at the 2016 4th Annual “A New Way of Life Justice on Trial Film Festival” at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles on Sept. 17 and 18. He will discuss his incarceration, his feelings on prison reform and his struggle with forgiveness.

His speech will follow the showing of the gritty, eye-opening “Cast the First Stone,” a film about redemption that features Tyler.

The two-day festival will feature seven documentaries including the Oscar-nominated “Last Day of Freedom,” “South Bureau Homicide,” “The Return,” “The ‘If’ Project,” ”Out in the Night” and “They Call Us Monsters.”

Screenings will be followed by a question-and-answer session with the filmmakers. On Sunday, Sept.18 at 3 p.m., a “Power Panel” discussion will feature social justice activists, including Monique Morris, author of “Pushout: The Criminalization of Black Girls in Schools” and New York Attorney and lecturer Rick Jones (Neighborhood Defender Service of Harlem).

The JOT Film Fest is the brainchild of New York Times best-selling author Michelle Alexander and Susan Burton, founder of A New Way of Life Re-Entry Project, a non-profit organization that assists formerly incarcerated women.

“This weekend we will review films, listen and engage in conversation around competing content with an eye toward working and pushing for justice,” said Burton. “This film festival will serve as a platform for dialogue and action.”

Tickets are $25.00 for both days and will be available on site. For ticket information, access JOTFF@anewwayoflife.org or call (323) 563-3575.

Man Once Sentenced To Death Row Works To Abolish Capital Punishment In California

KPBS
By Megan Burke, Maureen Cavanaugh
Wednesday, September 7, 2016

Do you support the death penalty? It’s one of the most serious questions to confront California voters this November and one of the most divisive.

A Field Poll published in January shows 47 percent of California voters would choose to end the death penalty and replace it with life without the possibility of parole. That’s what Proposition 62 on the November ballot would do.

The same poll found 48 percent want to keep California’s death penalty and would support a new system to speed up the death penalty process. That’s what Proposition 66 would do.

KPBS is partnering with KPCC to host California Counts Town Hall: The Pros And Cons Of Repealing The Death Penalty, on Wednesday at 7 p.m. at the University of San Diego’s Peace and Justice Theater. If you can’t come to the event, tune in to Midday Edition on Thursday to hear a recording of the town hall.

One man who is now speaking out in support of Proposition 62 served time on death row for a murder he did not commit.

In 1974, at the age of 16, Gary Tyler was convicted in Louisiana of the murder of a white high school student and sentenced to death. The Supreme Court overturned the state’s death penalty in 1976 but Tyler, who is African American, was left with a life sentence for a murder he has steadfastly maintained he did not commit.

Despite recommendations from parole boards and finally a declaration that his life sentence was unconstitutional, Tyler was not released from Angola prison until April, having spent almost 42 years in prison, and only after he agreed to enter a guilty plea to manslaughter.

Tyler said family, friends and supporters across the country helped him survive the time he spent in prison.

“It’s always hard for anyone having to go through an ordeal where no matter what you do to try to prove to people that you are innocent, that the system is no longer functioning,” Tyler said. “That’s a bitter pill to swallow. But if you are determined to survive, you’re able to sustain under horrendous conditions. Because you know one thing, you stand on truth and you just make the best out of a bad situation.”

Tyler, who now lives in California, spoke to Midday Edition about why he supports Proposition 62.

Listen to the interview.

Four decades later, Gary Tyler is free

The Lousiana Weekly
May 9, 2016

After languishing in Louisiana’s maximum-security prison in Angola, La. for more than four decades, Gary Tyler was released on April 29.

Tyler, who was tried and convicted at the age of 16 for first-degree murder in the 1974 death of a white classmate at Destrehan High School during a period in which the River Parish school was rocked with heightened racial tensions amid efforts to integrate the school two decades after the Brown v. The Board of Education decision.Angola-Penitentiary-050916

Tyler, who was tried as an adult and spent nearly 42 years in the legendary penitentiary often referred to simply as Angola, is now 57.

After his conviction in Louisiana, a state many prison reform advocates refer to as the “prison capital of the world,” Tyler became a stark symbol of what is wrong with the criminal justice system in his home state and across the U.S.

“I am happy he has been released, but he should have never been tried and convicted as an adult in the first place,” the Rev. Raymond Brown, a community activist and president of National Action Now, told The Louisiana Weekly. “The criminal justice system in this region and state are still in existence and is still railroading Black people for crimes they either didn’t commit or hitting them with harsher sentences than they do their white counterparts.”

As an example of the injustice at work in the system, Brown says he learned about two decades ago that Louisiana has never sentenced a white teenager to death for killing a Black person. “That history goes all the way back to the 19th century,” Brown told The Louisiana Weekly.

Brown said that information was shared with him by attorneys working on the case of Shareef Cousin, a teen convicted in the murder of a white Slidell man and sentenced to death. Cousin was later freed after evidence of prosecutorial misconduct under the administration of then Orleans Parish District Attorney Harry Connick Sr. surfaced.

Norris Henderson, a New Orleans-based counselor working with Tyler to help ease his re-entry into society, told The Associated Press that Tyler’s first reaction after walking out of Angola was relief.

“For lack of a better word,” Henderson said in a telephone interview. “He said it felt as if a burden had been lifted. He went in there when he was a child, at 16. He’s coming out as an adult and that’s going to be challenging.”

On Oct. 7, 1974, Tyler was sitting on a bus filled with African-American students leaving Destrehan High School. As it passed a crowd of anywhere from 100 to 200 students and adults, some of those in the crowd yelled out racial slurs and threw rocks and bottles at the bus filled with Black students. In the midst of that chaos, a shot rang out and a 13-year-old white student named Timothy Weber was injured and later died at a hospital. While the initial search of the students and the bus turned up no weapon, a subsequent search by sheriff’s deputies found a gun in one of the bus seats.

With local and national efforts to end the prosecution of juvenile offenders as adults and a movement for criminal justice reform gaining momentum, things began to fall into place for Gary Tyler and the lawyers seeking his release.

The Associated Press reported that Tyler’s life sentence was recently declared unconstitutional. The St. Charles Parish District Attorney’s Office agreed to vacate Tyler’s conviction and Tyler agreed to enter a guilty plea to manslaughter and receive the maximum sentence of 21 years. Since he had already served more than twice that, Tyler was released from prison about 4:45 p.m. on April 29.

“It is long past time for Gary Tyler to come home,” said Tyler’s defense team, headed by attorney George H. Kendall, in a statement. “Hopefully this agreement will help to put this case to rest for Gary, the loved ones of Tim Weber and St. Charles Parish.”

Mary Howell, who represented Tyler and successfully obtained three Louisiana Pardon Board recommendations that his sentence be reduced, said, “This has been a long and difficult journey for all concerned. I feel confident that Gary will continue the important work he began years ago while in prison, to make a real difference in helping to mentor young people faced with difficult challenges in their lives.”

In court earlier on the day he was released, Tyler apologized to the Weber family for their loss and pain. “I accept responsibility for my role in this. I ask for prayers for the Weber family and for my family, and for healing in the days and weeks to come.

“While in prison, I tried my best to live a purposeful life and to become a responsible and caring adult. I am committed to living a meaningful and purposeful life outside of prison. I hope that I will be able to help others to find the way to peaceful resolution of conflict and to show compassion for each other, for the benefit of our community, our families and the world in which we live. Thank you.”

Tyler was convicted by an all-white jury in a 1975 trial his lawyers said was marred by racial prejudice and recanted witness statements. He initially was sentenced to death but that sentence was later reduced to life without parole in the wake of a 1976 U.S. Supreme Court ruling.

While he has maintained his innocence throughout his four-decade ordeal, Tyler had sought a pardon for decades amid objections from the Weber family.

St. Charles Parish District Attorney Joel Chaisson said during the April 29 plea deal hearing that the Weber family agreed to the plea deal.

The Advocate reported that the plea deal came on the heels of a recent U.S. Supreme Court decision holding that juveniles convicted of murder as adults must get a chance at parole.

Tyler’s defense team told The Advocate that their client had served as a volunteer for decades with Angola’s hospice care program. Former Angola Warden John Whitley and former Assistant Warden Cathy Fontenot reportedly both supported his release.

Norris Henderson told The Associated Press that Tyler, who has a sister, plans to stay in Louisiana for an unspecified amount of time before eventually moving out-of-state. He was mum about Tyler’s future relocation plans, citing a need to give the former Angola inmate a chance to adjust to life outside of the penitentiary and time to adjust to the idea that he is now a free man.

“This is all new for him. Let’s just give him a few minutes to breathe,” Henderson said.

“As happy as I am for Gary Tyler and his family, I am mindful that his case wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg,” Ramessu Merriamen Aha, a New Orleans businessman and former congressional candidate, told The Louisiana Weekly. “I have no doubt that there are many more Gary Tylers rotting away in Louisiana prisons and jails and others waiting to be railroaded by ambitious prosecutors and district attorneys.

“Why do so many people who were harshly sentenced have to wait three or four decades to be released from the vice grip of Louisiana’s penal system?” Aha added. “And who’s going to fight for all the Gary Tylers, Shareef Cousins, Curtis Kyleses and John Thompsons who are still either seeking justice or trying to piece their lives back together?”

This article originally published in the May 9, 2016 print edition of The Louisiana Weekly newspaper.

Gary Tyler’s Long Road to Justice

The Progressive
By Lawrence Richard
May 11, 2016

When I visited Gary Tyler in Louisiana’s infamous Angola prison in 2003, he had been there for twenty-eight years. He would serve another thirteen years before his release, on April 29.

We met in a cafeteria and spoke for several hours. It was against Angola rules to take notes, but Tyler said just be discreet, it will be OK. Everyone seemed to like him—guards, prisoners and staff. His story was shattering. I took four pages of notes.

Gary Tyler’s case is not unlike an unfortunately large number of other miscarriages of justice. He was convicted under highly questionable circumstances, and subjected to decades of indifference from the legal system. In the end, there is little reason to believe his conviction for a capital offense was based on anything more than his being in the wrong place at the wrong time—and being black.

On October 7, 1974, Tyler, then a 16-year-old high school student, was arrested and accused of shooting 13-year-old Timothy Weber to death in the middle of a race riot at Destrehan High School in Destrehan, Louisiana.

Tyler was nowhere near the school when the riot broke out. Amid a tense school integration, there had been a black-white fight at the school’s Friday night football game three days before, and with tensions running high that Monday morning, Tyler was sent home early. But he was spotted and picked up by St. Charles Parish police officer V.J. St. Pierre, who had had a previous run-in with Tyler. St. Pierre didn’t believe Tyler’s story about being sent home, so he drove Tyler back to Destrehan High School and dropped him in the middle of a full-blown riot. From my notes:

“St. Pierre said get out of my fucking car.”

School had been canceled for the day, and as students rushed onto hastily assembled school buses, a white mob of hundreds threw rocks, sticks, and bottles. Tyler boarded bus 91, and as the bus pulled away, a shot was fired. Outside the bus, Timothy Weber was shot in the head and killed.

The bus pulled over and all passengers were ordered off. That’s when things started to go very badly for Gary Tyler. He came to the defense of a friend who was being interrogated by police about a bullet necklace around his neck. From my notes:

“What are you messing with him for? I got one just like it.”

One sheriff’s deputy told Tyler to cross a ditch, and when he did another deputy accused him of trying to flee. He was arrested for “disturbing the peace” and taken to a police substation, where Tyler says he was beaten with a blackjack by V.J. St. Pierre, who was Timothy Weber’s third cousin, and by other police. Tyler told me that St. Pierre vowed to find out who killed his cousin. He said the officer pulled him by the hair and called him a nigger.

When I visited Gary’s mother, Juanita Tyler, in her brick, working-class Destrehan tract house, she told me she went to the substation looking for Gary and could hear his cries from a back room. But Gary refused to confess.

Tyler was tried by an all-white jury. His lawyer had never before tried a capital case and, by his own admission, spent little time with his client before trial. Without a confession, the prosecution depended heavily on testimony from other students on the bus, four of whom later recanted their testimony. Key witness Natalie Blanks, a jilted girlfriend of Tyler, had a history false confessions, but this never came out at trial.

Police admitted it took them three searches of the bus to find the alleged weapon, a big 45-caliber pistol. Bus driver Ernest Cojoe, a Korean War veteran, said there was no way a 45 was fired from bus 91. The gun was later revealed to have gone missing from a firing range frequented by police. No link between gun and bullet was ever established. The gun had no prints, and it later vanished altogether.

The prosecution said gloves Gary Tyler wore at the scene tested positive for gunpowder residue, but experts later said the trace amounts of alleged gunpowder were too small for positive identification, and incorrect chemicals were used in the tests, which were conducted by a lab tech who was later fired for giving false testimony in another case. Experts said the bullet produced as evidence had too little residual matter to have caused a head wound. And Tyler’s lawyer failed to object to the judge’s highly prejudicial jury instructions. The judge essentially told the jury it could presume guilt.

In 1976, Tyler’s sentence was reduced to life, but under Louisiana law one needs a pardon to get paroled from a life sentence—it is de facto life without parole. Four years after that, a federal appeals court said Tyler’s trial had been “fundamentally unfair,” but no relief was granted.

Over the years two parole boards recommended parole, and twice the same governors that handpicked the boards rejected their recommendations. Former Governor Buddy Roemer cited Tyler’s failure to complete his GED, but Tyler repeatedly requested entrance into Angola’s educational programs and was repeatedly told they were full.

Tyler’s case drew widespread attention. There were protests, a defense committee. Gil Scott-Heron and UB40 recorded songs about Tyler. Amnesty International urged parole. But all that faded, and the years and decades passed. When I visited Gary, gone was the young man whose photos cut as dashing a figure as any of Patrice Lumumba or George Jackson—Tyler was settling into middle age.

In 2012, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that life sentences without parole for juveniles were unconstitutional. On January 25 of this year, the court made that ruling retroactive. And, finally, in March of this year the court certified Tyler under the ruling and sent his case back to Louisiana for resentencing. At that point the state cut a deal: Tyler pleaded guilty to manslaughter and received the 1974 maximum sentence, twenty-one years. Having already served forty-one years, Tyler was released immediately.

At long last—at age fifty-seven—Gary Tyler is a free man.

Lawrence Reichard is a freelance writer in Belfast, Maine.

The Horrible Ordeal of Gary Tyler: Wrong Place, Wrong Time … and Black

counterpunch
By Lawrence Reichard
May 12, 2016

“Southern man, when will you pay them back?”

– Neil Young

I have waited 38 years to write the following words: Gary Tyler is a free man.

One of the greatest miscarriages of justice of the last 50 years ended April 29. After 41 years behind bars for a crime he did not commit, Gary Tyler was released April 29. In 1975, at the age of 17, Tyler was convicted of shooting and killing 13-year-old Timothy Weber in the middle of a race riot at in Destrehan, Louisiana. Tyler was sentenced to death, and became the youngest person on death row in the country. His sentence was later reduced to life, but under Louisiana law Tyler would need a pardon to be released – it was essentially life without parole.

Gary Tyler’s real crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And being black. Gary’s jury was all-white. Case closed. The state of Louisiana stole 41 years of Gary Tyler’s life, and the state knew it every step of the way.

I first wrote about Gary in 1978, four years after his arrest and three years after his conviction, and in 2003 I visited and interviewed him in Louisiana’s infamous Angola prison, his home for four decades.

In October 1974, Destrehan High School was in the throes of a violent court-ordered desegregation. A black-white fight broke out a Friday night football game, and the following Monday more fights broke out at the school. Classes were canceled and the school’s buses were called to take students home.

Tyler was nowhere near the school. He was miles away, heading for home. Tyler had a reputation for his outspokenness, and with tensions running high, Gary was sent home early. He almost made it home, and had he, his life might have been very different.

But St. Charles Parish Police Officer V.J. St. Pierre spotted Tyler, and unconvinced by Tyler’s story, St. Pierre put Tyler in his police car and drove him back to Destrehan High School. They landed in the middle of a full-blown riot. A white mob had descended on the school and was throwing rocks and bottles as students boarded buses to go home. As Tyler’s bus pulled away a shot was fired and outside the bus 13-year-old Timothy Weber was shot in the head and killed.

The bus stopped, and its passengers were ordered off. Outside the bus Gary defended a student who was being interrogated about a bullet necklace around his neck. Tyler was detained and taken to a St. Charles Parish police substation, and then things started to go very badly.

Tyler says he was beaten with a blackjack by St. Pierre, the murder victim’s uncle, and by other officers. Tyler’s mother went to the police station looking for Gary, and later said she could hear Gary’s cries from a back room.

Despite the police thuggery, Tyler didn’t confess. The next day Tyler was transferred to court for arraignment, and Tyler’s head was covered by a jacket so media wouldn’t see his bruises.

In a parish that was 25 percent black and a state that was one third black, Tyler faced an all-white jury. The prosecution relied heavily on the testimony of other students, all of whom later recanted their testimony, saying they had been threatened with prison if they didn’t cooperate.

Key witness Natalie Blanks, a jilted girlfriend of Tyler, had a history of grandiosity and false confessions. This was not revealed at trial. Gary’s bus was twice searched by police and nothing was found, but on their third try police “found” a big 45-caliber pistol they had somehow missed before. Later the gun vanished altogether. The bus driver, a Korea War veteran, said there was no way a 45 was fired from the bus. It was later revealed the gun had gone missing from a firing range frequented by police. Experts said the slug had far too little residual matter to have caused a head wound. The gun had no prints, and no gun-bullet connection was ever established. Police said gloves Tyler was wearing proved positive for gunpowder residue, but incorrect chemicals were used in the tests, the trace amounts of alleged residue were insufficient for an accurate test, and the man who conducted the test was later fired for giving false testimony in another case.

Tyler’s lawyer had never tried a capital case. By his own admission he spent little time with Tyler prior to trial, and he failed to object to the judge’s highly prejudicial jury instructions. The judge essentially told the jury it could presume guilt. Four years later an appeals court found the trial fundamentally unfair, but did not order a retrial. Gary Tyler paid 41 years for his lawyer’s incompetence and for the appeals court’s bizarre concept of justice.

Parole boards twice recommended parole for Tyler, and twice governors rejected the recommendations of their own handpicked boards. Governor Buddy Roemer cited Tyler’s failure to complete high school while in prison, but Tyler had repeatedly sought entrance into educational programs and had been repeatedly told they were full.

Finally, in 2012, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that life sentences without parole for juveniles were unconstitutional. Then in January of this year, fully four years later – who’s in a hurry? – the court ruled that its 2012 finding was retroactive, and in March the court sent Tyler’s case back to Louisiana for re-sentencing. At that point the state cut a deal. Tyler pleaded guilty to manslaughter and received the maximum 21 years. Having already served 41 years, Tyler was released immediately. Gary Tyler’s 41-year nightmare was finally over. At long last he was a free man.

But how many more Gary Tylers are out there, Gary Tylers we never hear about? And how many have been executed? Having followed Gary’s case for 38-plus years, I believe those who estimate that ten percent of those executed in this country are innocent.

Lawrence Reichard lives in Belfast, Maine, and can be reached at lreichard@gmail.com.