Brad Yule

I learned in the jail that I couldn't ask anybody what they had done.

I had to say, what did they say you did?

And then you would tell me why you were in jail, because nobody in jail had done anything.

So this was the man I was expecting to find just based on my past experience.

And after a 48-year cover-up, I was not interested in having somebody else that was just going to BS me and tell me more stories.

Getting to Angola is different than anywhere else I've ever been before.

It's a beautiful tree-lined blacktop road.

You're in rural Louisiana.

It's not a bad drive.

Suddenly you round a bend of trees and you find yourself staring at a prison gate that says Louisiana State Penitentiary and a crossbar across the whole road, and you can either turn around and go back where you came from or you go to prison.

There's no other place to go.

So I got checked into the prison, ferried back to the camp he was in, and found myself sitting in a visitation room.

That visitation room didn't really look like the visitation rooms you see in movies.

There wasn't a glass between everybody.

It looked more like an old church meeting room.

It was white cinder block walls, tan tiles.

There was a mural painted on one wall with these white plastic tables and the same plastic chairs I sat in in high school.

So I sat down and started wondering if I was going to recognize him when he came in because I had seen some pictures of him, but none that were super recent.

When he walked in the room, I knew immediately who he was.

It just clicked.