Four years ago I began investigating the murder of Houston socialite Doris Angleton in order to write a book about the case. I interviewed countless witnesses and chased leads in Houston and in six states. I had little idea then that my research would eventually cost me my freedom.
Doris was the wife of Robert Angleton, a bookie who took bets from Houston’s rich and powerful. He had friends (and clients) in high places, including the district attorney’s office and the police department.
Doris filed for divorce in February of 1997, threatening to expose Robert’s illicit empire if he didn’t share the millions he had stashed away. On April 16, police found her bullet-ridden body sprawled on her kitchen floor. Robert immediately fingered his brother Roger.
When authorities arrested Roger Angleton in Las Vegas, he was carrying a briefcase with $64,000 in cash that had Robert’s fingerprints on it. They say Roger’s briefcase also revealed notes about the killing and a cassette tape of the two brothers plotting the murder.
A Houston grand jury charged both brothers with capital murder. The prosecutor’s theory was simple: Robert Angleton paid his brother to kill his wife.
Over four months of extensive interviews with Roger in jail, I gained intimate details of the case from this alleged triggerman. Our sessions came to a halt when Roger was found dead in his cell with a suicide note shortly before his brother’s trial. The D.A.’s office insisted my interviews with Roger made me an essential witness. I was subpoenaed, but never called on to testify. The jury never heard what Roger had revealed to me about his brother. I was stunned when the judge read the “not guilty” verdict.
Two years after the state-court acquittal, the FBI sought my help in its investigation of Robert Angleton for federal charges, including murder for hire. Agents offered me a confidential-informant contract, which stipulated that I would provide them with my research in exchange for cash. I declined. My research was for a book, and not for sale to the FBI. The contract also gave the agency the power to control the dissemination of my research. I felt strongly that this infringed on my right to free speech. As I pushed the document back across the table to one agent, another agent handed me a federal-grand-jury subpoena. The government continued to file subpoenas in the next few months, and I continued to resist.
The latest subpoena demanded that I turn over any tapes or transcripts I had from all of my interviews, including copies. If I had complied, the Feds would have had sole access to my work, preventing me from writing my book and substantiating my research for a publisher. More important, I would have violated the confidentiality agreements I had made with my sources. How could future sources feel secure confiding in me if I didn’t keep my word to those involved in the Angleton case? The Feds responded to my noncompliance by sending me to jail.
I spend my days alone for the most part in my cell. My solitude is punctuated by visits from my husband, mother and lawyers. My cellmate, who had the bottom bunk, has been transferred to INS custody after her conviction for smuggling illegal aliens. I await a new “cellie”–odds are it will be someone convicted of a drug offense.
I can stand in line to use the phone, although sometimes the wait is so long it is turned off before it’s my turn. The government listens to all of our conversations anyhow. My mail–incoming and outgoing–is read by the prison. The toilet paper is government issue and abrasive. A guard “shook down” my cell and found what he claimed to be contraband. I avoided being written up by producing a receipt for the forbidden item–Charmin brand toilet paper–purchased through the prison commissary.
My new home is one block from Enron Field, home of the Astros. I can glimpse the stadium from a narrow window in the prison day room. On weekdays my students are not far: the campus where I am scheduled to teach this fall is six blocks away.
Though all of this is around me, I’m living a lonely existence. My belief that I am doing the right thing buoys my morale. It’s uncertain how much longer my government will keep me in prison. My lawyers will file a motion this week with the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals, in the hope that it will reconsider the contempt-of-court filing that keeps me here. But for the near future at least, maintaining my journalistic freedom will mean sacrificing my personal liberty.
