Book Speaks to Travesty of Justice
Monday, January 10, 2005
Wiley Hilburn
The title of Jim Brown's recent book, Justice Denied, speaks to the travesty of justice one of Louisiana's enduring political legends received at the hands of the FBI.
The former Louisiana senator and secretary of state served six months for making false statements to the FBI -- victimized by the fiery blowback of the Edwards scandals. This was a frightening miscarriage of justice. Brown faced slow justice, an anonymous jury, a hostile judge, and had no recourse to the FBI notes that convicted him.
Brown was not, in effect, allowed to face the accusatory FBI notes that condemned him. It was justice denied. The Cambridge-educated Brown is an indifferent writer, but his inspired choice of a journal-diary story-telling technique makes the 409-page book read like a novel.
Louisiana political junkies will mainline Brown's frequent, intimate reference to Edwin Edwards, John McKeithen and the whole hayride.
Brown, 64, grew up in Louisiana politics. He would have made a different kind of governor -- Tale of Two Cities meets Tobacco Road -- and was in competition for Louisiana's top job almost from Day One in Ferriday, as state senator in a sprawling six-parish district.
A closet liberal, an unashamed Democrat, Brown endeared himself to the Louisiana press by forging the reformist "Open Meetings" law during early Senate days. Brown was easily the most effective, active secretary of state in Louisiana history. His Archives Building preserved our state's most precious historical documents.
Brown was headed in exactly the same direction as insurance commissioner until the feds unlawfully pinched him.
In a sense, I grew up with Brown. Two years older, I chose journalism while Brown was born to politics.
We first met in the long, hot summer of 1978 when I covered the Fifth District campaign (then all of North Louisiana) for The Times of Shreveport. I was immediately intrigued by Brown's education, intellect and openness (which would kill him with the FBI). Brown told me then his aim was the governorship, and I could see it happening.
Actually, the over-confident Brown was trounced by Jerry Huckaby in that race. Alan Stonecipher, Huckaby's brilliant handler, angrily complained during the campaign that my stories favored Brown. I ended up voting for Huckaby, who just two years before literally mortgaged the family farm in northwest Louisiana to topple the seemingly invincible, 30-year Otto Passman dynasty based in Monroe.
But I did admire the aggressive, articulate Brown with his fashionably shaggy brown hair, tall good looks and silk suits. Brown blew away Times editorial page editor Jim Montgomery with a master's thesis letter-to-the-editor on the death of the iconic Tennessee Williams.
Montgomery couldn't imagine Brown shaking hands with the Earl of Louisiana, Earl Long. Brown's erudite letter sought no political advantage and was typical of him.
Brown is and never was perfect; far from it. Brown married into wealth -- twice, if that can be considered bad. Ferriday never forgave him for the first split. He was and is a big-mouthed, name-dropping, country-dropping, restaurant-hopping, party-going Louisiana politician. "I'm in London, Wiley, negotiating Louisiana insurance with Lloyd's of London," he said when he called me one day at Louisiana Tech.
Brown was doing just that, to the state's great benefit. "What a job!" he said proudly of his role as insurance commissioner at the time. "This is so much more exciting than being secretary of state," he said.
When talking to Brown, I always advised him "not to fly too close to the sun" meaning Edwin Edwards, the French Sun King. Edwards was not convicted in the Cascade insurance case, but Brown had flown into EWE's solar system -- and got burned.
Everything was still possible and positive when Brown was "stunned" by his federal indictment in September of 1999 for favoring the failed insurance company, Cascade. Remarkably, Brown was re-elected as commissioner while under indictment.
But Brown's conviction for lying to the FBI in October of 2000 murdered his political career. He only served six months in Oakdale, but the feds imposed a death sentence on his considerable Louisiana political legacy. Wrongful death, but death.
Brown wants to avenge the terrible insult with what is a compelling book and his own incredible energy of innocence. But there is, of course, no real appeal for a reputation unjustly ruined. "Convicted" is a tombstone of a word. That is the personal tragedy of Justice Denied.
