8 February 9-15, 2023 miaminewtimes.com | browardpalmbeach.com New Times | music | cafe | culture | Night+Day | News | letters | coNteNts | Month XX–Month XX, 2008 miaminewtimes.com MIAMI NEW TIMES | MUSIC | CAFE | FILM | ART | STAGE | NIGHT+DAY | METRO | RIPTIDE | LETTERS | CONTENTS | F ourteen miles west of Miami, along the luminous edge of the Everglades, a guard ushers a tall, lanky inmate into an empty room at the state prison known as the South Florida Reception Center. Gaunt, with a snow-and-asphalt beard, the man sits down at a ta- ble and gets right to the point: “I been tryin’ to do everything I could, in my power, my will, to get outta here, because I did not commit the crime.” At age 78, Boast “Bo” Laster has spent more time behind bars than any other current Florida inmate. Yet, his name isn’t on any list of notorious criminals. No journalist has writ- ten about him since 1964. If you don’t count lawyers, Laster says, he hasn’t had a visitor since 1981. Laster speaks softly, with a cadence from a South Florida era when “South” still described the region’s culture. “I got tired of them beatin’ on me,” he says of the 1963 confession he gave police when he was 18. “They beat me for two days. One of them said, ‘Nigger, we gonna kill you.’ Knocked four teeth out. Cracked my rib. For something I did not do.” Six months after that confession, on Feb- ruary 3, 1964, Laster was sentenced. “A Florida City negro was sentenced to life in prison by Circuit Judge James W. Kehoe for the rape of a 19-year-old white South Dade housewife last July 19,” noted a brief item at the bottom of page 37 of the Miami News. That was the last media update on Bo Laster. I stumbled upon that article more than a year ago while browsing newspaper archives. Curious, I looked up Laster in an inmate data- base and was surprised to see he was still incarcerated. I asked the Florida Department of Corrections where Laster ranked in terms of time served. A spokesman said the state doesn’t track that data because inmates often cycle in and out of the system, making it cum- bersome to calculate. The official sent me a list of every current inmate. I did the math. Laster is number one — a distinction not even he was aware of. I wrote to Laster and asked if he was will- ing to share his story. We exchanged letters for several months. And now here we are, face to face at the prison, with rain from the marsh drumming on the windows and a prison official seated nearby, listening in on our conversation. As inmate No. 010540, Laster spent the decades after his conviction working hard labor. He plowed fields and worked on a chain gang — “swingin’ a pickaxe, haulin’ sandbags, all day in that sun, man” — eventually working his way up to making license plates, furniture, garments, and cooking in prison kitchens. Along the way, he learned to read properly and began researching the law in small prison libraries. Since then, he has mailed hundreds of handwritten legal motions and letters to state courts, pleading for a new trial or some other kind of relief. In those letters, Laster has argued that his confession was forced by beatings and should not have been admitted at trial; that the all- white jury that convicted him was illegal; that there was no physical evidence against him; that the rape victim never identified him as her attacker; and that a life sentence for rape is cruel and unusual punishment. Time, meanwhile, has been no ally. Docu- ments with which Laster could support his claims have been destroyed; witnesses and lawyers have died. Now, his advancing age makes recalling details and arguing the com- plexities of his case a challenge. Moreover, thanks to a draconian Florida law passed in 1885, sentencing reforms that should have set him free decades ago don’t apply to him. Yet Laster remains hopeful. He points to a thick metal door 20 feet away, across the bare interview room. “I always said, and still say, one day God gonna open that door for me,” he asserts. “I know this. I believe. I have faith. I done did 60 years. But out them 60 years, I have learned and I have grown to believe in the Almighty. And one day I’m gonna walk out that door a free man.” FLORIDA CITY, 1963 Around 11 p.m. on July 19, 1963, a young new- lywed couple parked beside an abandoned rock pit in Florida City, Dade County’s south- ernmost, and most rural, municipality. The pit, a well-known Lovers’ Lane, was full of cool water on a hot summer night. Earlier, the couple, who are identified by pseudonyms in this story — though their names show up in case documents, their identities were not in- cluded in contemporaneous police reports or news coverage — had gone for a swim. Now, “Nicholas” and “Mia,” ages 28 and 19, sat chatting in the car. The sky was overcast and the area was unusually deserted for a Friday night. Just after midnight, a beam from a flash- light lit up the car’s interior. “Police,” a man said and asked to see a license. Nicholas caught a glimpse of two men standing behind the light. They looked too young to be officers and weren’t in uniform. They were also Black, and there were no Black cops in Florida City at the time. Nicholas quickly rolled up the window, started the car, and tried to drive away, but the back wheels got stuck in a palmetto thicket. As he tried to free the vehicle, a large rock crashed through the driver-side window, cutting his face. He shouted for Mia to run, then followed her out the pas- senger door. “Get her and I’ll take care of him!” one at- tacker yelled to the other, according to a statement Nicholas later gave police. One of the men swung an ice pick, leaving a gash in Nicholas’ shoulder, and hit him on the head with a rock. Having lost sight of Mia in the darkness, and fearing for his life, Nich- olas ran across an open field to a house. He called the police, then raced back to the rock pit along with two men from the house. The attackers were gone. So was Nicholas’ wife. LUCY STREET BAR A few miles away, 18-year-old Boast Laster was shooting dice against a wall outside the Lucy Street Bar, a popular Black hangout. He was drunk. A lot of people were drunk. There wasn’t much else to do in a farm town on the weekend. In 1963, Florida City was a remote, agricul- tural community of some 4,300 residents. “Up in Miami” there were beaches, night- clubs, and tourists. “Down in Florida City” there were beans, limes, and tomatoes. Segre- gation was still legal. But in Dade County’s only majority-Black municipality at the time, discrimination was less of a daily hassle in Florida City than elsewhere. “It was a good life,” Laster recalls. “Every- body knew everybody ‘round the neighbor- hood. You could go to Mississippi and back, leave the doors open. Ain’t nobody gonna go in your house and take nothin.’” “Daddy” Laster worked at a fruit-process- ing plant and was a deacon at a Baptist church. “Mama” was a housemaid and well known for her ham hocks, black-eyed peas with rice, and sweet potato pie. They’d adopted “Bo,” their only child, as an infant. His birth parents, who lived in Georgia, had more kids than they could care for. So, Laster says, he was given to family friends. When the Lasters moved to Florida City shortly after adopting him, he lost contact WHEN HE WAS SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR RAPE AS A TEEN, BOAST LASTER SWORE HE WAS INNOCENT. THAT WAS SIX DECADES AGO. IT’S TIME SOMEONE LISTENED TO HIM. NO WAY OUT B Y T E R E N C E C A N T A R E L L A
