Politically speaking, the Orleans Parish clerk of criminal district court is a relatively low-profile clerical position—not exactly what most would call a dream job. Clerk-elect Calvin Duncan begs to differ. Since he was released from Angola Penitentiary in 2011, where he served almost three decades of a life sentence for a murder he did not commit, Duncan has been hell-bent on reaching this office. As the parish repository of inmate records, the clerk’s office can be a lifeline for incarcerated people attempting to exercise their right to a fair trial, or it can stand as an insurmountable obstacle. No matter how grievously someone has been wronged by the legal system, if the district court denies them access to the facts of their case, they will have no way to prove it. Calvin Duncan knows this firsthand—his long road to exoneration was frequently so obstructed by systemic dysfunction at its most malicious. And as one of Angola’s most celebrated jailhouse lawyers, just about every case he handled proved that he was far from alone.
When he talks about records, Duncan speaks as if they are sacred. And from the point of view of the incarcerated, they are. When everything you hold dear is held hostage by a sadistic bureaucracy claiming to uphold the rule of law, these records are the final tether to any kind of justice. The files held in the clerk’s office, so thoughtlessly handled over the years by individuals who have never known what it meant to need them, have always been more than paperwork—they represent freedom as a consequence of truth, hope for a better future, and a way forward through the despair of lost time. In an ideal world, Duncan’s reverence for these all-important files alone would qualify him for the position. But upon his release, he knew it was going to take a lot more than that. So he set to work straight away on the requisite qualifications, pursuing an undergraduate degree in paralegal studies from Tulane, followed by a law degree from Lewis & Clark College in Oregon. All the while, he continued the work he had begun as a jailhouse lawyer with the organization Light of Justice, as well as co-founding The First 72+ to lend support to the formerly incarcerated during the difficult first days following release. In 2025, armed with a brand new law degree and more hands-on experience than any other candidate could possibly match, he took to the campaign trail with total honesty and an open heart. Though his opponent declined to follow his lead to the high road, voters showed their appreciation for Duncan’s approach by enthusiastically electing him. The victory was short-lived. In keeping with the crisis of democracy that continues to fracture the nation, Governor Jeff Landry responded by overriding the will of the people with a bill to eliminate the position. But seen in the light of all he’s had to overcome to get here, that’s no reason to lose hope. Between Calvin Duncan and the powers rising up against him in Baton Rouge and right here at home, my money’s on Calvin every time.
Let’s start at the beginning—where did your road to the district court clerk’s office begin?
Let me see, where would I start? When I was 19, the government had targeted me for a murder that I didn’t commit. I was in the Job Corps in Portland, Oregon and two detectives came to arrest me. I was trying to convince them that they had the wrong person, but that didn’t work. Then I got extradited to New Orleans to stand trial for the murder. They [had] re-enacted the crime on Crimestop[pers] and they was asking the public if they had any information, to call Crimestop and get up to [a] $1,000 reward. Somebody did call and said that it was a Negro male named Calvin Duncan. And that’s how I wind up getting arrested, extradited, and then brought to the Orleans Parish jail. And once I got there, that’s when my legal journey started.
Did you ever have an inkling before that you would become a lawyer?
No, I grew up knowing two things was gonna happen: I was gonna get killed at a young age or go to prison at a young age. That was the reality. I actually got extradited and put on the tier in the Orleans Parish prison with guys that had already had the death penalty, and each one of those guys was telling me that I was going to get the death penalty. They was gonna execute me.
Oh God.
And I told ‘em, but how could that be? I didn’t commit the crime. And they explained that: Look, you got the same lawyer that I have. You have the same judge that I have, and you have the same prosecutor that I have. As a matter of fact, you’re definitely gonna get it because the victim in your case is white and the witness in your case is a young white lady. And so I asked them, well how could I help myself? And each one of those guys told me that I had to become a lawyer.
Clerk of Criminal Court-elect Calvin Duncan draws a crowd of supporters at a swearing-in ceremony on the steps of the Orleans Parish Criminal District Court building at Tulane and Broad on April 21. (Photo by Stephanie Tarrant)
Tall order! How did you go about it?
I only had between the 8th and 9th grade education, but he said I had to become a lawyer. So trying to study the law was very difficult because we didn’t have access to a law library in the parish jail. So what I would do is pay attention to when wealthy people was arrested, and I would cut the newspaper article and I would start my own little law book with newspaper articles. That wasn’t good enough, but then I filed a motion and I ultimately got the law book. And I just started studying law and reading cases to try to help myself. Each one of those guys told me that my lawyers wasn’t gonna come see me, and my lawyers didn’t come see me. The public defender’s office at that time was not well-funded. They came to see me the night before my trial to see if I had a suit to wear and then the next day I went to trial.
When did the death penalty come off the table? Was there something that you did specifically to bring that about?
No. The government position was that I should be executed. They presented that to the jury. However, the jury rejected imposing the death penalty and recommended that I spend the rest of my life in prison, and that’s when the judge had sentenced me to life in prison without parole, probation, or suspension of sentence.
And that was when you went to Angola?
Yeah.
How did your legal education progress when you were there?
So while I was in the parish jail trying to learn the law, I fell in love with the law—especially when I read about the Bill of Rights. I’m always repeating this. Half of the Bill of Rights is dedicated [to] protecting people like myself accused of crimes. And then I was on the unit with people that was also innocent, and I met people that wasn’t innocent, but they wasn’t afforded a fair trial. So me trying to learn the law… I felt that I could be of use in helping those people. Once I was sentenced to life, I was subsequently transferred to Angola. When there, I applied for the job—the title then was inmate counsel substitute—and we actually functioned just like lawyers. We worked on cases just like lawyers would work on the cases. In reviewing each of the cases, if we sensed that a person wasn’t afforded a fair trial, we would actually prepare a pleading and submit it to the court. If we sensed that a person was innocent, we did the same thing but we would try to seek outside help, because you can’t leave the prison to do the investigation. So, just being able to help people and learning the law gave me that opportunity to help people, and that’s what I liked to do.
Is there any particular case that stands out for you?
Yes, several cases. One of the cases was Carlos Poree. Carlos Poree had never been in trouble in his life, I think he was probably like 40, and something mentally started developing with him and he [wound] up committing crimes, and the issue in his case was that he was insane at the time of the crime. Nobody denied that or disputed that, yet he was still convicted and sentenced to prison. And I accidentally bumped into this guy making my rounds on the unit. Prior to meeting Carlos, I had read his case, not even knowing him, and I was surprised to see that he was still in jail when he wasn’t supposed [to be]. So, I struggled to get his records, couldn’t get his records. However, I relied on the Louisiana Supreme Court opinion and I litigated his case and convinced, with God’s blessing, the federal court that the Louisiana Supreme Court was wrong when they affirmed his case and that the jury should have found him guilty by reason of insanity, and he should have been sent to a mental institution. That’s one of the cases that I’m very fond of.
I’ve heard that that happens a lot, that there isn’t necessarily much discernment when it comes to mental health.
In Louisiana, if you’re not sentenced to death, you’re not entitled to a lawyer after your direct appeal has been exhausted. So, if you have a life sentence, [the] only person available, unless your family could afford a lawyer, is the inmate counsel substitute. At Angola, I was a counsel sub for 23 years. Nineteen of those years, I was actually assigned to assist people that had actually been sentenced to death. One of the problems that we faced was that we couldn’t get our records. That was our biggest problem. And we could write to all of the different parishes, and sometimes we’d get lucky and we’d get the records. But one of the places that we couldn’t get records was here in New Orleans. Tulane and Broad, the criminal clerk office there, we just couldn’t get our records. I couldn’t even get my own records. It was very difficult.
Because they just ignored your requests?
They would lose the records. My records was lost. I’m quite sure you understand that I ran for office because I don’t want what happened to me to happen to nobody else. We struggled to get our records. And when we finally get access to those records, for the most part, they tell us that we too late, we’re procedurally barred out of court.
Did you think about it at the time? Like, you know, if I were out, I would love to be the person who could make that happen?
Oh, yes. Yes. So when I got out on January 27, 2011, I created an organization called the Light of Justice to assist people in prison to get access to the courts. One of the things that I would spend a lot of time on is going to the criminal district court to find these records and I couldn’t. And I realized then—that was immediately after I got out—that the people that was working there, the people that was responsible, had no clue of how them not giving us the records or them maintaining the records was affecting our cases, and us. So, I went off, I [said]: I’ma get myself together, I’ma get my education, I’ma get my degree and I’ma come back, and whenever that position becomes available, I’ma run for it.
Wow.
I got out on a Friday, I was on Tulane’s campus that Tuesday, trying to figure out how to get into law school. I pursued my undergrad degree at Tulane in paralegal studies, and I applied to law school, got accepted to Lewis & Clark, in the same place—Portland, Oregon—where I got arrested. I got accepted in 2020 during the pandemic, and I went off to law school at the age of 60. I graduated with my law degree and I came back home to continue to help people get access to their records. Again, still can’t get no records from the criminal district court in New Orleans. You can go anywhere else in this state and get access to the records, but I couldn’t get ’em there.
I can see why that would motivate you to run.
I learned at the last minute that the position was open. I had two hours to get to the clerk’s office on Tulane and Broad and I registered, qualified to run for the office, and immediately started running. It was, really, a nasty campaign. People was attacking me, you know, all kinds of nasty. And God blessed me, you know the history about that: [68%] of the people elected me.
How do you understand the vitriolic response to your past?
The reality is, we create jobs for people in prison. They make a lot of money off of us. And, New Orleans’ criminal district clerk office had no reason to not have that office run like the other parishes. None. Other parishes, their records are scanned, their records are preserved. You could go anywhere in this state and get access to records. You can go to the civil district clerk office and get records, but I couldn’t get the records from that court. The people that ran it before my opponent [Darren Lombard], they had no clue of how that stuff was affecting us. And I’m giving ’em grace when I say they had no clue. In actuality, they really didn’t care.
What was your overall experience of the campaign?
Well, in prison, and even after prison, I always wondered why people that was running for offices never explain what that office entails. And another thing I never understood is: Nobody gets to know the candidates. And if you don’t know those first two, how can you cast an intelligent vote? So, my method was, I’ma go out and educate people about that office most people never even heard of. They didn’t even have a clue of what the criminal clerk office was.
Right—it’s sort of a dry-sounding title.
Yeah, so I was educating people—that was my first job, that I wanted everybody to be able to be in the position to cast an intelligent vote. So here’s the duties of this job; now, I want everybody to get to know who I am, so that they could decide, does Calvin have the moral fortitude or the integrity to actually do the job that he is running for? I never saw it happen before, where the candidate tells people what the job entails and then tells the public who they are, so that they could cast that intelligent vote. I never saw that.
Right.
They might tell us: Oh, I went to this school, but you don’t tell us much about you. Everybody knew of me, that I spent most of my life in prison, what I did in prison, the life I lived in prison. They know that I came out, I worked full-time, I went to school, I got my education, God blessed me, and I got my law degree. They got to know who I was and I felt good that I gave the voters of New Orleans the information they needed.
And you really connected!
I felt good doing that. I really felt good in not taking people for granted like I always saw in these elections. I wanted to honor everybody’s decision to vote. I wanted that. And that’s meant a lot, that’s meant more to me than anything.
Duncan in his St. Claude Avenue office
(Photo by James Cullen)
I think particularly, there’s a lot of rage at the injustice of the criminal legal system here. It feels exciting to cast a vote for someone who is willing to stand up to criminal injustice. Now, of course, we see the backlash. What first went through your mind when you heard about the governor intervening in the democratic process to prevent you taking office?
First of all, my opponent asked them to intervene, if you could remember. My opponent, the incumbent, sided with the attorney general, Liz Murrill. So, that’s what happened initially. When I realized that the governor was having a bill introduced to eliminate my seat, I was shocked! Because I read about this shit in law, in grade school—Reconstruction. When Blacks finally got a chance to participate in this democratic process, they abolished the seats, they took ‘em. And now we’re here in what, 2026, and this shit is still happening?
Heinous.
That was just really depressing, that damn, we have not made any strides. No progress. And then we’re out here thinking we making progress [but] they just was lying dormant until their time came. Damn. And so that was really depressing, and that’s something that I always wanted to do, was participate in this democratic process, and I demonstrated it. I got out, God blessed me, I went to school, I got my education, I learned about the process, I did what I was supposed to do. And as opposed to the powers-that-be being proud of me, they said: No, we gonna let you and everybody else know— we have not made any progress.
Yeah, and with all the overwhelming support you had…
And I worked hard for it! It ain’t like I ran for office because I wanted to get paid. I had a goal. I had a purpose. I was affected. I was impacted. And I only just wanted to make sure what happened to me never happened to nobody else. I always thought that was the American way, that you pull yourself up and you get involved. But the message that was sent by their behavior was that Calvin, you read that stuff in your history books. We have not moved any farther since then. And that is depressing.
How do you understand what’s going on and what they intend to do?
Well, it’s obvious what they intend to do: They intend to take over. That is their whole goal. They want to run the Southern states. They want to be superior. They want to be the ones that take us back to what it was before the ‘60s. And that’s what they’re doing. It just started with me. You know, that chilling effect that if you buck me, or if you go against me, or if I don’t like you, I’ma take your seat. First, I’ma give you a warning. And if you don’t stop doing what I told you [to] stop doing, I’m gonna take your seat. So, what’s happening is obvious. They trying to take control of the whole government.
What do you think is so threatening about an exoneree serving in office?
The strength is that lived experience, that I would take this job more serious than anybody that had never been to prison… ’cause I know the consequences of getting it wrong.
They seem so unwilling to consider the possibility, and its human cost.
If a whale is coming too close to the shore, we spend billions of dollars to find out why. If a plane falls out the sky, we spend billions of dollars to find out why. In Oregon, if the salmon is not getting up there where they’re supposed to get, we gon’ spend a lot of money finding out why. But when our criminal legal system fails, we don’t want to spend a dime trying to get it right. So I think that the real threat is that I would take that job more serious than a person that ain’t never been in those situations. They benefit from not having a real, workable office. We have neglected the criminal legal system, shoot, for as long as I can remember. And they want to continue to make sure that it’s neglected. That system works better for them when it doesn’t work.
You have a reputation for having a particularly sharp legal mind, and I’m curious how you think being a jailhouse lawyer gave you a unique insight into the law that those who pursued a more traditional path might not have?
That’s a good question. So, in prison, you look for examples. Like, I looked for, has [there] ever been a situation where a person like me [is] in prison for a crime that I didn’t commit… what [have] oppressed people [done] in the past? When I started reading the Bill of Rights, that blew me away because those people that wrote that had been oppressed by their government. And they formulated this document to make sure that what happened to them under this oppressive regime that they experienced way back then would guarantee that it never happened again, just about. Learning that really gave me the tools that I needed to make sure that people in prison get access to the courts.
So understanding the way our legal framework is constructed to prevent systemic abuse gives you ammunition?
Knowing that, you develop a powerful existence. You know what group of people need the most protection because they told us back then. And that weapon—I always call it a weapon—is a powerful thing to know. In the past, what did oppressed people do? Well, they thought about, OK, we’re gonna enact laws to make sure that this never happens again. And so that’s been my motive since I’ve been home, is to make sure that laws that’s on a book that cause harm get off, be repealed; and laws that are good for us, make sure that they are protected, and not eroded.
This has become quite the trigger issue and now it looks like there’s a major power struggle going on between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. It must be gratifying to have the New Orleans elected officials stand behind you.
Yes, it does. We all are getting a good education, right? We are now thinking about the most important right that we have as a citizen of the United States, that is a right to participate in this democratic process, and making sure that our vote is counted. That’s a hell of a thing. Because New Orleans people… we got some work to do in educating people to register to vote and to go out and vote and be a part of this democratic process. So, it’s a good thing to see that New Orleans is really active. We’re like the frontrunners now, you know?
It’s true—the people seem galvanized.
Yes!
I mean, I know I am.
Yeah, you know, because the freedom that we got, it’s not free. We gotta teach the next generation that every liberty that we have, we gotta protect it. And we gotta participate.
When it comes to the world of Angola and the lives of incarcerated people, what are some things that you wish more people understood?
I wish a lot of people understood that, as children, some of us was really messed [up], abused. And it affected us mentally. I say “us” ‘cause I don’t like to say “them.” And because of that abuse as kids, it warped our brains and it affects us in making healthy decisions. And also, a lot of people got addicted to drugs. A lot of people disillusioned about the criminal legal system. It’s all those factors. I wish people on the outside understood that nobody is born to be bad. Shit happens. And it happens at a young age. And that affects our ability to make healthy decisions, and we get punished, you know…
Forever.
Forever. The next thing I wish that people would know is that, those things that I just pointed out, is always ignored because we provide [prison] jobs for people in rural areas. It’s not about the crime; we provide jobs.
It’s an economic system.
The third thing: I wish people [would] get involved. I wish people [would] just go visit the prison. Just go meet the people, then you realize that, whoa, it’s totally different than what I’ve been hearing.
Thanks to our governor, your position is a bit in limbo. What fills your days while you figure out the future?
Doing the clerk of court job. I been doing that since I’ve been home. Going to get records. Making sure people in prison get their records so that they can meet their deadlines. Making sure that they don’t have to rely on outdated laws. Going around, educating people about the effects of some of the laws that’s on our books and the negative effect that it’s having in criminal cases. I’ve been doing that since I’ve been home. During the campaign, my opponent said, “Calvin said that he’ll put the records in his backyard!” And I said, “I’ll put ’em in my backyard, on my roof, in my house… It’s my job to make sure they’re secure.” When The New York Times came to my house, they took a picture of my office, and in my office is records. And one of the guys in Angola saw the picture from The New York Times and when I saw him, he started crying. He said, Calvin, I saw you got my records! He started crying, he was so happy. So, that’s the work I do. I’ve been doing the clerk job since I’ve been home.
Considering how much momentum your campaign generated and how much support you have, what message do you have for people to keep the work going and to support the overall vision?
Continue to go out and vote! And continue to require our public officials to give us the tools we need to make an intelligent vote. Tell us something about you. Tell me how many times you ran a red light and got away with it. [laughs] You can’t be that perfect like y’all try to make us be.
Transcription by Michelle Pierce
Top photo by Stephanie Tarrant: Clerk of Criminal Court-elect Calvin Duncan draws a crowd of supporters at a swearing-in ceremony on the steps of the Orleans Parish Criminal District Court building at Tulane and Broad on April 21.
Bottom photo by Dan Fox: Duncan on the campaign trail at Stein’s Market and Deli on November 1, 2025
