Note: This is third in a series. I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
September 2, 2014 (Tuesday, 7:46 pm)
Man, what a wonderful day – not necessarily for me and especially not for all hating-ass envious dudes who don’t wanna see nobody get ahead, but for Big Hen and the McCollum family. Dude went home today – wow, man, how great is that. I was speechless when I saw the news, but happy nonetheless. I guess it does pay to have hope. I lost my hope a long time ago and didn’t even know it. I held on for as long as I could, then I just stopped believing in justice. I’ve gotta get my hope back – sometimes things do get better.
My man, Big Hen. Good luck out there bruh, and I’m gonna miss you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
routinely waking up at 4 a.m. while the prison sleeps. it’s as if the concrete softens when foamed in silence.
filling my clear plastic tumbler with scalding water, scooping in dusty coffee, then watching it bloom through the water. like the emotion i feel when my girlfriend laughs at my jokes.
when my buddy Kenny (whose dementia makes him unsteady as hell) suddenly buckled at the knee, i caught him just inches off the floor. in front of witnesses.
when I called my elderly mother, i honestly thought my sister had answered – so strong, steady, and wrinkle-free, her voice.
the perfectly shaped handprints on the floor of Cliff’s cell. he’s ratcheted out so many push-ups in the same spot, his palmsweat has blackstained the gray cement.
remembering how respect washed across our prison chaplain’s face her first day, when she borrowed my Bible to locate a verse and discovered my underlines, highlights, and notes covering every single page.
when I saw white dust all over the navy blue apron draped across my chest during my haircut, i thought it was baby powder, not gray hair.
i am still grateful for the tingly feeling in my belly that signals a great poem idea, though it also means i need to shit.
i love how loopy time is. despite having been in prison seventeen years, freedom feels fresh as yesterday. at the same time it feels like prison is all i’ve ever known.
the euphoria triggered by late-afternoon light. it has a mystical, dreamlike quality. rocks spew water and walls crumble at a word in light like this. it reminds me: anything is possible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer, co-author of Crimson Letters, and author of his very own, recently published Interface. I love to hear from him. He has a unique style, all his own. The above poem was compiled from excerpts from his gratitude journal. As he puts it, he “wanted to look for things I loved about everyday life.” As always – I love it when George sends his writing our way. To read more of his work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
My life was over. I could tell from the looks on their faces. No more was I Duck, Dreadz or EyeGod – brother or son. When I stepped into the courtroom, I was nothing. Blank, a clean slate, yet covered in the dirt of my past, so much so that the me I knew disappeared under the grime. And now I was just a stage show, a star villain in a real-life tragedy that left a man dead and others calling for my execution. There was no going back after that. It was as sure as that prickly feeling nagging me for the first time ever – whether good or bad – my old life was gone.
I was dressed in a flannel button-up and beige dockies – the first clothes I’d worn in eleven months besides jailhouse jumpsuits and prison browns. I was supposed to look civilized, already mitigating before the judgment began. My black and white Airforce sneakers and outfit didn’t match, but neither did the stories match that were told about me, so my clashing wardrobe was keeping with the theme. Still, I wanted to explain away my uncoordinated attire and tell the jury that I had better clothes to die in, but silence was the etiquette when trying to elicit sympathy. So, I didn’t speak. I didn’t tell them that they had the wrong man. I hoped my sober face, mismatched clothes and nappy Afro said it all – I didn’t kill John Rushton.
I was escorted by a sheriff who held my elbow in a grip that was bolt-resistant. I didn’t blame him for thinking I would run. I’d done so twice before. Seated at the table were my defense attorneys, looking busy as they shuffled through a mess of papers, cutthroat attorneys whose aim was all wrong since they kept trying their tactics on me.
“One juror is your mother’s coworker? …that could work in our favor.” “Oh, you weren’t supposed to pass the IQ test,” and, “Have a look at the victim’s body and tell me… does it make you wanna sign a plea?”
They were persistent at trying to invoke a sense of guilt and responsibility in me – now if they could just be as committed to defending me. My eyes swept over the room in search of my mother. I didn’t want to lose her face in the crowd. I was comforted by thoughts of my mother during those cold dark nights in solitary confinement when I took myself to trial. I found her amongst the section of the pews reserved for those in sorrow, the woman who nursed me when I had a cold or scraped my knee was now watching a capital boo-boo unfold that her Band-Aids couldn’t fix. Her face looked unendurably strained, like commercial glass pelted by a storm’s debris. A face that had long ago shattered, but one she put back together for my sake. She was trying to be strong for me. But who was going to be strong for her? I picked my head up and acted like it all meant nothing.
The jurors were seated side-by-side in a wooden box, their arms and legs shielded from view allowing them to fidget anxiously in private. I was told that they were a panel of my peers, but I’d never seen any of them on the corner selling dope, so to me they were strangers, there to judge my life without repercussions to their conscience. They were decent-looking folks who all claimed to be Christians but said they could come back with a penalty of death. I figured they were reading from the Bible with a typo that read, “Thou shalt not kill, unless…” They appeared like the heads of a mythical creature, inhabiting their wooden box as they waited to lay waste with their pens and perspective. I made the mistake of looking over at them and many glared back, but only one of us turned to stone.
The door swung open and in walked the judge with a blond comb-over hardened with gel. He was a small man sporting a giant personality, his shoulders raised and eyes steady as he flowed across the room draped in black, a good place under which to hide his personality. He took to the stand and seized hold of his gavel, the same one from the day before when he struck down my attorney’s motions. I sucked in a deep breath of air and held it there bracing myself for the impact.
The judge spoke fancy gibberish that made some eyes narrow with wonder, lawyer talk for ‘now’s the time to tell me what this boy has done’. The prosecutor lead off by saying he could prove I carried out the murder. I was immediately concerned, more than I already was – his accusation sounded like a fact. Mild mannered and with an affinity for neatness, he straightened his tie and said he would ask the jury to kill me. I could tell they were thinking about it – they hardly looked my way again.
My attorneys continued their paper shuffling while pitching whispers at one another. Every so often they gave me a reassuring grin – somewhere in those papers was proof of my innocence. They, in turn, gave a compelling opening argument to rival the prosecution, and for a moment I was proud to have such prestigious white men speak adamantly on my behalf. The judge banged his gavel signaling the end of the preliminary warmups as the real fight was about to begin.
The prosecution called on several law enforcement officers to take the stand, each laying out the credibility of his case. It was a professional exchange that grew more intense the longer the inquiry lasted. For the most part I was able to follow along, but I kept getting tripped up in the terminology so I paid attention only when they mentioned my name. By the time it was over, my word was already shot. These were men and women with guns and integrity for the law, and all I had was a story full of holes.
During the cross-examination, my attorneys recovered, though they didn’t fill in any holes but rather created some of their own by asking questions that warranted answers scientifically in my favor. But I didn’t care much about the DNA, as I knew it wouldn’t point to me. I was waiting on the testimony of the two people I knew – Jed and Udy.
Udy was a neighbor whom I’d known since we were kids. We were in-laws since we were born. He was an impressionable teen with a propensity for trouble – but hell, so was I. I’d been to prison twice before and talked with Udy about what it was like. I tried to steer him on a different path because he was like a brother to me. I’d made whole-hearted attempts on several occasions to keep him out of prison, so it was not only shocking for him to say I encouraged him to do a robbery – it was insulting.
Jed was a different matter – he was trouble personified yet a charmer masquerading as civil. He was a master manipulator which didn’t bother me before because we were blood relatives, and I looked up to him. But now he was claiming I confessed murder to him and that he reported me because it was the right thing to do. Bullshit! Jed was up to something, and I needed to look into his eyes to figure out what.
Udy took the stand wearing a dress shirt and tie with a fresh buzz cut and a youthful face, the kind of look that made it hard to discredit him. He testified to the same story he’d made previously in a statement to the police, except now the details were extensive. He sounded so believable that I wanted to puke. His lies were so sickening that they made me regret our friendship, yet strangely enough my anger wouldn’t keep me from feeling sorry for him.
Then Jed, who was kept sequestered to preserve his grand entrance, burst through the door, all mad and determined. Part of me was hoping that, as family, he would be bound by a code of ethics to tell the truth. But swearing on the Bible was like swearing on a matchbook to Jed because his story was even crazier than Udy’s. It was all the same I guessed to a Christian jury who believed God would support their vote for death. He gave such a heartfelt testimony of how much it hurt him to have to turn his cousin in, claiming he did it because it was the right thing to do. It was then his motives became obviously clear. Jed had no allegiance to any higher power – his God was self-preservation.
I could hardly wait to take the stand on my own behalf and tell the jury what really happened. There were corroborating witnesses to vouch for my whereabouts – I was off selling drugs that night. I didn’t own a gun. I wasn’t hard up for cash. I didn’t make any robbery plans. I’ve never killed anyone in my life, and I certainly didn’t confess to doing so. Still, the jury would want to know why my cousin and friend said I did those things, and for that – I had no answers. But the burden of proof wasn’t on me, right? Right?
Turns out, I wouldn’t get the chance to testify. At the last minute my attorneys advised me not to, assuring me that putting on evidence would ruin any chance of a favorable verdict. “The DA has the burden of proof. You heard them, Terry – they didn’t prove a thing. If we start throwing crackheads on the stand, it’s gonna look like we’re grasping for straws and they’ll find you guilty for sure. Besides, our putting on evidence would mean we’d have closing arguments first, and I want to argue last.”
I didn’t give a damn about straws and arguing strategies. I wanted to fight for my life. But I also couldn’t afford to piss off the only two men assigned to defend me and I was unfit to deal with their tantrums, so I stood up in open court and waived my right to present evidence. It felt like I killed myself. It took the jury a few hours to decide that any man who won’t confront his accusers is likely guilty. As they read the verdict I fiddled with the fabric of my clothes, so I wouldn’t forget what it was like to be me.
The rest of the trial was a haze of legal formalities that grew limbs and sprouted into the death penalty. While all the mitigating, paper shuffling and scrounging was going on, I was still trying to figure out how I got there. A man was dead. I was accused. I didn’t say shit to the jury – and just like that, my life was over. The numbness softened the blow, the sentence not affecting me like I thought it would – that’s what happens when you judge a stone. I was afraid that at the mention of the word ‘death sentence’, I would keel over and die. Nope. They were saving me for the lethal injection. I wondered about the jurors, when their lives were done and their day of judgment came, what would they do when they learned that they were wrong?
As I headed to Death Row in a prison van, my wrists and ankles bound by a chain, I took in the sights around my hometown for the last time. I cried not because I’d lost my life to injustice. I cried because they took my name.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Note: This year, I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they went through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
July 9, 2014 (Wednesday, 1:05 p.m.)
Aw, man – I just got to meet Mr. Eugene Brown. What an experience. I’ve talked about the movie, ‘Life Of A King’, so much, and now I’ve met the man that inspired the movie. I was really surprised by his aura of normality – I was expecting much different. Now I realize it was his normalcy that gave such realness to his words. Dude is truly a powerful man, and I think his philosophy can potentially change the world. I am a King, and I do control the pieces of my life… definitely. I’ve gotta start making better decisions for myself if I want to finish with a strong and relevant end game. It was cool that Mr. Brown came out to see us – I’ll carry the things he said to us forever. A true blessing to have experienced that today. I wish I could talk to my brother right now, I would pay it forward. We are all our own Kings. Wow – what a day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. I have asked Terry to share some of his journal entries with us.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
A lot has changed since I first arrived on Texas’ nefarious death row. I’ve met a lot of guys over the years, and many seem like decent men. They even gave me a nickname – Louisiana. The name was more about keeping the peace than seeking a new identity. Texas folks, inmates and officers, have a difficult time pronouncing my last name, which was irritating me ‘cause I assumed they were doing it out of ignorance and not because they couldn’t pronounce a name they had never heard before.
Some tried to say it like ’ma’am’ followed by ‘ooouuu’ or other variations. Then there was one redneck officer who called me ‘Moe-Moe’. I ignored him and wouldn’t answer. The convict population within Texas’ death row saw this would become a future altercation, so they simply agreed to call me Louisiana since that’s the state I was from. I settled with it.
I wasn’t the only guy with a nickname. Everyone seemed to have one. There was a Spanish guy named Casper (the ghost). There was a guy named Soultrain. There was a Youngblood and other names like, Freaky Frank, Oso Bear, Juke-box, Icy Red, Cash, B-Down, South Park, Third Ward, Sunshine (which he quickly changed to Youngsta), and on and on the list went. There was even a Ms. Good Pussy. And then there was Mookie.
I was still fighting off depression at the time, though I had become a little more optimistic. My mother had written me a powerful, religion-laced letter, and though I didn’t follow her instructions for praying to Mother Mary, Saint Peter, Saint Paul or any of the other Catholic saintly crew, I did however reread the line she wrote saying, “Talked to the lawyers today, and they told me in five years the system will correct the mistake they made and bring you back home…”
Five years? Granted, I didn’t want to hear that, at the time it seemed like a life sentence, but it did give me something to focus on. I mean, that was still 1,725 days away, but at least I had a benchmark to look to. That’s what I needed to keep hope alive.
I was allowed to go to group recreation which was a huge stress reliever. Just to be able to play basketball with other guys, bodies banging against other bodies, having locker room talk about ex-lovers. We were able to watch TV, Family Matters or ESPN, or play chess or dominoes at the tables back then. Camaraderie. I miss it.
The first day I was allowed to join the others in group recreation, I was the last one to be escorted out. I immediately went through the process of matching guys with voices I had heard from my cell. Okay, that’s Casper. That’s J-Dubb. On and on it went. Guys came up to me and introduced themselves, but there was one guy that stood out. He was standing alone, arms folded, wrapped around himself. He was dark and handsome and stood a little over six foot tall. ‘That’s gotta be Mookie’, I thought. Everything I had assumed about him was wrong. I introduced myself, and our first meeting was very brief.
Days later I read about him in the newspaper. He had an upcoming execution date. Impregnated with the declaration my mother once made about my future, “Chucky will be a preacher one day,” I felt as if I was a shepherd and needed to tell my flock to follow me. I wrote Mookie a brief note, telling him to renounce his sin so he could enter the Kingdom of Heaven. You never know what kind of response you will get when you try to force your ideologies upon another, but I felt I had a duty to save this man’s soul.
He accepted my note, read it and told me he would get back with me later. Since his execution date was days away, he was allowed to spend commissary money on anything he wanted. He chose to buy everyone a pint of ice cream, which we all enjoyed and appreciated. Then he wrote me back, four pages, on yellow stationary. His handwriting was neat and artistic. He told me a parable.
The story was about a father and son. The son was asked to carry a pot full of water to a nearby town. What the boy didn’t know was that there was a hole in the pot, and by the time he arrived at his destination, all the water was lost. The boy was distraught, thinking he had let his father down, but his father told him not to blame himself. The two rewalked the path, and to the son’s amazement his father pointed out the beautiful flowers that grew along the side of the road where the water had been ‘wasted’.
Mookie went on to explain the story’s meaning. He taught me that I was in no position to judge any other, for I was not God. He taught me that every creation has its flaws, we all make mistakes. Some get public attention. Some don’t. Some people get caught. Some don’t. None of us are any better than the next. Mookie humbled me. He was executed/murdered days later.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a long-time writer for WITS. He has also been the subject of WITS’ in depth look at how cases are sometimes mishandled.
Over the years, we have shared here how evidence was clearly kept from the defense in a death penalty case, information was manipulated and truth put on the back burner. For example, among a number of questionable actions taken in Mamou’s case, the prosecution was aware that physical evidence was collected from the victim and not only knew, but had the evidence processed. Mamou had no idea that physical evidence existed and exists – until it was recently located by an advocate. Yet, Charles Mamou is waiting to be executed and out of appeals. If you or I were to have knowledge of physical evidence and have it tested, not sharing that information with the opposing party, that would be an issue for the Courts. Why is this not an issue? You can read more about Mamou’s case and sign a letter requesting an investigation – please add your name to his petition.
Charles Mamou can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
emerging from an ink-filled womb – that’s how it feels: the visitation
room is a quarter mile from death row down steep half-dark corridors
except the last chamber-locked hallway whose walls consist of frosted plexiglas panels
ablaze with light from outside. as if protesting my arrival, the last pneumatic
sallyport door shrieks and the guards and i flinch
and stumble down the hall. blinking rapidly i wonder,
as dazzled as they are, whether my eyes will be able to hold yours.
II. churning
my heart feels like my eyes, hot and bloodshot with nerves and excitement. it’s been a long time
since I’ve been anything more than a foggy thought or disembodied voice
on the phone to those i love. i marvel at my callused hands, how blurry they are speed-shuffling cards i smuggled into the booth.
Kat, there’s so much i want to show you! (like the symbol i designed by combining the marks beside our signatures: your paw print, my peace sign)
but first i need you to see me perform a magic trick to reconcile the illusive conflict
between Fate and Free Will: how it’s possible that privilege and poverty marked us early enough to make our past lives
and the paths we chose from there seem almost completely other to each other – yet both our souls
and hearts in recent months sensed the irresistible power of agapé and poetry seeming to churn and turn
the very earth and stars beneath our feet, to bring us here, as kindreds.
III. luminosity
and there you are, pushing the door shut behind you, smiling prettily in anticipation. we greet each other from feet away. you take your seat and frown
at the plexiglas between us, the bars, squinting and muttering something like, “It’s a little hard to see your face – the light coming in behind me
is making me see my own reflection.” having been down here before, this hindrance isn’t new to me, but to hear your frustration, to witness your shifting and determination, the poet
in me thinks, you are the perfect embodiment of empathy, the effort it takes to see past ourselves to an other. the moment your gaze clicks into mine
i feel my blood thrum and body harden into a real human being. “There you are!” you say, sounding so delighted to see me, i struggle not to cry.
IV. luminaries
i think, fuck my trick for a minute as we start sharing skin and ink. i unbutton this red jumpsuit, slip it to my waist. i remove my shirt to show you LOVE NEVER FAILS tattooed in sturdy letters across my chest. you lift up your shirt sleeve to show me the plump sugar skull on your upper arm. we compare sprinkles of moles that appear in similar spots on our bodies: forehead, cheek, neck, collarbone, so close to the glass our breath smokes against it. by the time i remember the cards there’s no real need for tricks or explanations, and it feels irreverent to use magic to describe the miraculous – that we met; that you drove for hours to spend minutes with me in a suffocating prison visitation booth; that throaty laugh – how when we speak it feels like freedom in my mouth, how with you i feel i’m home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer with a unique style and a solid commitment to his craft. I know when I see a submission from George, I am in for a treat, and I am grateful to be able to share his work. He is consistent, he is original, he is thought-provoking. He is only an occasional contributor to WITS because he is working on his own book projects, and he is also a co-author of Crimson Letters. To enjoy more of George’s work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Writing this letter is harder than I thought, but for you – it is worth trying. I’ve never known anyone to write a dog before. Maybe that’s because no dog has ever meant so much to someone. It’s crazy to think where we both ended up – you buried somewhere in an unmarked grave and me worse off than dead. That’s what Death Row is, Bear – a place between life and death. It’s where people are deliberately kept alive long enough to anguish over the fear of being executed, tormented until all peace of mind is used up. Only then are we ripe for slaughter. How I got here on Death Row is too long a story and too depressing for the details – but, do you remember the guy next door whom I was cool with? …turns out he wasn’t so cool. I may never know why, but he accused me of taking another man’s life during a robbery. Can you believe that? That’s why I couldn’t get home.
Anyway, getting back to the purpose of this letter. Bear, I had a dream about you just now. Hold on! Before you start bouncing around with those lofty cartwheels of yours, you should know it wasn’t a good dream. In fact, it was probably the saddest thing I’ve ever dreamt, even though part of me wishes I could’ve stayed under. I woke feeling unfulfilled, like when waiting your whole life for something to happen, then realizing five seconds too late that it’s gone. But I believe the dream was necessary, it put things in perspective. I now realize that in life, I left a lot of people behind.
So, the dream – it started out with me finally being released from Death Row. I was given some clothes and a severance package, but when I got outside, no one was at the gate. No family. No friends. No news cameras covering the story. It was as though any relevance I had owned had succumbed to my absence, and the world had moved on without me. I headed home, but when I got there, it wasn’t the same house I remembered. The place was trashy and run-down with neglect, nothing left of the garden but wilted stems. The barn where we held so many of our family outings was now a crumbling derelict, trying to weather the times. All the holiday memories we made in that barn, and now it was no more than a safety hazard. Then I noticed a strange-looking structure. It looked like an igloo made of wood. And who do I see hobbling out from this dog house… yep. Bear – it was you.
You looked so mangy, worn-out and pitiful. Your eyes drooped with the age of years past. You looked like a dog that had been to hell and back with one foot still on the other side. The chain around your neck whined and creaked with the rust of twenty years. Your semblance, I hardly recognized. Then you looked at me and wagged your tail, and something in it spoke of you. I wouldn’t have guessed that any feeling could amount to walking off Death Row after twenty years, but seeing you was an unspeakable joy. And to think you’d waited for me all that time. The gratefulness brought me to my knees. You then bound into my arms with your incessant tongue laps and tail thrashing. No homecoming reception was ever more welcoming.
I was struck with the fact that you had been tethered on a chain for more than two decades. Blame set in on me like a scolding tongue for my leaving you to suffer so. Then I remembered… we never kept you on a chain. My eyes stung with the indecency. It seemed you were also unjustly serving time. I stormed off towards the house, ready to spit fire at the new tenants and demand the key to let my dog loose, but when I burst through the door, spraying glass shards and splinters, I unintentionally shattered the dream.
There is no ache like waking up to the longing of a friend who has never let me down. I kept trying to get back to sleep to rescue you and discovered that the most meaningful things in life are the most elusive. So, you see – it wasn’t a good dream at all, except for the joy of seeing you again. It made me realize what my sudden absence must’ve been like for you, how you must’ve felt abandoned by me.
Did you know the first time I saw you waiting inside the fence, I was reluctant and afraid. I was just dropped off by a parole officer, fresh out of prison that day. I wasn’t aware we even had a dog. I guess my fears stemmed from learning of the era when White supremacists set upon Black people with their dogs. I mistook your panting, pouncing, and acting so unafraid of me as a clear sign of your aggression. But then you settled down and let me pet you, and I realized that all you wanted to do was play. My first impression of you was so unfair. Maybe that is the real source of my guilt.
Needless to say, I was wrong about you, Bear. You just didn’t have it in you to hurt anyone. Well – there was that time when you snagged ahold the pants of that sheriff, but hell, you were only trying to get him off top of me. I remember thinking, ‘this crazy dog gonna get hisself killed’. Nobody had ever risked their life for me like that. I was so freaking proud of you.
I guess I should talk a little more about whatever since this will probably be the last time. It’s not really considered normal behavior for people to write to their deceased pets. I don’t mind coming off as weird; that’s just another word for unique, and sometimes it’s the most abnormal approach that is the only path to closure.
Often enough, there are times when I felt that you were the only one I could talk to, when I could do without anyone’s judgment or advice – I just needed somebody to listen. So many late nights I came home with my pockets heavy from all the dirt I’d done and my conscience weighing on my shoulders. I thought I had to wrong people to survive in the streets, when really I was just trying to be seen. My coming home to you was the only time when I felt normal. With you I could be my ugly self. I would unload all the day’s baggage at the doorstep while you lay curled at my feet, listening as my silent resolve. Bear – I can’t tell you how much having your ear meant to me. Hell, I’ve told you shit I ain’t told no one else. And on those rare nights when I didn’t drop by to unlatch your kennel and chat… well, on those nights my shame was a bit too heavy.
I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back to you, Bear, in both the dream and reality. I just didn’t know that my doing so much dirt would get other people’s dirt on me. I know you waited for me, and that must’ve sucked – wondering why all the late night walks around the neighborhood ended without reason, why all our fun just stopped. I want you to know that it wasn’t because I abandoned you, Bear – not intentionally. No. I didn’t come back because I, myself, am tethered by a red jumpsuit and Death Row has a really short reach. I keep on seeing that chain around your neck. I hope that wherever you are – somebody there will take it off. If not, I don’t know how the spirit world works, but I promise to take care of it when I get there.
So long, old friend, and thanks for all the times when your company gave me solace. There is no loyalty like a dog’s love. And, yep… I learned that from you.
Always, your trusted friend and spirit brother,
Chanton
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. On our Facebook page, we regularly share stories of wrongful convictions, they are real, frequent, and Terry has been living one for over two decades.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
“What does it feel like to be innocent on Death Row?”
My answer?
“A setback for mankind.”
I was born in the ‘70s to black parents in black times in a world that was gray at best. My earliest lessons on guilt were not determined by wrongdoings, but by the color of one’s skin. I saw the guilty as they were dipped in tar and strung up for public viewing, or set upon for sitting down to eat. Guilt then becomes a psychological impression on the minds of black communities; a sense of guilt that is the origin of the criminal mind – a reflection of how we feel. Guilt is the cultural identity that leaves behind a trail of regrets, so I am dissociated with feeling innocent in a country that charges people guilty for having black skin.
I was convicted of the murder of a restaurant manager in April, 2000, and sentenced to die by a consenting jury by way of lethal injection. Arriving on Death Row, I conceded two things – my innocence was insignificant and justice grotesquely one-sided. I decided that neither guilt nor innocence had brought me there – it was powerlessness. I was powerless to take charge of my life and break the cycle of recidivism. I was put on the path to prison at the age of seven, the time I first stole, my impropriety promising to progress over time. By the age of twenty-seven, I was the product of circumstances and my road ended here, yet despite all my wrongdoings, still I did not deserve to be on Death Row.
I avoided eye contact with men, sparse with my words, afraid that my difference would show and the rapists, brutes and murderers would figure out I was not. There was no introduction guide to Death Row, but if there was, I imagined it would’ve read,
Innocence does not thrive here, your hope is your despair.
For the first year, I uttered not a word about innocence, though the subject was one of recurrence, casually hinted at by some in conversations, while others were more straightforward. I wondered if my own innocence sounded as disingenuous as theirs when spoken aloud. The improbability of their innocence caused me to dismiss their claims as prison colloquialism.
Over time, I learned to shelve my innocence while emulating the hardened killers. I was wary and distrusting, argumentative, and constantly on the lookout for a fight. At night, sometimes, my mind broke free, much to my dismay. I never knew fantasizing could hurt so bad. I envisioned life as a working-class citizen, doing stringent work that was wearisome but decent, with a pension as opposed to a penalty. Other times, I grasped at the wilting memories of family and friends as their influence crumbled under their hefty absence, and their faces yielded to time.
Then came the biggest news… a Death Row man was freed from here after being awarded a new trial. I was skeptical, challenged his innocence, as he was someone I previously dismissed. Still the question lingered… what if he was innocent? And what if there were others? These men I’d subjected to my silent criticism, fostered by widespread belief. Unable to relate due to their menacing aura, my innocence was too fragile to trust, so I rejected them based solely on my preconceived notion. It was the very same rejection I feared. I wanted to be happy for a guy whose stay on Death Row was at its end, but with my errant dismissal of him and my own self interest, I was too ashamed.
As the years rolled by, cases were amended and death sentences overturned – mental retardation and the prohibiting of minors were enactments that saved lives. In some few cases, the men were exonerated on the likelihood of innocence, an unsettling error revealing that behind the virtue of our courts was depravity. There was a time when I presumed our judicial system stood on the right side of public service, but with the growing number of death sentences vacated, an alarming truth emerged. Wrongful convictions were not the result of legal mishaps – but a setback in the evolution of justice. It was a systemic trade-off, conviction rates in return for support at the ballots. On the verge of understanding how my injustice came to be, I was nowhere close to help, as I struggled to wish well those men who departed… their hope was my despair.
Every day I longed for my freedom until all my hope was spent, and I was left with nothing more than a stale existence. With each reversal, I felt sorely abandoned by the securities of the laws. I pondered the plausibility of my injustice and came away rejecting myself. I used recreational drugs, obscenities and conflict to propel my downward spiral. I severed outside connections, quit my aspirations and rigorously questioned my faith. It seemed my road didn’t stop on Death Row, but I was headed to a place much darker, and no matter how far my mind drifted from my mad reality, the executions pulled me back.
On those nights I ached helplessly as the clock wound down on the lives of men tethered to a gurney. I wondered if they winced at the needle’s prick like I did as a kid at the clinic, or closed their eyes in defiance to die alone. Done with feeling helpless, I put their deaths out of my mind and tried to remain unaffected by the executions until a death date arrived for a friend of mine… and my helplessness turned to surrender.
It was thirteen years later before I gained some clarity into the disorder taking place in my life. It began with written essays that chronicled my past offenses, offenses unrelated to my stay here, restoring in me a sense of worth. Accountability for my previous wrongs – saved my life. Without it, I would’ve given up. With the many death sentences being vacated, I couldn’t wait one more turn, and through accountability, I discovered there was redemption behind these walls, the potential to reinvent the principles of humanity – and the most promising yet was the willingness of these men to die with more dignity than that with which they lived.
So, what is it like to be innocent on Death Row is best answered by the word ‘unrest’. It is a constant grinding of the mind in an effort to determine how we tolerate such criminal indecency. My being wrongfully convicted is a laborious affliction under the stigmatic strain of disbelief – a strain that offered one resolve for me, complacency for my accusers. It’s lonely being innocent with no one to talk to about the certainty of my innocence. And frightening. Only Ichabod Crane, a character from my childhood, terrified me so. Often enough, being innocent feels pointless after 21 years of punishment, when death is no longer a menacing possibility but a welcome alternative.
Being innocent on Death Row is soulfully depressing, granting little peace of mind. It is my fight to hold on to the hope I deserve, when the culpability isn’t mine to bear. My innocence is no more relevant than the next man’s guilt when the ink on our status reads the same – and yet, what does it matter, guilt or innocence, in a nation such as our own, where both are punishable by death.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. On our Facebook page, we regularly share stories of wrongful convictions, they are real, frequent, and Terry has been living one for over two decades.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Note: This year, I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they went through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. This is the first in this series.These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
February 5, 2014 (Wednesday, 12:43 a.m.)
Sitting here on my bed staring off into nothingness as so many thoughts fill my head about where I am and why I am here. Does it even matter whether I’m innocent or not? Am I destined to die here regardless? Sometimes I wish they would just get it over with. The heartache and pain from missing my family is unbearable – death has to be better than this. Then I think… does this make me suicidal to prefer death over agony? To know sadness day in and day out for more than fifteen years is a recipe for insanity. Constantly engulfed in darkness. Always alone, even when others are present. Avoiding my reflection in the mirror each morning as I am afraid to face myself and the reality that is my life, or so my death. I may never get to hug my mother again or go fishing with my father. To many others that knew me, I am long forgotten; a conviction and a sentence has erased me from existence in all the ways that count. The tears are more frequent and the numbness is without end. Some say, ‘prayer changes things’. If that’s true, then the only thing it seems to have changed in my mind is that prayer changes things. My hope is not just fleeting – it has long fled, but who the hell cares?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. I have asked Terry to share some of his journal entries with us.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Walking into the prison felt like walking into a medieval castle at the height of the dark ages. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever leave.
The humiliation of ‘processing in’ was surpassed only by my fear of the unknown. I had never been to prison, and now not only was I going to prison, I was going to death row, the home of men like John Wayne Gacy and the so-called ‘I-57 Killer’, among others.
Up until then, I had only read about such men in newspapers or saw them on television. I never, even in my worst nightmare, thought I would be counted among them, considered one of them. It was then that the reality of the situation smacked me in the face so hard I could almost feel the sting followed by the bruise. This was worse than when I came to grips with the fact that I was in a life and death situation. These men were hardened killers, and I was now among them and meant nothing to them.
At that moment, right then and there, I decided they wouldn’t mean anything to me either. I was ready to do whatever I needed to do in order to survive. I hardened my heart and dismissed all thought of the outside world. My only reference material was movies I had seen, and in all the movies, the convict-guy acted as though the outside world didn’t exist. It sounds funny now, but when you’re twenty-one and have never been to prison, you cling to whatever works for you, and that worked for me.
I took a deep breath, lifted my head a little higher and walked to the cell that would be my new home. I was expecting to hear all kinds of prison noises. You know, the names and calls that always seem to happen on television when the new guy gets to prison. To my surprise (and relief), there was none of that.
I arrived at my cell, and as I was watching the key being put into the lock it all seemed to be happening in slow motion… the door sliding open… my bedroll being placed on the bunk… the door sliding shut… and the worst sound of all… the door being locked behind me.
ABOUT THE WRITER. I never stop being touched by the writing we share here. Tony Enis is our second place contest winner for the last contest of 2021. Sometimes there is grace found in the darkest of places and Tony captured the grace in the silence of those around him. He has only shared his work with us once before. I really hope he continues to work with us. Tony Enis has been incarcerated for over thirty-four years, and maintains his innocence. He can be contacted at:
Anthony Enis #N82931 P.O. Box 1000 Menard, IL 02259
