Monthly Archives: September 2018

Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

A Dreamer’s Story

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I’ve never done anything like this, but I can’t sleep.  Maybe these words will remain my secret, and I will try to make sense of things on my own, for better or worse.  But whichever way the wind that makes up my life blows, this is me and this is my story.

Whomever you may be, rest assured of one thing, I’ve never shared or trusted anyone with these thoughts.  Maybe I am now because you’re far removed from anything and everything I know, maybe because you’re a complete stranger, or maybe because I know there’s a likely probability I don’t send this out, and it’s nothing more than an entry of words on paper that I can look at, dissect, and try to assign a tangible solution to. Even though I know it’s unrealistic to think the reality of my situation can be fixed by reading it over and over on a piece paper.

But, here goes the reality of my life –  what it is the grown man behind this ink has made it to be.

The possibility of my release is accompanied by a very real possibility. It’s probable that my life will come to its end.  I’ve thought about this enough to know that I’m not afraid. That, in and of itself, saddens me.  Has it really gotten to the point that my own death is a concept that I welcome with open arms?  No, not welcome, but rather ‘accept’.  I guess everything I’ve been through and done has conditioned me to accept the reality of a violent death. I guess what saddens me is that I know by ‘accepting’ what’s to come, I failed her. I failed my hero…

Mine is the typical ‘Hispanic kid from the other side of the track’ story.  As a boy, Spiderman was my superhero. I refused to wear any underwear that didn’t have Spiderman emblazoned on them, and I refused to go to school if I didn’t have my Spiderman backpack and Spiderman lunchbox safely packed inside.

It wasn’t until one person after another started giving up on me for my poor life choices, that I realized my real ‘hero’ had actually always been a beautiful woman who lived in my home. My hero was my grandmother. My beautiful grandma, my mother, and she was stronger than Spiderman.

I was 13 years old when I learned my ‘mom’ was actually my grandmother and to what extent she had gone to make sure I was a part of her life. You see, I was born in El Salvador, and a mother’s loving embrace was not meant for me.  My real mother was rejected by my father, so I was, in turn, rejected by my mother.  After she delivered me, she gave me away in El Salvador before returning to the U.S.

My hero would not be denied her grandson though.  When her daughter came back home without her expected child and eventually confessed to what she’d done with me, my hero made a very costly and dangerous trip to a very poor and violent country to retreat the little guy who turned out to be me. If you were to ask her though, she’d say she only did it because she was told I had pretty green eyes – and I do.

So yes, I’m a ‘Dreamer’, or more accurately – I was. With the immigration issues dominating the political spectrum, I prefer not to mention it because there are men and women who have made far better choices and accomplished so much more than myself.  It would be unfair to them, in my opinion, to include myself in a conversation that would better serve them if those such as myself were far removed from it. From the depth of my heart I admire and am deeply proud of the men and women who were able to accomplish things that would otherwise not have been possible in our country. They made our people more, our lives relevant, and lifted us high. I’m truly sorry for every way I failed in my part and gave the Trump administration ammunition to use against us.

So while my hero did everything she could to protect me, there was one person she couldn’t save me from.  Me.  She couldn’t save me from myself.  I became a part of the street life that surrounded me. I’m not sure what hurt the most, the tears running down my hero’s face with every dollar discovered in my jeans while doing laundry (jeans she could not have afforded), knowing it was drug money she was looking at, or the way she would promise in a soft voice, with tired eyes, that things would get better and we would move to a nicer place. Then I’d watch her work harder and longer hours at a chicken plant that had a history of discriminating against immigrant workers, paying them below the minimum wage.  It was a common practice all the way through the 90’s.

What I now know, as a grown man who has been in prison for the last 13 ½ years, is that it was her love and the memory of her soft voice that got through to me eventually in a way nothing else could. You see, I was never supposed to know a mother’s love, but God sent me an angel when I was nothing more than a tiny little guy.  That angel will always and forever be my hero.

I had always viewed evil as a universal principle, and not so much as a malignant driven entity. It was just another way of doing things, the opposite of doing things the ‘right’ way, as defined by the law. And in my world, ‘evil’ was stronger and much more effective than ‘good’. I became fully absorbed in a lifestyle that brought me face-to-face with the government’s war on drugs, not to mention the reality of the wars behind drugs – attempted kidnappings of my person and the tragic loss of close friends to murder, suicide and kidnapping when the money or drug ransom could not be met.

My education throughout my teenage years and until I came to prison consisted of stratagems that minimized competition. A favored approach was one that required patience and time, something not found in abundance in a teenager’s life, but something taught by the older and more learned individuals on the corner. The stratagem was to force a drastic fluctuation in prices. This required preparing in advance and aligning yourself with a very deep well to pull from. Selling dope is a poor man’s hustle, regardless what rappers preach.  And poor men are seldom trusted with money or financial instruments. As a rule, only those who save more than they spend financially survive this tactic.

I learned that most followed the creed promoted by rappers, spending in abundance, completely confident the drug game would be there tomorrow.   And it will be, but only for those who are not in debt and understand the stratagems.

The end result, however, often led to the ghetto version of unemployment. Violent confrontations, home invasions, kidnappings, to name a few, took place to supplement the lack of income. That led to a deeper understanding of working and moving within a decentralized unit or group, often of only three, waiting and watching for other units to stabilize and establish their identity and then re-negotiating everything into an effective network again, weeding out the weak, unnecessary, and problematic players. Until you have to do it all over again.

Thus was my education, and the engine that brought me here.   I didn’t fully grasp the English language until sometime around middle school, and my first comprehendible sentence was something along the lines of, “Don’t play with me, Bitch.”

I was 21 years old when I came to prison, with my reputation flawlessly intact. Four years into my sentence, the state of Texas confirmed me as an active member of Mexikanemi, otherwise known as the Mexican Mafia, and placed me in administrative segregation, where I have been ever since – nine years and counting.

Why am I writing this?  I’m, honestly, not sure. All I know is that I can’t sleep. I lost my hero, and I’m just trying to make sense of what’s in front of me. I’m being deported to a country I haven’t visited since I was first abandoned there. Sometimes, I whisper words into the wind, hoping they find my hero and let her know I’m going back to where it all started, alone and among strangers.  Maybe I had always been destined to die there.  There’s no family awaiting me there and nowhere to go. Yet, I can honestly say I’m not afraid and not sure why.  I know I’m going to die there.

Maybe I’m writing this to reach out and seek the only thing I can arm and defend myself with – knowledge, wisdom, and an understanding of what I can expect once I reached El Salvador.  I suppose what I am looking for is someone of my nationality who could guide me and explain what I can expect once I reach El Salvador.

So, this is me, and this is my story, and if this reaches the House of God and the doorway to heaven, please send word to my hero.   Tell her I love her, and I’m going home…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.   Wilmer Portillo has an amazing ability to express himself through writing, and I hope he hears from someone in El Salvador.  He can be contacted at:
Wilmer Portillo #01356973
McConnell
3001 South Emily Drive
Beeville, TX 78102

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Views From The Inside

Attention

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I live my life like a ghost. The less notice that’s paid me, the better I feel – especially when it comes to this place.  I’ve actually had correctional officers ask me, “When did you come back?”

I tell them I’ve never left, and they sadly shake their head, telling me they haven’t seen me in a couple years.

That’s why I’m still here…

I made a horrible, reactionary decision, and I take responsibility for it.  I did it, and I’ve made changes in my life.  I’ve learned that no matter the situation – I will seek guidance and help, turn the other cheek, and walk in the other direction.  My horrible decision cost me 25 years of my life, my family, my friends, my possessions, and most importantly, someone’s life.

I can’t change what happened.  If I could, I would – NOT because I would have avoided this pain, but because no one else would’ve suffered.

I’m not a bad person. I’m a good person, and I made a horrible mistake.  The system is full of people like me.  I’ve met them, I’ve talked with them, I’ve eaten meals with them and cried with them.

I support law enforcement and the justice system.  I support victims’ rights and advocacy groups.  But an eye for an eye approach doesn’t remedy the hurt.  For the ‘over incarcerated’ it only adds to the heartbreak.  It doesn’t make anyone safer. It breeds despair, racial tension and frustration.  It overburdens an already overpopulated prison system and makes rehabilitation next to impossible.

Instead of letting go harmless, old convicts whose criminal careers ended decades ago, the parole system releases and tracks younger, criminals, who have yet to learn the lessons of life.  They let these offenders go only to have them return three or four times.

It’s been proven time and again that older convicted felons are less likely to reoffend, especially when they’ve done long stretches of time and have shown repentance for their crimes and have maintained a disciplinary free life while incarcerated.

I’ll show you it’s true…  Let me go.  I’ll show you what a good person who has made a terrible mistake can accomplish.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He is a frequent contributor as well as the author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir.  John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

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Views From The Inside

A New Beginning

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I was somewhat relieved when I got locked up – I needed some rest.

As I lay in my bunk, I resigned myself to the pain as heroin withdrawal made its appearance.  The powerful pull of addiction would have made me pull the door off the hinges if I’d had the strength, but I didn’t.  I gave in because I was tired of fighting.

Then came the crippling sensation that a huge hole was being punched through my chest, excising my vital organs and leaving ragged, unhealed gashes around the edges that continued to throb and bleed despite the passage of time.  Rationally, I knew my lungs must still be intact, yet I gasped for air, my head spinning from the effort that felt as if it was yielding me nothing.  My heart must have been beating, but I couldn’t hear the sound of my pulse in my ears.  My hands felt blue with cold.  I curled inward, hugging my ribs to hold myself together.  I scrambled for numbness and denial, but it evaded me.

Yet, I found I could survive.  I was alert.  I felt the pain – the aching loss that radiated from my body, sending wracking waves of hurt through my limbs and head – but it was manageable somehow.   I could live through it.  It didn’t feel like the pain weakened over time, but rather that I grew strong enough to bear it.

Whatever it was that happened that day – whether it was past memories of withdrawal or the situation I found myself in – I came to an understanding of what I wanted for my future.  It woke me up.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t know what to expect in the morning.  It was a new beginning…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  John Saenz is a talented writer with a smooth, honest style, and I hope to share a lot more of his work.  He is serving a Life Sentence in Texas and can be contacted at:
John A. Saenz #1113101
Ramsey Unit
1100 FM 655
Rosharon, TX  77583

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

The Arrival

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The van stops near a long concrete ramp.  Peering through wire mesh covered windows, I marvel at a group of general population prisoners trudging – like herding animals – towards the dilapidated, century old state prison, the sole surviving beast of an extinct species.  The bodies merge into a single line as they approach the stone incline.  They all have the same mechanized movements – listless gaits that suggest they are subjects of an indoctrination designed to discourage hope, promote subjugation, and dissuade betterment of self.  Scowling at the spectacle, I shake my head in disgust, loathing those heartless enough to support such dehumanization.  My mind wanders back to yesterday…

I was standing in the same courtroom where, just a month earlier a jury of my ‘peers’ – if, by any stretch of the imagination, one could find even a modicum of socio-economical or cultural parallels between a group of middle to upper class white suburbanites and a poor, black urbanite – had convicted me of murder and recommended that I be executed.

More than happy to oblige my ‘peers’, the Judge took all of sixty seconds to pronounce my fate.  I already knew the sentence would be death, just as I had known the verdict would be guilty.  “May God have mercy on your soul,” he concluded, before banging his gavel in an authoritatively dismissive manner, almost god-like himself.

Thus, my ill-fated journey began.

Arriving at my final destination on earth, carrying a box filled with my sole possessions, I am now to enter the belly of the beast, a condemned soul, to someday exit its bowels a lifeless configuration of justice, solace and closure.

The passenger side guard, a plump, red-faced ‘good ole boy’ spits a stream of brown tobacco juice as he exits the van, removes a padlock from the door, and slides it open.

“Get out,” he says – no, maybe he yells.  I have difficulty gauging the volume because my heart is pounding so hard, my pulse thumping thunderously in my ears, drowning out external sounds.  It is the kind of tumult only fear can produce.

Although I’ve never been to prison, I have lived vicariously through quite a few prison tales – gory, vile stories of rapes, maimings and murders – crimes perpetrated by both prisoners and guards.  I know what to expect; still, it does nothing to assuage the amount of trepidation sweeping over me.

I am certain that the ominous orifice gobbling up GP prisoners as they reach the top of the ramp, serves a duplicitous and gluttonous beast, an unrelenting savage that devours individuals, strips them of any remaining dignity and replaces it with hatred, wickedness, and rapacity, while dragging them – some kicking and screaming, others, willingly – deeper into the viscera of nothingness.

“Let’s go,” the driver says impatiently, turning to stare me down, his gaze malicious.  Then he exits the van and walks to the rear to fetch my box, which he drops next to his partner.  Both now wait for me to exit.

I try to move.  Nothing.  What the – something is wrong. I feel numb – paralyzed.  I close my eyes and swallow hard.  Shit!  Come on. This can’t be happening.  And to make matters worse, the intemperate July heat and humidity – thick, fiery, brazen – envelopes me, white hot against my skin and unapologetic for their suffocating affects.

I’m immobilized by the reality of the situation that awaits me – from which the sweltering van provides my only refuge – and by the shackles and handcuffs that have been deliberately clasped to cut off my circulation.  I take a deep breath.  I wiggle my toes.  Ohhhh…  Shit!  A million tiny needles poke my feet.  I move my right foot and the shackles dig further into my ankles, shooting a bolt of pain up my leg.  Ugh.  Come on, please. 

“Bob, ya may have to gittin ‘er an yank ‘is black ass out,” the driver twangs.

On cue I slowly inch sideways, sliding along the bench seat, moving closer to the door, the tiny needles poking me everywhere.  This pain is nothing compared to what I’ll feel if they decide to drag me out.   I use it as motivation to reach the edge of the seat and the open door.  There I struggle to get to my feet.  My body is waking up.  The pain.  Stooping, I slide one foot forward, then the other, until I’m at the edge of the floorboard.  I twist my left hip, turning my right hip outward and extending my right leg towards the ground, but the chain that connects the manacles is too short for me to reach the ground.  I retract my leg, returning to my original stooped position, and look up at the guards.  They watch with foreknowledge – they’ve seen this dilemma play out repeatedly – but make no attempt to help me.

“Don’t look at us,” expelling another stream of brown goo toward the ground.

With limited exit strategies, I steady my nerves and prepare for what I believe is my best option. I put my feet together, take a deep breath and a leap of faith. Thank God, I stick the landing, a small but pleasing victory.

“Grab yo shit, and let’s go, asshole,” spews the driver pointing a finger at the box, visibly disappointed that I didn’t fall flat on my face, never mind that my hands are cuffed, tethered to a chain, wrapped and padlocked around my waist, preventing me from reaching to grab anything.

Dammit! This heat!  Sweat pours. The prison uniform I’m in is soaked. Sweat drops into my eyes, stinging me further. I squint and try to collect myself, so I can focus on the task at hand.

“You goin’ pick up yo’ shit,” bitterly stated, rather than asked.

I looked down at my hands, separate them, turn my palms up, and gaze with one eye at the guards.

“Well, would ya look there, Bob. We got us a smart ass,” turning to look at his partner, before taking a step towards me.

“It’s too hot for this cockamamie bullshit,” Bob retorts, snatching up the box, stepping in front of the driver and nudging him aside.  “Here,” he growls, shoving the box into my chest.

The restraints make it impossible to grab in a normal manner, with a hand underneath each end.  All I can do is lean back as far as possible, center both hands beneath and press my chin against the top.  That’s when I notice a vulgar, rank glob of tobacco spit splattered on top  and slowly oozing towards my face.

Just as my eyes are clearing, more sweat. This time, both eyes.  I squeeze them shut as the brown blob creeps towards me. This can’t be real.  Fluttering my eyes, I attempt to clear them.

Everything hurts – ankles, legs, arms, back, and pride not far behind.

“We ain’t got all day, boy.”

Through fluttering eyes, I see both guards turn and head for the ramp. I take a tentative step.  Aargh! The shackle bites into my ankle, the pain red-hot. Trying not to grimace, I inch my rear foot forward, and the same searing pain attacks that ankle. I try to ignore it by focusing on a positive.  The sweat has cleared from my eyes. And not a moment too soon as I see the driver turn his head back towards me and spit his venom. I feel it splat on my shoe. Because I know he’s trying to bait me into giving him an excuse to pounce, I concentrate on holding the box.

Besides, I won the first contest when I successfully exited the van. Giving them the pleasure of seeing me drop the box ties the series and reverts home court advantage – even though I’m a one-man team with no home or real advantage – back in their favor. Neither of us would have much interest in this little ‘game’ I’m being forced to play if not for the predators – masters at detecting mental and physical weaknesses they will exploit without hesitation – lurking amongst the nearby prisoners. While the guards’ interests are purely sadistic, my interest is quite vested – my manhood could be at stake.

TO BE CONTINUED…

©Reshi Yenot

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Prison Conditions

Virginia Prison Bans Tampon Use By Visitors

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I saw a letter from a Warden at a Virginia prison today…

“As a result of recent inquiries in regards to feminine hygiene products being an ideal way to conceal contraband, effective October 6, 2018, the use of tampons and or menstrual cup are no longer to be worn during visitation.  The use of tampons and or menstrual cup hygiene products during visitation are prohibited.”

“Offender visitors who have been recognized by the body scanner machine having a foreign object that could possibly be a tampon and has failed to remove such item prior to being screened, will have their visitation terminated for the day, and will have their visitation privileges reviewed.”

I don’t like to get upset over nonsense – I don’t have time for it.   This – isn’t nonsense.

Unfortunately, a good number of us who have been on prison visits know most prisons don’t encourage and welcome visitors.  To be fair – I know that is not all facilities.

But, my visits have too often been degrading.  A visitor is made to feel as if staff REALLY doesn’t want you coming back, sometimes going out of their way to express their control of the situation and making a visitor feel as unwelcome as possible.  In the visitor waiting area, we would share horror stories about our visits gone wrong due to staff, but most people would recommend not reporting it as it would be taken out on our loved ones.  So – the ugly behavior goes unchecked.

The visitors I got to know learned to approach staff meekly.  You were at their mercy, and we all knew it.

Now this – a tampon ban.

Every woman and their body chemistry is unique.  Some are blessed with 48 hour light flows and panty liners.  Some – not so lucky.  For anyone unaware – some require a ‘nighttime’ pad as well as a ‘super plus’ tampon, replaced every two to three hours to get discreetly through a couple days a month.  Not to mention discomfort – we won’t even discuss that.

To tell one of those ‘unlucky’ souls that they can’t go somewhere armed with their arsenal of sanitary supplies in place as well as having stand bys on deck – is to tell them to stay home.  Period.

Do I wish there were a way to sustain life on earth without females experiencing menstrual cycles?  Yes.  We don’t choose this. Do I wish there was no need for tampons?  Yes.

So – with Nottoway’s new rule – should an ‘unlucky’ one be able to schedule a visit with a loved on the first day of their period, it will now be a brief and uncomfortable visit.

With that said – if female visitors smuggling contraband disguised as tampons through their vaginas into prison has become such an issue, I would assume that all females with access to the facilities will be banned from tampon and cup use?   It’s no secret that staff bring in items from the outside, so a rule of this nature would have to include female officers, lieutenants, majors, wardens, counselors, clergy, vendors, etc, in order to be effective.

Furthermore – pads.  Are they next?  Certainly, if a tampon or cup could carry something into the facility that could outsmart the scanning machine, a pad could as well.  What about an adult diaper?  Or child’s for that matter?  What ‘personal’ hygiene items are more capable of hiding contraband through the scanning process than others?   Or is it only when something is physically inserted into an orifice that it is of concern?  And – if that is the case – couldn’t someone just stick their contraband into an oraface without using a tampon or cup?  Or – into a different orifice?  Does a tampon not look like a tampon on the scan?  Does a pad not look like a pad?  If a smuggler is going to smuggle items in through their body parts disguised as sanitary items – aren’t they the type of individual that will find another way?  Just sayin’…

Interesting policy – one that will make visitors feel welcome, encouraged to come back and possibly – umm… controlled.

Visiting a prison isn’t something anyone wants to do.  Nobody wants their friend or loved one to be in such a place, no matter what the reason.  Ideally, for all of us – inmates will maintain relationships during their incarceration.  Ideally, they will have the support of loved ones, recognize what they have done to be there and reevaluate how they are going to move on with their lives after prison.

Success for a prisoner – isn’t that in everybody’s best interests?

There is one thing we know.  People – visitors and staff – are going to continue to smuggle things into prison.  We are doing something seriously wrong if we can’t figure out how female visitors can be allowed to wear tampons on visits.  Way too much energy is being spent determining how to control and degrade a female visitor and not enough energy being spent on trying to find ways to encourage positive relationships that help people succeed and grow past their mistakes.

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Sentenced to Death, Solitary Confinement

The Comforts Of Solitude

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I’ve spent the past 6,945 days and counting in solitary confinement. I keep track of days the way one has a hobby in the free world. It’s only real significance is giving me a reason to mark another ‘X’ on the calendar.

I’ve filed grievances and signed on to be a plaintiff in a lawsuit about the inhumane and draconian practices of solitary confinement and how it’s the epitome of cruel and unusual (unnecessary) punishment. Lawmakers have eased up on its use for non-death row inmates and even publicly admitted that solitary confinement causes lasting harm to anyone locked away for 10 years or longer.  Such sympathy was shocking for ‘conservative’ lawmakers to admit. However, apathy is not given to male Texas death row inmates, who were excluded from the leniency.  We remain in solitary.

On July 19, 2018, my last appeal was denied. Not on the merits of actual guilt, for my case on appeal has never been argued orally. In fact, a recent study by the Houston Law Review cited my case and others for the opprobrious “rubber stamping” policy that Harris County and the southern appellate courts use.

Legally, they use a loophole, declaring a case ‘Procedurally Barred’ – giving the appeal judges room to not entertain a death row inmate’s case by adopting the previous court’s opinion, word for word. I believe it’s morally and ethically wrong, unfair, and racially biased and at times motivated. But what can we do? These practices aren’t ‘new’, and a lot of men and women have been judiciously murdered using the same practices, to which I often react the only way I can, with an inhale, exhale and languorously voiced, “Fuck it!”

On Texas death row we are allowed two hours of recreational time Monday through Friday, with no movement on the weekends. If you choose to go to this ‘recreation’, you are ordered to strip nude and do the nude-dance.   Then you are taken to another cell that is bigger in space than the cells we sleep in.  If it’s indoor recreation, you are placed in a cage in front of the other 14 cells in that section.  You can walk around like a lab rat, in circles, or some guys invent a workout routine that may be part yoga, part push-ups and sit-ups, and part creativity. As long as one can sweat, for the most part, one is relatively happy. Some guys don’t work out, and instead engage in shouting conversations about legal work, or which Kardashian is the most desirable or they engage in religious debates that start off with platonic, brotherly order and become heated when there are disagreements regarding trivial interpretations of Scripture – which leads to a cussing match and the overly-used, proverbial Texas row insult, “You dick-sucker!”

Pure madness!

Outdoor recreation isn’t that much larger in size than indoor rec. There’s a netless basketball goal and an orange, rubberless basketball that one can use to play run-and-shoot alone, to see how many shots you can make. You’re surrounded by four 25-foot off-white concrete walls so you can’t see anything diagonally, only an upward view of the sky. Sometimes you’ll see a plane fly high above leaving its wasted fuel’s trail within the cerulean sky’s sea.  With two major airports close by, these sights are common. This prison is close to a small highway and every now and then when it’s really quiet, you can hear the thunderous rage that screams from the pipes of a motorcycle that just opened up on the highway.

Most guys don’t like going outside in the summer because of the Texas heat and the sun’s rays that beat down on you without mercy. One can’t help but feel like a rotisserie chicken. I love it. The heat helps me sweat, and the more I sweat, the more I release stress. Plus, I like the solitude. It gives me a chance to think.

After I was denied, it took me nearly two weeks to pick myself up mentally. It is not the outcome I nor my family and supporters wanted or expected. When you’re disappointed like that, logic and one’s perspective gets thrown out the window. Desperation sets in. Your mind wonders about life after death, if it exists. You think about your family. You think about regrets. You fornicate with the idea of what you’ll miss within the carnal world. You think and think… until you need some aspirin to sooth the headache. You find yourself having so much to do, but lack the will to do it. You want to be left alone, although you are aware that loneliness isn’t what you desire.  So when it’s time for me to go to recreation I always ask to go outside in the heat – alone.

I’ll run a few games, reliving my high school basketball days. Crowds cheer my jersey number, “It’s on you twenty-two!  It’s on you!”  After an hour of this workout, I begin to relax and think. I’m haunted by time and dates, logic, philosophy, reasoning, fantasy and reality, failure and injustice. But, not just any injustice – the injustice that was rendered upon me.

Some people are visited by the ghosts of the past, present and future – I’m visited by dates. I’m not in denial, but I can’t believe I’m here on Texas death row, for something that can be argued was never an intentional crime on anyone’s part. For something the police initially told me they knew I didn’t do.

June 29, 1999. I was brought to Harris County from Louisiana to face capital murder charges after I refused the 20 year plea deal offered by Detective Bob King, an acting agent of the DA.   Why would I accept a plea deal when I wasn’t guilty and the police had suspects in custody they wanted me to testify against for the plea deal?  Above all, I wasn’t a lying ass snitch, testifying to ‘whatever’ to avoid getting charged – unlike others.

I wrote the DA, who admitted at trial he received my letter, and I offered up my DNA or any forensic evidence they could collect from me. I offered to take a lie detector test. I offered whatever I could, but I refused to testify against the others.

No DNA or forensic evidence was taken from me.

July 20, 1999 was the first time I saw a state appointed lawyer, Wayne Hill, who offered me a plea deal, with no concern as to who I was or what actually happened. I refused his deal.

July 21, 1999.  My first court appearance.

August 11, 1999.  I was officially read the charges against me. I pleaded not guilty. I was then arraigned and had a million-dollar bond set.

September 1, 1999.  I went to court, though my journal does not say why, nor do I recall.

September 7, 1999.  Jury selection began, and the judge told the potential jury members, “I’m not Judge Ito (from the O.J. Simpson trial of the century case), and we will get this right. Being a jury member is like being a pallbearer. No one wants to do it, but it must be done. Think of a child.  When that child acts out, we have to discipline that child.”

I was supposed to be ‘innocent until proven guilty’. The judge was making it clear to the jury, subliminally, that guilt wasn’t the issue. Those words implied I was guilty and they needn’t waste time and effort trying to assume I wasn’t.

September 29, 1999.   Eleven white jurors and one Spanish lady, who was questioned relentlessly about her status as a documented US citizen, completed the picks.

October 4, 1999.  My trial began.  It was also the first time I met my investigator, who asked me if there was anything I wanted him to investigate. Really? He didn’t bother asking this question two weeks – or months – ago?

October 5, 1999.  Two of the alleged state witnesses/victims admitted in court that they had been lying since day one. They lied to the police. They lied to the Grand Jury that had indicted me.  Think about that for a second…

Had that same Grand Jury known they were being told lies, they never would have indicted me on capital murder charges, or indicted me at all.

They lied to their family, the media, and everyone who asked them what happened.  They lied, thinking a lie would prevent them from getting into trouble. In fact, they now admitted the truth, “We were trying to rob and kill Mamou, if need be, for his $20,000.”

You would think that would be enough to set me free, right? Wrong. This is Texas. The Lone Star State. The only state in America that truly believes it can thrive as its own quasi-nation, and once did with Sam Houston as its proxy president. It’s the state that sneezes snow up North, and shits Hell’s fire down South. The state that believes it’s okay to execute an innocent person as long as they can document a fair trial.

WTF?!

In my trial there was no DNA evidence, no eyewitnesses, no gun, no physical evidence that was used or attempted to be used against me – the DA knew that beforehand. What they did was assassinate my character, saying I was a drug lord, which I wasn’t. They put witnesses on the stand who were nothing more than lying jailhouse snitches, trying to get out of the criminal situations they were in. They took deals and testified that I confessed to them.

One guy wrote me a letter which my lawyer had, but ‘allegedly’ lost during my trial and found after my conviction, saying he knew nothing about what happened and that the police and DA threatened to charge him with conspiracy if he didn’t tell them what they wanted to hear about me.

The DA also told the jury that I was ‘guilty’ of two other unsolved murders that I was never a suspect in and never charged for. The only commonality between the cases was that they were ‘drug-related’.  They may as well blame me for killing JFK.

One of the state prevaricators claimed that during my ‘confession’, I said I made Mary suck my dick before killing her. He also admitted that he spent days going over his testimony with the DA, and how he’d been told what to say and how to look directly at the jury when saying it.

Remember, there were nine women in the jury. When he said the lie, each of the female jurors began to cry, which was the result the DA was looking for.  Never mind the examiner testified that Mary’s body was not sexually assaulted, nor otherwise harmed. I wasn’t even charged with rape.  The allegation was made by a hearsay witness and left up to the jury to decide if it was credible. My incompetent lawyers assured me that the false claims were harmless because there was no evidence to support them.

Here we are nineteen years later, and after I was denied the newspaper and TV media outlets claimed I’m on death row for the rape and murder of Mary Carmouche.  That’s not what I am on death row for.  That wouldn’t matter in normal circumstances, but it does because I now have to explain to my grown daughters why the newspaper is saying I raped a woman.

It’s frustrating, especially when you know fake news is damaging any chance you have at justice.

October 12, 1999.  After thirty minutes of deliberation, I was found guilty.

October 15, 1999.  I received the death penalty.

November 17, 1999.  I was sent to Texas death row a mere three and a half months after I arrived in Texas to face false charges. I never had a chance. My second chair lawyer was hired one month before my trial began, and he had no clue what was going on. Call it railroading. Judicial lynching. Rubber stamping. Call it whatever you want, just don’t call it Justice. In this case the bitch, Justice, truly was blind.

…August 17, 2018.  I have walked and counted eighty-eight full circles while contemplating my situation, which seems so surreal.  Sometimes I wish it was as easy as John McClane made it seem as he stood bare foot, bleeding, bruised and scarred on top of Nakatomi Plaza screaming, “Yippee ki-yay, muther fuckers!”  The good guys stood triumphantly for justice and made sure it rang loud and true.

But this isn’t a scripted movie. It’s real life. In the world you know everything isn’t going to be all right. Even Belshazzar knew what time it was when he saw the writings on the wall with all that, ‘Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin,’ mess.

So, too, I see the writings. But I do not see symbols of mysterious hieroglyphics. I see names that indicate that justice is really ‘just-us’ and not for all. Names like Willie McGee, Todd Willingham, Emmett Till, Aiyanna Jones, Tamir Rice, Treyvon Martin, Michael Brown, and I could go on naming at least 100 more from the top of my head who never got justice, even though the whole world knew they were getting fucked over.  They were not part of the ‘just-us’ crowd.  Men, women and children who are more worthy of a second chance than I could ever be, but no one came to their aid. No one in power spoke out and said this was wrong before the wrongs became so final.

It’s with these thoughts that I appreciate the point of view that solitude has given me.  It comforts me to know I’m not alone, that American justice within the judicial system is only a reality if you have the money to pay the fees the system demands for its servants who have sold their souls and burned every ounce of civility, equality, righteousness and fairness that they once understood.

I may just become another footnote in a fact finding article years down the road, the story of an innocent who was murdered by the state, but I will use my platform anywhere I can to tell my story, a story America keeps on writing.

The comforts of solitude…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas.  His last appeal has been denied and he maintains his innocence.

He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Views From The Inside

Sweet, Sweet Mercy

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I write not often.
Mostly, I wait.
For inspiration.
For motivation.
For a streak of fire to light
The starless night,
For rough winds to break waves
In the still waters
Of my lonely life.
I wait.
I wait to feel.
I wait for the pain to come
Like a heavy breeze,
For shadows to fill the horizons
Of my mind, and fate
To weigh weary on my bones.
Only then will she come.
When I hear whispers in the dark
And can no longer bury in silence
The echoes of my thoughts.
When necessity – iron necessity –
Demands that I give in,
That I grant rest to a restless soul
That knows naught but suffering.
Only then does she embrace me.
She cares not that my pen lay dormant
For season upon season;
The trades of men
Are no concern of hers;
She is no muse.
She is mercy.
Sweet, sweet mercy.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and a welcome contributor.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733

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Views From The Inside

The Ineffable, But In Words

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Comrade Issabella,

I hope you’re okay, and I love you.  Sometimes, I wonder how or even why.  Yet, none-the-less, “I do.”

I’m cold right now.  Not physically, but emotionally.  I’m lonely.  I even feel desperate at times.  In fact, right now I feel abandoned, neglected and even worse – forgotten.  Some of my feelings are unexplainable.  It’s not that I can’t place my feelings into words.  It’s that there are no sufficient adjectives to describe them. 

I’m Tired.

I need a different type of rest.  Maybe I’m suffering from emotional insomnia.  I long to feel something or to be felt by someone.  I never knew the significance of a hug.  To be embraced by someone says more than that you’re wanted.  It shows that someone likes the fact that they want you.

This has to be the most difficult time in my life…. 

From shout outs to hide outs. 

I’m sure we all go through things in life.  Some worse than others, but who’s to say whose is worse? On what scale are pain and hurt weighed?  I believe they’re weighed by the balances of one’s heart.

My fellow people in bondage are kicking their doors now.  We’re locked down, and they want out.  I guess that’s basically what I’m sayin, huh?  I want out. 

I just had an epiphany!

The forsaken man never had anyone in the first place.  They only came around to forsake him.

No one can understand prison but prisoners.  But prisoners understand freedom.

Issabella, my love, I hurt.  Please…  Help me – please.

Your King,
In Tenderness,
Tracy

FROM THE AUTHOR:  Issabella is a fictitious entity – she does not exist.  However, I felt more comfy exposing my vulnerability to feminine energy.  I saved face, and it’s more soothing this way.

Dr. Tracy Edgar Greer, Jr., D.D.  is a writer, poet, spoken  word artist and qualified religious and spiritual counselor.  He can be contacted at:

Tracy E. Greer #1153032
SCCC-255 W. Hwy. 32
Licking, MO 65542
Email:  Jpay.com

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Prison Conditions, Views From The Inside

April Fool’s

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In 1980 I was arrested, charged, tried and sentenced to life in prison.  I was sent to one of Texas’ largest plantations – The Coffield Unit, deep in East Texas.  They called it ‘The Glass House’ because it had so many windows.

By April of 1982, I was knee deep in the bowels of the Texas prison system.  Texas inmates aren’t paid, and I had to slave my way up from a field hand.  The officers were addressed as ‘Boss’.  If you wanted to talk to the ‘Boss’, you had to take your hat off and walk to the left side of his horse.  The ‘Boss’ could say all kinds of things to you, anything from calling you a worthless nigger to telling you your mammy was no good for having you.  Working in those fields was the most degrading and humiliating job I’ve ever had in the system.

From August to December of that year, the ‘field hands’ picked cotton – clean up to Christmas Eve.  Once we reached the back slab of the Coffield Unit, a Field Captain stood on a platform and shouted, “Ya’ll did a mighty fine job for the State of Texas, and I just want to wish ya’ll niggers a Merry Christmas!”  The ones who understood what he said, stood butt naked with their boots and socks in one hand and their clothes in the other, tears running down their faces.

Things were transitioning in the system though, and it was a relief when I got a job in the kitchen.  Ruis V. Estelle was changing how the Good Ole Boy’s conducted their business.  Inmate guards had run the Texas prison system for years, and inmates weren’t sure how it would turn out with civilian guards doing the job of a convict.

I was assigned to the kitchen – Food Service Department.  I worked my way from the scullery (dishroom), to the chow hall floor, to the cook’s floor.  In one year, I went from a regular cook to head cook.  Head cooks were shot callers, with the power to hire and fire.

On April 1, 1983, I strolled through the Chow Hall making my way to the cook’s floor.  Kitchen policy was that when one shift came on, one got off.  The inmates getting off were to wait in the chow hall until the kitchen officer took them to shower.

It was a Saturday morning, and I can still recall everything about that day.   I heard feet patting cross the concrete floor, pat, pat, pat, pat.  No words were spoken.   One group ran through the cook’s floor area, and seconds later another group came running through.

Officer Hamilton came running through with his head tilted back, looking like Fat Albert on the Cosby Show.  He weighed about 300 pounds, and even running, he seemed to be barely moving.

I stopped a white boy, Rory Nicoson, and asked what was going on.  With eyes wide, he shouted, “They are killing them niggers out there!”

At first I thought it was a riot, and the officers were whipping the inmates.  Then Rory spoke more clearly, “The Mexicans got knives, and they are sticking every black they see!”

By this time, the food service manager on duty, Mr. Till, called me to go with him. When he opened the door to the B-Side Chow Hall, I witnessed a massacre.  Blood was everywhere, black inmates had been stabbed, some in critical condition, one had his guts in his hands, and a little fellow named Wilson was under a chow hall table with two Mexicans stabbing him.  He died under the table, getting stabbed while he tried to take his last breath.

Mr. Till only stood about five foot seven, but he was a hard nose East Texas redneck who knew there wasn’t an inmate in the place who was going to do anything to him.  Mr. Till marched right in the midst of a war zone with me in tow. I will never forget what he told Simone, who was charging our way with a knife in his hand.  “Boy!  Gimme dat knife!” he shouted in his southern drawl.

Simone gave it to him without a fuss.  By this time the Chow Hall doors were opening.  Warden Jack Gardner walked in.  I was still standing right beside Mr. Till, taking in the bloody scene.  Blood was everywhere.  It was so thick in the air, it smelled like a human slaughter house.  You can never forget the smell of blood like that once it touches your senses, just like a sour lemon or oil based paint.

Warden Gardner instantly took control.  He started taking up the knives and handcuffing inmates.  No inmate was going to buck Warden Gardner.  He had a huge black inmate henchman by the name of Big Potts that stood about six foot seven and weighed about 350.   The man already had a reputation for killing inmates with his bare hands on the Eastham Unit.  Warden Jack Gardner was part of a dying breed that still had a squad of officers who would take you off the count if you tried to buck his system. When Warden Gardner told the Mexicans to give him the knives, they filed one behind the other and placed all six knives in his hands.  Mr. Till had already confiscated one.

The inmates were escorted to lock up, and the medical department and prison administration began to clean up the mess.  There was no hope for Wilson.  He only weighed about a buck fifty.  There was no way he could defend himself against two inmates.  After all was said and done, there were eighteen men wounded and one dead.

The Warden made us pair up, and had us escorted to our cell blocks. You could have heard a mouse, it was so quiet. Two hours passed before my cell door was opened, and I was instructed to step out. The kitchen captain, Captain Holder, wanted his ten most trusted workers to clean up.

Once in the kitchen, I couldn’t believe the stench.  Blood was on the floor, on the tables, on the doors, and even the door handles.  There was blood all over the windows, on the red brick wall, on the water dispenser – it was everywhere.  It had been a blood bath.

We were issued about eight plastic garbage cans of bleach water.  I personally threw bleach everywhere, poured it everywhere and wiped it everywhere.  After three hours of massive cleaning, the Chow Hall smelled of bleach, not blood. But somehow, it still didn’t seem clean.

It’s 35 years later, and when I shave and nick myself – I can smell the blood.  It often takes me back to that horrific scene I stood in the midst of.  When I look in the mirror, I can hear the hollering, screaming, and see Mitchell, an inmate, swinging water pitchers trying to survive and Sandman with his guts in his hands.  And, even though Mr. Till has been dead since the late 80’s I can still hear his ole Texas Southern drawl, “Boy!  Gimme dat knife!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Earl McBride Jr. is serving a Life Sentence.  He can be contacted by writing
Earl McBride #00315371
Ramsey 1
1100 FM 655
Rosharon, TX 77583

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Harsh Sentences, Sentenced to Death

Human Cost Of The Death Penalty

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The number of innocent individuals who have lost their lives to the death penalty is unknown.

  ******

People are executed every single year in cases where reasonable questions exist as to their innocence.

  ******

There are individuals whose job it is to house the condemned, feed them their last meal, strap them to a table, take their life, and remove their bodies from the room.

  ******

Vengeance is not mine.

The price is too high.

There are currently two back to back executions scheduled in the state of Texas for the month of September.   Those will be followed by more in October.

Troy Clark #999351 is on the calendar to lose his live on September 26, 2018.

The following day, on September 27, the same facility will take the life of Daniel Acker #999381.

I have sent the following letter to the Texas Board Of Pardons and Paroles for each of these individuals.  Please feel free to copy, paste,  and revise in any way you like and send to bpp-pio@tdcj.state.tx.us.

Dear Members of The Texas Board Of Pardons and Paroles,

I sincerely request that you recommend to Governor Greg Abbott a lesser sentence than death in the case of Troy Clark #999351, who is scheduled for execution on September 26, 2018.

The Death Penalty doesn’t just take one individual’s life.  It also inflicts irreparable damage to everyone who loves and cares for that person. Their parents, siblings, friends and loved ones.  It can’t be undone.

Just as importantly – it is a burden that every single person in the process of enacting the execution should not be made to bear.

The events that took place to get an individual on death row are inarguable.  They exist.  Guilt or innocence may be arguable, but the events – happened.

The reality of enforcing a Death Penalty for those who must have a hand in taking a life share the same guilt as those – whoever they are – that created the original hurt.  It’s a contradiction of everything it stands for.

If it is a question of faith in a country that is founded on Christianity – there is no question.  Vengeance is not ours.  Please, stand for what is right, and recommend mercy.

Thank you for your time,

You can also call the Governor Abbott Information and Referral and Opinion Hotline at: 512-463-1782; and The Office of the Governor Main Switchboard can be reached at 512-463-2000.

Words from the real people on Death Row in the United States – who I believe include some that are innocent:

“’You know, in my day your kind would’ve never gotten so much generous attention. We simply would’ve brought you out yonder, found a good ole tree to hang ya from. Just one less…’ he was saying just before he cut himself off” – Charles ‘Chucky’ Mamou, Death Row

 “It’s baffling that people can actually believe justice is being served by watching a man being strapped to a table and having an IV inserted into his arm to be filled with poison until it kills him.  Justice…”
– Travis Runnels, Death Row

I just heard on the radio they put him to death,
And his last words were, “I can finally rest.”
I feel ya bro, no more pain and misery,
Rest in peace my friend, you’re finally free. – Troy Clark, Death Row

I’d been labeled a murderer by all those that mattered. There’d be no more tedious claims of innocence for doubters to discredit.  There’d be no salvation for people like me as long as there are people like them.  And there’d be no hope of a better tomorrow when my tomorrow was upon me today. – Chanton, Death Row

I seen Lil Jack get in that van.
I seen Big Buck get in that van.
I seen Thread get in that van.
I seen Smoke get in that van.
I seen Chester get in that van.
I seen Ross get in that van.
I seen Tick get in that van.
I seen Savage get in that van.
I seen Bones get in that van.
I seen Diaz get in that van.
They won’t get me, ‘cause I have a plan.
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.  – Pete Russell, Death Row

 

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