Felicia was a ‘round-the-way girl, someone everyone knew.
She was constantly on the go and always in the mix of making moves that were
typically illegitimate. The younger
sister of a local tough who was known for his street brawling during the 80’s,
Felecia did not command the ruggedness and knack for violence her brother had.
Instead, she was an enigmatic young woman, rather timid and reserved, with
striking natural beauty.
I first met her in September ’97 after my release from
prison, where I was introduced to radical concepts about Blacks and Whites,
many of which I refuted. Still, I was inspired by the talk of Black Empowerment. At that time, I needed to believe in
something, but having spent 31 months wrongfully convicted, I was too bitter
for decent living.
Felicia came through the block, headed toward the school
yard, her steps seasoned with haste. She was on her way to cop some dope. Felicia
was addicted to crack cocaine, still in the early stages from the looks of her.
Clean fingernails. Stylish hair. Yet her name had reached the lips of every
hoodlum with the lowdown as they wove her sordid reputation.
Rejection is a common occurrence ‘round-the-way. Everything from character flaws to unpopular choices may result in one being devalued and mistreated. Felicia was different. She was salvageable and brimming with potential. Why no one seemed to be trying to help her, I couldn’t figure. Surely she had a family somewhere with tear-soaked pillows and calloused knees who prayed for her sobriety. To the dealers and other addicts though, Felicia was a lost cause, good only for her prettiness to squelch their own insecurities and quench their broken desires. Well, not me. I resolved to make a difference in her life. The only problem was, I, too, was broken.
The more prominent I became in the dope game, the more I saw Felicia, zipping here and there while on a mission. Her taught lips in a forever smile were the mark of someone special. Here eyes sparkled with hope. I spoke to her often, expecting to be ignored, though I found that she reciprocated. I challenged her choices and she revealed to me the letdowns that had driven her to dark places. Erroneously, I gave her some crack cocaine because I wanted to help. I vowed never to accept her money. But was I really helping Felicia, or was I quieting my own conscience?
As the weeks and months wore on Felicia, she looked tawdry
and unclean. The sparkling hue in her eyes extinguished by an unrelenting pain.
She held up in abandoned corners too dark for shadows and took refuge in a
glass stem while the johns sought after her day and night, devouring what
dignity she had left.
After my joy of being out of prison ran its course, all that
remained for me was resentment. Consumed
by the feeling of self-worthlessnes, I mirrored how I felt. I woke up angry, dressed in vengefulness and
headed out in the world to detonate. I dismissed Felicia’s sickness and
potential for hope, and I accepted her money for drugs.
One night I was cooped up in my apartment alone, when someone rapped on the door. It was Felicia, glancing over her shoulders with her eyes weary and strained. She jabbed at her ponytail with one finger, scratching away at her scalp as she clutched onto a fistful of bills and said, “Lemme git a dime.”
I took a twenty-dollar piece of crack rock, split it in two and
dropped half in her hand.
I’ve got eight dollars,” she revealed after handing over the
money and eyeballing her purchase.
Expecting the funds to be short, I didn’t bother to fuss. I
put the money away and closed the screen door, but Felicia didn’t leave. She stood there and plopped the crack rock in
her moth, taste-testing the product. “You got something bigger?” she asked.
“What! Man, go on
somewhere, Felicia,” I chided, frustrated with her antics. “I’ve already given you more than what you paid.”
“I know, but that’s my last eight dollars. You can’t gimme
another piece?”
I refused. She persisted. Suddenly, we argued, the tension
growing with every second.
“Just gimme back my money,” she demanded. “If not, I’ll call
the police.”
I should’ve just given her the money and cut ties. What was
only eight dollars to me – was worth so much more to her. Yet, I was insulted and spurred by anger. I hocked saliva and spat in her face. “Bitch!
Git the fuck off my porch before I come out there and beat yo ass!”
Gone was her moment’s sense of defiance, replaced by hurt
and shame. She looked on me until I looked within myself, and all I saw was guilt. Unable to bear the sight of my depravity, I slammed
the door shut while peering out the window as she wiped away the froth and
vanished.
I sat at the kitchen table in the dark of night in the company of self-reproach, wondering how much Felicia suffered at the disdain of heartless men. Men like myself who objectified women and perpetuated machoism, men who willfully victimized the weak and defenseless. A man who would spit in a woman’s face and hide behind the door – though I couldn’t hide from my own disgrace, and I am still ashamed today.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Lie, after lie, after lie was heard by the jury in the trial
of Charles Mamou.
Q. When you talked to Sergeant Herman from Houston Homicide Department, did you tell him basically what you’ve told us here today?
A. Yes.
That was the testimony of Joseph Melancon – and it was a lie, one of a stream of lies. That lie, as most were, was documented in the HPD case file at the time it was said. The jury was not informed it was a lie.
Here is a portion of the testimony Melancon gave describing what took place on September 5, 1998, three months before the murder Charles Mamou was on trial for. The testimony will be followed by what Melancon actually told police. (Volume 22, of the Reporter’s Record at page 66)
Q . Did ya’ll make arrangements then to get together on Saturday? A. Yes. Q. Why were you going to get together on Saturday? A. It was the Prairie View and Texas Southern game, and we was going to go out. Q. Did you then meet up with the defendant, Charles Mamou, on that Saturday evening? A. Yes. Q. And where did – where did you meet him at? A. At my house. Q. What part of town did you live in? A. Southwest side. Q. When he came over to your house, how did he get to your house? Do you know? A. In like a brown Blazer. Q. Brown Blazer? A. Like a Durango, something like that. Q. I didn’t understand that. A. Chevrolet Durango, one of the little small Blazers. Q. And was he by himself or with someone? A. By himself. Q. And did ya’ll end up then going out that evening? A. Yes. Q. About what time, if you know, did you leave? A. 8:30, 9:00, 9:30, something. Maybe 9:30, 10:00. Q. All right. And where were you going to go when you left? A. We was going to Jamaica. It’s a club. Q. And where is that club located? Do you know what street? A. On the south side. I don’t know. I don’t remember. Q. Did you get to the Jamaica Club? A. No, we didn’t. Q. What happened on the way to Jamaica Club that prevented you from getting there? A. Chucky got a phone call on his cell phone. Q. And do you know who he was talking to? A. No, I don’t. Q. You just heard his end of the conversation? A. Yeah. Q. What was he saying in the cell phone? A. He said, You got that for me. Q. I’m sorry. I want you to back up a little bit from the microphone. A. Do you have that for me? Q. What did he say next, if you recall? A. He hung up. Q. All right. Where did you end up going? A. To the little store on Buffalo and West Fuqua. Q. Buffalo, meaning Buffalo Speedway? A. Yes. Q. Now, how many people were in the vehicle you were in? A. Just me and Chucky. Q. When you got to the store at Fuqua and Buffalo Speedway, what kind of store was it, do you know? A. It was like a convenience store. Q. And was there anything close by the convenience store? A. It was a club. It was called Shannon’s. Q. Not the club you were initially going to– A. No. Q. –but a different club. What happened when you arrived at the convenience store? A. They had three guys standing out at the convenience store. Q. Okay. Did y’all park, or what did you do? A. We pulled up. And one of the guys came to the car’s front passenger door, and I got out and they got in. Q. Did you know who that person was? A. Yes, I did. Q. And how did you know who – what did you know that person’s name to be? A. Bruiser. Q. Did you know him by any other name? A. No, I didn’t.
At this point, the defense objected, but the objection was overruled. The witness continued to describe that night:
Q. And what did you say the person you’ve identified as Bruiser did when he came to your side of the vehicle you were in? A. He opened my door. Q. Okay. And did you get out or did you stay in? A. I got out. Q. Where did you go? A. I went and talked to the two guys that was standing up with him. Q. And who were the two guys? A. A guy named Lonnie and Weinerman. Q. What did Bruiser do after you got out of the vehicle? A. Him and Chucky was in the vehicle talking. Q. All right. So did Bruiser get in the vehicle? A. Yes. Q. What did you see the defendant, Charles Mamou, do then, the next thing you saw him do? A. He got out the vehicle and went into the store. Q. Did you see him come out of the store with anything? A. Yes. Q. What did he come out of the store with? A. Two brown bags. Looked like something to drink was in them. Q. All right. What did he do after he came out of the store. Where did he go and what did he do? A. He got in the driver’s seat and drove off. Q. All right. Did he say anything to you before he drove off? A. No. Q. All right. Now the plan had been ya’ll were going to go to Jamaica Club, right? A. Correct. Q. Did the defendant say anything about why you weren’t immediately going to Jamaica Club? Did he say what he was going to do first? A. He said he needed to take care of something. Q. All right. When he drove off, did you expect him to come back? A. Yes. Q. What were you doing then after you saw the defendant and the person you identified as Bruiser drive off in a vehicle driven by the defendant? What were you doing? A. I was talking to Lonnie and another guy named Weinerman. Q. And while you were outside the store talking, did you hear anything unusual? A. Yes. Q. What did you hear? A. Sounded like a gunshot. Q. One or more? A. One. Q. After you heard what sounded like a gunshot, did someone come to the location where you were at? A. Yes. Q. Do you know who this person was? A. No. Q. Without telling me what they said, did they say something? A. Yes. Q . As a result of what they said, what did you do, if anything? A. I got in the car with Lonnie, and we rode over on West Fuqua by the entrance to the Almeda Manor neighborhood, the entrance to that subdivision. Q. What was there at that location? A. It was a lot of people around, and Bruiser was laying on the ground. Q. Now did you get out of the vehicle? A. Yes, I did. Q. Did you go to where Bruiser was? A. Yes, I did. Q. Did you hear anything Bruiser was saying? A. Yes, I did. Q. What was he saying? A. He said, My boys shot me, and he just kept saying it over and over. Q. Repeating that same phrase? You need to say yes or no. A. Yes. Q. After you saw Bruiser laying there, what did you do? A. I walked over about two houses down with another friend of mine from the neighborhood and used his phone. Q. Okay. And who did you call? A. I called my wife. Q. What did you ask her to do, if anything? A. I told her to come get me. Q. And did she? A. Yes, sir. Q. Before you left that scene, did any ambulance or people arrive to tend to Bruiser? A. Yes.
Joseph Melancon then went on to
describe how he was so fearful of Charles Mamou after that night that he fled
Houston and moved to Dallas.
When questioned by the defense, he
is asked to clarify a couple things.
Q. Now, when he comes over on that Saturday, you said he came over at either 8:30 to 900 or 9:30 to 10:00? A. Correct. Q. You don’t recall which. But do you recall at the time he came over your wife was not home? A. That’s correct. Q. Your wife was working until what time that night. A. I think she got off at 9:30 or 10:00. Q. At some point, do you guys leave? A. Right. Q. Does your wife come home? A. No, I had to bring her the car. We only had one car at the time. Q. Okay. So did you take the five-month-old with you over to where your wife was working? A. Right. Q. So you drive the car over, and you leave your child with your wife. And then you and Charles were going to probably go clubbing at that point? A. Right.
The attorney asks him again about what happened when he heard the gunshot.
Q. You went to the scene, how did you get from the convenience store to where Bruiser was? A. I rode with Lonnie. Q. Okay. So Lonnie had his vehicle there? A. Correct. Q. And did Weinerman get in the car with you? A. No.
And then Melancon was asked about when he originally spoke
to police.
Q. When you talked to Sergeant Herman from Houston Homicide Department, did you tell him basically what you’ve told us here today? A. Yes.
After this testimony, the prosecutor brought in the medical examiner to share graphic photos of Anthony Williams’ autopsy, followed by Anthony Williams’ older sister who described how her brother’s death impacted her family – and Mr. Williams’ seven year old son.
That was all done to convince the jury that Charles Mamou had killed Mary Carmouche, but he was not on trial for the murder of Anthony Williams. I challenge anyone to look at that testimony and what police and the D.A. knew at the time and not recognize the lengths that were gone to in an effort to secure a death sentence.
This is what police actually knew at that time.
Officers on duty that night received the call at 10:01 P.M. on September 5, 1998, from dispatch regarding the shooting.
After this incident took place, Joseph Malencon began telling people his childhood acquaintance, Charles Mamou, had murdered Anthony Williams.
Investigators looked into Malencon’s allegations early on and didn’t pursue them. Charles Mamou had been with two women in Louisiana that weekend, which also happened to be the weekend of a family wedding. Mamou didn’t attend the wedding itself, but he did see his family that weekend in addition to staying with the two women in a hotel in Louisiana.
The following is what Malencon originally told police – which doesn’t even closely resemble his testimony:
On the night of this incident he was at his residence. Melancon stated the possible suspect, Chucky Mamou, called him and came and picked him up and they went to the Shannon’s Club on Buffalo Speedway and Fuqua (he testified in detail about them going to a convenience store). Joseph Melancon stated that was around 11:00 PM (an hour after the shooting took place). Joseph Melancon then stated, just after he and Chucky Mamou arrived in the club, Chucky Mamou met Anthony Williams and they started talking. (in his testimony – they were never in a club) Joseph Melancon stated, in a short while Chucky Mamou came and told him he had to do some business, and at that time Chucky Mamou and the victim left the Shannon’s Club (again, in his tesimony, they were never in a club). Joseph Melancon stated he remained at the Shannons’s Club and he was visiting with a man called Weinerman and also a man named Lonnie. Joseph Melancon stated while they were talking someone came up and told Weinerman that the victim had been shot (in his testimony he was outside a convenience story and heard a gunshot). That statement is a completely different story then Melancon’s sworn testimony. The jury never heard this statement, and Mamou never saw it for over twenty years.
Sergeant Novak reopened this case on September 20, 1999, in an effort to help the District Attorney secure a guilty verdict in the case against Charles Mamou for the murder of Mary Carmouche. None of the information they were able to gather supported Melancon’s original statement, and no one could identify Charles Mamou as being involved – outside of various stories they had heard from Joseph Melancon. Sgt. Novak was an experienced detective, not fresh to the Houston Police Department. He saw exactly what I saw when he Iooked at the file.
The few witness accounts that support each other – were those shared by individuals first on the scene. One of those individuals told police he ran into Shannon’s Club to get help and located Weinerman inside, along with Lonnie – the man Joseph Melancon testified drove him to the scene of the shooting after they both heard a shot outside at the convenience store. Lonnie was not outside the convenience store – he was inside Shannon’s Club according to the witness.
One of the central witnesses to this case and a man everyone saw that night was interviewed by police. He stated that Bruiser was hungry and he went to Shannon’s and ordered a hamburger. He stated that he and Bruiser went into the club, and shortly thereafter Joey entered the club. He stated that Joey was dressed up in a crisp white shirt like he was clubbing. He stated that Joey went over to Bruiser and they spoke out of his hearing and that Joey left the club and Bruiser and Lonnie followed. The witness continues and stated – “A short time later Cedric came running in and told him that Bruiser had been shot.” That statement mirrors what the first witness on the scene told police.
The above witness, as well as witnesses on the scene all agree the only words Bruiser said were, “My homeboy did this.” Charles Mamou was not Anthony Williams’ ‘homeboy’. They didn’t know each other, and on the night in question, Mamou was with two women, and his family was celebrating a wedding in Louisiana. Joseph Melancon, on the other hand, was a friend of Bruiser’s. One of the witnesses that night told police, “Joey may have something to do with Bruiser’s death.”
Joe Malbrough, a cousin of Joseph Malencon, told police an even different version of what Joseph Melancon told him, telling police that Joey told him he was standing outside the convenience store when he heard gunshots and he took off running. That version of events contradicts Malencon’s own statement which had him inside the club, someone coming in to tell him about the shooting, and getting in a vehicle and driving to the victim… It also contradicts his original statement which had him outside a convenience store, hearing a gunshot and getting in a vehicle with a friend and driving towards the victim.
There was evidence Charles Mamou was with two women on the night in question – as well as seen in Lousiana that weekend.
What’s clear – a girl was murdered after a drug deal gone wrong in December, 1998, and it was decided Charles Mamou was going to be the one to pay the price. It didn’t matter what police knew.
This series of posts have covered a good part of this case. The picture the prosecution painted of Charles Mamou – “vicious”, “ruthless”, “cold-blooded”, “manipulative”, “liar”, “controlling”. The jury was told, “His comfort zones are guns and bloodshed and murder.” “It’s only a question of when the next victim will be.” “He devastated and destroyed. And that’s all he’s ever done, with his drugs, with his guns.”
The jury heard, “Premeditation to the max,” even though the
drug dealers present that night testified they were actually on that alley to
rob Mamou at gunpoint. The prosecutor at one point saying, “You could
examine every piece of evidence…”
Therein lies the problem. The jury didn’t have access to all that McClellan and HPD knew. Neither did Charles Mamou. I have no idea what Mamou’s court appointed defense attorney was doing, he’s never responded to any requests I’ve made to talk.
Previously shared on this site regarding this case:
-The prosecution repeatedly accused Mamou of sexually assaulting the victim, forcing her to perform oral sex – all the while knowing that a rape kit had been collected. The D.A. requested the rape kit be processed prior to the trial, and it indicated ‘no semen was found’ – but Charles Mamou never knew a rape kit even existed, so could not use this to defend himself.
Nobody has to believe Charles Mamou, who has maintained his innocence from day one. One only needs to look in the case file and see what HPD and the prosecution knew. Unfortunately, knowing what happened doesn’t ‘undo’ what was done. Charles Mamou has lived on Death Row in Texas for over two decades and awaits a date for his execution.
Anyone with information
regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net.
Anything you share with me will be confidential.
All related posts detailing all I have learned
over the last two years are available at Charles Mamou.
TO
CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
I had come home late after a long weekend of drinking and wondering the streets. The house was dark. I looked in on you and you were in bed so I went to bed as well. Deep in a dream I could hear the phone ringing on the end table. I didn’t remember there being a phone on the end table. But there was, and it was ringing. With my eyes still shut, I felt around until I found the phone and put it to my ear: “Robby… Robby, is that you?” you asked, in a quick, hushed voice. You sounded far away. “Robby, help me,” you whispered into the phone. I could hear the fear and desperation in your voice. I was confused and scared, I asked you where you were and you said that you didn’t know. You started to cry. I told you to look around you and tell me what you saw. You said that it was dark and you couldn’t see anything. I didn’t understand. I thought to ask you whose phone you were using, but you cut me off, and, all of these years later, I can still hear you say, “I’m so cold…” as your voice fades away. When I awoke it was still dark outside and as I walked down the hall to check on you again, I knew. Your room was pitch black, and I was afraid to turn on the light because I knew that you were there, in the dark, and I didn’t want you to go. I walked over to your bedside and gently touched your face. It was cold. You’d been gone for hours, but were still there. Did you not know that you’d passed? Were you waiting for me to come home? Did you lose your way? Or, is that really all that awaits us? I’ve heard others talk of heaven, hell, bright lights and judgment; of warmth and weightlessness and hovering above your body as your entire life replays itself before you; of deceased loved ones, gathered around, telling you to go back, that there’s still work to be done amongst the living. I hope that these things prove true, for them, but for me, I know in my heart that when I die it’s going to be dark and it’s going to be cold.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and although we don’t hear from him often, I always look forward to posting his work.
Robert can be reached at: Smart Communications/PADOC Robert McCracken LG8344 Sci-Greene P.O. Box 33028 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
There’s a woman I know who plays Devil’s advocate for me. She’s a skeptic – and I am forever grateful for her perspective. She recently asked, “What would ‘they’ have done differently?” That led to a conversation about a previous post – A Letter To My Thirteen Year Old Self.
Walk In Those Shoes receives those types of letters a lot. Things happen in life, paths take us places and without the insight that comes with decades of living – choices are made that alter lives. I lived through those years and made my share of wrong choices. I got lucky – or blessed. I’ve watched the next generation play with fire. ‘Use’ a little. Carry ‘that’ for protection. Go to that ‘place’ – because they are invincible. Nothing can go wrong. But plans sometimes go awry.
That’s the theme of this writing contest: If you could drop a piece of paper, a message, a letter in the dresser drawer of your younger self – what would it say? I say it all the time – be vulnerable. That may mean writing about your own insecurities.
As always – only those who are incarcerated are
eligible to participate.
We can’t accept anything
that has been previously published.
Submission is free – BUT, even if an entry doesn’t win, we consider entry permission to publish and edit. Sometimes we get so many excellent entries, they can’t all win, but they need to be shared.
Entries
should be 1,000 words or less.
Submissions
can be handwritten.
As done in our previous contests, I will narrow down the entries to the top ten, and then hand them off to individuals to rate the writing with a point system to determine winners.
PRIZES:
First Place: $75 Second Place: $50 Third Place: $25
DEADLINE: May 31, 2020. Decisions will be posted on or before July 10, 2020.
MAILING ADDRESS:
Walk In Those Shoes Writing Contest Entry P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, Virginia 23255
The prosecution ‘won’ the case against Charles Mamou, but
what did winning look like?
In a nutshell, the District Attorney claimed:
Samuel Johnson drove Charles Mamou to a drug
deal in Houston.
Mamou attempted to murder all three ‘sellers’ at
the scene and fled in their vehicle, which had Mary Carmouche in the backseat,
leaving his driver behind.
Mamou did not go back to the apartments where he
was staying, but drove the victim to a house for sale in a suburban
neighborhood, sexually assaulted and then murdered her.
Mamou, on the other hand, claimed he drove back to the
apartment complex where he was staying and described what he saw there. Throughout the trial, the prosecution ridiculed
those claims. Mamou’s version of events:
Gunfire broke out when the planned robbery of Mamou
began.
Mamou fired a gun in fear for his life, and
jumped in the ‘would-be’ robbers’ car.
He drove back to the apartment complex where he
was staying, following his driver who had left without him, Samuel Johnson.
Mary Carmouche was in the backseat of the car he
fled in.
The last time he saw the victim was in the
apartment complex parking lot.
He recalled the people he saw in the parking lot
when he arrived – Howard Scott, Samuel Johnson, Shawn Eaglin, and a man on a
bike.
He said he went into Howard Scott’s apartment –
and when he went back outside Carmouche was gone.
*Samuel Johnson, the driver, testified Mamou left him and Johnson went home, showered, drank a coke, and went to bed, never talking to anyone and never calling anyone. What Mamou didn’t know for 20 years was that investigators knew, in addition to the witnesses’ at the scene contradicting Johnson, Johnson’s cell phone made a phone call to Howard Scott’s apartment at 2:37 a.m. According to their records, they faxed that information to the D.A.’s office during the trial. Charles Mamou was never informed about Johnson’s phone call, and could not use that information to defend himself, nor was he given an opportunity to pursue identifying where that cell phone call was made from. Howard Scott had a phone in his apartment – but this call was made from a cell phone.
That phone call would have also called into question Johnson’s
credibility.
It also supports Charles Mamou’s account that Samuel Johnson
was not sleeping that night.
In addition to what was known at the time of trial, in 2019 two
witnesses described seeing Samuel Johnson in the parking lot that night, along
with Charles Mamou.
*Howard Scott testified his phone stopped ringing that
night. In reality, his caller I.D.
records indicated he was receiving calls through 3:43 a.m. The Houston Police Department knew this, and according
to their records, faxed that information to the District Attorney. Charles Mamou was never informed and never
given an opportunity to point out how that information called into question Scott’s
credibility.
Howard Scott receiving phone calls from the parties Mamou
claimed to have seen in the parking lot that night also supports Mamou’s
version of events and contradicts the scenario described to the jury of all the
other parties having no involvement.
In addition to what was known at the time of the trial, in 2019 a witness described seeing Howard Scott in the parking lot, along with Charles Mamou.
*Mamou claimed he saw Shawn Eaglin in the parking lot. Eaglin’s name is hand-written throughout the Houston Police Department’s file, there are indications he was questioned, and he was also described as a ‘possible suspect’ in court – but any records of police interviews with him do not exist in the police file.
Twenty years ago, Mamou said he saw Shawn Eaglin take a
Yellow Cab out of the apartment complex. The prosecution attempted to discredit
that, arguing there could be multiple ‘Shawns’ in the complex. According to the cab report – and not pointed
out for the jury – the phone number listed on the cab call report came from
Howard Scott’s apartment.
Also, the Houston Police Department had phone records
indicating Eaglin called Howard Scott’s apartment, that Sunday night. The last
call he made to Scott’s apartment was at 3:12 a.m. That information was not shared with Mamou,
and he did not have an opportunity to use it in support of his version of
events.
Scott’s apartment telephone called for a Yellow Cab for ‘Shawn’
at 3:59 a.m.
*The ‘guy on the bike’ was an opportunity for the
prosecution to ridicule and be dismissive of Mamou’s claims. All the while, the prosecution knew Mamou
didn’t have much to support what he saw, but as it turns out – the Houston
Police Department had some information that could have possibly helped unravel that
mystery. In that fax that they sent to
the District Attorney – there were other phone calls made to Howard Scott’s
apartment that night. One of those phone
numbers had ties to none other than – the ‘guy on the bike’. The phone number belonged to a female, and an
HPD investigator jotted her name down.
It turns out that female knows ‘the guy on the bike’. Although investigators wrote her name down,
there is no record they ever spoke to her.
In 2019, a private investigator spoke to ‘the guy on the
bike’ who remembers being in the parking lot that night ‘after midnight’ and seeing
Charles Mamou, Samuel Johnson and Howard Scott.
As it turns out, everything Charles Mamou says he remembered that night – investigators had reason to believe was true. They shared what they knew with the District Attorney. Nobody shared that information with the jury or the defendant, but rather the focus seemed to be on destroying Mamou’s character and making his claims of seeing people in the parking lot look foolish.
So – what happened to Mary if Charles Mamou drove back to
that parking lot, and that was the last place he saw her? This is twenty years later. Is there any way to get a location on a cell
phone call from twenty years ago? I have
no idea, but one investigator told me no.
The District Attorney took it a step further to convince a jury Mamou was guilty. Accusations of sexual assault were made although there were no charges. The prosecution accused Mamou of sexually assaulting the victim, forcing her to perform oral sex before killing her. The entire time they were making those accusations, they were fully aware a rape kit had been collected, and it indicated no semen was found on any items submitted. There were ‘hairs’ and ‘trace evidence’ collected that could have possibly been tested, but that information was never shared with Charles Mamou.
So where did the prosecution’s story come from? The day Terrence Dodson learned police had a mug shot of him and were looking for him in connection to a murder, he called homicide detectives and told them Charles Mamou confessed to him. Investigators took a statement, knowing parts of that statement couldn’t be true. Regardless – that became the case. Dodson’s later testimony contradicted his original statement, but the jury never heard the original statement.
Race is a part of this I don’t like to bring up – because too many people lessen the message and call it a ‘card’. They will use the very mention of race to discard the entirety of what happened. To reduce what was done here to ‘race’ alone reduces all the other aspects of what took place. This method of sentencing someone to death is much bigger than race, but it is definitely a factor that can’t be ignored – especially in that time and in that location.
It’s likely that had Mamou been white, privileged, wealthy, represented by a private attorney and not in Harris County in 1998 – he wouldn’t be on death row. Had a motivated attorney been given all the above information twenty years ago, not only would Mamou probably not be where he is, the truth of whatever happened that night might have come out. Everything the detectives knew and later shared with the District Attorney – supported what Mamou claimed happened, all the way to the ‘guy on the bike’. A ‘guy on a bike’ isn’t something that could easily be made up and coincidentally be exactly right.
Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. Anything you share with me will be confidential.
All related posts detailing all I have learned over the last two years are available at Charles Mamou.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
When the officer woke me
at 4:00 a.m. to get ready for the one hour ride to Duane L. Waters Health
Center, I had to mentally prepare myself for what I knew I would see. I’ve been there before, and I knew death would
be there, up close and personal. It’s
not unusual to see a dying prisoner being moved around the facility.
Duane L. Waters Health
Center is the MDOC’s prison hospital, located in Jackson, Michigan. Every prisoner dreads going there – partly because
of the ‘healthcare’ and partly because the building itself reeks of death. It’s also where they house the hospice prisoners. I had to go today for a hearing test for the
loss of hearing in my left ear. I’ve
been dealing with it for almost a year, and today was my day to go to DLW.
As I entered the
building in shackles, the foul smell of human suffering and deterioration immediately
filled my nostrils and the torment of death by incarceration filled my body. After being unshackled by the transporting
officer, I made my way to the crowded waiting area, where I saw a man I have
been serving time with for years walk by.
The sight of him shook me to my core.
All that was left was a shell.
The man I knew had deteriorated, and I could see death practically knocking
on his door. I hadn’t prepared myself to
see someone I knew in such bad shape.
The wait can be lengthy
at DLW, but the sight of the old head in such bad shape made the couple hours
feel like forever. He’s me. I’m serving life without the possibility of
parole. I’m sentenced to die by incarceration. I’m 39, and to most, that’s young. But I’m twenty-one years in on a sentence of
forever, and I can’t help but notice my health deteriorating. I think every prisoner’s worst fear is dying
in prison, but for those of us serving LWOP in Michigan – we will probably die
at DLW.
While I was waiting,
thinking about what I’d just seen, another guy I knew entered the waiting
area. He works in the hospice unit. He told me he recently sat with one of the
old heads I had a lot of love for – as he died.
So, here I am in the wee
hours, reflecting on a day in which I saw my reality – what the final days of
death by incarceration look like. Death
is promised to everyone, and for those of us whose worst fears come true and we
die in this place, it will be alone in a dark prison hospital like the one I
saw today. Over the last six months six
men I have been doing time with died after serving decades in prison.
Today’s trip replays and thoughts run rampant in my mind, preventing sleep as I stare at the concrete walls of my cage. My pain is real – and it gets realer by the second… by the minute… by the hour… by the day… by the week… by the month… by the year…
by the decade.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quentin Jones is the founder of MYLIFEMATTERSTOO, and is serving Life Without The Possibility Of Parole in Michigan. After two decades in prison, he strives daily to be productive and make a positive impact. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”
Quentin can be contacted at: Quentin Jones #302373 Gus Harrison Correctional Facility 2727 East Beecher Street Adrian, MI 49221-3506
“…to remain tight in a bud was more painful than… to blossom.” – Anais Nin
To many, Kenny’s a nobody – which is why he wanted to shine, to prove them wrong.
Would that I could share my light with Kenny, give him another chance
To fit in, to be normal. Since I can’t, I will share Kenny’s light with you,
Break it into wafers.
Death Row, Death Throws…
We slam, we scream, we fling ourselves against prison’s cosmic ennui.
We remember life from before, our memories another spectrum of light.
The texture of some memories never change; these lights refuse to go
Quietly into that goodnight.
Sometimes a soul’s meat-vehicle remains behind long after the light
Has gone. Kenny remembers the moment his light divorced his body,
Remembers when it tore itself free – remembers it half as action sequence,
Half as background requiem for a dream. His bodily
Memory knit together with eye-witness testimony, here tells
You his story, sings you a history, a chorus of blood sung
With words twinkling in air like asterisks. It was preceded
By a blinding flash of light, an insight that had sounded green, As in the moment is ripe, as in… GO.
We all pass with varying degrees of light.
Blossom…
Perhaps the idea began as a flower – it felt like one
At the time. One of those pretty, yellow-faced ones
With white petals. Aster. Or perhaps it started as a small star-
Like flame, a sad blue torch of forked flower in the brain.
A risky idea one might symbolize in writing: *. An asterisk
Indicated omission ((of common sense?)), redaction, doubtful matters.
Portents…
–aster: a pejorative suffix denoting something that imperfectly mimics
The true thing – a bootlegged or knock-off version, for example.
–aster is also a combining form meaning ‘star’, which implies
Anyone can be a star – anyone can shine like the popular guys
Simply by stamping aster onto their chest, by declaring, “Let me
Be light!” like in Genesis.
“dis” is a prefix meaning asunder, part, away or having a negative Reversing force, as in disability. As in disaster, which is an unfavorable
Aspect of a star, emblazoned red, as in: Kenny, the stars do not fucking
Align. As in: Kenny, this will rip your asunder, break you apart, and
Your ‘you’ will go away… but Kenny refused to see this light.
Men were slamming bone-yellow dominoes into stainless steel 4-way tables,
Hollering multiples of five and clattering their bones into position. Like built-in
Bleachers, three blocky 18-inch deep steps cut into the rim of the day-
Room’s brownish-gray concrete floor, leading down to the lower cells.
Playing follow-the-leader exercises, acrobatic men would balance
On the top-step’s ledge, lean out with upsweeping arms – then leap
To grab the tier’s floor, to do pull-ups or show-off by monkeying
Up, once their bodies stopped wobbling. Kenny used to watch them,
Wishing upon those stars…
In Carnations, A
Cautionary Tale…
Slow, fleshy red haloes spread
And overlap like Venn diagrams laid on cement,
Petaling around Kenny’s blank comatose face
As a silken illustration of the relationship
Between grace and ground.
Soundgarden…
Light is such a fickle thing. Kenny had tried to swing for it with a tottering
Leap. There was a split-second grace period. *****:
In linguistics, asterisks mark an utterance that would be censored
By native speakers of the language. Generally a fall
From grace is blackhole – interesting, especially when it’s a superstar.
We anticipate a comeback… but
With us mundane asters, there is no coming back. There
Is just a discordant ** * ***
*** ** *
** ** burst of asterisks that flap in the air
Like Kenny’s arms, or a flood of cusswords at startled bus stop pigeons.
Then silence.
The very air becomes electric with prayer, or JESUS… the name
Itself a form of intercession. Then a meaty thud
And a terrible revelation
Of Kenny’s horror obscurus, his brain a pinkish-gray
Light leaking from Kenny, after aster in brain, after Kenny-aster
On air, after air on bone, after bone on stone. Thunk, crack,
The genesis of a ravaged lack of all it means to be human. A shadow
Grows from a length of gauze wrapped round and round
A star. That was in ’97.
My dawg, his dog…
Every few minutes Kenny’s dementia seems to chase down his recent
History and tear chunks from its ass. I call Kenny my ninja, since
I’m Asian. His cane we call the Cadillac to convert limpin’ to
Pimpin; his wheelchair the Escalade for which I made a cardboard
Vanity plate that dangles from its back – to infuse his disability
With style, luxury, richness. With privilege, with ease. Nowadays
He chuckles and calls himself stuntman stumbles (in his garbled drawl)
Or Stag Lee, a fitting confusion of Bruce Lee, “staggering,” and Stan
Lee the Marvel creator. Shit’s funny, but shit ain’t funny funny.
Dark Matter…
The brain is a self-contained universe made up mostly of star-shaped
Cells: astrocytes, billions and billions of them, crackle with magic energy.
Hidden in blackness, the brain explodes with asterisks of thought.
It is the seat of language, music, motion… personality. A lump
Of grace that will shine until we die, but… sometimes
Stars flicker and wink out, entire galaxies have power outages,
And the wrinkled surface of the deep becomes void: dementia
Steals the self. It would be simpler if one just vanished
The sun – not this gradual decay into the sightless realm where darkness is
awake upon the dark.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and it is a privilege to share his voice here. He has incredible insight and actually advised WITS in certain aspects of our organization, for which we are very grateful. Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
In 2012, at the recommendation of a chief psychologist
tasked with addressing the declining mental health and cognitive deficiency on
Death Row, prison administrators implemented a pilot program. The first of its
kind, the project proved to be a success, stanching the oozing misery of
decades of meaningless activities while igniting an air of motivation
throughout Death Row that would not be extinguished by tabletop turnabouts and
legal letdowns. Finally, there was a
glimmer of behavior both rehabilitative and restorative from men eager to not
only divest but defy the stereotypical personas indicative of our status. Further programs were in order, and over the
next few years several classes were offered that would challenge our decision
making while enhancing our social skills by affording us merit in the Death Row
community.
One such class was Drama, a weekly therapy group in which we
convened over play scripts and films while educing our various perspectives.
Though some viewed the course unfavorably in the prison setting, others were
undeterred as we embraced the colloquial demands of Drama, where we first met
Ms. Dee, a psychologist in the prison’s mental health department. Ms. Dee was passionate about helping others
and answered the call for volunteers. She was well-spoken and witty, often
engaging us in prison jargon and disarming our leeriness by showing off her
ability to adapt. It was through her willingness to surround herself with convicted
murderers without reservation, many of us were reminded what it felt like to be
trustworthy again.
Ms. Dee had come from an artistic background, and in college
she minored in Drama, therefore she signed on to teach two programs. The Art class was thought to be an hour long period
of doodling or guys making off with supplies to barter for other desirables.
However, Ms. Dee wasn’t having it – she expected more. She assigned us
projects, lent her assistance and held us to such high standards that we found
ourselves working diligently for her affirmation. Soon we were delving into
visual graphics, dimensions and the terminology of Art. Ms. Dee even invited
her mother, a working class artist, to join us and impart her wisdom on the
subject. What an honorable gesture and show of trust and respect. It made her
more to us than just some quirky prison staffer whose goodness was infectious,
Ms. Dee was like family.
The Drama program, however, didn’t start out as promising
because of the stigma of weakness in the penal system. Many were unwilling to
compromise their image, so instead they shunned the idea. But then there were those who leapt at the
opportunity to add another layer of refinement and reform, and although it
wasn’t the most popular choice, still we were committed to Ms. Dee.
We covered plays like Antigone, the Crucible and Shakespeare’s
Hamlet with elaborate group discussions to follow, sometimes peeling the words
off the very pages and attaching them to our own personal experiences. Then we watched televised renditions of each
play and absorbed the onscreen nuances, while all along Ms. Dee had a vision of
her own to host a Death Row play.
At the mention of performing a play, I thought not only was
this woman bold and overly optimistic but also a bit nutty. Who in their right mind would put their
reputation on the line for a bunch of condemned souls? Who had that amount of confidence
and trust in men so untrustworthy?
Apparently, Ms. Dee did, and as it turned out, her confidence would not
waiver.
We did what’s called a dry read. Then she assigned roles. Afterwards, we began rehearsals. We transitioned
from on-script reading to off-script memorization until our roles became as
much a part of our identity as the red jumpsuits we wore. Ms. Dee also gave us
pointers to hone our acting chops. “Do
not break the plane of the invisible wall,” she’d say, or, “Always… always face
the audience.”
Most days she could be seen seated atop a steel dayroom
table in casual clothes and slides with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and a
steady glare behind her fitted fames as she yelled, “Enunciate! Enunciate!!!” which was quite frustrating
since most of us didn’t know what the word meant. Yet Ms. Dee was relentless, tapping into our
potential and pushing us to the brink as she often stayed late after work and
scheduled rehearsals on her days off.
On the day of the performance, we actors were still experiencing miscues. I begged Ms. Dee to postpone the production.
“But whyyy?” she chimed, her accent flush with reassurance
as she added, “You guys are so ready. You just don’t know how good you all are.
Trust me. You’ll do great.”
And as the crowds rolled in and the seats filled, still she
was unfazed, believing so much in our capabilities that soon we believed in
ourselves.
For forty-five minutes we performed Reginald Rose’s Twelve Angry Men, a play about the woeful indifference and tangled injustice of jury deliberation. Audience members sat transfixed as they soaked in our exchange. Fellow inmates nodded with admiration. And when the play was over and the last actor exited the stage, the room erupted in applause. What a tremendous feeling of validation to have others acknowledge our worth. What a sense of accomplishment to face our fears and prevail. But the ultimate reward was seeing Ms. Dee teary-eyed with pride. She never stopped believing in us.
Unfortunately, Ms. Dee experienced some challenges in the work-place
and was later relieved of her position. Shortly after, all Death Row programs, including
Drama, were discontinued. It seems that
in the great scheme of things, Death Row inmates are undeserving of redemption
and any who should dare to restore in us dignity and value shall meet removal.
Ms. Dee was impacted by a disease that seeks to morally corrupt, a tainted
prison structure that rejects good will and blatantly lends itself to
recidivism. She was inadequately cared for by those who failed to nourish her efforts,
casting votes instead for candidates who offer nothing to effect policies on
prison reform.
Ms. Dee once said, ‘Everybody needs somebody to believe in them’. In believing in us, Ms. Dee did what most never have, making true reform a reality for a short time, and for that, we will forever believe in Ms. Dee.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
