His features typically dour, Peter seemed transfigured today when he returned from wherever. He was giddy, like a person after
sex, “I just came from visiting the orthopedist at an outside hospital. She said my herniated discs are squeeze-
ing against my sciatic nerve. It’s excruciating, and I need surgery. But guess what?” I shrugged. “On the way back, they opened
the window a little. I pressed my face into the gap the whole time.” I noticed red parallel welts tracked up his chin,
lips, and cheeks – two inches apart. Even a transport car’s air is restrictive. As an extension of prison, it’s a portable cell with
an incarcerated atmosphere: A death row prisoner cramped in back, bound in full-restraints – handcuffs, ankle-shackles; waist
chains connecting them – behind a stab-proof stainless steel cage protecting armed guards up front. Evidently, the line dividing freedom
from imprisonment is thinner than a thought. Even now his face is pressed against that two-inch gap, mushrooming out,
tongue flapping happily in wind.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer with a unique style, and a solid commitment to his craft. He is an occasional contributor to WITS, a co-author of Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row, and his writing can be found on several other platforms. We always enjoy hearing from him.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Oh, how I wish fate would grant justice to the broken soul, For then you’d be called to account for the mess you’ve made of me.
To lay bare the scars and wounds inflicted by your folly, The fruits of your finest hour for all the world to see.
Hold you in chains till you answer for every lie, Rob you of everyone and everything.
Let you share in the measure of my humiliation, Till the whole world learns to hate your name!
So that I can finally free myself from this pathetic life, And find a peace I’ve yet to know.
But instead, I followed you all the way to rock bottom, Where only the lost and condemned should go.
A place where you promised me warmth and love, Where you swore we’d find comfort in each other.
Only all I found was a new kind of hell, And embraced misery and despair as my lover.
There in those depths – longing for darkness and silence, Where I sought to hide from my pain.
I begged for my final breath to be swift, I begged to be blessed with enough tears to wash away my shame.
Yet, as your spell over me is broken, And I finally see the dwindling sunset of my time,
I wish the world had seen a better version of me, Something more than words to leave behind.
Instead, there are broken homes, ruined lives left To grieve and mourn over another senseless grave.
Because of you – so many are remembered for their worst, Instead of how much of themselves they gave.
No logic or reasoning, no comfort found In the poems etched into headstones.
Only a lonely mother’s tears flooding the ground That holds savage bones.
ABOUT THE WRITER. This is the first submission by James Bonds. If anyone is familiar with addiction, this poem hits home. The timing is right on target, and I am very grateful that Mr. Bonds chose to share this with us. I hope this is the first of many. He can be contacted at: James Bonds #19111-033 1-unit Federal Correctional Complex USP-1 P.O. Box 1033 Coleman, FL 33521
The first time I put my lips to a crack pipe… Whoever would’ve thought I’d indulge in that life? Mover Man Chris showed me how to smoke it, Inhale. Inhale. Now, hold it! I held it… until I had to release it. Cloud 9, no longer a cliché, For I had reached it. I learned the tricks Of the trade, Never cared how the crack came! If you use a glass pipe, Be sure to know how to work the flame! Glass was the best, Better than the rest. White smoke, thick, Tryna get it all, Get it all, My life depended on that toke. But, damn it! I always used too much flame! Had to resort to the tire gauge, Fell in love with the sound it made When the fire hit the rock, That snap, crackle, pop! Rock after rock after rock, On and on and on, Till the crack was all gone! Whole cigarettes burned out, Forgot they were on. Then comes the push, Heat it, push it, cool it, hit it. Repeat. Then comes the voice Dog, you ain’t stopped yet? Naw… not yet. The next stage is no fun! Down to the floor, Looking for crumbs. On hands and knees, Straight trippin’! No dope to be found, Only paint chippins. And when you finish, There’s a feeling of resolve, Knowing and accepting That the dopes all gone. I light another cigarette, Look out the window, And know that this come down Will be Hell! I learned all of this At the age of Twelve!
ABOUT THE WRITER. Jarod Wesenberg is new to WITS, but as with all the writers here, he is now part of our family. This is exactly what we are looking for. Not every story here is pretty, and to honestly share experiences of all kinds through writing is what we are. Jarod can be contacted at:
Jarod L. Wesenberg, Sr. #1830643 Michael Unit 2664 FM 2054 Tennessee Colony, TX 75886
Charles Mamou is a WITS writer. He has always maintained his innocence. He has been on death row for over twenty years. There is evidence and information the Harris County prosecution had that Charles Mamou didn’t know existed for over two decades. That information could have been used to determine what happened to the victim if anyone had pursued it.
Nothing physically ties Charles Mamou to the scene of the crime, other than the testimony of witnesses that were involved in a drug deal with him that night. There is not a fingerprint of his there. There is not a footprint of his there. No witnesses saw him there. There was a shell casing – that cannot be tied definitively to any weapon, but no weapon was ever found. Mamou was from out of town, the men who testified were not. The body was found in a location even the police described as difficult to locate. One of the witnesses worked for Orkin – on the side of town where the body was found behind a house for sale.
The individuals who testified against Charles Mamou were apparently never charged for their involvement in any of the events that took place that night – and phone records the prosecution had access to indicate two of those witnesses were not telling the truth on the stand.
A letter never presented to the jury and written by the ‘star’ witness who said Charles Mamou confessed to him says, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me shit about that cause I don’t wanna know shit, I feel better off that way.”
Charles Mamou has waited long enough for someone to help him. He’s not asking for any breaks – he’s asking for an investigation into his case, one that includes all the evidence the Houston Police Department had twenty years ago, which includes trace evidence obtained in a rape kit that was never shared with Mamou.
Please sign the above letter asking the Harris County District Attorney’s Office to reinvestigate this case.
UPDATE: This post was temporarily removed, after I was contacted and told I couldn’t share this information. After a thorough review, I disagree. The information came from trial transcripts that Charles Mamou gave me access to. In addition to that, the other records are public and the letter was written to Charles Mamou and belongs to him. Walk In Those Shoes is about writers in prison and trying to understand their experience with the justice system. If I can’t share public information without being warned and told not to – is it a wonder people end up on death row that are innocent?
I can’t swim. I can’t even float. It’s not very dignified for a former athlete, but I paddle like a dog, and I’m ashamed to admit my little sister taught herself to swim before I ever knew what dog paddling was.
Some would say that learning to swim is about overcoming large fears. Others would say it’s about overcoming the fear of death and gaining confidence in self. To not learn to swim efficiently speaks of some form of cowardice, a lack of heart – something that can’t be taught. The ability is held in such high esteem that fathers throw their frightened children into the deep, forcing them to literally ‘sink or swim’.
I was eight years old when I left the three foot end of the pool to get in line to dive off the high dive and into the twelve foot end. I knew I couldn’t swim, and I was likely to die. I simply did not care to let this chance pass me by. Some would claim I’d been thrown into the deep end long before that moment.
My heart threatened to break a rib with its hammering, but I’d been my little sister’s protector and her go-to, and whenever she called my name I’d never failed to answer the bell. I could not allow her to continue to see me fail, to see me in fear. So, I got in line. I braved the line not only to confront my fear of death, but my fear of seeing disappointment in my lil sister’s eyes. Truth be told, there were few things in life I feared more. Her love and adoration were, in my mind, forever bound to my ability to protect her, to lead the way, to provide something that neither of us had. Self-worth maybe? Identity?
It all began before that day at the pool. We lived in Compton, California, on Primrose Street. I was still young, it was before I’d started school, before crack and the justice system ravaged my family, but after my mom was murdered. My “G”-mom was simply trying to do right by her daughter’s children, keeping us together, safe and fed while trying to keep herself together mentally and emotionally. She was trying to find a way to hold on to her God’s hand while her own heart and hands were overflowing with pain.
My granny must have been watching from the shadow of the screen door when my sister and I were fighting in the backyard over a toy. To win, I pushed her down, and she began to cry. In a flash, the door banged open and my grandmother had me in her clutches. She lit into me in a real way, and through my tears, she took my cheeks in her hand and pointed to the little girl on the ground.
“That is your sister, not some stranger on the street, but yoursister! You are the only big brother she has! Don’t you ever hurt her, and you better not let anyone else ever hurt her!! Do you hear me?!”
Where I come from there’s a phrase for learning to face the very real dangers of life outside the protection of your home. We refer to facing death and learning to survive in the deep end as ‘stepping off the porch’. This was my splash! moment.
I was in middle school when I stabbed a middle-schooler for pushing my lil sister down and taking her money as she waited in the candy store line for me. I’d come home with my sister in hand and a black eye that was talking to me. I’d confronted the kid and he’d took a swing – my first fight ever. He parked me on my butt like he was taking a driver’s test. My black eye elicited a warning from my granny. She better not hear from that school about me fighting, she’d sent me to school to learn, not to fight. No one cared to ask why I had a black eye. Why should they? This was my little sister, not theirs, so it was up to me to deal with it, right?
When my uncles and grandmother found out what happened from my sister and my attempt to wash my bloody school clothes with some Tide, a hairbrush and the water hose, they all called me crazy. Angry. ‘Touched’. All but my grandmother. She never condemned me over what I’d done, nor did she admonish me over the situation. She merely looked at me with a new tilt of curiosity to her head, like she was seeing me for the first time.
I bounced twice from the high dive and did a triple tuck back flip (my grade school had a gymnastics team). I hit the water head first with my arms extended to break the surface, body like an arrow. Best dive of the day! Then I sank right to the bottom, twelve feet of water!
Panic? Never that. I could see the ladder on the other side of the pool. I’d just ‘walk’ over to it and climb out. I pushed off to get a few sips of air into taxed lungs, only to start panting like a dog. A few sips wouldn’t do! Sputtering and choking and thrashing, I sank again. The older kid who came to save me came from behind. I fought, thinking it was an attack. I sank yet again! I passed out in the pool. My lil sis watched me die trying to lead the way – to continue to be her hero. They dragged my lifeless body from the pool and revived me.
Welcome to my deep end.
I once had to face down a kid who had his heart set on chopping me with a machete over my sister. Once brained a grown man with a brick who tried to rape her. I’m otherwise a non-confrontational person, but when it comes to my mother’s only daughter? I would hurt you. Bad.
What I didn’t know was that there were threats in our own home. Family members came to live with us, having fallen on tough times financially. I was only a kid, mom was dead – murdered – and neither of our fathers were worth the ink it would cost to write their names. I never knew the love and trust garnered from helping with homework could lead to the ripping of a soul or that the resulting screams are seldom heard because those who cause them are likely the same who stand at the gates in defense.
When she became pregnant at fifteen due to this molestation, I was in chains already, after being on the row for months. My lil sis was alone. She came to see me – alone. Her belly large, her eyes pregnant with fear and secret pain. We held each other and wept, just as we had in the backyard in Compton, California, on Primrose Street. We both drowned that day. Who knows, maybe if I had learned to swim, things could have been different. Maybe some cries can only be heard under water, when you are out of breath – in the deep end.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Jones has a style all his own. His writing is honest and thought provoking and exciting to work with. I look forward to hearing more of his insight as well as more of his life’s experiences.
Mr. Jones has served 32 years for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old. He can be contacted at:
DeLaine Jones #7623482 777 Stanton Blvd. Ontario, OR 97914
