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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Terry Robinson

I Am Often Asked,

February 13, 2022 Chanton © Leave a comment

“What does it feel like to be innocent on Death Row?”

My answer?

“A setback for mankind.”

I was born in the ‘70s to black parents in black times in a world that was gray at best. My earliest lessons on guilt were not determined by wrongdoings, but by the color of one’s skin. I saw the guilty as they were dipped in tar and strung up for public viewing, or set upon for sitting down to eat. Guilt then becomes a psychological impression on the minds of black communities; a sense of guilt that is the origin of the criminal mind – a reflection of how we feel. Guilt is the cultural identity that leaves behind a trail of regrets, so I am dissociated with feeling innocent in a country that charges people guilty for having black skin.

I was convicted of the murder of a restaurant manager in April, 2000, and sentenced to die by a consenting jury by way of lethal injection. Arriving on Death Row, I conceded two things – my innocence was insignificant and justice grotesquely one-sided. I decided that neither guilt nor innocence had brought me there – it was powerlessness. I was powerless to take charge of my life and break the cycle of recidivism. I was put on the path to prison at the age of seven, the time I first stole, my impropriety promising to progress over time. By the age of twenty-seven, I was the product of circumstances and my road ended here, yet despite all my wrongdoings, still I did not deserve to be on Death Row.

I avoided eye contact with men, sparse with my words, afraid that my difference would show and the rapists, brutes and murderers would figure out I was not. There was no introduction guide to Death Row, but if there was, I imagined it would’ve read,

Innocence does not thrive here,
your hope is your despair.

For the first year, I uttered not a word about innocence, though the subject was one of recurrence, casually hinted at by some in conversations, while others were more straightforward. I wondered if my own innocence sounded as disingenuous as theirs when spoken aloud. The improbability of their innocence caused me to dismiss their claims as prison colloquialism.

Over time, I learned to shelve my innocence while emulating the hardened killers. I was wary and distrusting, argumentative, and constantly on the lookout for a fight. At night, sometimes, my mind broke free, much to my dismay. I never knew fantasizing could hurt so bad. I envisioned life as a working-class citizen, doing stringent work that was wearisome but decent, with a pension as opposed to a penalty. Other times, I grasped at the wilting memories of family and friends as their influence crumbled under their hefty absence, and their faces yielded to time.

Then came the biggest news… a Death Row man was freed from here after being awarded a new trial. I was skeptical, challenged his innocence, as he was someone I previously dismissed. Still the question lingered… what if he was innocent? And what if there were others? These men I’d subjected to my silent criticism, fostered by widespread belief. Unable to relate due to their menacing aura, my innocence was too fragile to trust, so I rejected them based solely on my preconceived notion. It was the very same rejection I feared. I wanted to be happy for a guy whose stay on Death Row was at its end, but with my errant dismissal of him and my own self interest, I was too ashamed.

As the years rolled by, cases were amended and death sentences overturned – mental retardation and the prohibiting of minors were enactments that saved lives. In some few cases, the men were exonerated on the likelihood of innocence, an unsettling error revealing that behind the virtue of our courts was depravity. There was a time when I presumed our judicial system stood on the right side of public service, but with the growing number of death sentences vacated, an alarming truth emerged. Wrongful convictions were not the result of legal mishaps – but a setback in the evolution of justice. It was a systemic trade-off, conviction rates in return for support at the ballots. On the verge of understanding how my injustice came to be, I was nowhere close to help, as I struggled to wish well those men who departed… their hope was my despair.

Every day I longed for my freedom until all my hope was spent, and I was left with nothing more than a stale existence. With each reversal, I felt sorely abandoned by the securities of the laws. I pondered the plausibility of my injustice and came away rejecting myself. I used recreational drugs, obscenities and conflict to propel my downward spiral. I severed outside connections, quit my aspirations and rigorously questioned my faith. It seemed my road didn’t stop on Death Row, but I was headed to a place much darker, and no matter how far my mind drifted from my mad reality, the executions pulled me back.

On those nights I ached helplessly as the clock wound down on the lives of men tethered to a gurney. I wondered if they winced at the needle’s prick like I did as a kid at the clinic, or closed their eyes in defiance to die alone. Done with feeling helpless, I put their deaths out of my mind and tried to remain unaffected by the executions until a death date arrived for a friend of mine… and my helplessness turned to surrender.

It was thirteen years later before I gained some clarity into the disorder taking place in my life. It began with written essays that chronicled my past offenses, offenses unrelated to my stay here, restoring in me a sense of worth. Accountability for my previous wrongs – saved my life. Without it, I would’ve given up. With the many death sentences being vacated, I couldn’t wait one more turn, and through accountability, I discovered there was redemption behind these walls, the potential to reinvent the principles of humanity – and the most promising yet was the willingness of these men to die with more dignity than that with which they lived.

So, what is it like to be innocent on Death Row is best answered by the word ‘unrest’. It is a constant grinding of the mind in an effort to determine how we tolerate such criminal indecency. My being wrongfully convicted is a laborious affliction under the stigmatic strain of disbelief – a strain that offered one resolve for me, complacency for my accusers. It’s lonely being innocent with no one to talk to about the certainty of my innocence. And frightening. Only Ichabod Crane, a character from my childhood, terrified me so. Often enough, being innocent feels pointless after 21 years of punishment, when death is no longer a menacing possibility but a welcome alternative.

Being innocent on Death Row is soulfully depressing, granting little peace of mind. It is my fight to hold on to the hope I deserve, when the culpability isn’t mine to bear. My innocence is no more relevant than the next man’s guilt when the ink on our status reads the same – and yet, what does it matter, guilt or innocence, in a nation such as our own, where both are punishable by death.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. On our Facebook page, we regularly share stories of wrongful convictions, they are real, frequent, and Terry has been living one for over two decades.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail):
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131
OR
textbehind.com

Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Terry Robinson

Entries From My Journal

February 5, 2022 Chanton © Leave a comment

Note: This year, I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they went through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. This is the first in this series. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.

February 5, 2014 (Wednesday, 12:43 a.m.)

Sitting here on my bed staring off into nothingness as so many thoughts fill my head about where I am and why I am here. Does it even matter whether I’m innocent or not? Am I destined to die here regardless? Sometimes I wish they would just get it over with. The heartache and pain from missing my family is unbearable – death has to be better than this. Then I think… does this make me suicidal to prefer death over agony? To know sadness day in and day out for more than fifteen years is a recipe for insanity. Constantly engulfed in darkness. Always alone, even when others are present. Avoiding my reflection in the mirror each morning as I am afraid to face myself and the reality that is my life, or so my death. I may never get to hug my mother again or go fishing with my father. To many others that knew me, I am long forgotten; a conviction and a sentence has erased me from existence in all the ways that count. The tears are more frequent and the numbness is without end. Some say, ‘prayer changes things’. If that’s true, then the only thing it seems to have changed in my mind is that prayer changes things. My hope is not just fleeting – it has long fled, but who the hell cares?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. I have asked Terry to share some of his journal entries with us.

Writing Contests

Contest Prompt – What Inspires You?

February 5, 2022 Chanton © Leave a comment

Note: The following prompt was contributed by Terry Robinson, a long-time WITS writer, board member, author and innocent man on death row.

Life can be a struggle, a challenge to get through the hardships and dilemmas of each day. No one understands that more than those who are incarcerated. Sure, life is not all struggle, there are those moments of joy, but for men and women behind bars, we can assume that the struggle outweighs the joy. Prison isn’t meant to be a place for one to thrive, but instead for behaviors to worsen because a cultivated mind is a hindrance to recidivism, which is bad for business, and prison itself is a business.

So, in a place where the joys are minimal, the struggles are constant, it’s a wonder how prisoners make it through the day. Theirs is a resilience worthy of showcasing.

Walk In Those Shoes wants to know – what is your muse? What is the source of inspiration that you draw from in order to get through each day in prison? It can be family, books, dreams of a better life, positive change, education, religion – whatever you choose.

Incarcerated men and women hold phenomenal value. Share what it is that gives you what it takes to overcome your adversities in prison.

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. Poetry is considered, as long as it is inspired by the prompt.

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: April 30, 2022. Decisions will be posted on or before May 31, 2022.

MAILING ADDRESS:

Walk In Those Shoes
Writing Contest Entry
P.O. Box 70092
Henrico, Virginia 23255

Footnote: Entries that do not follow the prompt are not passed on to the judges.

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

The Center

October 24, 2021 Chanton © Leave a comment

“Man, fuck Wilbert… he can’t tell me what to do. He ain’t my mutha-fuckin’ daddy.”

That was a recurring phrase I heard about the director at the local community center, kids fuming over rules and regulations and a man dead-set on enforcing them.

I first heard of Wilbert over monkey bar banter during recess at elementary school, dissenting conversations about fun and rules that turned into a tug-of-war of words. I heard enough to know I wanted to know more about the man who could inspire such joy while rousing such fury. The next day, I walked home from school, giddy with anticipation as we made our way to the Center.

The Reid Street Community Center was everything I had hoped for. Everything I dreamed. Their basketball courts were indoors and had polished wood. In the projects where I lived, there was only dirt. There were billiards in the game room, air hockey and puzzles. A dance studio with full-length mirrors. Vending machines and a playground. A kitchen. A pool. Arts and crafts. Oh, yeah… and Wilbert.

He came in well short of his reputation which was prominent enough to be a titan, though he towered over the heads of onrushing kids as they poured through the doors of the Center. His skin tone was dark, rich and as appealing as cocoa on a winter morning. He was clean-shaven with a trimmed moustache that made him approachable while his steady glare gave me pause. His fitted tee showed off bulging biceps, his warm-ups and sneakers making him look the part of a bona fide athlete in search of the competition. I held my breath along with my opinion as I breezed by him, seemingly unnoticed. It would be my first day in a place that would become a second home.

Wilbert turned out to be a cool guy – not some half angel/demon to which I presumed. He was laid back, even when he was engaging kids and their activities. His voice was mellow and well composed. Sure, there were rules plastered on almost every wall throughout the Center, but it’s not like he used them to browbeat us into submission. Wilbert was as stern as he needed to be to teach us kids discipline and self-respect; a purpose well-served since many of us had no one else.

The Reid Street Community Center sat in one of the most impoverished neighborhoods in town, where lack of resources often included a lapse in effective parenting. Kids from broken homes with single, working-class, mothers and absentee fathers were those who most frequented the Center. Many of them were unruly by cause-and-effect and didn’t give a damn about following the rules. But where some home-life offered negligence and abuse, the Center was a sanctuary.

Wilbert wasn’t just the activity coordinator, he was also a mentor to troubled kids. His goal was to tap into the potential of every kid there and draw out our self-worth. Sometimes it meant giving someone the boot for flagrant or repeated offenses, though the ban seldom lasted more than a day since Wilbert was exceptionally forgiving.

There were other staff members that helped out around the Center, counseling and facilitating events and proving their devotion to the cause. As such, Wilbert could often be seen in his office toiling over paperwork as he figured out how to keep the place running, yet he left his door open, always willing to stop in the middle of budget cuts to make himself available to talk.

He was the Center’s little league football coach, the basketball referee and also the swimming instructor. He hosted Friday night dances in an effort to raise money for the equipment. He showed up on rainy days, worked long after hours and drove the kids home when they were running late for curfew. And yeah… he caught some flak at times for being strict when enforcing the rules, but it was only because he held us to high standards. Still, no matter how many times the kids cussed him out and spewed their harsh opinions about Wilbert, he was always there for them the next day.

Wilbert went on to effect many lives with his work at the Community Center, a feat that was sure to offer its share of challenges. The building was marred by paint chips and broken windows, the equipment was rickety and threadbare. Bullies and other misfits came around at times and turned the grounds into a battle field. And with the Center serving as a hub for every urban kid in the surrounding neighborhoods, too often it was understaffed. Yet Wilbert was the driving spirit that kept that place alive, his devotion the keys to the door. It was his very stance on the policies and his unwillingness to compromise that made many of us kids feel safe. Sometimes I would wonder how much he would take before he up and left us, but as it turned out, Wilbert was already home. And he was never out to try to be anyone’s ‘daddy’… No, Wilbert was determined to do better.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. His unique writing style is in a league of its own. He is gifted.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
He wrote this essay in response to our recent contest, which he couldn’t enter due to his position on the Board. He’s a man who goes the extra mile even when he doesn’t have to.

Sentenced to Death, Terry Robinson, Views From The Inside

Coping With Conviction

July 24, 2021 Chanton © 3 Comments

He stormed on to Death Row with his fists balled tight, a sneer on his face that was either a challenge or a deterrent. His wavy hair was spinning, too well-kept to have just fought someone, so if he wasn’t in trouble, then he must be looking for it. ‘Who the hell comes through the doors on Death Row inviting conflict with hardened killers?’ I thought. Not me. I arrived on Death Row the day before, and I was trying to go unnoticed. He was trouble alright, with his tattooed neck and gangster lean as he slung his sack of property on the top bunk with a thud. Young. Unruly. Someone to avoid. My judgment of him was just getting started when, unexpectedly, he turned and offered me a cigarette.

That was how I first came to know Eric Queen, it was upon our arrival on Death Row. Two young men trying to wrap our heads around the most terrifying thing to happen to a person. At least, that’s what receiving the death penalty was for me. Eric seemed too mad to give a damn, an anger that burned without direction. I should’ve been just as mad since I was there without cause. I’d taken a beating to my reputation at trial court with the lies and accusations. Maybe I thought playing nice would earn me a reprieve, when the truth was, I could have used some of Eric’s anger.

We bonded over Newport cigarettes, shared adversity and the recent events that brought us to Death Row. As the menthol smoke spewed from our lungs and dissipated into nothingness, so too did the intensity ease from Eric’s face. What I once thought was an unruly, trouble-making thug was really a harmless-looking average guy. Harmless with the potential to be lethal, like a steel trap that lies rusting idly away over time as long as nobody comes fucking with it. His brown eyes gleamed with the curiosity of someone eager to learn. His skin was the color of sunset at the end of a blistering day. A man in his early twenties, his youthful facial features were likely to require proof of I.D., with a gap-tooth smile that he sported with such confidence it left him on the right side of handsome.

He said he preferred to be called E-Boogie. Funny. He didn’t seem like the dancing type. He bobbed when he walked, his arm like a pendulum swaying ridiculously side-to-side with each step, but that appeared to be the extent of his rhythm. Still, it occurred to me that almost every black person on Death Row went by a nickname. Bedrock. Yard Dog. Napalm. Dreadz. There was even an Insane. I thought to get me one since the name ‘Terry’ was in no way as intimidating as Insane. That was the night I became known as Eye-G and E-Boogie and I first shook hands.

In the days and weeks to come, E-Boogie and I grew to know more about each other. I considered my own story as boring as a silent film, but his was action-packed. He told me about being a military brat, though I must say it sounded more like a confession. The packing up and leaving friends, always the new guy at school, the unstableness of it all. I couldn’t pretend to know the struggles of life on the base, so I mostly listened. Many of his tales lasted about as long as a punch line, then he was on to the next. It was only when he reached his experiences with gangs that he spoke at length. The only thing I knew about gangs was that I didn’t want to know about gangs but without it I could never fully come to know and understand E-Boogie.

Out of tolerating our differences, we found we had many things in common. We played basketball together every day, usually on the same team, but we both had a competitive spirit so rivalry was in the air. Our love for music kept us up at night listening to rap songs and debating which hiphop artist was better. Sometimes it was an all day affair at the poker table, cheating our asses off with hand signals only to walk away with a few pennies to show. We liked the same movies, ate the same foods and drank about the same amount of prison hooch before staggering to our bunks and crashing for the night. Every day spent with Eric was taxing yet we woke up and did it all over again as our shenanigans kept the adverse conditions of Death Row at bay and staved off the awaiting pain.

Our coping with conviction did not come without dissent from the other inmates. Some thought that our rowdiness violated their personal space. It kind of did, but it wasn’t intentional. Prison strips a person of almost every dignity, every liberty you could think of until all you have is an incredible sense of personal space. It’s all bullshit when even our personal space belongs to the state, yet it’s the only thing left for us to claim in this world in order to say we’re still here. No one understood that more than me. Hell, I was holding on to something too. While they were griping about personal space, I was fighting to keep my sanity. Even E-Boogie and all his thug moodiness would not deliberately infringe on someone’s personal space. Yeah… he was mad as hell at times, but I think it was more at himself. His and my antics were simply that – antics to distract from the chaos of having a death sentence. It was hard to accept the reality that my life as I knew it was over.

Nothing good lasts forever. That’s the motto of Death Row. We’d gone a few months fending off the misery and picking each other’s spirits up. Maybe we had no right to be enjoying ourselves while Death Row was grinding away at the minds of those around us. Well, E-Boogie and I would both learn that the misery was infallible and friendships were bound to suffer. It started one day with a dispute between he and I over something so petty I can’t remember. The exchange got heated. We both were talking shit. Suddenly E-Boogie called me out to fight. We argued over something so frivolous I believed he wasn’t serious. I walked up to him, looked him in the eyes – and he punched me in the face. I was so shocked, my breath caught in my chest and my heart sunk with betrayal. Eric, the person I relied on the most, had violated my personal space. The fight that ensued wasn’t much of a fight at all, rather a bunch of grappling to try and salvage our friendship. Before the day was over, we were back in each other’s good graces… but something between us had changed.

Afterwards we explored other friendships while maintaining a strained connection. We still got together and did all the things we enjoyed, but when it was over we’d go our separate ways. Eric made friends with a few people whose company I did not care for. Even from a distance, I could see his mood darkening to a point where I was overly concerned. He started getting into fights, in fact, he and I would go another round. It wasn’t anything our friendship couldn’t survive, but it wedged us further apart. One day we watched Eric’s sister, Kanetra, play college basketball before the nation on TV. After the game he went to his cell and closed the door, proud and isolated for two days.

On a few occasions he and I got together and talked like old times. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him. At the time, I wasn’t doing all that great in coping with Death Row, but Eric seemed to be doing a lot worse. I promised myself I would be there for him more, the way he was there for me.

Eric opted out of the annual basketball tournament, which left everybody on Death Row like… “What?” He was a top player. He upped everybody’s game. The tournament wouldn’t be the same without him. He did, however, coach that year. I was chosen to play on his team and man – we butted heads all season. I didn’t expect favoritism, I was too proud for that. I earned my spot on the team. In the end, we lost terribly in the elimination round, and I didn’t speak to Eric for over a week. Now, I wish I had.

I was at the card table that day when the announcement came over the PA system.

“Lockdown. Lockdown. All inmates report to your assigned cell. Lockdown. Report to your cells now.”

It was 5:00 p.m. We hadn’t gone to dinner yet. What the hell was going on? We packed up the poker chips and headed to our rooms. My biggest concern was winning my money back. The chatter started behind the doors. Speculation mostly. A fight broke out downstairs. A fight? Downstairs? E-Boogie was housed downstairs. Money was now the furthest thing from my mind. I knew in my heart it was Eric. The cell doors stayed closed throughout the night, and I went to bed wondering with whom Eric had a fight.

The next morning, I was standing in front of the mirror brushing my teeth when a guy popped up at the door. His face was rather long, his eyes dodgy, and he shifted from one heel to the other. He said that he was just dropping by to check on me since he knew E-Boogie and I were close.

“What the hell you talkin’ ‘bout? What happened to E-Boogie?” I asked.

“He hung himself, dawg. E-Boogie is dead.”

There were no tears to soothe the burning in my eyes as they were a river cascading down my heart. I wanted to sling my toothbrush aside, run downstairs and save him, but my chance for that was gone. I couldn’t remember the last words I said to him, and I couldn’t forget saying nothing. I felt like I failed him for not being there for him like he was for me when I needed a friend the most. The word about Eric spread like wild fire in a gasoline storm. He was found hanging in a mop room closet and pronounced dead on the scene. I realized Eric had been fighting after all; I just never guessed it was a fight with himself. Maybe there wasn’t much I could have done about that, but I owed it to him to try.

Eric Queen perished on August 5, 2007. He was 28. He was a hothead at times, but he was generous and if he loved you, he made sure you knew it. Eric made mistakes in his life, but I never heard him make excuses. In fact, one time he said to me, “Life don’t bend over for nobody, Eye-G. We just gotta roll with it.”

I’m still wondering where he got that from with his young ass. Eric swore he was a philosopher, and at times he really was. Dude was smart as hell. He could figure out anything – he just chose to figure out the streets. Can’t say I blame ‘im. The streets are tempting; they’ve led a lot of good people down bad paths. Still, there is redeem-ability after the streets. I wonder if Eric believed he could be redeemed. We never talked particularly about the crime that led him to Death Row, so no speculation there. But I know he had regrets in other areas of his life – we both did. It was us sharing those stories and being vulnerable with one another where we became like brothers. I just wish he knew his life was so much more than the evil that plagued him that day. If nothing else, his redeeming quality was in all that he did for me. I was spiraling into an unhealthy mental space when he walked through the doors that night. Eric put aside his own burdens to get me through my worst of times. I only wish I could’ve done the same for him… maybe through my writings I can still try.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. When he first started writing for WITS, it was apparent he was a gifted writer, but he keeps striving for more – and he continues to achieve it.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

He can also be contacted via textbehind.com

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

From Bosom To Bowels: a cry from Death Row

June 19, 2021 Chanton © 1 Comment

Lord, why did you spare me
the night I lay shot and cried out to you?

All my transgressions I laid at your feet,
yet you turned not away from my spirit.

Now my troubles are imminent death
in the form of state sanctioned execution.

I have counted the faces of those gone down
in the chamber, their legacy left untold.

I, too, am slated for an unrighteous death,
Will anonymity mark my grave?

Am I forgotten, Lord, or just forsaken
and no longer worthy of your care?

I am deemed lowly and unfit
by those who call on your name.

There was a time when your mark laid heavily on me
and I was overwhelmed by your grace.

Now you give favor to my closest friends
and made me a victim of their deceit.

Even my thoughts are shackled and confined
to a chasm erected from anguish.

I have searched for your comfort in every way
and turned up only disaster and dread.

Do broken spirits make it into heaven?
Does my tongue spew curses of thee or sing praise?

Is repentance best served as a dying declaration
and faithfulness a daily chore?

Is there a path to eternity from Death Row,
a place set on misery and darkness?

And still, God, I trust in you,
hear my prayer when the morning comes.

Reject me not before I am called to your judgment
but find mercy in my shortcomings.

From bosom to bowels you have shielded me
when I was close to death.

From your will I strayed to worldly desires
and was left with my shame to bear.

My anger is of my own doing
my faithlessness was my doom.

I am trodden under the heels of my enemies
but in you, Lord, I am redeemed.

You have given me the way to enter your kingdom,
your glory is my salvation.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He is an author who has found purpose not only in his love of writing, but also in lending his voice to those who cannot speak for themselves. Because he is an innocent man on death row, his gift of expressing himself and his experiences through the written word is invaluable in raising awareness of issues within the criminal justice system. The ease with which he was put on Death Row for over two decades, in contrast to the struggle to undo an injustice is what his life examplifies and he shares that experience with grace and eloquence like no other could.

Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

The Things That Remain

February 1, 2021 Chanton © 1 Comment

Some tragedies are gradual, prolonging dismay, others swift and unexpected, yet loss in any form effects in us a void that can only be filled with time. It is loss to which we are all akin, regardless of status, color or creed, none excluded from the woeful affliction all of humankind will suffer. Tear-stained cheeks, fine suits and condolences are the soothing, necessary etiquette, after which we look to move on – but occasionally we find we can’t.

Chris was a childhood friend I grew up with on Fountain Drive, a project housing development set on the outskirts of town. There were no ills of the inner-city there, like drugs and prostitution. Sequestered by fields and lush greenery, we were burgeoning country folk. We scoured ditches for crayfish, climbed trees to pick wild berries, and explored the far reaches of the surrounding woods where we carved out a world all our own.

A favorite pastime was the community football game. Narrow eyes stared across a makeshift field as we rivaled one another. We tackled, grappled, and cussed with fervor to demonstrate our toughness, but in the end we always left as friends, looking forward to carrying on the next day.

It was the older kids in the neighborhood that first ganged up on Chris – my brother and his closest friends. It was an assault that came without merit as Chris had committed no offense. Instead of contesting their egregious violation, Chris up and ran away, unaware the flight-mode mentality would begin a lifelong recurrence.

Although a rural bubble, Fountain Drive was not the easiest place to live. No one qualified for low-income housing more than single mothers and senior citizens, and with many of our moms off working to improve their conditions and the elderly nestled up to their daytime television shows, we ran around mostly unsupervised and growing unrulier by the day.

We had petty differences, some escalating to fist fights, that seldom outlasted the day. We ransacked the neighborhood community center and egged each other on to steal. Everything from throwing rocks at passing cars to prank calling the fire department, our mischief knew no bounds, yet nothing would ignite our frenzy more than chasing after Chris.

Chris, himself, was a passive misfit – just barely on the right side of wrong. His misdeeds were rather frivolous, swiping an item from a clothesline or lifting coins for his mother’s purse. He was never one to talk trash, though his size was intimidating enough. At ten, he was a head taller than most teenagers, and by thirteen, he was the same age as his shoe size. With shoulders as wide as a welcome embrace and powerful legs that were the getting-away kind, we stood almost no chance of catching him, yet we were thrilled to try.

Chris, however, was a gentle soul. He was thoughtful and forgiving, and usually, within a day or so, he was back amongst the clique. Despite his hulking size, he had a boyish quality that was much more fun to keep around, and over time, our betrayals became less frequent, until we no longer chased him away.

By fifteen, Chris’ interests had matured, and he began to venture outside the neighborhood to other parts of town. It was courting girls that had procured his attention, and he thought to visit them whenever possible. However, as we had long given up chasing Chris, other kids from around town had just begun, until it seemed that bullying Chris was the most expected thing to do.

Once, I witnessed him fleeing from some guys – but did nothing in the way of help, afraid I was a word in his defense away from being bullied myself. Chris, though, had an impeccable reputation for outpacing his foes, as many of his aggressors gave chase for sport, all except one… Mikey.

A local badass who favored drinking and fighting, Mikey was the epitome of trouble. He was the guy the other bullies steered clear of. It was a brisk night outside a nightclub when Mikey set his sights on Chris – but this time, there would be no running away. Instead, Chris fought back.

As it turned out, Chris didn’t run all those years because he was fearful – it was a method of harm prevention. He figured as long as he didn’t hurt anyone today, things would be better tomorrow. He ran away because he was being a better friend to us than we ever were to him. Unlike Mikey, who was ruthless – not to mention a sore loser.

Some few nights later while walking home alone, Chris spotted a suspicious vehicle. He discovered that it was Mikey, along with some friends. Outnumbered, Chris had little choice but to flee, taking cover behind some houses as Mikey stepped out of the car with a gun and fired a shot in the dark. Assuming Chris was long gone, Mikey and his crew sped off, unaware the bullet had hit its mark as Chris lay dying in the night.

It wasn’t until the next morning his body was discovered, entangled in the brush. Chris had been killed at just sixteen… and I never got to say, ‘I’m sorry’.

Regrets, juxtapose to loss, are the things that remain, the stuff of good memories, shared experiences, and lost opportunities. After 32 years, it’s regrets that have kept Chris alive in my heart, and without which, I fear I will lose one of the best people I ever knew.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS. He is an author who has found purpose not only in his love of writing, but also in lending his voice to those who cannot speak for themselves. He is also an innocent man who has lived on death row for over 20 years. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and we are proud to call him a member of this team.

Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Promise

The following is an excerpt from a poem written for his mother, a gift woven in words.

When I was but a little girl
I made myself a promise,
To rear my children with dignity,
Teach them to be honest.

But first, I had to grow,
Endure lots of pain,
Survive the throes of ghetto woes
Time and time again.

Things would not come easy,
At times I felt like crying,
Determined to gift-wrap the world
Or willing to die trying.

Winter boots and Easter suits
And summers filled with glee.
Never mind if I was suffocating,
As long as my kids could breathe.

So, I toiled by day and learned by night
Lunched on rice and bread.
Wore my children’s hand-me-downs
Just to get ahead.

I cooked and cleaned and in between
Encouraged my children to strive.
I scraped and clawed but through it all,
My eyes stayed on the prize.

Destiny for me was simply
Duty without break.
If asked to do it all over again,
I would not hesitate.

See, all I ever wanted
Was the life I never had
Served to my babies
In the absence of their dads.

I wanted to show them through persistence
They could have it all,
What matters most is how we rise,
Not so much how we fall.

My kids are now grown with kids of their own,
Some of those kids with child.
Some day when my story is told,
I hope I’ve made them proud.

All we have to offer the world,
The legacy we leave behind.
I pray all mothers love their children
As much as I love mine.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and is a co-author of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. The above is only an excerpt from a poem he wrote for his mother who has been his biggest supporter. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. He 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

Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

A Writer’s Way

For over three years I’ve been writing for Walk In Those Shoes, a sounding board for prisoners whose voices would otherwise be muffled behind prison walls, as well as a call to action for readers. In a world of social statuses, cultural practices and racial characteristics that serve to divide us, we remain connected through our human experiences. We’ve all lost a loved one. We’ve all dreamed. We’ve all had childhood crushes for that special someone that turned our words to mush. We’ve all done something we wish we could take back, and we all have something yet to attain. Our experiences link us in a way that voids our differences, the fabric of our worldly relationships woven in our stories.

It was after reading personal and thought-provoking essays by writers like John Green and Charles Mamou, that I recognized the importance of Walk In Those Shoes. Each piece was thoughtfully edited and kept true to its writer while providing a visual nexus that was soulful, stories not told with rhetoric but the realism of childhood abandonment, abuse and regrets. There were also tales of familial joys, kindness and compassion. I could hardly wait to join such an astonishing cast of writers whom I’d come to admire through their shared vulnerability.

On October 5, 2017, Walk In Those Shoes featured a piece titled I’m Still Breathing, an homage to Dr. Maya Angelou. In addition to the message, there was an image of a rusted manacle laid bare on granite siding. This visual selection was a symbol of empathy meant to resonate with my words. It was my first writing to be published on Walk In Those Shoes, my induction into a brotherhood of writers and one of my proudest moments.

Simply put, Walk In Those Shoes is a proverbial reminder that we are not without empathy. It is a platform for writers with broken pasts to make whole their productive future. I’m grateful for my fellow contributors for their courage to share their experiences. Our stories are not meant to suffer in silence, our stories are meant to heal.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and his creative resume is rapidly growing. His is a co-author of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, a book banned from prisons in North Carolina; he is an active board member of Walk In Those Shoes as well as one of several frequent contest judges; and he continues to work on his memoir, as well as a book of fiction. His writing abilities are amazingly far reaching, and we are fortunate to have his voice and input in the direction of WITS. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after studying his case file and transcripts WITS also believes in that innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Terry Robinson, Views From The Inside

First -Timer

Suicides, assaults, perpetuated acts of nonsense, exonerations, relationships severed and put back together – I thought I’d experienced all there was on Death Row. I’ve seen mild, treatable medical conditions fester and decline, often turning fatal due to inadequate healthcare. And I’ve seen the dismal look in a man’s eyes, helpless and void, moments away from being executed – yet even after twenty years, nothing could’ve prepared me for today.

For over six months now, due to global restrictions imposed to prevent the spread of COVID-19, all weekly in-person Death Row visitation has been suspended. As an alternative, online video visitation was implemented, which was a welcome remedy to the growing concerns of our loved ones for our well-being. For men decades removed from society, video visits ignited Death Row with an ever burning anticipation to view our family in the comforts of their homes as opposed to a concrete booth with reinforced glass and steel bars. Appointments were made faster than a sweepstakes giveaway and everyone that returned from a visit had a tale to tell, some recounted with exuberant smiles, some with heavy hearts.

In the following weeks, as per safety regulations, the site for Death Row video visits was moved to another area in the prison. Many of us know the new location as the ‘Death Watch’. It’s where capital punishment is performed. Few men here have suffered the Death Watch prior to having their scheduled executions vacated, one in particular describing the most dreadful night ever with a broken voice to match. More often, the men who’d been hauled off to the Death Watch would not return. It was a wasteland that was now being assigned familial merit and a path on which I would walk.

Friday, September 18, 2020, at 9:03 a.m., a call blared over the P/A system, one that came expectedly as I had awaited the sound since the night before. It would be my first video visit with my family, whom I hadn’t seen in months. The anticipation of it all elevated my mood beyond the reach of my daily struggles. I hopped into the standard Death Row uniform, one meant to evoke guilt – a hot red jumper that draws heavy around the shoulders in a color scheme that clashes with one’s dignity. With nothing left to do but settle my eagerness, I strapped on my face mask and headed on my way.

I joined the company of two other inmates, also with scheduled visits, as they shuffled slightly on their heels, anxious to be off. One guy, like myself, was a first-timer; I surmised he was equally as nervous. The other inmate had attended video visits prior and schooled me on what was to come.

With the arrival of the escorting officer, we set out on our trip from the Death Row facility down to an area usually reserved for visitation, nothing to heighten the excitement along the way, yet nothing to diminish it. We then discontinued the familiar route and veered down a flight of stairs, a control station identical to the one above at the bottom. We crossed the lobby to a sliding glass door that held beyond its threshold something menacing – the very path condemned men had journeyed before as they faced a despicable end.

The door cranked open with a woeful whine, like a symphony of restless souls. I followed the group as they seemingly proceeded with no ills for our whereabouts. What looked to be a short distance to the other end of the hallway became a faraway stretch of land, my steps laden with the realization that, for some, this was their final walk.

Rows of windows, made murky and distorted to deny one last peaceful look at nature, lined the passageway. Here, nothing would be offered to soothe the spirit of the wretched, though in a failed act of humanity, sedatives would be used to ease their pain. At the midway point was a sally port with its inner workings obscured as it sprang into view like a childhood boogeyman, chasing away my sense of security. I needn’t inquire of anyone to know this was the Death Watch. It appeared nothing like the horror I’d dreamed of, yet it incited the same despair. I was standing in the final resting place of a friend of mine named Joe who was executed in ’03 by lethal injection. Longing for his company, I whispered to myself and hoped he could hear me.

We made our way to a waiting area, each taking up a station as the first of us was ushered away to begin his scheduled visit. It would be some twenty minutes later before he returned, talkative and rather giddy as the next guy hurried off in his place. I sat and thought of all the laws passed over the years that would’ve prevented some executions, like the Mental Retardation bill that would’ve saved a man named Perry, or the Racial Justice act for another guy, Insane. One law that was enacted excluded defendants under eighteen years of age from being eligible to receive the death penalty, an amendment that would’ve kept two other men, Hassan and J-Rock, alive today.

The second inmate emerged with a smile so bright I soaked up a bit of his joy. I was sure that I’d seen the worst of the Death Watch. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I stepped around the corner to what I thought would be a cozy, makeshift cubicle with a monitor on which the faces of my loved ones awaited. Instead, I happened onto an arching hallway with blinding lights at the far-end and a metal tank made obvious by the gear-wheel bolted to the door. I was told it was the crank that released the gasses into the chamber during executions. Beside the Death Tank was the viewing area, where the deaths have actually been watched by those who would champion vengeance while holding others to a different standard. I cringed at the thought of such an immoral practice and the historical transgressions. I’ve often wondered if my friends felt alone when they were executed – part of me now prays that they did.

After visitation, I passed by the infamous Death Chamber once more and peered into the darkened sarcophagus. I had hoped to get a feel for my friend, Joe, but all I got was a question of fate.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he and others co-authored Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. 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

Prison Writing and Expression