He was called Little Tee – befitting since he stood no taller than the BMX bicycle he struggled to mount, eager to tag along with the older kids to the mall.  His cheeks flushed, absorbing the praise, while my friends boasted over his skill for thieving.  I knew they were manipulating him, but I didn’t speak up – being equally manipulative in my silence.  I hoped he would grow tired on our trail and turn back, but he didn’t, determination cascading from his forehead with each trickle of sweat.  We arrived at the mall and did wheelies in the parking lot as Little Tee vanished inside.  By the time we later headed for home, we all sported new gold chains.

That was the first day I met Little Tee, a burgeoning menace with an unwavering desire to prove himself.  He stole anything that wasn’t nailed down, his confidence like silk in his veins.  Thievery was only a fragment of his willingness to fit in; one simply had to dare Little Tee.  He hung out all hours of the night, putting doubts to rest with a fearlessness inspiring to watch.

Nights at my house were sometimes spent with Little Tee sprawled out on the sofa or scoffing cold-cuts and gawking at video vixens.  I wondered about his family and whether his whereabouts were anyone’s concern.  He was no more than eight or nine, and yet no one ever came looking for him.  I didn’t mind that he showed up unexpectedly and seemed to never want to leave; I liked having him around.   He had a timely sense of humor and dreams of the future big enough to lend me some.  He gave unsparingly and never asked for anything in return.  To him, charity was synonymous to wealth. Little Tee was a joy, but he did have a mean-streak and fought with other kids all over town like it was the latest craze.  The bane of his freedom, it would earn him some stints in juvenile detention where he ultimately grew more devious.

A few years later, Little Tee transitioned from thieving to dope dealing.  He hopped into cars haggling crack rocks and turned profits with the best of ‘em.  He smoked cigarettes and weed, drank beers and cussed.  No one seemed bothered by his youthfulness, instead they encouraged him.  The more his behavior worsened, the more popular he became.  By twelve years old, he had as much clientele as dealers twice his age.  He was always the smallest guy on the block, but nobody had more heart.

One night Little Tee was at a local hangout when a scuffle broke out between two men with their pride at sake, one of whom had a shotgun.  Scorching iron-pellets ruptured Little Tee’s flesh as he was inadvertently shot in the face.  It would be months before he healed from his physical injuries, but his psyche hardly recovered. Suddenly, he was torn between upholding his image and breaking free from his notoriety.  He had grown weary of his terrible ways, yet he couldn’t break character. The truth was, the shooting ordeal changed Little Tee and heightened his conscience in a way others could never understand.  He wanted so much to be done with the streets… but the streets don’t always let go.

On Christmas day, December 25, 1997, I was posted up on the block when Little Tee strolled through.  We greeted one another and shared some laughs before his eyes took on a piercing glare.  He then let on about his dissension with rival dealers in a nearby neighborhood and asked for my help.  By then, Little Tee was like a brother to me – it was all the answer he needed. Apparently, he had rented a car and parked it on Gay Street.  He said he would swing by and pick me up later.  Little Tee disappeared up the street.  Some minutes later, gunshots devoured the joyous holiday evening. Gossip raced along the streets on the lips of hearsayers – Little Tee was just killed by the police!

I bolted heedlessly for Gay Street while at the same time down a road in my head that had no end. I kept thinking that if I got there quick enough, maybe I could save him.  I prayed the whispers were wrong but the look of despair on the faces of the spectators confirmed my worst realty. Someone was dead.  “Please, God, don’t let it be Little Tee.”

The shooting had taken place in the backyard which obscured my view of the body.  Rumors of what happened ran rampant among those gathered, igniting a bon-fire of tempers.  The ambulance arrived and carted out a body partially covered under a blood soaked sheet.  I recognized the sneakers and fell to the ground wailing…  Little Tee really was gone.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he 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

A boundless void, daunting and ever present, a place where even the pleasure of a night’s dream is wrecked by the reality of the waking day – that’s where I live.  It’s a domain that spans a mere 6×10 feet, made of menacing concrete and steel, and offers the barest resources within an atmosphere that effects only sorrow.   That’s life on Death Row, rankled daily by restrictions… told what to do, how to dress and when and where to go with little choice but to comply, dutifully denied the simplest liberties many folks take for granted and yet the real punishment seldom comes by day, rearing its head most often at night.

IU240 are the numbers of my prison cell, a crypt of sorts, where memories are elicited and misery reserved.  With twenty years of digital sequences like IU240 to mark my identity, I am a nameless statistic with nothing left in the world to call my own.  The days here are but a tireless effort to distract from Death Row – tabletops, TV, books and gossip, anything to cope with the pain.  Yet ‘Lock Down’ call begins an agony anew, one from which there are no delusions or escape.

IU24O, a paltry wasteland of fussy dust mites that gather in hard to reach places.  Lonely, except for the crowd of tender thoughts that threaten to devour my complacency.  “Stand clear!” the warning blares as the mechanical gears churn and the vaulted door slams shut while I struggle to regard IU240 as a sanctuary rather than something worse than death.

The nights number 7300 that I’ve spent in isolation.  My voice yearns for companionship, but the solitude is stifling, the air bland and smells nothing of freedom, more of apathy.  As the brightness in the room plummets, I cling to a reason to steady the light within.   I am afraid in the dark I may lose my way.  Trivial items that lie dormant by day are now crawling reminders of the oppression, making rest and peace of mind laborious and evasive.

There is a column of tissue rolls stacked in the corner that serves as a coffee table and a desk constructed from Maruchan soup boxes and shoddy adhesive.  Bed sheets suspended from paper clips along the walls are all there is for privacy, yet in a world of trash where there is hardly treasure, one must improvise.  There’s a stainless steel mirror that erredly reflects the stains of my past transgressions, a toilet that ticks tauntingly and faucet water that tastes like lead.   The concrete and steel with an eerie affinity to that of the blood and spirit of the many who have perished already and those who await their fate.

It is likely I will die in prison, a truth that is written on the age lines of my face.  Already twenty years of my life’s essence etched into the fabric of these walls, and yet, IU240 isn’t some infamous badland where hope doesn’t exist.  It doesn’t stand in the way of accepting responsibility and the effort to amend wrongs.

On the contrary, it’s a place where accountability offers temperance and renewal… a place where I have emerged from chaos a better person than when I arrived.

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

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NOTE TO READER. Please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson at any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day. Thank you to those who have come forward already. It is not easy for someone falsely accused to ever leave death row – no detail is too small. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful.
Details of this case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/

For several months when I was a kid, we lived on Powell Street, a lowly urban neighborhood rich with crime.  Daylight brought a liveliness for drugs and alcohol, while nighttime a thirst for violence.  Powell Street was a cautious city block where pilfers and opportunists inhabited the shadows, and a street hustler, Slim Rodgers, stood at the heart of its workings.

Slim was ghetto royalty, a middle aged, bald headed, ebony prince, whose influence pressed on the locals. He was exceptionally introverted with keen observation, often lounging on the porch in his Lazyboy recliner while overseeing the day’s take.  Occasionally, he doled out coins to the neighborhood kids for sweets at the corner bodega. We didn’t dare to steal.  If we were caught stealing, it was said that Slim would ‘get us’.  I thought it meant he would get us in our sleep.

Once, after spending all our coins at the arcade, we headed over to the liquor store to bum for spare change.  Slim found out.  He corralled us together with a heated glare, then marched us up the street to his apartment. After disappearing inside, Slim returned holding a yard rake, trash bags and a velvety purple pouch.  He said that begging was disgraceful, and if we wanted something, we should work for it.  At seven, I had no idea what the word ‘disgraceful’ meant, but I still swore off begging.  Slim handed over the items and tasked us to rake leaves; the pouch was filled with coins.

One summer day in 1981, while Powell Street happened outside, tragedy nearly struck my family.  We were gathered in the rear bedroom of our apartment, my mother tending to the diaper change of her newborn daughter.  My brother, Ray, was making weird faces to distract Sophia, whose bawling was unsettling the quiet evening, while I snickered away in the corner. For my untimely humor, I received the worst detail of all.

“Here…” my mother said as she bundled up the stinky diaper, “…go put that in the trash.”

I clamped the diaper with two fingers and hurried toward the kitchen, my scrunched nose grateful for the midday breeze.  Once there, I chucked the waste into the trash bin, then lustily eyed the fridge as I figured on some stolen sips of Kool-Aid. I peeped down the hallway, cracked the icebox, and guzzled the sweetened beverage.  My mischief was suddenly shattered by an eerie, watchful presence. I turned to the door, and there stood a stranger.

He was tall and beefy with a matted afro, his beard tuft and nappy.  His light colored tee was darkened with stains and drooped over narrow shoulders, and his hulking fist was wrapped around a brown paper bag as he tarried on the porch and peered into the kitchen. Uncertainty fixed our gazes on one another, while the awkwardness of the moment rendered us still.  He then glanced over his shoulder, tugged on the handle and said, “Hey!  Open this door!”

I sat the pitcher aside and headed over to the door, where the strange man dithered noticeably. Stretched upward on my tiptoes, I fumbled at the latch when I heard my mother shout disapproval. 

“Duck, what chu’ doing, boy!  You better git away from that door!” 

I jumped back, confused by the stranger’s face, which twisted in defiance.  A violent pop announced his intrusion, as the door blasted open.

My mother rushed over and pulled me close behind, while I struggled to see around her sturdy frame. The man moved into the kitchen with his eyes wild and his hand fastened to a gun. It had chrome cylinders, much like a cap gun, except heavier and more menacing. Immediately, I thought, ‘I want one’, as the urgency in his voice grabbed my attention.

“Where Slim at?”

“Who?” my mother responded, her own voice standoffish.

“Slim!” he repeated.

“Slim don’t stay here. He lives next door.”

There was an unexpectedness in the air that filled the awful silence, as protector and intruder faced off. Finally, he muttered, somewhat apologetically, “Uh… can I go out the front door?”

A profound sense of relief poured through the room, dousing any signs of trouble. It seemed as though discord had no place wherever Slim was mentioned.  With a nod, my mother permitted the man’s exit, as he tucked the gun away. He then dashed across the living room, peeked through the window and vanished out the door.

Within moments, my mother’s anger turned my way.  “Don’t cha know that man could’ve killed us!” 

Unsure if I was being questioned or warned, I decide to keep quiet. She hauled me to the bedroom where my siblings remained, then she went about securing the house.  When she returned, my mother sat with me and disclosed a terrible truth.

“Everyone who shows up at your doorstep aren’t always good people,” she explained.  “Some may try to hurt you, or worse.”  She counseled me to never open the door for a stranger, and I promised that I wouldn’t.

It would be many years later before I realized the dire possibilities of that day.  I watched as my mother jumped into action to protect her children with little regard for her own safety.  Her devotion was the mark of a great parent and something I hoped to inherit someday.  It was discovered that the man had robbed a liquor store, and he was desperate to hide out.  His intrusion gave me a glimpse into the hostile capabilities of wrongdoers in their efforts to avoid penalty.

However, the thing that impacted me the most that day was the measure of one’s power and influence, how some circumstances are dictated by the promise of retribution. I witnessed as Slim’s reputation alone tamed potential tragedy. I wanted that same power and reputation someday, if only to protect my family. I wanted conflict and disorder to be a fleeting notion in the face of my influence. It would shape my perspective in a way that was flawed, affecting poor choices.

Slim, too, was flawed by certain legal standards, but he wasn’t without decency. He was not the ideal role model for kids, but neither was he unworthy to inspire.  My childhood hero was not some great man honored throughout the pages of history, but I will forever be inspired by the day our lives were secured at the very mention of the name Slim.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a gifted and thoughtful writer who is currently working on two novels. He lives on Death Row but maintains his innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

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In June, 1993, I came home after serving 27 months in prison.   While I was gone my mother had relocated from the projects where I grew up to an upscale community on the outskirts of town.  I arrived home to a section of seemly brick homes, spacious yards and lush greenery in a neighborhood that was relatively safe – but boring.

The morning after I arrived, I checked the mailbox at the end of our driveway and later strolled to the neighborhood store, noticing each time I left that I drew the attention of a young boy across the street.  He had sunbaked hair, hazel eyes and skin the color of butterscotch, with a slender frame under clothes that were marked by rough play.  In the yard were toys and other objects to which he showed no interest, seemingly content to sit and stare all day.  When my mother  returned from work, I inquired about the strange boy across the street.

She succinctly replied, “Oh, that’s Chad.”

In the following days Chad proved to be as normal as the other kids as they boisterously played throughout the day.  Oftentimes he tussled with his dog or shot hoops in the backyard, other times he simply observed.  He was around eight years old with two older siblings and a kid sister. Their mother worked two jobs, and their father frequently came and went. Their house wasn’t the most adult supervised one on the strip, but it was a crime-free neighborhood so there was little concern.

One day I set out to walk our dog and saw Chad headed my way at a determined pace, his head held sharp and unwavering.  He stepped to me and asked if he could walk my dog.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. Before I knew it, I was strolling around the neighborhood with the most inquisitive kid ever. Many of his questions had simple answers, though Chad posed them in a difficult way.  He had a budding curiosity that was pleasant company and reminded me of myself at his age.

Soon Chad found an excuse to come over almost every day, whether to help with yard work or to show me something he had found.  His attentiveness gave me such a feeling of relevance that I looked forward to having him around. One time a friend of mine spent the night.  She went outside early for the morning newspaper, and when she returned, she asked, “Who dat lil’ boy sittin’ on ya’ll doorstep?”

I guessed safely and answered, “Oh, that’s Chad.”

Chad and I often fished at the local pond or practiced target-shooting with pellet guns. We washed cars, mowed lawns and played video games all for the sake of filling the days.  He was so willing to learn and committed to work that he never once complained.  And although he could be incredibly annoying at times, he was still the best part of waking up to a new day.

Two years would pass before trouble pierced our rural haven, and I wound up handcuffed in the back of a squad car.  Chad looked on from the curb with confusion etched on his face.  I sat in prison for 31 months for a crime I didn’t commit, and by the time of my release, I was a fragment of myself with little good to offer.

Chad was like a one-man welcoming party, exhilarated by my return. Just seeing him helped me to shuck some of the bitterness and appreciate the warmth of home.  I would peep outside some days and see Chad sitting idly on his porch waiting for our front door to open.  When it did, he would rush over just to say, “Hi.”  He was the reason I stayed home many a day, though my vengeful heart kept me gone most nights. 

I turned to drug dealing and petty crimes to validate my sense of self-worthlessness, carrying on destructively to mirror how I felt inside. I was caught between being a hooligan by night and a mentor to Chad by day, as I appropriated stories of my nighttime endeavors to preserve a wholesome image. Occasionally, Chad would ask if he could go with me to town, and I would come up with an excuse.  Then I discovered that not only was he a curious bug, he was also quite persistent.

One night I arrived home around 2 a.m. to reup on drugs, not the least bit surprised when Chad wondered over.

“What’s up, Duck?  Are you staying home?” he asked.

“Nope,” I answered while in a mad dash inside to grab the dope supply and head back to the block.

When I returned, Chad was still there waiting in the chill of night, determined to get a word.  “Lemme go wit’ chu, Duck.  I’ve got money.”

“I’ve got sumpthin’ to do tonight, Chad.”

It was the scene that had played out countless times before except this time the outcome was different as his shoulders collapsed and his smile faded.  He turned and started for home.

“Hey, Chad….” I called out to him without giving it much thought because at that moment all that mattered was his happiness,  “…C’mon, get in the car.”

Ecstatically, Chad bound over and jumped in the backseat as I dipped inside the house, removed all the illegals, and joined him in the taxi.

We were dropped off in the filthiest, most crime-infested area in the heart of the city’s drug market, where the unlikeliest shadows gave rise to dope fiends jonesing for a fix.  Cars cruised surreptitiously along narrow side streets as dealers kept an eye out for trouble, and while many residents’ doors were closed and bolted for the night, others were just beginning to open.

The first spot we headed to was the bodega for knickknacks and arcades. We then took in a spectacle of rambunctious trash-talkers over an intense game of craps. With loads of money scattered on the ground and vulgarities stirring, I thought it best that we split, and Chad didn’t have to be told twice to move – he stayed close behind. 

Next we walked a few blocks to the poolroom for chili cheese fries and chicken wings, then we settled in a vacant park and scoffed down our meals.  While there, Chad delved up tons of questions, some even provoking thought, and I could tell that he was having the time of his life because I was too. 

We finished off the night with a fast-food breakfast and caught a taxi home at the cusp of dawn. Once there, Chad hopped out with a yawn and said, “Thanks, Duck. I’ll see ya later, a-ight.”

I watched as he shuffled to his house across the street and disappeared behind the door, not knowing that it was the last time I would ever see Chad.

Days later I was charged with murder and within a year I was sentenced to death.  I prayed that Chad would get used to me not being around anymore. 

Four years later, I learned through a visit with my mom that Chad had been killed. It happened during a skirmish that he was fatally injured and his body was recovered in the woods.  I couldn’t believe it – Chad was gone and he was only sixteen.  I sat with the news gnawing at my conscience, feeling crushed beneath a swell of guilt while imagining the inquisitive kid I first met – not understanding why someone would want to take his life. I blamed myself for not being there for Chad and prayed to take his stead.  He was a much better person and deserving of life than I could ever be.

I have lived with the guilt of Chad’s death for over sixteen years with tomorrows still to come, wondering how our lives would’ve been had I not gone away.  I try not to remember how Chad was taken – I remember how he lived, and I’ll forever keep the fond memory of our night on the town together.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and lives on death row. He has always maintained his innocence for the crime he is incarcerated for, but often uses his writing to honestly confront the mistakes he’s made in his life. His honest revelations are an inspiration and a testament to who he is.

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

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