All posts by Charles 'Chucky' Mamou

Sentenced to Death, Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

Who You Gonna Call?

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I find it hard to express what solitary confinement is, knowing what I explain may be totally different from another’s experience.  There are situations in solitary confinement that are less harsh than other situations, where someone might have TV, an in-cell shower, better food, phone access and other means to communicate daily.  Here in Texas, we don’t have shit.

I cannot begin to fathom where I would be mentally if I didn’t have the luxury of having caring family and friends to support me through this quarter-of-a-century’s incarceration.  No doubt those who are committed to being in my life are the glue of stability for me, but even I know it takes me… more of me… to maintain sanity.  

I’m often conflicted on whether or not to explain to my family and friends, being honest and raw, my existing conditions – if I told the nuts and bolts operations of solitary confinement, would it be mentally constructive for either of us?  

Early on in my unjust prison term, not being home during traditional celebrations, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, would be an indescribable emotional pain.  I used to hold myself with my own arms at night to go to sleep, craving the human comfort of another.  

I’ve been stabbed by a deranged inmate while I was escorted to the shower by an officer.  I’ve had roaches and insects crawling in the ‘food’ officers pass out.  When I complain I am greeted with a ‘human-disconnect’ by officers who feel I should be grateful to be given anything.  I’ve had to do things on my own while handcuffed behind my back, like put on my shoes or grab things to get to the shower, as if Texas DR inmates are Superhuman Inmates.  I’ve had to deal with racism on all levels by officers and inmates.  Yearly, we are promised additional activities to our daily existence, yet all they do is continue to take and take things from us, adding nothing.  Psychological games from their playbook on how to mentally abuse us are implemented daily.  In the summer time the heaters have been switched on.  In the winter the A/C has been at full blast.  I recall one winter putting on every piece of clothing I had, including two pairs of socks on my hands, and socks and boots on my feet.  

Bad press, truthful or not, adds to the mental anxiety we go through when an appeal is denied.  We have to then explain the situation to our loved ones, that we have inched closer to an execution date.  It’s like being resurrected, only to be killed all over again.

Redundancy is a constant, and too much can be the asphalt one walks on into the realm of insanity.  For me, doing the same thing as a way of programming myself to stay busy is a necessity, not a madness.  But I still must be creative.  I have a make-shift basketball goal that is nothing more than a small brown bag with its bottom cut out and taped to the top of the cell’s door.  I then construct a faux-basketball out of a sheet of paper that I crumple up in a ball, then wet it, and leave it to dry for a day until it is hard.  I then get encased in my own personal metaverse where I am a college star adored by screaming fans, or I will imitate NBA athletes who play games on their way to a championship.  I can get lost in this act for hours, hours that I am not mentally aware of my cell’s surroundings.  The draconian reality is absent for a while.  

I suppose the most brutal and chaotic experience in solitary confinement on Texas Death Row is finding yourself sitting.  Watching the walls.  Pacing the floor back and forth, five steps forward, four steps back – for hours, unaware of time, as one tends to converse with themselves, trying to rationalize the isolation, worries and stress.  People advise me not to worry, “Worrying will only lead to stress, which you do not need.”  

What they don’t realize is that isolation is the creator of worry and stress.  How can it not be?  It’s unavoidable.  You realize that – there’s no one to call.  No one to share a laugh or tear with.  No one who can understand what, for me, is understood.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a long-time WITS writer, so I couldn’t be happier to say he came in third place in our most recent writing contest regarding solitary confinement. But there is more to his story.

Charles Mamou, Texas Death Row

Charles Mamou and his case inspired me, personally, to go back to school, become a private investigator and also pursue a degree in social work. What I learned from Charles Mamou, and what is abundantly clear and documented in his case – is that people can be sent to death row in cases where the prosecution does not share all of the relevant and available evidence with the defense.

For example, among a number of questionable actions taken in Mamou’s case, the prosecution was aware physical evidence was collected from the victim and the prosecution not only knew this, but had the evidence processed. Mamou had no idea that physical evidence existed and exists – until it was recently discovered. He should have been told that a quarter century ago. There are other issues as well. Phone records that were not shared with him. Those records contradict the testimony of key prosecution witnesses. Yet, Charles Mamou is waiting to be executed and out of appeals. You can read more about Mamou’s case and sign a letter requesting an investigation – please add your name to his petition.

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

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Class of 99: Day 52

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A lot has changed since I first arrived on Texas’ nefarious death row.  I’ve met a lot of guys over the years, and many seem like decent men.  They even gave me a nickname – Louisiana.  The name was more about keeping the peace than seeking a new identity.  Texas folks, inmates and officers, have a difficult time pronouncing my last name, which was irritating me ‘cause I assumed they were doing it out of ignorance and not because they couldn’t pronounce a name they had never heard before. 

Some tried to say it like ’ma’am’ followed by ‘ooouuu’ or other variations.   Then there was one redneck officer who called me ‘Moe-Moe’.   I ignored him and wouldn’t answer.  The convict population within Texas’ death row saw this would become a future altercation, so they simply agreed to call me Louisiana since that’s the state I was from.  I settled with it.

I wasn’t the only guy with a nickname.  Everyone seemed to have one.  There was a Spanish guy named Casper (the ghost).  There was a guy named Soultrain.  There was a Youngblood and other names like, Freaky Frank, Oso Bear, Juke-box, Icy Red, Cash, B-Down, South  Park, Third Ward, Sunshine (which he quickly changed to Youngsta), and on and on the list went.  There was even a Ms. Good Pussy.  And then there was Mookie.

I was still fighting off depression at the time, though I had become a little more optimistic.  My mother had written me a powerful, religion-laced letter, and though I didn’t follow her instructions for praying to Mother Mary, Saint Peter, Saint Paul or any of the other Catholic saintly crew, I did however reread the line she wrote saying, “Talked to the lawyers today, and they told me in five years the system will correct the mistake they made and bring you back home…”

Five years?  Granted, I didn’t want to hear that, at the time it seemed like a life sentence, but it did give me something to focus on.  I mean, that was still 1,725 days away, but at least I had a benchmark to look to.  That’s what I needed to keep hope alive.

I was allowed to go to group recreation which was a huge stress reliever.  Just to be able to play basketball with other guys, bodies banging against other bodies, having locker room talk about ex-lovers.  We were able to watch TV, Family Matters or ESPN, or play chess or dominoes at the tables back then.  Camaraderie.  I miss it. 

The first day I was allowed to join the others in group recreation, I was the last one to be escorted out.  I immediately went through the process of matching guys with voices I had heard from my cell.  Okay, that’s Casper.  That’s J-Dubb.  On and on it went.  Guys came up to me and introduced themselves, but there was one guy that stood out.  He was standing alone, arms folded, wrapped around himself.  He was dark and handsome and stood a little over six foot tall.  ‘That’s gotta be Mookie’, I thought.  Everything I had assumed about him was wrong.  I introduced myself, and our first meeting was very brief.

Days later I read about him in the newspaper.  He had an upcoming execution date.  Impregnated with the declaration my mother once made about my future, “Chucky will be a preacher one day,” I felt as if I was a shepherd and needed to tell my flock to follow me.  I wrote Mookie a brief note, telling him to renounce his sin so he could enter the Kingdom of Heaven.  You never know what kind of response you will get when you try to force your ideologies upon another, but I felt I had a duty to save this man’s soul. 

He accepted my note, read it and told me he would get back with me later.  Since his execution date was days away, he was allowed to spend commissary money on anything he wanted.  He chose to buy everyone a pint of ice cream, which we all enjoyed and appreciated.  Then he wrote me back, four pages, on yellow stationary.   His handwriting was neat and artistic.  He told me a parable.

The story was about a father and son.  The son was asked to carry a pot full of water to a nearby town.  What the boy didn’t know was that there was a hole in the pot, and by the time he arrived at his destination, all the water was lost.  The boy was distraught, thinking he had let his father down, but his father told him not to blame himself.  The two rewalked the path, and to the son’s amazement his father pointed out the beautiful flowers that grew along the side of the road where the water had been ‘wasted’.

Mookie went on to explain the story’s meaning.  He taught me that I was in no position to judge any other, for I was not God.  He taught me that every creation has its flaws, we all make mistakes.  Some get public attention.  Some don’t.  Some people get caught.  Some don’t.  None of us are any better than the next.  Mookie humbled me.   He was executed/murdered days later. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a long-time writer for WITS. He has also been the subject of WITS’ in depth look at how cases are sometimes mishandled.

Over the years, we have shared here how evidence was clearly kept from the defense in a death penalty case, information was manipulated and truth put on the back burner. For example, among a number of questionable actions taken in Mamou’s case, the prosecution was aware that physical evidence was collected from the victim and not only knew, but had the evidence processed. Mamou had no idea that physical evidence existed and exists – until it was recently located by an advocate. Yet, Charles Mamou is waiting to be executed and out of appeals. If you or I were to have knowledge of physical evidence and have it tested, not sharing that information with the opposing party, that would be an issue for the Courts. Why is this not an issue? You can read more about Mamou’s case and sign a letter requesting an investigation – please add your name to his petition.

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

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Charles Mamou, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside, Writing Contests

The Kiss I’ll Never Forget

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I will never forget August 30, 2006.  I was on A-pod, occupying B-dayroom’s recreational section, nexus to Death Watch on Texas Death Row.  It was after 5:30 p.m. and visitation was over, so I headed toward the front of the dayroom, hoping to catch a guy I affectionately called RoadDawg.  His real name was Derrick Frazier, but many knew him as Hasan.  Before that, he was Castro – like Fidel, Cuba’s former dictator.

Hasan never knew his father.  His mother left when he was fifteen, weeks later to be found dead of a drug overdose.  He had an abusive stepfather.  Eventually, Hasan grew tired of the abuse and ran away.  He began living in the streets and soon after was adopted by Crip gang members. Becoming a new member meant he had to get a new name, and that’s how Castro was born.

I didn’t meet Castro until after he arrived on Texas Death Row.  It was then that he denounced his gang, took up religion and became a Muslim.  He studied the religion relentlessly, renaming himself Hasan and following the ways of Islam.  He founded two newsletters – Operation L.I.F.E. and the Texas Chapter of the Human Rights Coalition, and that is how I came to know him.  Hasan took his money from that and practiced ‘zakat’ towards his fellow death row inmates, no matter what race or religion.  If you didn’t have, he gave clandestinely.

When he told me he had received an execution date, he said it as if he was telling me the score to a football game that I had missed, there was no emotion – at least, none on the outside.  He told me he was going to unroll his mat and pray… and he did.

Hasan had a friend from Canada that was seeing him through visits. He even had her visit me. He was visiting with her on August 30, 2006, as I stood in the dayroom waiting to get a glimpse of him, to somehow communicate my solidarity through a look I planned on giving him.  Shortly after 5:30 that evening he came walking through the door, looking like a king who stared down adversaries without an ounce of fear.  He hadn’t noticed me, so I called out to him. Robotically, he turned my way, and seeing me, broke free from the escorting officers’ grips and started my way.  He was handcuffed, and the guards didn’t stop him.  I had no idea what I was going to do, but I stuck my hands out of the bars and gave him a hug.  He began to cry, tears that fell rapidly, knowing time was running out.

Then he kissed my left cheek, whispering into my ear, “RoadDawg, do me a favor.  You have the best chance of any of us here.  Get free.  Go home. Don’t let these folks win.  Promise me!”

I told him nothing.  Not that I didn’t want to.  I was still shocked he kissed me, and at the same time the guards started calling his name and came to retrieve him to bring him into the ‘death watch’ cell.  It all happened so fast, words eluded me, and I watched my friend walk off.

That night I was standing in the door of my cell, all the lights off on the pod, when I became aware of something I was seeing.  If I looked at the pod’s control picket that is made of glass, I could see the reflection of all the cells on death watch, and I turned my attention to #8 cell, which held Hasan. There he was, standing in the door with his light on.  His light was on.  Mine was off.  I watched him for a few hours.  He didn’t move once.  Through the years I wondered what he was looking at. Was he soaking in his last hours of life as he looked out in the dark jungle of iron bars and steel gates?  Trying to understand how he came to his final moments? Was he waiting and hoping for a miracle?  Or was he wondering what was I doing standing in my cell’s door in the dark?  Did he see me?  Eventually, I went to lay down.  I said a prayer for my friend and would get up to come to the door every so often only to see him still standing there.

Hasan left at 7:40 a.m. for his last few hours of visitation with his friend from Canada.  I also was told that an aunt came to see him.  He never came back.

When they pronounced him dead a little after 6:30 that evening, I cried, unconsciously holding the cheek he’d kissed.  My friend was the epitome of change, strength, and courage.  I will never forget that about him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is the first place winner of our most recent writing contest. Although a long-time writer for WITS, he rarely enters our contests. I’m glad he did.
Mr. Mamou has always maintained his innocence, and after extensive research into his case, WITS actively advocates for him. If you would like to know more about his case and sign a letter requesting an investigation, please add your name to his petition.

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

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Charles Mamou, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Make My Hands Stronger!

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People tell me to have faith, and I get it, I really do.  I always want to have faith, but sometimes my mind is cluttered with so much doubt.  They’ll try to encourage me and say things like, “You are so strong, Chucky,” meaning mentally.  If only I had a penny for every time somebody told me that.

The truth is, they don’t see it, but sometimes things hit me out of the blue, and I cry for reasons I’m not totally sure of.  I stress  about everything, from small to big issues.  I recently became a grandfather.  I can’t tell you how it feels not being there for him.  I failed as a parent to my own children.  I see my grandson as my parental redemption ticket – however, I’m still locked up.  And my stress continues. 

Psychologically, there is nothing like being on Texas death row.  Every day is a struggle within a struggle.  You have to fight.  You have to fight for toilet paper.  You have to fight for commissary, a phone call, mail or Jpays, decent and edible food.  And you have to keep on fighting just to be treated like a person and not some animal.  What is even more insane is, just when you think you have resolved an issue, the next day you have to resolve it all over again.  I think I’ve heard it said, “Hell is a repetitious place.”

I rarely talk about the things that go on here.  I don’t talk about it to my loved ones, ‘cause I don’t want to worry them.  If I knew they were worried, it would cause me more stress.  So, I deal with it alone, as I have always done.  Self-absorbed to self-abuse… self.  I wouldn’t recommend that mind-set to anyone.  It’s not ideal or healthy.  But, in here, I know there is nothing any other human being can do to alleviate the inner loneliness.

Nehemiah once prayed to God, “Now strengthen my hands.”  He had to fight every day and when he grew weary, and it seemed he could not go on, he prayed to God for the strength to endure.  So do I.  That’s how I get by.  With God, I am able to get through this.  Without God, I don’t believe I’d be alive to be able to write these words with the hands that God has made stronger.

There is also a facebook page dedicated to sharing Charles Mamou’s troubling case.

 Photo, courtesy of ©manfredbaumann.com

TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

You can also reach him through jpay.com.

SIGN HIS PETITION – LEARN ABOUT HIS CASE.  Charles Mamou is a long time WITS writer. He is part of our writing family and his case has been studied and shared here for a couple years. Please sign a petition requesting that his case be truly investigated – for the first time. If you learn enough about his case, you will likely agree, there was not much done in the way of investigation. What we have been able to learn, supports that. Please sign.

Charles Mamou Reinvestigation

Dear Ms. Ogg,

In the interest of justice, please reinvestigate the case of Charles Mamou, Jr. He has been on death row for over two decades.

There was evidence available to the D.A. in 1998 that was not shared with Charles Mamou. That evidence would have called into question witness testimony and should have been pursued in 1998 when it could have led to the guilty party. It included phone records of suspects that could have been traced. Not only was information not shared, some withheld information was exploited, such as the prosecutor communicating to the jury that Mamou sexually assaulted the victim, but not informing them or the defendant of a rape kit that was collected, which they had processed.

References to an individual named 'Shawn' being present that evening were consistently down-played and dismissed by the prosecution, yet a fax addressed to the D.A. from HPD specifically notes, handwritten by an investigator, phone calls made from 'Shawn' to a key witness, Howard Scott, at 12:19 a.m. and 3:12 a.m. that night. Mr. Mamou was unaware there were calls made. Those phone calls were also received by a key witnesses' phone, who testified he was asleep at the time, and his phone was not ringing. The prosecutor did not stop the proceedings when his witness, along with another of his witnesses, indicated they were sleeping. The prosecutor did not ask them why their phones were in use or inform Mamou or the jury that their phones were in use that night while they testified to sleeping.

New information has come to light that was not shared with the jury, including a letter that calls into question a key witness’s testimony. There are also witnesses who saw Charles Mamou when he was supposed to have been with the victim, a video statement of the key witness that does not mirror his testimony, and a statement from a state’s witness that cannot be located in the HPD case file. That witness has since told an investigator he saw the victim alive.

There are other issues as well, including notes in HPD's file that indicate biological evidence was signed out in 2019. When questioned regarding the reason for the removal, HPD communicated that only the D.A.'s Office could request evidence be removed, to which a communication with the D.A.'s office indicated no such request had been made.

For these reasons and more, we are asking you to reinvestigate Cause No. 800112. Thank you for your consideration.

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Charles Mamou, Innocent, Views From The Inside

I AM A Living Testimony – We Each Are

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My Ma may be many things but listening to her testimony, you’d know she always wanted to be a mother – and I wouldn’t want any other.  She’s an affable woman, kinda quirky, though stern, sorta introverted, yet capable of being extroverted.  She was the perfect match for me.  But early on there was a problem.   According to her, doctors told her she would not be a fruitful woman.   You’d have to know her struggles growing up to understand how the nineteen-year-old-her felt hearing such news.  But she clung to her faith, praying to her God to be able to have children.

Some time later she became pregnant with me.

To let my mom tell it, the voice of God spoke to her and told her she would ‘produce fruit and multiply’, akin to some women in the Bible, Manoa, Hannah, Elizabeth, to name a few.   Some folk thought my mom read the bible too much.  Some would tell her to eat kale with her stacked plate of gravy filled pork chops.  My mom’s mother also told her I would grow up to be a preacher preaching from the pulpit.  HA!  I’m sure she’s turning over in her grave if it is possible and if she can see me now.

In all, my mother gave birth to six beautiful children with good character.  Not bad for a single mom.   When her time comes to enter those pearly gates, they will accept her with open arms. 

Recently,  my mom wrote to tell me that upon receiving one of my letters, she almost questioned her faith, that it took her a few days to reason with her better self and allow the Lord to help her move on.  

When I was arrested for capital murder in 1998, every day felt like intertwined moments travelled in slow motion.  Days passed in a nebulous state.  Mentally, I was part optimistic, believing,  ‘Okay, I know I did not kill any girl. I will tell this to the jury, and I’ll be back to the hole-n-the-wall in no time’.

I was part delusional when I spoke to my baby mommas, ‘Yo, don’t worry.  I’ll be home in a few months.  Nothing has changed.’

Reality though?  Reality can be a cruel and cold awakening.  That was my reality after the verdict came back.  The all non-black jury got it wrong.  It was harsh.  Wrong.  So fucking wrong.

The pain I felt for the next 2,160 hours was a feeling I beg to never endure again – and there was nothing I could do about it.  

While I awaited trial, I was held in Harris County’s jail, the 701 annex.  They had regular church services there, and I was invited to attend.  The room held about fifteen young men – all black, many serving county jail time, a few waiting for the ‘prison chain bus’ to begin their lengthy penitentiary time.  And a couple of our fates were still up-in-the-air.  I thought that if I showed God I was  willing to sit in a banal smelling church’s chapel in a genuflection pose, mumbling a few amens, God… this mighty Being, would help a brotha out.  I have to be honest to give my testimony, right?

One inmate was asked to sing a song.  His last name was Cook.  He was about to go home.  He spoke about wanting to become an R&B artist.  Other brothers laid hands on him, as if to pray for his success.  I recall a lot about that moment, and I’ve forgotten a lot about that moment.  I’ll never forget his voice though, the lyrics he would sing, nor the emotional tsunami he stirred inside of me that night.

“I AM a Living Testimony.  Should have been dead and gone, but the Lord helped me to move on…”

His voice was celestial, and a montage of images from my life – good times and bad, accomplishments and many failures – cluttered my mind.  You see, I should have been dead and gone, and for whatever reason, the Lord helped me to move on.

Still today, I live, not because I’m good looking or wear two pair of socks on my left foot and only one pair on my right.  I survived not because I am a con man, nor because I have dodged the wrath of the racist judicial system.  No.  I live ‘cause the Lord God wants me to live on.

Before I was sentenced to death, folks said I wouldn’t live to see 21.  After I was sentenced to death they said I wouldn’t live to see 35.  As of April, 2021, I’m 46 years old and counting.  I’m not bragging about ‘me’ –existing in solitary confinement for over two decades is a daily struggle, mentally and physically.  But what I do want to brag about is my ‘message’.  What I’ve learned.  Whatever you are going through – addiction, your cross to bare – you are greater in will than any drug that was designed to crush your will.  Illness can wreck your body, but it can’t wreck your spirit.  If you are homeless or incarcerated for a crime you didn’t do – you are alive. 

Do better.  Be better.  Love more.  Each of us is a ‘living testimony’.  For some reason, the Lord has let us live on… 

‘Anyone who is living still has HOPE.  Even a live dog is better off than a dead lion.’ – Ecclesiastes 9:4

There is also a facebook page dedicated to Charles Mamou’s troubling case.

 Photo, courtesy of ©manfredbaumann.com

TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

You can also reach him through jpay.com.

SIGN HIS PETITION – LEARN ABOUT HIS CASE. Charles Mamou is a long time WITS writer. He is part of our writing family and his case has been studied and shared here for a couple years. Please sign a petition requesting that his case be investigated – for the first time. What we have found has made it clear to us that it never was.

Charles Mamou Reinvestigation

Dear Ms. Ogg,

In the interest of justice, please reinvestigate the case of Charles Mamou, Jr. He has been on death row for over two decades.

There was evidence available to the D.A. in 1998 that was not shared with Charles Mamou. That evidence would have called into question witness testimony and should have been pursued in 1998 when it could have led to the guilty party. It included phone records of suspects that could have been traced. Not only was information not shared, some withheld information was exploited, such as the prosecutor communicating to the jury that Mamou sexually assaulted the victim, but not informing them or the defendant of a rape kit that was collected, which they had processed.

References to an individual named 'Shawn' being present that evening were consistently down-played and dismissed by the prosecution, yet a fax addressed to the D.A. from HPD specifically notes, handwritten by an investigator, phone calls made from 'Shawn' to a key witness, Howard Scott, at 12:19 a.m. and 3:12 a.m. that night. Mr. Mamou was unaware there were calls made. Those phone calls were also received by a key witnesses' phone, who testified he was asleep at the time, and his phone was not ringing. The prosecutor did not stop the proceedings when his witness, along with another of his witnesses, indicated they were sleeping. The prosecutor did not ask them why their phones were in use or inform Mamou or the jury that their phones were in use that night while they testified to sleeping.

New information has come to light that was not shared with the jury, including a letter that calls into question a key witness’s testimony. There are also witnesses who saw Charles Mamou when he was supposed to have been with the victim, a video statement of the key witness that does not mirror his testimony, and a statement from a state’s witness that cannot be located in the HPD case file. That witness has since told an investigator he saw the victim alive.

There are other issues as well, including notes in HPD's file that indicate biological evidence was signed out in 2019. When questioned regarding the reason for the removal, HPD communicated that only the D.A.'s Office could request evidence be removed, to which a communication with the D.A.'s office indicated no such request had been made.

For these reasons and more, we are asking you to reinvestigate Cause No. 800112. Thank you for your consideration.

%%your signature%%



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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Class of 99: Day 3…

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It’s all a dream. Or is it?

Something was off, I could sense it.  It looked like Madear’s home, it just didn’t feel like her home.  I could hear a familiar hymn being sung sotto voce towards the side of her home where her adjacent storage building was.  She kept her washer and dryer there.  She also had two extra freezers in there holding tons of assorted meats.  Sodas were stacked to one side of the wall as high as five-feet, and gallons of assorted juices lined the floor.  Madear loved buying in bulk because she loved to cook and feed others.  There was an area opposite the beverages where all her holiday decorations were kept – including a unique white crystal four-foot holiday colored Christmas tree she proudly displayed in her window every year.  To this day I’ve never seen anything like it.  It was also the place I first kissed a girl, Carla Landry, and I liked it!

This area was not huge by any standard, but my little brother and some of my friends often used the wash-house, as we called it, as a club house. Madear would be there daily, putting loads of clothes in to wash, and once dried, she would fold and inspect to see if the whites were white enough or if the colored clothes were bright enough.  She had no problem rewashing the clothes until they met her satisfaction. 

So, it wasn’t odd to find her inside.  I rushed through the door and saw her rocking away in her hand crafted wooden rocking chair that she used to find her Zen-moments in, relaxing or simply contemplating what she would do next.   Madear didn’t speak much.  I never heard her raise her voice, but she always evaluated any situation before acting, and when she did speak, her observations or opinions were always thought-out.

I could not see the features of her face, no eyes, mouth or lips – nothing.  There was nothing but warm, blinding light.  The rest of her body, from the neck down, was there.   Even her favorite sundress graced the length of her body.  She rocked away, faster than I recalled her doing.  I tried to advance closer, but I could not move.  It was as if I was stuck in cement that had long since dried, my feet buried. 

“Don’t worry, Baby.   Everything will be fine.  You’ll see.  You’ll be fine,” she repeated.  Her voice sounded as if she was speaking to me from behind a waterfall… though soothing and comforting.  I wanted to lay my head on her lap, allowing her to pat and massage me the way one would do a cat.  Her voice brought about a sense of conviction to my soul.  I could feel tears, hot tears, running down my cheeks.  My heart started to beat more urgently.  I blinked for a second and Madear and her rocking chair started fading away in the pasture behind her home.  She faded the way a home run baseball floats away…  and is gone.

“Chow time, maggots!  Get your asses up if ya’ll wanta eats!” barked a guard.

‘Fuck!’  Steel gates crashed into more steel.  ‘It was all a dream?  A stupid, fucking dream!?!’  The mist of tears I had shed were still damp on my cheeks.  My heart was still thumping.  I turned over to see what time it was, fifteen minutes after three in the morning.  I’m not a morning person and my weakness was affirmation of that as I turned on the cell’s light.  I’m not a breakfast eater either, and I was going to refuse because it was too early to be eating, but the growling sounds coming from my empty stomach were the motivation I needed to eat something.   I was hungry.  No, I was starving, having eaten little to nothing my first few days on the famous Texas Death Row.  Pancakes were served.  They were not IHOP worthy, but I wasn’t going to be picky.  I was also given an 8-ounce carton of milk, a 4-ounce carton of orange juice and four spoons of fruit cocktail.  I ate everything before going back to sleep, hoping I wouldn’t dream again. 

Around ten o-clock in the morning an officer opened the bean slot to the cell and threw a big commissary bag in, “Some of your fellow-condemned brothers put some things together for ya.”

I stared, my eyes fixed on him, wondering if he was joking.  I don’t know if I expected a snake to crawl from the bag or a bomb to go off at any moment.  Sure, I was paranoid.  This wasn’t Kansas anymore.  I didn’t know what ‘this’ was.

After some time, I got up, kicked the bag a little, and waited for a reaction.  Nothing.  I gently opened the bag to find a bunch of snacks, four writing tablets, envelopes, and over fifty bucks in stamps which, due to my naiveté, I used to tape photos of my children to the walls.  I had no idea I was supposed to use stamps to write.  No shit.  I hadn’t written a letter to anyone at that point.  I communicated through daily phone calls or visits.  There were socks, a thermal top, and some much needed hygiene products, all of which I greatly appreciated.   No note was given. No one shouted to get my attention.  Nothing. The act of charity was empathetically done.  Guys knew I was going through some things because they went through the same ‘new beginning’.  It was an act of kindness I greatly appreciated even though I had no one to thank.

I walked to the front of the cell to look out.  The place was teeming with sounds of existence, a farrago of inmate laughter, crashing steel, buzzing light fixtures that looked like something you’d expect to see in the beginning of the 20th century, as well as radios and multiple televisions that blared recklessly.  This ‘new world’, was too much for me to embrace, so I returned and sat on my bunk.  I grabbed photos of my children and their mothers, my mother and siblings, and I thought about what they were going through.  I loved them all dearly, and the more I thought about them, the more I cried.  I saw an unopened letter I had received the night before.  It was from one of my children’s mothers.  It started off like a Dear John letter.  She was telling me she was getting married to a truck driver.  A year earlier I shared a bed with her.  I immediately thought, ‘Where the fuck did he come from?’   At that moment, I was certain.  I was no longer dreaming.

ABOUT THE WRITER: Charles Mamou has been writing for WITS for quite some time and has always maintained his innocence. In the summer of 2019, it came to my attention Mr. Mamou had become very quiet. When I asked why, he explained he was out of appeals and awaiting an execution date. I asked to look at his documents. It didn’t take long to become very disturbed by what I saw. Some issues regarding Mr. Mamou’s case can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at contact@walkinthoseshoes.com.


There is also a facebook page dedicated to Charles Mamou’s troubling case.

 Photo, courtesy of ©manfredbaumann.com

TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

You can also reach him through jpay.com.

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

“I Didn’t Kill Mary”

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For two years, WITS has shared the story of Charles Mamou, two decades on death row and awaiting an execution date.  In those two years, this site has shared a letter written by the key witness that the jury never saw, rape kit results the DA had that Mamou never knew existed, phone records the DA had that Mamou never knew existed, documentation of biological evidence being signed out in the case with no explanation or accountability, missing statements and/or interviews, witness interviews from 2019 indicating Mamou was exactly where he said he was twenty years ago when he last saw Mary Carmouche and more.  Yet – he awaits execution. 
I recently asked him, ‘How has it impacted you, knowing the lengths Harris County went to in order to sentence you to die?’

Since I’ve been on Texas’ Death Row, where reading is the only natural form of entertainment, I have read a lot of history books.  When I think of my situation, there is little difference between 1898 and 1998 – I was just a young, dumb, poor black kid who stood alone.  I wasn’t the first, and I wasn’t the last.  It was the norm.  Racist and overzealous prosecutors saw me and those that look like me the same, ‘a menace to society’, deplorable and judicially dispensable, while off-colored jokes were made in the locker room, no one having the gumption to tell them in public.

Here’s what I want people to know.   Even after I was convicted and sentence to die by a jury that looked nothing like me, I still blew it off.  ‘I’ll win on appeal, cause there is no way I won’t get action’.  I didn’t know an appeal is just a maze of malleable interpretations of laws, many not even heard on appeal, getting ‘procedurally barred’.  The system only works if you have the money to move it in your favor. 

I knew one thing in 1998.  I didn’t bring Mary to that night.  I didn’t kidnap Mary.  I didn’t kill Mary.  And I sure as hell didn’t rape her.   My lawyers didn’t care about me at all, told me that in five years I would win my case on appeal.  I believed what I was told.  Then five turned to ten and ten to twenty, and I realized America wasn’t about the truth.  The D.A. had evidence during trial that their own witness’ were lying – but said nothing.   Phone records show phone calls were being made all night, but both men claimed they were asleep. 

I’m not the first man to sit innocent on Death Row.  I know the real meaning of HATE and what it feels and tastes like to be hated.  The difference between me and them – I don’t hide from who I was and who I am.  And in case anyone wants to know – you’re damn right, I’m mad. 

All posts and details of this case, including phone records that were not shared with the defense, a letter from the ‘key witness’ stating he didn’t know anything, and how Mamou was even accused of an unsolved murder during his trial can be found here.  Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. There is also a facebook page dedicated to sharing the truth. Share his story.

TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
Mamou can also be contacted through JPay via email, but please include your mailing address if you contact him this way, as he can only respond through the mail.

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Surviving The Day!

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I’ve been on Texas death row since November, 1999, and was first held with the others at the ‘old death row housing’, Ellis One Unit, that provided group recreation, church services, work programs – camaraderie.  There was a different vibe then.  Sure, men were still being led like sheep to the slaughter in record numbers, and sure, a few were innocent, some wrongly convicted and many guilty, but the deprivation of social and human interaction in all forms was not as glaring then because we were allowed to play four-on-four basketball games outdoors, able to share hugs with one another, able to lean on one another when one had some bad news and needed a shoulder to cry on, and we were able to pray in groups.  Some sat around tables playing card games, chess, or just sat in silence watching a movie or sports on ESPN.  In no way am I exulting that existence, because I can never be content as long as I am being held in chains.  I’m innocent.  But the reality of living at Ellis during that time was ‘doable’.  Man was not alone.

March, 2000, everything changed, including death row’s location and current housing.  From the moment we arrived on Polunsky Unit we were handcuffed and chained, from our ankles to our stomach to our hands by one long chain, and ordered off the heavily armed buses and stripped nude for the whole world to see.  That became the moment I knew everything was different.

We were placed in single man cells on sections that held fourteen cells per each of the six sections that encased one of six pods.  Gone were work programs, group recreation, church services and all forms of physical contact that we once enjoyed.  Morale was so low, it could be sensed within the thickness of the silence.  Suicides and suicide attempts spiked that first year.  A black, middle-aged inmate from Dallas, Clark, started shouting madly, daily, as if he was Paul Revere, saying things like, “In five years this place will be a place of madness!”  Many laughed, thinking him already mad. 

Clark and three others would die within the first five-hundred days, from unknown natural causes. They simply dropped dead in their cells.  Men as young as 26 and as old as 51 were now remembered as ‘how did they die’.  Though many surmised their depressive stress became too much to bear. 

As time passed, men started self-mutilating, one cutting his penis off and throwing it out of his cell.  Another, so consumed with religious material, set himself on fire.  One man stabbed himself in the jugular and made not a sound.  Before he bled out, he wrote, ‘I’m innocent’, in his own blood on the wall.  The following day, the Courts granted him a stay to look into his claims, to no avail.  One man ate his own eye, then ate the other.  He said it tasted like chicken.  Many hung themselves.  A few started eating their own feces.  An overwhelming number sought help from the mental health department which provided them with experimental psychiatric drugs that kept them in a nebulous, zombie-like state, in which they slept all day and could not function in a coherent manner.  Inmate-friends at Ellis became inmate-enemies on Polunsky.  Staff and inmate assaults rose substantially.  The ugly reality the aftermath, when loneliness became dictator.

Clark’s prophetic words soon became a beacon to the fact that man crumbles from the starvation of physical interaction.

I’m not exempt from suicidal thoughts, the cancer known as depression swallowing me whole from time-to-time, more often than I care to dwell on.  At times I’m consumed with thoughts of dyeing, being murdered, never getting free again and never getting another chance to feel the warm lips of a lover.  Will I ever again salivate over the seasonings and texture of a home cooked meal from my mother?  Who says insanity is all that bad?  My mind does play tricks on me. 

I want to be free.  My freedom was molested from me with false allegations, and I struggle every moment to exist within these solitary confines, my survival not based on my courage or strength, but on those who write me, encourage me and love me unconditionally.  I survive for them.

I do not know what tomorrow will bring. I’m out of appeals and the only step left is to get an execution date.  That notion weighs heavily on me, but I have given my friends a promise to continue to be me until my soul is liberated from the manacles of my flesh. 

Know this – I love you.  Doesn’t matter if you hate me or support me.  None of it matters.  For without love, we all cease to survive the day.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas.  He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence. For information on his case, and to support and share his story, follow on Facebook at – Charles Mamou – How Wrongful Convictions Are Made. You can also read all the information specific to his case at Charles Mamou on this site.

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

Writing By Charles Mamou

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Vivere Senza Rimpianti!

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I hate being on Texas Death Row.  The air.  The stripping nude four times a day on average so officers have something to do or look at.  The cold, faux-food.  The redundant radio station playing the same ole’ commercialized songs every half hour.  I hate my current existence so much, I even hate telling you about it.

We’re all enigmas here.  Each emotionally abused and scarred in some way, shape or form.  This is a place where a guy named Marty McFly can change his name into something catchy and it sticks like a new skin – Big Mac, Marty the Leotard, Mc-Dawg.  Guys can rename themselves after their city, town, zip code, favorite animal, or even a car – something they never would have thought of had they been free.  That’s one thing I don’t hate.  I find the names quite creative and the choices interesting.  At one point, I went by the name Louisiana because others couldn’t pronounce my last name correctly. 

In some regard I think I’m better off than some in here, having battled my own thoughts of suicide and self-harm.  There are times that are comforting, like when it’s quiet and I can read a good book and see the words come to life on the inner stage within my mind.  There’s nothing greater than that.   

Then – there’s visitation.  I love getting visits and a chance to get out of this cell, to be allowed to interact with ‘freeworld’ people and have a moment of nostalgia.  I saw a kid race another across the floor, and it brought back memories of seeing my own daughter doing the same exact thing two decades earlier. 

I wasn’t much of a talker when I was free, but I’ve since acquired a taste for conversing.  People fascinate me and I want to know and understand how they see the world, and how different cultures can be. 

I recently did a BBC interview with a lovely reporter.  It was my understanding the segment was to be focused on my beloved friend, Mary, who was here to visit me.  Perhaps I understood the angle.  Perhaps I didn’t.  Or, maybe, I was a self-centered bastard who thought that – once the camera began to roll – it was ‘action time’ and all about me.  Which would explain why I wanted to shave away the grey hairs from my face before the interview.  Why I urgently smoothed the Olay moisturizer sample I received inside one of my girlie magazines on my face to give me a glow when the big lights came on.  And maybe it explains why the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “Where’s my glam team?”

A few days before the interview I had to have a tooth removed, and I found myself talking on the opposite side of my mouth so the camera didn’t catch the side-gap in my mouth.  I am many things – true.  Add ‘vain’ to the long list.

I attempted to change the narrative of the interview by talking about me, my case and this environment as the British reporter shifted right to left in her chair out of patient frustration.  She was chasing a story.  I was chasing freedom and wanted the world to know it while I still had a chance to express it.  I could tell she ‘understood’.  Somewhere, hidden beneath her eyes, she knew I was a lonely soul, cast into a lonelier sea.  I may have seemed a bit ornery to her, or she may have even thought I was a meshugana.  I’ve been called the latter a few times. 

The reporter was a true pro.  Smooth.  She sensed it when my own oxygen began to run out.  She had to have seen it in the finality of my expressions.  The desperation of my emotions.  The expression of agony of two decades of being mentally lynched within the halls of solitary confinement. 

“Can I ask you one final question?” she asked with a smile.  I invited her to ask me anything, confident that nothing asked would be too complicated for me, until she asked, “Do you have any regrets?”

Mentally?  I began to perspire.  Emotionally – I could see air-bubbles form with no words.  I was caught off guard.  Speechless.  Suffering from a ten-second delay of censorship.  Was this a trick question?   Was she asking about my case?  My life as a whole?  I was truly confused and didn’t like it.  I rubbed my head, looked into the camera and explained that I was innocent in every way from the conviction that molested my freedom from me.  Sure – it wasn’t what she wanted.  But, it was what I needed.  I needed to say it.

I’ve been told an Italian saying that goes, “Vivere Senza Rimpianti” – to live with no regrets.  And when I came back online mentally, that was the only thought I had.  So, I told her, “I have no regrets.”  Perhaps I regret saying that without fully explaining what I meant.  Perhaps not.

What no one can see is that I’m not the same person I was when I was free, thinking I knew everything about everything, when in reality I knew nothing about anything.  I’ve traded in gangster rap lyrics for informative literature.  I now get intoxicated on history, philosophy, politics, psychology.  Not beer, wine or champagne.  I’m a different person today because…  and I HATE to admit this, but my limited environment gave me access to unlimited knowledge.

Since I’ve been on death row, I’ve met so many people from all over the world.  People I have no doubt I would have never encountered had such a wicked kismet not fallen upon me.  People I love more than I love myself.  People who have educated me, visited me, defended me and my innocence and have taken care of me as if I was always one of their own.  A love that transcends mere words of affection.  A love that does not judge my past, but supports my future.  A love that isn’t defined by social acceptance or traditional neglect for those like me who are incarcerated. 

I believe that if you regret some things, you will learn to regret all things.  I love who I am.  It’s my past mistakes that have made me who I am today.  I learned from them.  I grew from them.  You can wish that certain outcomes never happened the way they did, but regrets?  Traditionally, our mental wells have been poisoned into not challenging clichés and social norms when we know a challenge is needed. 

When I told the reporter, “I regret nothing,” I meant that.  For I could not and do not want to entertain an existence where I live without my friends who are family.  I wouldn’t trade my freedom for them.  Living would be a ‘regret’ if I didn’t have them in my life.  Vivere Senza Rimpianti! 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas.  He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.

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

Writing By Charles Mamou

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

I Find Serendipitous Strength In Others

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I had a plethora of ‘special visits’ within the past week – four visitation days filled with two different people, for a total of sixteen hours.  Had I not been awarded such visits from caring friends, I would have spent those hours within a defeat filled prison cell.

During those four hours of conversation, topics range from favorite TV shows – they liked Mork & Mindy, I liked Punky Brewster – to cartoons like the Smurfs, Care Bears, Voltron, and Underdog – a classic.

We talk about food, although my guests are all vegans.  They talk about nuts and crackers, while I ask, “Where’s the beef?”  When they buy me snacks, they refuse to eat in front of me.  No one likes getting food stuck in their teeth around me – what’s up with that?

We discuss politics, books read, family issues and jobs.  We talk about their dealings just as much as mine, and we will cover a wide range of wild and mundane topics.  At some point the unavoidable will arise, though I try to avoid it – my pending execution/murder.  After all, it’s the reason we are ‘here’.  It’s why our sailing ships crossed paths within the massive sea of interactions.

My friend, Mary, is from England where they drive on the wrong side of the road, though she begs to differ.  It’s where they say ‘arse’ instead of ass.  Can you imagine Cardi B singing about her ‘arse’?  Just don’t sound right.  Mary comes from a land where Mary Poppins isn’t a myth – rather a legend.  When she told her family and friends that she was coming to America to visit a man on Texas death row they asked, “Have you gone mad (lost your mind)?”

People often ask me if I am mad.  Bitter.  I’m not pretentious by nature, and what you see is exactly what you get.  So – in the tone of my cussing pastor and actor, Samuel L. Jackson, “You damn right I get mad and bitter!”  Even though hardly anyone ever sees that in me. 

“Chucky, I have one more question.  I would like to know just as the people of England would like to know – how do you stay so strong?  How can you stay smiling and positive?”

It’s a fair question.  One I’m often asked.  And, bravado has it’s place – but not in my story.  To put on a brave face would make a mockery of the struggle of being isolated all day for decades without the touch of another human being’s skin.  It is written, ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’  I guess my oppressors didn’t get that memo.  How do I stay strong?  I pointed to her through the glass, to her surprise.  “Me?”

“You and people like you.” 

It’s not lost on me that it’s not easy entering a prison to come visit me. I understand the money and time so freely given to afford me a few hours of comfort.  I’m always grateful for it.  We are all – literally – strangers from different cultures, with different likes and different social economic norms.  The thought that strangers come to my aid and show me what love is – is humbling.  Without my friends, I would be nothing…  Nothing.

I draw strength from the acts of others who display a courage and unmanacled devotion on a scale that I can never fully comprehend.  I think about how busy their lives are and how they still find the time to think about me and write me.  They visit me knowing they are going to be made uncomfortable by guards. 

I think about my friend, Debbie, who was diagnosed with brain cancer and lung cancer and has undergone multiple surgeries within the past year. She has been a constant in my life since 2004.  And when she was told I lost my final appeal she argued with the doctor to discharge her so she could fly to see me and offer comfort so I wouldn’t feel alone. 

I think about my play-daughter and her mom and how they have enriched my life by adopting me into their family.  They are two of the greatest humanitarians my eyes have ever witnessed – and they shed tears for me and the injustice that has befallen me for two decades.  Some people have seen Gandhi, Mandela, Sojourner Truth, Dr. King and so on – to them, they are heroes.  My play-daughter and her mother are my icons, my heros – my angels.  If I don’t live to see another day, I know I have been cared for by people that are greater than this life.

Then there’s Mary.  She’s laughter.  She’s Lucille Ball funny and one of the most non-judgmental people there is.  She’s a great religious orator and an advocate for children who have been abused or suffer mental illness. She is a fascinating person and a genuine friend, as well as her husband.

These people are the core of my support group and the source of the strength others see in me.  If I’m strong, it’s because I have been shown and taught what strength looks like and feels like.  I am strong because I have been loved freely by those who so freely love.  That’s strength. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas.  He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.

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

Writing By Charles Mamou

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