Whether a prisoner of concrete walls, iron bars and razor wire fences, or economic woes, or mental insecurities – everyone is hungry for a ‘why’ to get through one more day.
My name is Charles “Chucky” Mamou, Jr., and I have been a prisoner on Texas Death Row since 1999. It is here that I found myself a student of my own self, a man whose mental incarceration has been pardoned. I now see things with clarity, without bias. I am not the same man I was a decade or so ago. Now, don’t get it twisted – my imprisonment and death sentence did not bring about such change. For any person to fully attempt to start the process of change, it has to start with the changing or reforming of one’s own mind. I took a liking to the cliché, ‘You are what you think yourself to be’.
A robber doesn’t walk around thinking what sermon he’s going to preach on Sunday, nor is he singing Amazing Grace to express the joys of his heart. He’s thinking about his next heist. But, I’ve come to accept what many deem unthinkable – humans do change! Some from good to bad. Many from bad to good. It all begins with a thought toward a different approach that hasn’t been tried before.
Life finds meaning through ‘why’ and cautious hindsight that allows us to decipher what is important to each one of us. For me, such sanity comes from my devotion to my mother, children, family and sincere friends. More importantly, the devotion they have for me that sustains me. It keeps me smiling when my face should be caked with frowns. They help levee my eyes so that my tears do not cause my heart to flood in misery. They are my ‘whys’ and continue to give me hope for a brighter future.
My family has allowed me to see the other victims that don’t
get much attention in a death penalty system.
The victims who go unnoticed, uncounted, unheard and not spoken enough
about. As much as I understand that it
is because of me that the ones I love have become victims, I see an incredible resiliency
in them, a beacon that no longer allows my own ignorance to be the master of my
mental chaos.
I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring. I can only concern myself in the now. What I learn in the now will allow me to be a
better person in the tomorrows that lay ahead – should any tomorrows come to
pass. And, I can smile in this moment,
because I am mentally alive. Indeed, I
am stronger and wiser in mind, if nothing else.
Stronger today than I in my yesteryears.
Life isn’t how you see it, it’s how you make it. We’re here for a reason. To learn from lessons that are unseen. We are here for more than McDonalds and the
mall. We are here to love those who
adopt hate. We are here to understand
each other without the divide that ignorantly sees some as lesser beings due to
the color of their skin, when it’s the content of their character that should
be sought. We are here to rehabilitate the
rehabilitatable. We are here to forgive,
even if redemption isn’t feasible. We
are here to seek our meanings, our whys, and make a difference.
This is what I have observed. If we completely understand self first – then we can understand others. We are all designed in the same likeness, with the same capacity for peace, love, and respect of ourselves and our fellow brothers and sisters. This is my understanding.
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
My attorneys told me we didn’t need to call any witnesses. Those intelligent white jury members understand what happened.
I’m no killer, and I was and never will be a rapist. I never physically hurt anyone who was
innocent in my life. When I refused a
plea deal to help them convict the ones they felt were responsible, I became
the Kunta – that would never be their Toby.
So they did what they needed to ‘teach me a lesson’.
A few days before my trial began, I sat in the courtroom before the Assistant D.A., Lyn McClellan, and my state-appointed trial attorney, Wayne Hill. Lyn McClellan was good at sending people to death row and was friends with my attorney – I’ve heard rumor McClellan was the godfather of my attorney’s son. I guess if it’s true, that makes them practically family. It wouldn’t surprise me – that’s Harris County, Texas. On that day McClellan turned to me and said, “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t prosecute this case. It’s clear what happened here. But it’s not up to me. My boss wants this case to go through. I may even lose.” McClellan’s boss was the legendary Johnny Holmes.
I was arrogantly naïve, thinking the truth would set me free
– justice.
There were subliminal messages being sent before the trial
even started. Referring to the famous
O.J. Simpson case, the judge assured jurors that was, “not going to happen
here. This is the real world. It is not California.” He compared the job of a juror to, “being a
pallbearer at a funeral.” “And when a
child acts out we must discipline that child.
We may not like it, but we have to do it.” My trial hadn’t even started, and he was
telling the jury I was already guilty. There
was no need to over think it.
The finality came during Dodson’s testimony though. The moment he told the jury I ‘confessed to
him’ that I sexually assaulted Mary – women on the jury began to cry and look
at me with vengeance. I had to turn away
from one woman’s glare after she took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. My character was castrated for an act that
never happened.
Before the trial when they questioned me, trying to get me to take a deal – they told me they had DNA. So, why didn’t they use it? If they had it, they didn’t use it because it wasn’t mine. They said I sexually assaulted her – but there was no DNA presented at my trial. Why?
I had two defense lawyers.
One was hired a month before the trial began and knew nothing about the
strategy or defense in my case. The
people representing me had a letter written by the ‘key’ witness – Dodson – and
his initial interrogation video. They
had in their possession evidence to dispute the key witness’s testimony, but
they never presented it. They allegedly
‘misplaced’ that evidence during my trial.
They miraculously found it after I was found guilty. Dodson said I confessed to him – the letter
he wrote said he didn’t know shit. The
jury never saw it.
I didn’t kill Mary. They had someone testify about me finding my sunglasses after Mary disappeared. They presented the glasses testimony like a smoking gun. If the glasses were near the body – I had to be the killer. What the jury never heard was that the glasses were found nearly five miles away from the body. I’d dropped them in the grass two days before I ever met Mary and nowhere near where she was found. My attorneys didn’t tell the jury that either. Nor were they told how many miles I would have had to have driven that night in a car with a flat tire in order to do what they said I did. They just listened to the prosecution paint their picture.
So, why did I testify? I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t, but after having the media portray me as a drug dealing rapist and murderer, just short of a serial killer, I was tormented so much that I knew if I ever had the chance to set things straight, I would. If I was going out on lies– I wanted the record to show my mother I didn’t lie.
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
“Fuck your religion!” yelled an irate Polo, attempting to defend his stance in a one-sided debate with another inmate, Bob Cook, a professed Christian, though he never read the Bible. Not once. He never attempted to read it either. He possessed an NIV version that sat quietly on top of his rusted cell’s table, collecting dust. “All He was, was the original MGM magician – no better than David Copperfield!”
Polo was a celebrated and outspoken atheist and verbally strong-armed the one-sided debate about religion. Of course, Bob wouldn’t have anyone disrespecting his faith, his Jesus, whom he felt was God’s son, although he never totally understood the ‘how’ aspects within his beliefs. Bob was a typical, middle-aged, white Southerner with traditional Texan pride. He was short and round in stature, built in the mold of Barney Rubble from the Flintstones with hair as white as cotton and alopecia taking over the center of his head. He was a goodhearted guy and my neighbor for about three years. When you are held within the close quarters of Texas Death Row, in solitary cells 24 hours a day, you learn a lot about your neighbors. You get a better understanding of who they are.
I knew Bob well, perhaps better than anyone on the planet. He had a genuinely cuddly personality, always attentive to the needs of others more than his own. He was not one to argue and would often display dumbness when others were attempting to explain something asinine, just so the talker could get whatever it was they wanted to say off their chest.
He didn’t have much and lived on about 20 bucks a month. To put things in perspective, he didn’t have shit, but what he had – anyone who wanted it, could have. That was one of his flaws – he was too kind and an easy target to be taken advantage of. He was guilty of the crime that landed him on death row, though it could be contested that his crime did not fit the criteria for a death sentence. Nonetheless, he was riddled with remorse, often saying, “I’m going to hell.”
When I asked him why, he said the chaplain told him that the Bible said, “Thou shall not kill.” Texas death row chaplains carry no sway with me ever since one told me that my being executed was God’s will. I calmly told him, “Bullshit.”
I then took out my Bible and read several scriptures to Bob, leaning on my studies from when I was enrolled in theology classes. One reason why he never read the Bible was because he couldn’t. He was illiterate. I read to him about forgiveness, faith and salvation, which he appreciated, and in time he gained hope that he might have a chance to get to heaven.
Of course, ‘perfection’ has never been a Christian strong suit, Rome wasn’t built in a day and some dogs refuse to let go of old tricks. So when Bob had enough of Polo’s Christian diatribes, he declared “May Jesus Christ forgive me now for what I’m about to say. Fuck you, Polo!” and with that, he walked away from his cell’s door, steaming mad, and went to sit on his bunk.
Polo began to laugh at Bob’s parting cussing. His handsome and smooth caramel colored facial skin was shining like polished armor due to his overuse of commissary bought baby oil that he used daily. He liked the smell that reminded him of when he was a baby and being smothered with the loving hugs of his mother as he was held between her tender arms and her comfy bosom. He was thirty-two, and had been incarcerated more than he had been in the free world. He was arrested at the age of 15, held in the county jail until he was 17, and then sent to death row. He would be executed/murdered before the USSC’s decision to ban all executions of juvenile offenders. Like most youngsters who grew up around environmental dogma, he was rough around the edges, not cordial and trusted no one. He spoke in waves which often confused the listener as well as himself to some degree, because his ideologies were a perplexing mixed bag of black power, black militant-ism, Malcolm X-ism, Islamic beliefs that he adopted from others, and the scratch your head in utter disbelief performances he often acted out as he mimicked Bill Cosby’s Fat Albert show character with the line, “Hey, hey, hey, it’s Fat Albert!”
I often psychoanalyze people, trying to understand why they do the things they do. Polo, perhaps, still felt as if he was fifteen-years-old and living in a thirty-two-year-old body. Maturity never found an outlet within his mind in which to become liberated. His actions and attitude were a reflection of the way he thought – childlike. What else could you expect?
Polo stood alone in the middle of the section’s day room. No one stood at their cell’s door that he could argue with. Since arriving in the Polunsky Unit in 2000, group recreation, work programs, televisions, and any form of physical contact have been banned from the all-male branch of Texas Death Row. So he began the redundant activity that we all do when we find ourselves alone in the day room with no one to talk to – walking in circles. Consciously or unconsciously we lower our heads as if in shame and count in our minds the steps we take to make a full circle. One… two… three… four… five… It actually takes seventeen strides to complete a full circle in the dayroom. I watched Polo from a distance as I sat in my cell, counting along with him. It would be the last time I was to see Polo in the flesh – alive.
Texas death row inmates are housed in a building called Twelve Building. It’s encased inside electrical razor wired fencing. On some mornings you can see the dead carcass of a stray cat or dog that didn’t get the memo about not touching the fence. Did these creatures not see one of the several bright yellow postings that warn, ‘Electrical Shocking Fence. DO NOT TOUCH’? Mayhap the animals were illiterate too.
There are six pods within Twelve Building, each lettered either A, B, C, D, E or F. Within each pod are six sections, also lettered A, B, C, D, E or F. Each of the six sections can hold fourteen cells for fourteen inmates. Each man is alone, twenty four hours a day.
Inmates communicate by yelling loudly at the guy they are trying to have a civil conversation with. Though in a normal setting, yelling to obtain a civil conversation is indeed madness in nature. Ninety percent of the cells leak when it rains, some more than others. Black mold has run amuck within every cell on death row. The building was cheaply designed and constructed, and the infrastructure is weak and crumbling. Fighting spiders, mosquitoes and other critters is a daily chore.
The failures of the infrastructure are so timely and repetitive that one can’t help but assume there is a conspiracy going on, because nothing works as it should here. Every year during the summer, the water is going to get cut off for a day or two straight. There won’t be fresh water to drink, no water to shower with and no water to flush the accumulated shit and piss that will idly stew. And let me tell you, once the sun’s rays bake this concrete building’s back wall, the structure becomes an oven, causing any religion you thought you had to get temporarily thrown out the window due to the foul odor. If anyone asks us if we are comfortable or okay at that point – they are often greeted with the same aggravated, “Muther fucker, what do you think?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas. His last appeal has been denied and he maintains his innocence.
He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
I’ve spent the past 6,945 days and counting in solitary confinement. I keep track of days the way one has a hobby in the free world. It’s only real significance is giving me a reason to mark another ‘X’ on the calendar.
I’ve filed grievances and signed on to be a plaintiff in a lawsuit about the inhumane and draconian practices of solitary confinement and how it’s the epitome of cruel and unusual (unnecessary) punishment. Lawmakers have eased up on its use for non-death row inmates and even publicly admitted that solitary confinement causes lasting harm to anyone locked away for 10 years or longer. Such sympathy was shocking for ‘conservative’ lawmakers to admit. However, apathy is not given to male Texas death row inmates, who were excluded from the leniency. We remain in solitary.
On July 19, 2018, my last appeal was denied. Not on the merits of actual guilt, for my case on appeal has never been argued orally. In fact, a recent study by the Houston Law Review cited my case and others for the opprobrious “rubber stamping” policy that Harris County and the southern appellate courts use.
Legally, they use a loophole, declaring a case ‘Procedurally Barred’ – giving the appeal judges room to not entertain a death row inmate’s case by adopting the previous court’s opinion, word for word. I believe it’s morally and ethically wrong, unfair, and racially biased and at times motivated. But what can we do? These practices aren’t ‘new’, and a lot of men and women have been judiciously murdered using the same practices, to which I often react the only way I can, with an inhale, exhale and languorously voiced, “Fuck it!”
On Texas death row we are allowed two hours of recreational time Monday through Friday, with no movement on the weekends. If you choose to go to this ‘recreation’, you are ordered to strip nude and do the nude-dance. Then you are taken to another cell that is bigger in space than the cells we sleep in. If it’s indoor recreation, you are placed in a cage in front of the other 14 cells in that section. You can walk around like a lab rat, in circles, or some guys invent a workout routine that may be part yoga, part push-ups and sit-ups, and part creativity. As long as one can sweat, for the most part, one is relatively happy. Some guys don’t work out, and instead engage in shouting conversations about legal work, or which Kardashian is the most desirable or they engage in religious debates that start off with platonic, brotherly order and become heated when there are disagreements regarding trivial interpretations of Scripture – which leads to a cussing match and the overly-used, proverbial Texas row insult, “You dick-sucker!”
Pure madness!
Outdoor recreation isn’t that much larger in size than indoor rec. There’s a netless basketball goal and an orange, rubberless basketball that one can use to play run-and-shoot alone, to see how many shots you can make. You’re surrounded by four 25-foot off-white concrete walls so you can’t see anything diagonally, only an upward view of the sky. Sometimes you’ll see a plane fly high above leaving its wasted fuel’s trail within the cerulean sky’s sea. With two major airports close by, these sights are common. This prison is close to a small highway and every now and then when it’s really quiet, you can hear the thunderous rage that screams from the pipes of a motorcycle that just opened up on the highway.
Most guys don’t like going outside in the summer because of the Texas heat and the sun’s rays that beat down on you without mercy. One can’t help but feel like a rotisserie chicken. I love it. The heat helps me sweat, and the more I sweat, the more I release stress. Plus, I like the solitude. It gives me a chance to think.
After I was denied, it took me nearly two weeks to pick myself up mentally. It is not the outcome I nor my family and supporters wanted or expected. When you’re disappointed like that, logic and one’s perspective gets thrown out the window. Desperation sets in. Your mind wonders about life after death, if it exists. You think about your family. You think about regrets. You fornicate with the idea of what you’ll miss within the carnal world. You think and think… until you need some aspirin to sooth the headache. You find yourself having so much to do, but lack the will to do it. You want to be left alone, although you are aware that loneliness isn’t what you desire. So when it’s time for me to go to recreation I always ask to go outside in the heat – alone.
I’ll run a few games, reliving my high school basketball days. Crowds cheer my jersey number, “It’s on you twenty-two! It’s on you!” After an hour of this workout, I begin to relax and think. I’m haunted by time and dates, logic, philosophy, reasoning, fantasy and reality, failure and injustice. But, not just any injustice – the injustice that was rendered upon me.
Some people are visited by the ghosts of the past, present and future – I’m visited by dates. I’m not in denial, but I can’t believe I’m here on Texas death row, for something that can be argued was never an intentional crime on anyone’s part. For something the police initially told me they knew I didn’t do.
June 29, 1999. I was brought to Harris County from Louisiana to face capital murder charges after I refused the 20 year plea deal offered by Detective Bob King, an acting agent of the DA. Why would I accept a plea deal when I wasn’t guilty and the police had suspects in custody they wanted me to testify against for the plea deal? Above all, I wasn’t a lying ass snitch, testifying to ‘whatever’ to avoid getting charged – unlike others.
I wrote the DA, who admitted at trial he received my letter, and I offered up my DNA or any forensic evidence they could collect from me. I offered to take a lie detector test. I offered whatever I could, but I refused to testify against the others.
No DNA or forensic evidence was taken from me.
July 20, 1999 was the first time I saw a state appointed lawyer, Wayne Hill, who offered me a plea deal, with no concern as to who I was or what actually happened. I refused his deal.
July 21, 1999. My first court appearance.
August 11, 1999. I was officially read the charges against me. I pleaded not guilty. I was then arraigned and had a million-dollar bond set.
September 1, 1999. I went to court, though my journal does not say why, nor do I recall.
September 7, 1999. Jury selection began, and the judge told the potential jury members, “I’m not Judge Ito (from the O.J. Simpson trial of the century case), and we will get this right. Being a jury member is like being a pallbearer. No one wants to do it, but it must be done. Think of a child. When that child acts out, we have to discipline that child.”
I was supposed to be ‘innocent until proven guilty’. The judge was making it clear to the jury, subliminally, that guilt wasn’t the issue. Those words implied I was guilty and they needn’t waste time and effort trying to assume I wasn’t.
September 29, 1999. Eleven white jurors and one Spanish lady, who was questioned relentlessly about her status as a documented US citizen, completed the picks.
October 4, 1999. My trial began. It was also the first time I met my investigator, who asked me if there was anything I wanted him to investigate. Really? He didn’t bother asking this question two weeks – or months – ago?
October 5, 1999. Two of the alleged state witnesses/victims admitted in court that they had been lying since day one. They lied to the police. They lied to the Grand Jury that had indicted me. Think about that for a second…
Had that same Grand Jury known they were being told lies, they never would have indicted me on capital murder charges, or indicted me at all.
They lied to their family, the media, and everyone who asked them what happened. They lied, thinking a lie would prevent them from getting into trouble. In fact, they now admitted the truth, “We were trying to rob and kill Mamou, if need be, for his $20,000.”
You would think that would be enough to set me free, right? Wrong. This is Texas. The Lone Star State. The only state in America that truly believes it can thrive as its own quasi-nation, and once did with Sam Houston as its proxy president. It’s the state that sneezes snow up North, and shits Hell’s fire down South. The state that believes it’s okay to execute an innocent person as long as they can document a fair trial.
WTF?!
In my trial there was no DNA evidence, no eyewitnesses, no gun, no physical evidence that was used or attempted to be used against me – the DA knew that beforehand. What they did was assassinate my character, saying I was a drug lord, which I wasn’t. They put witnesses on the stand who were nothing more than lying jailhouse snitches, trying to get out of the criminal situations they were in. They took deals and testified that I confessed to them.
One guy wrote me a letter which my lawyer had, but ‘allegedly’ lost during my trial and found after my conviction, saying he knew nothing about what happened and that the police and DA threatened to charge him with conspiracy if he didn’t tell them what they wanted to hear about me.
The DA also told the jury that I was ‘guilty’ of two other unsolved murders that I was never a suspect in and never charged for. The only commonality between the cases was that they were ‘drug-related’. They may as well blame me for killing JFK.
One of the state prevaricators claimed that during my ‘confession’, I said I made Mary suck my dick before killing her. He also admitted that he spent days going over his testimony with the DA, and how he’d been told what to say and how to look directly at the jury when saying it.
Remember, there were nine women in the jury. When he said the lie, each of the female jurors began to cry, which was the result the DA was looking for. Never mind the examiner testified that Mary’s body was not sexually assaulted, nor otherwise harmed. I wasn’t even charged with rape. The allegation was made by a hearsay witness and left up to the jury to decide if it was credible. My incompetent lawyers assured me that the false claims were harmless because there was no evidence to support them.
Here we are nineteen years later, and after I was denied the newspaper and TV media outlets claimed I’m on death row for the rape and murder of Mary Carmouche. That’s not what I am on death row for. That wouldn’t matter in normal circumstances, but it does because I now have to explain to my grown daughters why the newspaper is saying I raped a woman.
It’s frustrating, especially when you know fake news is damaging any chance you have at justice.
October 12, 1999. After thirty minutes of deliberation, I was found guilty.
October 15, 1999. I received the death penalty.
November 17, 1999. I was sent to Texas death row a mere three and a half months after I arrived in Texas to face false charges. I never had a chance. My second chair lawyer was hired one month before my trial began, and he had no clue what was going on. Call it railroading. Judicial lynching. Rubber stamping. Call it whatever you want, just don’t call it Justice. In this case the bitch, Justice, truly was blind.
…August 17, 2018. I have walked and counted eighty-eight full circles while contemplating my situation, which seems so surreal. Sometimes I wish it was as easy as John McClane made it seem as he stood bare foot, bleeding, bruised and scarred on top of Nakatomi Plaza screaming, “Yippee ki-yay, muther fuckers!” The good guys stood triumphantly for justice and made sure it rang loud and true.
But this isn’t a scripted movie. It’s real life. In the world you know everything isn’t going to be all right. Even Belshazzar knew what time it was when he saw the writings on the wall with all that, ‘Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin,’ mess.
So, too, I see the writings. But I do not see symbols of mysterious hieroglyphics. I see names that indicate that justice is really ‘just-us’ and not for all. Names like Willie McGee, Todd Willingham, Emmett Till, Aiyanna Jones, Tamir Rice, Treyvon Martin, Michael Brown, and I could go on naming at least 100 more from the top of my head who never got justice, even though the whole world knew they were getting fucked over. They were not part of the ‘just-us’ crowd. Men, women and children who are more worthy of a second chance than I could ever be, but no one came to their aid. No one in power spoke out and said this was wrong before the wrongs became so final.
It’s with these thoughts that I appreciate the point of view that solitude has given me. It comforts me to know I’m not alone, that American justice within the judicial system is only a reality if you have the money to pay the fees the system demands for its servants who have sold their souls and burned every ounce of civility, equality, righteousness and fairness that they once understood.
I may just become another footnote in a fact finding article years down the road, the story of an innocent who was murdered by the state, but I will use my platform anywhere I can to tell my story, a story America keeps on writing.
The comforts of solitude…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas. His last appeal has been denied and he maintains his innocence.
He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
My thought – ‘My life is over’. No more clothes, parties, women, vacations. No more freedom and all that joyously came with it. As we drove, I noticed beer trucks zoom past. Commuters drove by without a care as to why the ornery white van was even on the same highway as their colorful vehicle.
As I began to reflect, the silence became revealing. I noticed things I would’ve missed under other circumstances. My senses adapted with a sense of urgency. I knew the van’s muffler had to be busted because it made a hissing and popping noise every 45 seconds or whenever we slowed down and sped up again. I noticed when the driver loudly belched twice and gave a hearty laugh. Then he gave a doughy chuckle while he lifted his butt off the seat and released a silent fart that was ferociously smelly. Whatever he ate must’ve had a lot of onions in it. His partner gave him a displeased sideways look before he cracked his window, allowing the funk to exit.
The van’s radio was tuned to a country station, playing songs like Smoke Rings In The Dark and You Don’t Impress Me Much. The singer had a hook that stuck in my mind – ‘Who do you think you are? Brad Pitt?’ It was a braggadocious melody that I actually liked, even though I didn’t have a clue who Brad Pitt was.
At our first stop I was handed over to TDCJ prison officials. One of the officers looked like Boss Hog from the Dukes of Hazard, just taller. He gave the deputies a solid handshake before exchanging a few words and gestures in a code that only they could understand. “Na, look here. Can you read, boy?” The prison guard asked me in a gauche southern plantation owner’s drawl that made me sick in the ears. At this point I was so emotionally drained that I felt faint. I was broken, and I didn’t even realize it. I answered him by nodding my head ‘yes’. “A’ight. Na, we’se gonna take you inside and get you processed in our system. It’s only gonna be two ways it’ll happen. One. You act like a man, and we treat you like one. Or, two. Act like a ass, and we’ll f!@# you like one. Is we clear?”
Again, I nodded my head ‘yes’.
They took my chains and handcuffs off without a care of me attacking them. The guards seemed comfortable around the convicted, as if they’d accepted the idea that they were simply ‘inmates’ too, except they were getting paid to be there. Or their ease could’ve been due to the guard towers that held gunmen inside with their rifles aimed at me, ready to shoot with any sign of a snafu that I might cause.
I followed behind them, and when we entered the huge crimson brick building one of the guards yelled an introduction that was louder than a bullhorn, getting the attention of the other sixty or so inmates and officers. “Dead man walking! Get y’all faces against the wall!”
Prison policy demands that all non-death row inmates are supposed to face the wall in a frisk position, not looking at any death row inmate as one passes by. Why? I have no clue – makes no sense to me. As I passed by some inmates stole glances at me. Some had sympathetic eyes. Others were only frustrated that my arrival had delayed them momentarily from getting to where they wanted to be.
I was placed in a bullpen that smelled of bleach. The floor shined from being freshly buffed. Again, I was ordered to strip nude, hand over the county’s orange uniform that I had worn, and given an off-white jumpsuit with ‘DR’ painted on it. Then I was quickly ushered to an awaiting barber’s chair where the baby afro I was beginning to admire was cut into an uneven buzz cut. “Standard prison haircut. Sorry,” the inmate barber explained.
Once that was over I was brought before the classification officer. He looked like a thin, 60-year-old liberal and impressed me as educated and reasonable. He smiled at me, which was a welcome sight, and directed me to sit down. After taking a seat I learned that looks are quite deceiving. As it turned out, the man was the most disrespectful officer I met that day.
“You know, in my day your kind would’ve never gotten so much generous attention. We simply would’ve brought you out yonder, found a good ole tree to hang ya from. Just one less…” he was saying just before he cut himself off, not finishing his racist insult. He was about to say the almighty peccant N-word that has divided whites and blacks from the moment it was conceived for the sole purpose of pejorative dehumanization – but he didn’t. He didn’t have to. It was already understood who and what he was.
He would go on to ask me a bunch of questions that he fed into his computer. Questions like, “With a name like Mamou, what, you Muslim?” pronouncing the ‘s’ like a swarm of ‘z’s, in an effort to insult the religion.
“No. I’m from Louisiana.” And even though I had no previous religion, I told him I was a Christian – because that’s what my mom said would set me free. I would later find out that in 1999, Texas sent 48 men and women to death row. That was the most ever sentenced in a single year, which many defense lawyers would say indicates DA’s abused their power and overcharged the poor and minorities just to stay true to their tough on crime stance.
As soon as the interrogation was over, I was loaded into another van. This one had no window. And the guards were two redneck hillbillies that drove like NASCAR drivers down the non-scenic back roads with their music blasting to an R&B/Rap station. I just knew we were destined to get into a wreck. We sped over humps and nearly ran over a three-legged dog as we made our way around sharp curves, knocking me to the floor several times. It took about an hour before we pulled up to the back entrance of the Ellis One prison. Like so many before me, I knew nothing of the process or what to expect once I exited the van. I didn’t know anything about appeals. All I thought about at that moment was that I was about to face the executioner.
I was quickly escorted through the general population showering area, where a hundred obsequious nude inmates stood in line to take a quick shower. I recall thinking that the margin of error of one inmate rubbing up against the backside of another was extremely tight. I told myself, ‘If this is how death row inmates shower, I’ll be one smelly dude.’
I kept my face straight ahead, not allowing my curiosity to invade their privacy. The walk was quick and then that damn announcement rang out again as we entered the main hallway, “Dead man walking! Hit the wall, you maggots!” The officer barking the order tightly gripped his steel club stick, eager to beat back any inmate that wasn’t in compliance. Again, the inmates faced the wall, noses touching brick, hands and legs spread. I felt bad that so much attention was being placed on me, causing these incarcerated men more humiliation. As soon as we passed, they continued doing what they were doing as if I’d never walked by.
We reached the housing area where death row inmates were held, and my body alerted me that it had been an entire day and a half since I’d eaten anything. I was famished. I was brought to J-21’s wing and there on the floor by the entrance was a blue food tray with what appeared to be a perfectly uneaten piece of baked chicken. My mouth began to salivate in ways that were unnatural to me because I’d never experienced that kind of hunger before. I wanted that chicken so badly I didn’t care about the self-imposed dignity I’d conjured up about being a Mamou. Mamous don’t cry, we don’t beg, we don’t embarrass ourselves in public, we are to act regal even if we aren’t. Well, hunger pains are a callous dictator too, and I would have dropped to my knees and lapped that meat up with my mouth like a dog had they told me I could. I informed the guards I was extremely hungry. They smiled, checked the time on their watches and told me that chow would be served shortly.
It would be two hours before ‘chow time’ came. In the meantime I was brought to a cell that reminded me of an ecosystem of grime, filth, germs, critters, graffiti and loneliness. There was a banal smell that hung in the air.
At around 4:30 they brought us ‘chow’, which consisted of what they called tuna-pea-casserole. I’d never heard of anything like it. I tasted it, taking in a huge chunk, gagged and immediately threw up. Prison food smells and tastes different in a way that alarms your body as it enters. Natural defenses go up and try to eject the invasion. It takes months to get acclimated to the taste of half cooked foods, that are at times spoiled or not food at all.
All the TVs were on, and the rest of the guys were glued to the cartoon show on Fox called Beast Wars. I thought that was too immature for me, so I sat on my bunk. I was hungry, frustrated and angry. I threw my crying face into my hands with my mouth trembling, silently whispering a prayer to this God my mother prayed to, languidly mouthing, “I can’t do this sh**!”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas and currently working on his next novel. He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
Wednesday, November 17, 1999… I found myself encircled by three huge Harris County transport deputies, all well over six feet tall, all tipping the scale over 280, and all looking like offensive lineman for a professional football team. “Strip out your clothes, lift your nut sack, spread your butt cheeks and squat!” the lead deputy bellicose barked.
“Squat? I’m not squatting. I’m a man. I’m a Mamou!” I defiantly yelled back. I then noticed the other two deputies putting on their black gloves, the way a surgical doctor places latex gloves on his hands before dealing with a patient.
“We got a live one,” another deputy spat.
“You have five seconds to take your clothes off, lift and squat as I ordered, or we send you off to your new home with a ass whoopin’ you’ll never forget.”
Back then Harris County jailers and deputies were notorious for gang jumping inmates, so much so they were called ‘The County Klan’. I once witnessed eight officers jump one frail looking black drug addict. The beating was so vicious his left eyeball popped out of its socket. I’d never seen anything like that before. Afterwards, one of the sergeants beamed with pride at their dastardly work before giving the unconscious and bloodied offender one more kick to the head. They had a license to beat anyone they chose within their jail’s walls and the numbers were always in their favor. The county jail was their castle, and they were royalty.
I grew mad – so mad my blood pressure rose, and I began to feel dizzy. I wanted to fight them all, to show them where I was from, being ‘Bout It’ was more important than any beating one could get or give. In fact, it was a dogmatic honor to go out swinging – win or lose. But I wasn’t a fool. During the 3 ½ month stay in their county jail while awaiting trial, I had stressfully lost 24 pounds. I was a sick looking stick figure, and I knew it and felt it. I was merely a doppelgänger of my old self. Taking that into consideration as the lead deputy began reaching for his nightstick, I stripped nude and squatted, bringing wry smirks to the now cherry faced deputies. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I wanted to kill a man.
Once my forced faux-striptease was concluded, I was shackled around my ankles with a long chain that led to the handcuffs around my wrists. Then an iron black box was placed over the chain that tightly connected my ankle restraints to my wrist restraints, making it impossible to walk upright. Blood began to form from cuts to my ankles brought on by every snail step I took.
One of the escorting deputies noticed the blood and asked sarcastically if the cuffs were too tight. It was a dumb ass question deserving a dumb ass response because I didn’t want them to see how vulnerable I felt. I drew on a hubris mantra for strength that reminded me of my last name every time I grew weak or was on the brink of an emotional breakdown. Why my last name? Because at that moment it was all I had. It was the only mental I.D. that kept me revisiting who I was to those that loved and cared for me.
As a kid my father’s father used to pick me up every Saturday morning to go get a haircut from the ‘brutal barber’, Mr. Plumbar. He had a reputation of using a straight razor on little boys’ heads, then slapping alcohol across the cuts he had made when he was done. Young boys feared getting a haircut from him, and older fathers and grandfathers brought their young boys to him to prove that their sons were brave.
“What’s your last name?” my grandfather would always ask before we entered the barbershop. Once I proudly told him and he was satisfied, he would say, “Mamous don’t cry! No matter what we go through, we suck it up. Understand?”
After my haircut he would always take me to get a treat in the form of ice cream or some other snack. But for the life of me, every time that alcohol hit my scalp I wanted to flee that barber’s chair as if a swarm of killer bees were attacking. But I never did. I sat and took the pain because it was embedded in me from a young age that ‘Mamous don’t cry in front of those trying to hurt us.’ So as the blood flowed and the pain in my ankles increased, I said nothing.
I was led to the back of the van. It was nothing fancy. It came equipped with a cage inside that took up the entire cargo space, reminding me of a dogcatcher’s transport vehicle. It had side windows for me to look out, helping to take my mind off the pain I was feeling and how I was chained up like a slave from the movie Roots. We hit the highway heading towards the prison that held Death Row inmates. Over the next four hours, I would notice scenes through those windows I had never noticed before – and I realized how beautiful the free world seemed when one was no longer free. To be continued…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a gifted writer living on Death Row. The issues with Mamou’s trial are more than troubling. I share details about his case often, and I’m happy to talk about the details. Many can be found on a Facebook page dedicated to his story. He can be contacted through USPS, and also via email through JPay. Please leave your mailing address if you contact him via JPay, as he cannot respond through JPay.:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
Sometimes I wish I was a kid again
Living in a world free of sin
Free from war that has no meaning
Sure!
I’m still California Dreamin’
Leaning on my own understanding
Tired of Politicians’ deceptive grandstanding
Telling you what you want to hear
So they can get your vote
It’s either the Ballot or the Bullet
Not watermelon nor chicken
And just because I eat at Chick-fil-A
Don’t make me anti-gay
It just means I accept marriage to mean a husband and a wife
I’m pro-life…
Live and let live…
To be or not to be…
And yet,
Sometimes…
I just want to kick back and eat a pork sandwich While watching Charlotte play with her web in search for Wilbur
Follow me?
Society can be a cruel place
Often making me feel like a mental-case
Worrying about my family’s safety
Not caring whether or not the Executioner hates me
Humans will always be at odds with Humanity
It’s the essence of Insanity
“One Nation Under God,” has never existed
Uncle Sam keeps murderers enlisted
Never forget My Lai of 1968
Sometime…
Sometimes can be a little too much
I feel that I’ve grown out-of-touch
I shun liars
And speak the truth
Having immature folks call me a nincompoop
My mother tells me I just don’t understand
While I explain I speak with the tongue of a changed man
My so called friends say these nine pounds of steel has messed with my brain
Sometimes…
I only wish they could feel my pain
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a gifted writer living on Death Row. He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
On July 19, 2018, my last appeal was denied. Not on the merits of actual guilt, for my case on appeal has never been argued orally. In fact, a recent study by the Houston Law Review cited my case and others for the opprobrious “rubber stamping” policy that Harris County and the southern appellate courts use.
June 29, 1999. I was brought to Harris County from Louisiana to face capital murder charges after I refused the 20 year plea deal offered by Detective Bob King, an acting agent of the DA. Why would I accept a plea deal when I wasn’t guilty and the police had suspects in custody they wanted me to testify against for the plea deal? Above all, I wasn’t a lying ass snitch, testifying to ‘whatever’ to avoid getting charged – unlike others.
…August 17, 2018. I have walked and counted eighty-eight full circles while contemplating my situation, which seems so surreal. Sometimes I wish it was as easy as John McClane made it seem as he stood bare foot, bleeding, bruised and scarred on top of Nakatomi Plaza screaming, “Yippee ki-yay, muther fuckers!” The good guys stood triumphantly for justice and made sure it rang loud and true.
As I began to reflect, the silence became revealing. I noticed things I would’ve missed under other circumstances. My senses adapted with a sense of urgency. I knew the van’s muffler had to be busted because it made a hissing and popping noise every 45 seconds or whenever we slowed down and sped up again. I noticed when the driver loudly belched twice and gave a hearty laugh. Then he gave a doughy chuckle while he lifted his butt off the seat and released a silent fart that was ferociously smelly. Whatever he ate must’ve had a lot of onions in it. His partner gave him a displeased sideways look before he cracked his window, allowing the funk to exit.
They took my chains and handcuffs off without a care of me attacking them. The guards seemed comfortable around the convicted, as if they’d accepted the idea that they were simply ‘inmates’ too, except they were getting paid to be there. Or their ease could’ve been due to the guard towers that held gunmen inside with their rifles aimed at me, ready to shoot with any sign of a snafu that I might cause.
He would go on to ask me a bunch of questions that he fed into his computer. Questions like, “With a name like Mamou, what, you Muslim?” pronouncing the ‘s’ like a swarm of ‘z’s, in an effort to insult the religion.
As a kid my father’s father used to pick me up every Saturday morning to go get a haircut from the ‘brutal barber’, Mr. Plumbar. He had a reputation of using a straight razor on little boys’ heads, then slapping alcohol across the cuts he had made when he was done. Young boys feared getting a haircut from him, and older fathers and grandfathers brought their young boys to him to prove that their sons were brave.
While watching Charlotte play with her web in search for Wilbur