Over the 22 years I’ve been on Death Row, the days have become progressively more difficult. The physical toll it exacts is unabating; the mental toll, too strenuous to bare. Incarceration is like starting off every morning at the bottom and laboriously scaling up the ladder to morale. Nobody wakes up in prison feeling good about themselves, and feeling worthy comes with effort. For many, being incarcerated will be our greatest challenge in life, shaping us in the best or worst way. It’s adversity come to declare war on our peace of mind and the price of defeat is our mental wellness. It should come as no surprise, the drawbacks of this system that devalues human rights, which is why it takes a special kind of resilience to get through the day.
Over the years, I have relied on several mechanics to stave off the despondence of daily restrictions. I’ve put in long hours at the poker table. I’ve watched enough TV to go blind. I’ve swapped war stories, read tons of books, and even meditated to fill the void. I’ve sang and written and turned to prayer when singing and writing didn’t work. But the one thing that has been a constant relief for me is dance. Yep, you read that right… dance. Dancing has gotten me through the toughest moments, not just on Death Row but throughout my life.
I came up in a time when family and friends frequently expressed their love for one another through dance. Drunks slow grinding. Church folks stomping. And those non-dancing head boppers who just couldn’t help themselves. I started dancing myself when I was around four, merely twisting and shaking to the music while the grown-ups chuckled and pitched me coins, showering me with a feeling of acceptance. By thirteen, I was plagued with insecurities and too ashamed to dance. I envied the other teens during Friday night dance battles at the community center as they performed, seemingly without fear or reservations. Envy gave way to passion, and I began practicing dance in private, choreographing routines with the help of my kid sister. Then one day I danced before a crowd, and all my insecurities slipped away. I knew right then I would never stop dancing again.
I didn’t set out in life to be a great dancer, just one who wasn’t ashamed. It didn’t seem right to quit doing something I loved for the sake of others’ opinions. Too often we buy into the narrative of dance with words like rhythm, grace, and beauty. Yet we lose sight of the most important attribute of dance – its potential for healing. I dance whenever the C/O’s piss me off. I dance when I’m locked in the cell. I dance to prevent shit talking inmates from provoking me to fight. I dance around the dayroom, the rec yard and throughout the hallways – wherever I’m in the mood; and what’s validating is when the other inmates not only encourage me – but are themselves inspired to dance.
Dancing isn’t meant to be taken too seriously, unless you’re a serious dancer. It’s okay to clown around if it helps us to feel better about ourselves. I, myself, am a fan of crumping, a dance style that consists of hard-hitting, chest popping versatility, except I’m forty-eight with bad knees, self-taught, and mediocre at best. But do I let that stop me from reaching my happy place… hell no. I man up and go for mine. And when the dance ends and the euphoria fades away, I find that prison is a little more bearable.
Dance doesn’t belong to the rhythmic and the graceful – it’s a force that’s driven by emotions, the therapeutic resolve of our inner conflict when words otherwise fail. Dance has been not only a confidence builder for me, but also my source of inspiration allowing me the spontaneity to express myself in a place where emotional expression is generally discouraged. It is a spiritual catalyst that transcends incarceration and brings me closer to peace of mind, therefore I dance to get through the days in prison because dancing sets me free.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Note: This is third in a series. I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
September 2, 2014 (Tuesday, 7:46 pm)
Man, what a wonderful day – not necessarily for me and especially not for all hating-ass envious dudes who don’t wanna see nobody get ahead, but for Big Hen and the McCollum family. Dude went home today – wow, man, how great is that. I was speechless when I saw the news, but happy nonetheless. I guess it does pay to have hope. I lost my hope a long time ago and didn’t even know it. I held on for as long as I could, then I just stopped believing in justice. I’ve gotta get my hope back – sometimes things do get better.
My man, Big Hen. Good luck out there bruh, and I’m gonna miss you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
My life was over. I could tell from the looks on their faces. No more was I Duck, Dreadz or EyeGod – brother or son. When I stepped into the courtroom, I was nothing. Blank, a clean slate, yet covered in the dirt of my past, so much so that the me I knew disappeared under the grime. And now I was just a stage show, a star villain in a real-life tragedy that left a man dead and others calling for my execution. There was no going back after that. It was as sure as that prickly feeling nagging me for the first time ever – whether good or bad – my old life was gone.
I was dressed in a flannel button-up and beige dockies – the first clothes I’d worn in eleven months besides jailhouse jumpsuits and prison browns. I was supposed to look civilized, already mitigating before the judgment began. My black and white Airforce sneakers and outfit didn’t match, but neither did the stories match that were told about me, so my clashing wardrobe was keeping with the theme. Still, I wanted to explain away my uncoordinated attire and tell the jury that I had better clothes to die in, but silence was the etiquette when trying to elicit sympathy. So, I didn’t speak. I didn’t tell them that they had the wrong man. I hoped my sober face, mismatched clothes and nappy Afro said it all – I didn’t kill John Rushton.
I was escorted by a sheriff who held my elbow in a grip that was bolt-resistant. I didn’t blame him for thinking I would run. I’d done so twice before. Seated at the table were my defense attorneys, looking busy as they shuffled through a mess of papers, cutthroat attorneys whose aim was all wrong since they kept trying their tactics on me.
“One juror is your mother’s coworker? …that could work in our favor.” “Oh, you weren’t supposed to pass the IQ test,” and, “Have a look at the victim’s body and tell me… does it make you wanna sign a plea?”
They were persistent at trying to invoke a sense of guilt and responsibility in me – now if they could just be as committed to defending me. My eyes swept over the room in search of my mother. I didn’t want to lose her face in the crowd. I was comforted by thoughts of my mother during those cold dark nights in solitary confinement when I took myself to trial. I found her amongst the section of the pews reserved for those in sorrow, the woman who nursed me when I had a cold or scraped my knee was now watching a capital boo-boo unfold that her Band-Aids couldn’t fix. Her face looked unendurably strained, like commercial glass pelted by a storm’s debris. A face that had long ago shattered, but one she put back together for my sake. She was trying to be strong for me. But who was going to be strong for her? I picked my head up and acted like it all meant nothing.
The jurors were seated side-by-side in a wooden box, their arms and legs shielded from view allowing them to fidget anxiously in private. I was told that they were a panel of my peers, but I’d never seen any of them on the corner selling dope, so to me they were strangers, there to judge my life without repercussions to their conscience. They were decent-looking folks who all claimed to be Christians but said they could come back with a penalty of death. I figured they were reading from the Bible with a typo that read, “Thou shalt not kill, unless…” They appeared like the heads of a mythical creature, inhabiting their wooden box as they waited to lay waste with their pens and perspective. I made the mistake of looking over at them and many glared back, but only one of us turned to stone.
The door swung open and in walked the judge with a blond comb-over hardened with gel. He was a small man sporting a giant personality, his shoulders raised and eyes steady as he flowed across the room draped in black, a good place under which to hide his personality. He took to the stand and seized hold of his gavel, the same one from the day before when he struck down my attorney’s motions. I sucked in a deep breath of air and held it there bracing myself for the impact.
The judge spoke fancy gibberish that made some eyes narrow with wonder, lawyer talk for ‘now’s the time to tell me what this boy has done’. The prosecutor lead off by saying he could prove I carried out the murder. I was immediately concerned, more than I already was – his accusation sounded like a fact. Mild mannered and with an affinity for neatness, he straightened his tie and said he would ask the jury to kill me. I could tell they were thinking about it – they hardly looked my way again.
My attorneys continued their paper shuffling while pitching whispers at one another. Every so often they gave me a reassuring grin – somewhere in those papers was proof of my innocence. They, in turn, gave a compelling opening argument to rival the prosecution, and for a moment I was proud to have such prestigious white men speak adamantly on my behalf. The judge banged his gavel signaling the end of the preliminary warmups as the real fight was about to begin.
The prosecution called on several law enforcement officers to take the stand, each laying out the credibility of his case. It was a professional exchange that grew more intense the longer the inquiry lasted. For the most part I was able to follow along, but I kept getting tripped up in the terminology so I paid attention only when they mentioned my name. By the time it was over, my word was already shot. These were men and women with guns and integrity for the law, and all I had was a story full of holes.
During the cross-examination, my attorneys recovered, though they didn’t fill in any holes but rather created some of their own by asking questions that warranted answers scientifically in my favor. But I didn’t care much about the DNA, as I knew it wouldn’t point to me. I was waiting on the testimony of the two people I knew – Jed and Udy.
Udy was a neighbor whom I’d known since we were kids. We were in-laws since we were born. He was an impressionable teen with a propensity for trouble – but hell, so was I. I’d been to prison twice before and talked with Udy about what it was like. I tried to steer him on a different path because he was like a brother to me. I’d made whole-hearted attempts on several occasions to keep him out of prison, so it was not only shocking for him to say I encouraged him to do a robbery – it was insulting.
Jed was a different matter – he was trouble personified yet a charmer masquerading as civil. He was a master manipulator which didn’t bother me before because we were blood relatives, and I looked up to him. But now he was claiming I confessed murder to him and that he reported me because it was the right thing to do. Bullshit! Jed was up to something, and I needed to look into his eyes to figure out what.
Udy took the stand wearing a dress shirt and tie with a fresh buzz cut and a youthful face, the kind of look that made it hard to discredit him. He testified to the same story he’d made previously in a statement to the police, except now the details were extensive. He sounded so believable that I wanted to puke. His lies were so sickening that they made me regret our friendship, yet strangely enough my anger wouldn’t keep me from feeling sorry for him.
Then Jed, who was kept sequestered to preserve his grand entrance, burst through the door, all mad and determined. Part of me was hoping that, as family, he would be bound by a code of ethics to tell the truth. But swearing on the Bible was like swearing on a matchbook to Jed because his story was even crazier than Udy’s. It was all the same I guessed to a Christian jury who believed God would support their vote for death. He gave such a heartfelt testimony of how much it hurt him to have to turn his cousin in, claiming he did it because it was the right thing to do. It was then his motives became obviously clear. Jed had no allegiance to any higher power – his God was self-preservation.
I could hardly wait to take the stand on my own behalf and tell the jury what really happened. There were corroborating witnesses to vouch for my whereabouts – I was off selling drugs that night. I didn’t own a gun. I wasn’t hard up for cash. I didn’t make any robbery plans. I’ve never killed anyone in my life, and I certainly didn’t confess to doing so. Still, the jury would want to know why my cousin and friend said I did those things, and for that – I had no answers. But the burden of proof wasn’t on me, right? Right?
Turns out, I wouldn’t get the chance to testify. At the last minute my attorneys advised me not to, assuring me that putting on evidence would ruin any chance of a favorable verdict. “The DA has the burden of proof. You heard them, Terry – they didn’t prove a thing. If we start throwing crackheads on the stand, it’s gonna look like we’re grasping for straws and they’ll find you guilty for sure. Besides, our putting on evidence would mean we’d have closing arguments first, and I want to argue last.”
I didn’t give a damn about straws and arguing strategies. I wanted to fight for my life. But I also couldn’t afford to piss off the only two men assigned to defend me and I was unfit to deal with their tantrums, so I stood up in open court and waived my right to present evidence. It felt like I killed myself. It took the jury a few hours to decide that any man who won’t confront his accusers is likely guilty. As they read the verdict I fiddled with the fabric of my clothes, so I wouldn’t forget what it was like to be me.
The rest of the trial was a haze of legal formalities that grew limbs and sprouted into the death penalty. While all the mitigating, paper shuffling and scrounging was going on, I was still trying to figure out how I got there. A man was dead. I was accused. I didn’t say shit to the jury – and just like that, my life was over. The numbness softened the blow, the sentence not affecting me like I thought it would – that’s what happens when you judge a stone. I was afraid that at the mention of the word ‘death sentence’, I would keel over and die. Nope. They were saving me for the lethal injection. I wondered about the jurors, when their lives were done and their day of judgment came, what would they do when they learned that they were wrong?
As I headed to Death Row in a prison van, my wrists and ankles bound by a chain, I took in the sights around my hometown for the last time. I cried not because I’d lost my life to injustice. I cried because they took my name.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Note: This year, I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they went through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
July 9, 2014 (Wednesday, 1:05 p.m.)
Aw, man – I just got to meet Mr. Eugene Brown. What an experience. I’ve talked about the movie, ‘Life Of A King’, so much, and now I’ve met the man that inspired the movie. I was really surprised by his aura of normality – I was expecting much different. Now I realize it was his normalcy that gave such realness to his words. Dude is truly a powerful man, and I think his philosophy can potentially change the world. I am a King, and I do control the pieces of my life… definitely. I’ve gotta start making better decisions for myself if I want to finish with a strong and relevant end game. It was cool that Mr. Brown came out to see us – I’ll carry the things he said to us forever. A true blessing to have experienced that today. I wish I could talk to my brother right now, I would pay it forward. We are all our own Kings. Wow – what a day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. I have asked Terry to share some of his journal entries with us.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Writing this letter is harder than I thought, but for you – it is worth trying. I’ve never known anyone to write a dog before. Maybe that’s because no dog has ever meant so much to someone. It’s crazy to think where we both ended up – you buried somewhere in an unmarked grave and me worse off than dead. That’s what Death Row is, Bear – a place between life and death. It’s where people are deliberately kept alive long enough to anguish over the fear of being executed, tormented until all peace of mind is used up. Only then are we ripe for slaughter. How I got here on Death Row is too long a story and too depressing for the details – but, do you remember the guy next door whom I was cool with? …turns out he wasn’t so cool. I may never know why, but he accused me of taking another man’s life during a robbery. Can you believe that? That’s why I couldn’t get home.
Anyway, getting back to the purpose of this letter. Bear, I had a dream about you just now. Hold on! Before you start bouncing around with those lofty cartwheels of yours, you should know it wasn’t a good dream. In fact, it was probably the saddest thing I’ve ever dreamt, even though part of me wishes I could’ve stayed under. I woke feeling unfulfilled, like when waiting your whole life for something to happen, then realizing five seconds too late that it’s gone. But I believe the dream was necessary, it put things in perspective. I now realize that in life, I left a lot of people behind.
So, the dream – it started out with me finally being released from Death Row. I was given some clothes and a severance package, but when I got outside, no one was at the gate. No family. No friends. No news cameras covering the story. It was as though any relevance I had owned had succumbed to my absence, and the world had moved on without me. I headed home, but when I got there, it wasn’t the same house I remembered. The place was trashy and run-down with neglect, nothing left of the garden but wilted stems. The barn where we held so many of our family outings was now a crumbling derelict, trying to weather the times. All the holiday memories we made in that barn, and now it was no more than a safety hazard. Then I noticed a strange-looking structure. It looked like an igloo made of wood. And who do I see hobbling out from this dog house… yep. Bear – it was you.
You looked so mangy, worn-out and pitiful. Your eyes drooped with the age of years past. You looked like a dog that had been to hell and back with one foot still on the other side. The chain around your neck whined and creaked with the rust of twenty years. Your semblance, I hardly recognized. Then you looked at me and wagged your tail, and something in it spoke of you. I wouldn’t have guessed that any feeling could amount to walking off Death Row after twenty years, but seeing you was an unspeakable joy. And to think you’d waited for me all that time. The gratefulness brought me to my knees. You then bound into my arms with your incessant tongue laps and tail thrashing. No homecoming reception was ever more welcoming.
I was struck with the fact that you had been tethered on a chain for more than two decades. Blame set in on me like a scolding tongue for my leaving you to suffer so. Then I remembered… we never kept you on a chain. My eyes stung with the indecency. It seemed you were also unjustly serving time. I stormed off towards the house, ready to spit fire at the new tenants and demand the key to let my dog loose, but when I burst through the door, spraying glass shards and splinters, I unintentionally shattered the dream.
There is no ache like waking up to the longing of a friend who has never let me down. I kept trying to get back to sleep to rescue you and discovered that the most meaningful things in life are the most elusive. So, you see – it wasn’t a good dream at all, except for the joy of seeing you again. It made me realize what my sudden absence must’ve been like for you, how you must’ve felt abandoned by me.
Did you know the first time I saw you waiting inside the fence, I was reluctant and afraid. I was just dropped off by a parole officer, fresh out of prison that day. I wasn’t aware we even had a dog. I guess my fears stemmed from learning of the era when White supremacists set upon Black people with their dogs. I mistook your panting, pouncing, and acting so unafraid of me as a clear sign of your aggression. But then you settled down and let me pet you, and I realized that all you wanted to do was play. My first impression of you was so unfair. Maybe that is the real source of my guilt.
Needless to say, I was wrong about you, Bear. You just didn’t have it in you to hurt anyone. Well – there was that time when you snagged ahold the pants of that sheriff, but hell, you were only trying to get him off top of me. I remember thinking, ‘this crazy dog gonna get hisself killed’. Nobody had ever risked their life for me like that. I was so freaking proud of you.
I guess I should talk a little more about whatever since this will probably be the last time. It’s not really considered normal behavior for people to write to their deceased pets. I don’t mind coming off as weird; that’s just another word for unique, and sometimes it’s the most abnormal approach that is the only path to closure.
Often enough, there are times when I felt that you were the only one I could talk to, when I could do without anyone’s judgment or advice – I just needed somebody to listen. So many late nights I came home with my pockets heavy from all the dirt I’d done and my conscience weighing on my shoulders. I thought I had to wrong people to survive in the streets, when really I was just trying to be seen. My coming home to you was the only time when I felt normal. With you I could be my ugly self. I would unload all the day’s baggage at the doorstep while you lay curled at my feet, listening as my silent resolve. Bear – I can’t tell you how much having your ear meant to me. Hell, I’ve told you shit I ain’t told no one else. And on those rare nights when I didn’t drop by to unlatch your kennel and chat… well, on those nights my shame was a bit too heavy.
I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back to you, Bear, in both the dream and reality. I just didn’t know that my doing so much dirt would get other people’s dirt on me. I know you waited for me, and that must’ve sucked – wondering why all the late night walks around the neighborhood ended without reason, why all our fun just stopped. I want you to know that it wasn’t because I abandoned you, Bear – not intentionally. No. I didn’t come back because I, myself, am tethered by a red jumpsuit and Death Row has a really short reach. I keep on seeing that chain around your neck. I hope that wherever you are – somebody there will take it off. If not, I don’t know how the spirit world works, but I promise to take care of it when I get there.
So long, old friend, and thanks for all the times when your company gave me solace. There is no loyalty like a dog’s love. And, yep… I learned that from you.
Always, your trusted friend and spirit brother,
Chanton
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. On our Facebook page, we regularly share stories of wrongful convictions, they are real, frequent, and Terry has been living one for over two decades.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
“What does it feel like to be innocent on Death Row?”
My answer?
“A setback for mankind.”
I was born in the ‘70s to black parents in black times in a world that was gray at best. My earliest lessons on guilt were not determined by wrongdoings, but by the color of one’s skin. I saw the guilty as they were dipped in tar and strung up for public viewing, or set upon for sitting down to eat. Guilt then becomes a psychological impression on the minds of black communities; a sense of guilt that is the origin of the criminal mind – a reflection of how we feel. Guilt is the cultural identity that leaves behind a trail of regrets, so I am dissociated with feeling innocent in a country that charges people guilty for having black skin.
I was convicted of the murder of a restaurant manager in April, 2000, and sentenced to die by a consenting jury by way of lethal injection. Arriving on Death Row, I conceded two things – my innocence was insignificant and justice grotesquely one-sided. I decided that neither guilt nor innocence had brought me there – it was powerlessness. I was powerless to take charge of my life and break the cycle of recidivism. I was put on the path to prison at the age of seven, the time I first stole, my impropriety promising to progress over time. By the age of twenty-seven, I was the product of circumstances and my road ended here, yet despite all my wrongdoings, still I did not deserve to be on Death Row.
I avoided eye contact with men, sparse with my words, afraid that my difference would show and the rapists, brutes and murderers would figure out I was not. There was no introduction guide to Death Row, but if there was, I imagined it would’ve read,
Innocence does not thrive here, your hope is your despair.
For the first year, I uttered not a word about innocence, though the subject was one of recurrence, casually hinted at by some in conversations, while others were more straightforward. I wondered if my own innocence sounded as disingenuous as theirs when spoken aloud. The improbability of their innocence caused me to dismiss their claims as prison colloquialism.
Over time, I learned to shelve my innocence while emulating the hardened killers. I was wary and distrusting, argumentative, and constantly on the lookout for a fight. At night, sometimes, my mind broke free, much to my dismay. I never knew fantasizing could hurt so bad. I envisioned life as a working-class citizen, doing stringent work that was wearisome but decent, with a pension as opposed to a penalty. Other times, I grasped at the wilting memories of family and friends as their influence crumbled under their hefty absence, and their faces yielded to time.
Then came the biggest news… a Death Row man was freed from here after being awarded a new trial. I was skeptical, challenged his innocence, as he was someone I previously dismissed. Still the question lingered… what if he was innocent? And what if there were others? These men I’d subjected to my silent criticism, fostered by widespread belief. Unable to relate due to their menacing aura, my innocence was too fragile to trust, so I rejected them based solely on my preconceived notion. It was the very same rejection I feared. I wanted to be happy for a guy whose stay on Death Row was at its end, but with my errant dismissal of him and my own self interest, I was too ashamed.
As the years rolled by, cases were amended and death sentences overturned – mental retardation and the prohibiting of minors were enactments that saved lives. In some few cases, the men were exonerated on the likelihood of innocence, an unsettling error revealing that behind the virtue of our courts was depravity. There was a time when I presumed our judicial system stood on the right side of public service, but with the growing number of death sentences vacated, an alarming truth emerged. Wrongful convictions were not the result of legal mishaps – but a setback in the evolution of justice. It was a systemic trade-off, conviction rates in return for support at the ballots. On the verge of understanding how my injustice came to be, I was nowhere close to help, as I struggled to wish well those men who departed… their hope was my despair.
Every day I longed for my freedom until all my hope was spent, and I was left with nothing more than a stale existence. With each reversal, I felt sorely abandoned by the securities of the laws. I pondered the plausibility of my injustice and came away rejecting myself. I used recreational drugs, obscenities and conflict to propel my downward spiral. I severed outside connections, quit my aspirations and rigorously questioned my faith. It seemed my road didn’t stop on Death Row, but I was headed to a place much darker, and no matter how far my mind drifted from my mad reality, the executions pulled me back.
On those nights I ached helplessly as the clock wound down on the lives of men tethered to a gurney. I wondered if they winced at the needle’s prick like I did as a kid at the clinic, or closed their eyes in defiance to die alone. Done with feeling helpless, I put their deaths out of my mind and tried to remain unaffected by the executions until a death date arrived for a friend of mine… and my helplessness turned to surrender.
It was thirteen years later before I gained some clarity into the disorder taking place in my life. It began with written essays that chronicled my past offenses, offenses unrelated to my stay here, restoring in me a sense of worth. Accountability for my previous wrongs – saved my life. Without it, I would’ve given up. With the many death sentences being vacated, I couldn’t wait one more turn, and through accountability, I discovered there was redemption behind these walls, the potential to reinvent the principles of humanity – and the most promising yet was the willingness of these men to die with more dignity than that with which they lived.
So, what is it like to be innocent on Death Row is best answered by the word ‘unrest’. It is a constant grinding of the mind in an effort to determine how we tolerate such criminal indecency. My being wrongfully convicted is a laborious affliction under the stigmatic strain of disbelief – a strain that offered one resolve for me, complacency for my accusers. It’s lonely being innocent with no one to talk to about the certainty of my innocence. And frightening. Only Ichabod Crane, a character from my childhood, terrified me so. Often enough, being innocent feels pointless after 21 years of punishment, when death is no longer a menacing possibility but a welcome alternative.
Being innocent on Death Row is soulfully depressing, granting little peace of mind. It is my fight to hold on to the hope I deserve, when the culpability isn’t mine to bear. My innocence is no more relevant than the next man’s guilt when the ink on our status reads the same – and yet, what does it matter, guilt or innocence, in a nation such as our own, where both are punishable by death.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. On our Facebook page, we regularly share stories of wrongful convictions, they are real, frequent, and Terry has been living one for over two decades.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Note: This year, I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they went through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. This is the first in this series.These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
February 5, 2014 (Wednesday, 12:43 a.m.)
Sitting here on my bed staring off into nothingness as so many thoughts fill my head about where I am and why I am here. Does it even matter whether I’m innocent or not? Am I destined to die here regardless? Sometimes I wish they would just get it over with. The heartache and pain from missing my family is unbearable – death has to be better than this. Then I think… does this make me suicidal to prefer death over agony? To know sadness day in and day out for more than fifteen years is a recipe for insanity. Constantly engulfed in darkness. Always alone, even when others are present. Avoiding my reflection in the mirror each morning as I am afraid to face myself and the reality that is my life, or so my death. I may never get to hug my mother again or go fishing with my father. To many others that knew me, I am long forgotten; a conviction and a sentence has erased me from existence in all the ways that count. The tears are more frequent and the numbness is without end. Some say, ‘prayer changes things’. If that’s true, then the only thing it seems to have changed in my mind is that prayer changes things. My hope is not just fleeting – it has long fled, but who the hell cares?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. I have asked Terry to share some of his journal entries with us.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
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.
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 is a WITS writer. He has always maintained his innocence. He has been on death row for over twenty years. There is evidence and information the Harris County prosecution had that Charles Mamou didn’t know existed for over two decades. That information could have been used to determine what happened to the victim if anyone had pursued it.
Nothing physically ties Charles Mamou to the scene of the crime, other than the testimony of witnesses that were involved in a drug deal with him that night. There is not a fingerprint of his there. There is not a footprint of his there. No witnesses saw him there. There was a shell casing – that cannot be tied definitively to any weapon, but no weapon was ever found. Mamou was from out of town, the men who testified were not. The body was found in a location even the police described as difficult to locate. One of the witnesses worked for Orkin – on the side of town where the body was found behind a house for sale.
The individuals who testified against Charles Mamou were apparently never charged for their involvement in any of the events that took place that night – and phone records the prosecution had access to indicate two of those witnesses were not telling the truth on the stand.
A letter never presented to the jury and written by the ‘star’ witness who said Charles Mamou confessed to him says, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me shit about that cause I don’t wanna know shit, I feel better off that way.”
Charles Mamou has waited long enough for someone to help him. He’s not asking for any breaks – he’s asking for an investigation into his case, one that includes all the evidence the Houston Police Department had twenty years ago, which includes trace evidence obtained in a rape kit that was never shared with Mamou.
Please sign the above letter asking the Harris County District Attorney’s Office to reinvestigate this case.
UPDATE: This post was temporarily removed, after I was contacted and told I couldn’t share this information. After a thorough review, I disagree. The information came from trial transcripts that Charles Mamou gave me access to. In addition to that, the other records are public and the letter was written to Charles Mamou and belongs to him. Walk In Those Shoes is about writers in prison and trying to understand their experience with the justice system. If I can’t share public information without being warned and told not to – is it a wonder people end up on death row that are innocent?
Some tragedies are gradual, prolonging dismay, others swift and unexpected, yet loss in any form effects in us a void that can only be filled with time. It is loss to which we are all akin, regardless of status, color or creed, none excluded from the woeful affliction all of humankind will suffer. Tear-stained cheeks, fine suits and condolences are the soothing, necessary etiquette, after which we look to move on – but occasionally we find we can’t.
Chris was a childhood friend I grew up with on Fountain Drive, a project housing development set on the outskirts of town. There were no ills of the inner-city there, like drugs and prostitution. Sequestered by fields and lush greenery, we were burgeoning country folk. We scoured ditches for crayfish, climbed trees to pick wild berries, and explored the far reaches of the surrounding woods where we carved out a world all our own.
A favorite pastime was the community football game. Narrow eyes stared across a makeshift field as we rivaled one another. We tackled, grappled, and cussed with fervor to demonstrate our toughness, but in the end we always left as friends, looking forward to carrying on the next day.
It was the older kids in the neighborhood that first ganged up on Chris – my brother and his closest friends. It was an assault that came without merit as Chris had committed no offense. Instead of contesting their egregious violation, Chris up and ran away, unaware the flight-mode mentality would begin a lifelong recurrence.
Although a rural bubble, Fountain Drive was not the easiest place to live. No one qualified for low-income housing more than single mothers and senior citizens, and with many of our moms off working to improve their conditions and the elderly nestled up to their daytime television shows, we ran around mostly unsupervised and growing unrulier by the day.
We had petty differences, some escalating to fist fights, that seldom outlasted the day. We ransacked the neighborhood community center and egged each other on to steal. Everything from throwing rocks at passing cars to prank calling the fire department, our mischief knew no bounds, yet nothing would ignite our frenzy more than chasing after Chris.
Chris, himself, was a passive misfit – just barely on the right side of wrong. His misdeeds were rather frivolous, swiping an item from a clothesline or lifting coins for his mother’s purse. He was never one to talk trash, though his size was intimidating enough. At ten, he was a head taller than most teenagers, and by thirteen, he was the same age as his shoe size. With shoulders as wide as a welcome embrace and powerful legs that were the getting-away kind, we stood almost no chance of catching him, yet we were thrilled to try.
Chris, however, was a gentle soul. He was thoughtful and forgiving, and usually, within a day or so, he was back amongst the clique. Despite his hulking size, he had a boyish quality that was much more fun to keep around, and over time, our betrayals became less frequent, until we no longer chased him away.
By fifteen, Chris’ interests had matured, and he began to venture outside the neighborhood to other parts of town. It was courting girls that had procured his attention, and he thought to visit them whenever possible. However, as we had long given up chasing Chris, other kids from around town had just begun, until it seemed that bullying Chris was the most expected thing to do.
Once, I witnessed him fleeing from some guys – but did nothing in the way of help, afraid I was a word in his defense away from being bullied myself. Chris, though, had an impeccable reputation for outpacing his foes, as many of his aggressors gave chase for sport, all except one… Mikey.
A local badass who favored drinking and fighting, Mikey was the epitome of trouble. He was the guy the other bullies steered clear of. It was a brisk night outside a nightclub when Mikey set his sights on Chris – but this time, there would be no running away. Instead, Chris fought back.
As it turned out, Chris didn’t run all those years because he was fearful – it was a method of harm prevention. He figured as long as he didn’t hurt anyone today, things would be better tomorrow. He ran away because he was being a better friend to us than we ever were to him. Unlike Mikey, who was ruthless – not to mention a sore loser.
Some few nights later while walking home alone, Chris spotted a suspicious vehicle. He discovered that it was Mikey, along with some friends. Outnumbered, Chris had little choice but to flee, taking cover behind some houses as Mikey stepped out of the car with a gun and fired a shot in the dark. Assuming Chris was long gone, Mikey and his crew sped off, unaware the bullet had hit its mark as Chris lay dying in the night.
It wasn’t until the next morning his body was discovered, entangled in the brush. Chris had been killed at just sixteen… and I never got to say, ‘I’m sorry’.
Regrets, juxtapose to loss, are the things that remain, the stuff of good memories, shared experiences, and lost opportunities. After 32 years, it’s regrets that have kept Chris alive in my heart, and without which, I fear I will lose one of the best people I ever knew.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS. He is an author who has found purpose not only in his love of writing, but also in lending his voice to those who cannot speak for themselves. He is also an innocent man who has lived on death row for over 20 years. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and we are proud to call him a member of this team.
Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
