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
Something was off, I could sense it. It looked like Madear’s home, it just didn’t feel like her home. I could hear a familiar hymn being sung sotto voce towards the side of her home where her adjacent storage building was. She kept her washer and dryer there. She also had two extra freezers in there holding tons of assorted meats. Sodas were stacked to one side of the wall as high as five-feet, and gallons of assorted juices lined the floor. Madear loved buying in bulk because she loved to cook and feed others. There was an area opposite the beverages where all her holiday decorations were kept – including a unique white crystal four-foot holiday colored Christmas tree she proudly displayed in her window every year. To this day I’ve never seen anything like it. It was also the place I first kissed a girl, Carla Landry, and I liked it!
This area was not huge by any standard, but my little brother and some of my friends often used the wash-house, as we called it, as a club house. Madear would be there daily, putting loads of clothes in to wash, and once dried, she would fold and inspect to see if the whites were white enough or if the colored clothes were bright enough. She had no problem rewashing the clothes until they met her satisfaction.
So, it wasn’t odd to find her inside. I rushed through the door and saw her rocking away in her hand crafted wooden rocking chair that she used to find her Zen-moments in, relaxing or simply contemplating what she would do next. Madear didn’t speak much. I never heard her raise her voice, but she always evaluated any situation before acting, and when she did speak, her observations or opinions were always thought-out.
I could not see the features of her face, no eyes, mouth or lips – nothing. There was nothing but warm, blinding light. The rest of her body, from the neck down, was there. Even her favorite sundress graced the length of her body. She rocked away, faster than I recalled her doing. I tried to advance closer, but I could not move. It was as if I was stuck in cement that had long since dried, my feet buried.
“Don’t worry, Baby. Everything will be fine. You’ll see. You’ll be fine,” she repeated. Her voice sounded as if she was speaking to me from behind a waterfall… though soothing and comforting. I wanted to lay my head on her lap, allowing her to pat and massage me the way one would do a cat. Her voice brought about a sense of conviction to my soul. I could feel tears, hot tears, running down my cheeks. My heart started to beat more urgently. I blinked for a second and Madear and her rocking chair started fading away in the pasture behind her home. She faded the way a home run baseball floats away… and is gone.
“Chow time, maggots! Get your asses up if ya’ll wanta eats!” barked a guard.
‘Fuck!’ Steel gates crashed into more steel. ‘It was all a dream? A stupid, fucking dream!?!’ The mist of tears I had shed were still damp on my cheeks. My heart was still thumping. I turned over to see what time it was, fifteen minutes after three in the morning. I’m not a morning person and my weakness was affirmation of that as I turned on the cell’s light. I’m not a breakfast eater either, and I was going to refuse because it was too early to be eating, but the growling sounds coming from my empty stomach were the motivation I needed to eat something. I was hungry. No, I was starving, having eaten little to nothing my first few days on the famous Texas Death Row. Pancakes were served. They were not IHOP worthy, but I wasn’t going to be picky. I was also given an 8-ounce carton of milk, a 4-ounce carton of orange juice and four spoons of fruit cocktail. I ate everything before going back to sleep, hoping I wouldn’t dream again.
Around ten o-clock in the morning an officer opened the bean slot to the cell and threw a big commissary bag in, “Some of your fellow-condemned brothers put some things together for ya.”
I stared, my eyes fixed on him, wondering if he was joking. I don’t know if I expected a snake to crawl from the bag or a bomb to go off at any moment. Sure, I was paranoid. This wasn’t Kansas anymore. I didn’t know what ‘this’ was.
After some time, I got up, kicked the bag a little, and waited for a reaction. Nothing. I gently opened the bag to find a bunch of snacks, four writing tablets, envelopes, and over fifty bucks in stamps which, due to my naiveté, I used to tape photos of my children to the walls. I had no idea I was supposed to use stamps to write. No shit. I hadn’t written a letter to anyone at that point. I communicated through daily phone calls or visits. There were socks, a thermal top, and some much needed hygiene products, all of which I greatly appreciated. No note was given. No one shouted to get my attention. Nothing. The act of charity was empathetically done. Guys knew I was going through some things because they went through the same ‘new beginning’. It was an act of kindness I greatly appreciated even though I had no one to thank.
I walked to the front of the cell to look out. The place was teeming with sounds of existence, a farrago of inmate laughter, crashing steel, buzzing light fixtures that looked like something you’d expect to see in the beginning of the 20th century, as well as radios and multiple televisions that blared recklessly. This ‘new world’, was too much for me to embrace, so I returned and sat on my bunk. I grabbed photos of my children and their mothers, my mother and siblings, and I thought about what they were going through. I loved them all dearly, and the more I thought about them, the more I cried. I saw an unopened letter I had received the night before. It was from one of my children’s mothers. It started off like a Dear John letter. She was telling me she was getting married to a truck driver. A year earlier I shared a bed with her. I immediately thought, ‘Where the fuck did he come from?’ At that moment, I was certain. I was no longer dreaming.
ABOUT THE WRITER: Charles Mamou has been writing for WITS for quite some time and has always maintained his innocence. In the summer of 2019, it came to my attention Mr. Mamou had become very quiet. When I asked why, he explained he was out of appeals and awaiting an execution date. I asked to look at his documents. It didn’t take long to become very disturbed by what I saw. Some issues regarding Mr. Mamou’s case can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at contact@walkinthoseshoes.com.
There is also a facebook page dedicated to Charles Mamou’s troubling case.
The following is an excerpt from a poem written for his mother, a gift woven in words.
When I was but a little girl I made myself a promise, To rear my children with dignity, Teach them to be honest.
But first, I had to grow, Endure lots of pain, Survive the throes of ghetto woes Time and time again.
Things would not come easy, At times I felt like crying, Determined to gift-wrap the world Or willing to die trying.
Winter boots and Easter suits And summers filled with glee. Never mind if I was suffocating, As long as my kids could breathe.
So, I toiled by day and learned by night Lunched on rice and bread. Wore my children’s hand-me-downs Just to get ahead.
I cooked and cleaned and in between Encouraged my children to strive. I scraped and clawed but through it all, My eyes stayed on the prize.
Destiny for me was simply Duty without break. If asked to do it all over again, I would not hesitate.
See, all I ever wanted Was the life I never had Served to my babies In the absence of their dads.
I wanted to show them through persistence They could have it all, What matters most is how we rise, Not so much how we fall.
My kids are now grown with kids of their own, Some of those kids with child. Some day when my story is told, I hope I’ve made them proud.
All we have to offer the world, The legacy we leave behind. I pray all mothers love their children As much as I love mine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and is a co-author of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. The above is only an excerpt from a poem he wrote for his mother who has been his biggest supporter. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. He has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
A fax cover sheet addressed to Assistant District Attorney Lyn McClellan and dated September 24, 1999, along with an HPD officer’s handwritten caller ID records were seen for the first time by Charles Mamou in 2020, over twenty years after the Houston Police Department and District Attorney’s office had access to them. The cover sheet and phone records were not shared with Mamou at trial, and could have assisted in the investigation as well as discredited the testimony of two of the prosecution’s key witnesses. In a case without physical evidence, those witnesses were critical. The jury that found Charles Mamou guilty and sentenced him to death never saw the documents, and they were only recently obtained by Mamou’s advocates.
Charles Mamou was sentenced to die in 1999, not long after this fax is dated, for the kidnapping and murder of Mary Carmouche. Mamou has always maintained his innocence and describes fleeing a drug deal gone wrong in a car that didn’t belong to him – Carmouche was in the backseat – and returning to an apartment complex in Houston, Texas, where he was staying. Mamou lived in Louisiana and was in Texas, in most part, for a drug deal. According to Mamou, he last saw Carmouche alive and in the parking lot of the apartment complex, along with several other individuals, two of whom would end up being key witnesses for the prosecution, claiming they were at home in bed, and never saw Mamou after the drug deal – also claiming they did not make or receive phone calls that night.
The phone records – one of two pieces of actual evidence in the case – were never shared with Mamou or the jury. The other piece of evidence that Mamou and the jury never heard about was a rape kit that was collected, which included the collection of ‘trace evidence’ and ‘hairs’. In a case with no fingerprints at the scene of the body, no footprints, no witnesses, no weapon – a rape kit and phone records are the next best thing. The prosecution knew about both. The jury and Mamou knew about neither. Not only did the prosecution know about the rape kit – they also told the jury Mamou sexually assaulted the victim.
The HPD investigator’s notes include identifying notations next to the phone numbers. The victim was last seen alive on the evening of December 6, 1998, early morning of December 7, 1998. The key witness, Howard Scott, lived at the apartment complex Mamou said he drove the car to. These are Scott’s caller ID records from that night, as written by an HPD investigator that went to Scott’s apartment on December 8, 1998.
11:19 p.m., Oretha Gray; 11:25 p.m., Sun Suites; 11:46 p.m., Emily Griggs; 11:48 p.m., Meri Eubanks; 12:14 a.m., payphone; 12:19 a.m., M.E. Brinson – Shawn’s mother; 1:54 a.m., Meri Eubanks; 2:37 a.m., wireless [WRITER’S NOTE: the phone number listed at 2:37 is identified in HPD’s file as belonging to another key witness, Samuel Johnson]; 3:12 a.m., M.E. Brinson – Shawn calls for Howard; 3:43 a.m., call notes.
Mamou could have used this information in his defense, and investigators may have had an opportunity to pursue the location of the wireless phone call made at 2:37 a.m. from a cell phone used by Samuel Johnson, a witness who testified he was home in bed and didn’t talk to anyone that night. Johnson’s contradicting statement and testimony are sufficient reason to pursue the origin and purpose of the 2:37 a.m. phone call for anyone trying to find answers in a murder investigation.
Charles Mamou did not live in Houston. All of the key witnesses did, and Samuel Johnson also worked for Orkin at the time, testifying that his area was in the southwest area of Houston. Although it was often reported that the victim was found near some abandoned houses, she was actually found in what detectives described as a hard to find location in a suburban neighborhood in the southwest area of Houston in the backyard of a house that was for sale – not some abandoned houses.
When the HPD investigator went to Howard Scott’s apartment on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, the investigator was actually hoping to arrest Mamou. They knew he was there that morning from Howard Scott’s wife, and they knew Mamou had been involved in the drug deal that Mary Carmouche had last been seen at. Investigators didn’t find Mamou, but they wrote down Scott’s caller ID records and transported Scott to HPD that day to make a written statement. Not only is that documented in HPD’s case file, Detective Novak also testified regarding Howard Scott’s written statement that day.
That original statement from Howard Scott is nowhere to be found. It is not in the HPD case file, and according to the District Attorney’s office, they don’t have it either. I was told by HPD, that ‘everything doesn’t always makes it into the file’. The following day, police brought Scott and his wife back to HPD and took written statements again on Wednesday, December 9, 1998. Both of Robin Scott’s statements are available, but Howard Scott’s original statement is missing.
I tried to speak to Scott in 2019, but he refused to talk to me. He has spoken to other people over the years, and his statements are inconsistent throughout. The most recent of which, in 2019, includes a physical description of Carmouche from that night, and seeing Samuel Johnson, Charles Mamou and Mary Carmouche all at the apartment complex at the same time – a complete reversal from his testimony, in which he claimed he was home in bed and did not see Samuel Johnson or Charles Mamou after the drug deal, and his phone did not ring. Howard Scott described seeing Samuel Johnson, Charles Mamou, Mary Carmouche, and Kenneth Duplechan all alive and at the apartment complex parking lot after the drug deal.
The jury never heard that. The prosecutor who, according to the the fax cover sheet, was sent Scott’s caller ID records on September 24, 1999, listened to his witness testify two weeks later on October 7, 1999, about going to bed between 11 and midnight, and about how the phone was ringing prior to that, as he sat with ‘Shawn’ and Ken. Scott told the jury there were ‘no more phone calls’ after he went to bed. Neither the jury nor Mamou are ever told ‘Shawn’, the man Scott said he was talking to in his apartment before he went to bed between 11 and 12, called Scott’s apartment at 12:19 a.m., and again at 3:12 a.m., and that Scott’s phone didn’t stop ringing until 3:43 a.m. Although Howard Scott has consistantly contradicted himself for twenty years, and his first statement is missing, he was a key witness in the case against Mamou.
Samuel Johnson, the driver in the drug deal gone wrong, who fled the alley without Mamou, testified he went straight home to bed and spoke to no one, never seeing Mamou or Carmouche again, not seeing or speaking to anyone that night. According to the HPD investigator’s notes, Samuel Johnson called Howard Scott’s apartment at 2:37 a.m., from a wireless phone. At that time in history, landlines were frequently used for phone calls made from a person’s residence, and wireless calls were more likely to be made when away from home. Mamou never had an opportunity to point out to the jury that Johnson’s phone made a call to Howard Scott’s apartment nor was he able to investigate the location of the call’s origin. The prosecution did not share the available information with the jury.
‘Ken’ who Howard Scott mentioned was sitting in his living room in his testimony, has since been interviewed, although there is nothing in HPD’s file to indicate that anyone involved in trying to find Carmouche’s killer ever interviewed him during HPD’s ‘investigation’. In 2019 Kenneth Duplechan told an investigator he saw Charles Mamou, Howard Scott, Samuel Johnson and Shawn Eaglin in the apartment complex parking lot that night – along with the blue Lexus Mamou fled the drug deal in. That statement contradicts everything the jury was told. Kenneth Duplechan also stated he stayed in the parking lot talking to Howard Scott and Charles Mamou after Samuel Johnson drove away. The jury never heard any of that, but the phone records reveal one name coming up twice on Scott’s phone that night – Meri Eubanks. Meri Eubanks does appear to know Kenneth Duplechan, but Eubanks and Duplechan will not respond to inquiries from me. Although the HPD investigator is the individual who wrote down the name Meri Eubanks in his notes as a caller to Scott’s apartment, there are no records of anyone at HPD interviewing Eubanks in their efforts to locate Carmouche’s killer.
There were other phone calls made to the apartment that night that could have been investigated, but according to police files were not, and Mamou was not aware of them at the time, so he was unable to pursue them himself.
The prosecution also knew about actual physical evidence that was collected as part of a rape kit. They did not share what they learned with the jury or Mamou. That information has been kept from Mamou for over twenty years.
On July 8, 1999, two months before Mamou’s trial, an investigator for the District Attorney, Al Rodriguez, contacted HPD and asked them to process a rape kit.
On July 12, 1999, the results were back, indicating that no semen was detected, trace evidence and hairs existed and had been collected.
During the trial, the medical examiner testified at length about the procedures during an autopsy as well as reviewing the autopsy report itself. At no point throughout the entire trial, or in the twenty years since, was Charles Mamou or the jury told a rape kit existed. Quite the opposite. The rape kis was so well not documented, that in 2007 a private investigator looking for more evidence had to report back to Mamou that he could not find more evidence obtained by the medical examiner.
Last year, on October 30, 2019, after I had gone to HPD and the District Attorney’s office requesting the results of the rape kit and being told they don’t keep that kind of information, I contacted the Harris County Medical examiner looking for the information. It was confirmed for me at that time that the rape kit had been collected at the time of the autopsy in spite of the medical examiner neglecting to include that information in his autopsy report and testimony.
On November 19, 2019, I was able to obtain the results to the actual rape kit, noting no semen found and trace evidence collected.
The information wasn’t just kept from Mamou and the jury, the prosecutor also told the jury that a sexual assault took place, but failed to share with the jury or the defense that no semen was found .
A lot of things were told to the jury to steer them in the direction of a guilty verdict. The day after Carmouche went missing, Mamou was with his cousin when he picked up some sunglasses that he had dropped during his stay in Houston. Without surrounding information, the sunglasses became tied to the victim in the courtroom and later in news reports. It was never pointed out for the jury that the glasses were found approximately five miles from the body.
There were a lot of things not pointed out for the jury. Mamou never saw the original video statement of his cousin, Terrence Dodson, who told jurors that Mamou confessed to him. In 2019, I sent Mamou a transcript of the original statement. Although Dodson testified Mamou confessed to him over days, partially in person and partially over the phone, HPD investigators had recorded Dodson originally telling them Mamou called him from Louisiana ‘before day’ on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, and told him everything. Investigators knew, while they were listening to Dodson’s statement, Mamou had not left Houston until Tuesday at 1:30 p.m. on a bus. The interview took place on Wednesday, December 9, 1998.
Dodson’s testimony not only differed from his statement, but Mamou never saw Dodson again after the morning of Monday, December 7, 1998. He could not have confessed to him in person as he testified, nor could he have confessed in one phone call from Louisiana before day on December 8, 1998, as he said in his original statement because Mamou did not leave Houston on a bus headed to Louisiana until Tuesday afternoon at 1:30.
The jury also never saw a letter Terrence Dodson wrote to Mamou a month after Carmouche was murdered, stating he was glad Mamou didn’t tell him anything.
In 2019 it was noted in the HPD case files linked to Mamou’s case that biological evidence was signed out. I inquired at HPD, the Property Room, the Homicide Department, and the District Attorney’s office regarding why the evidence was signed out.
At the HPD Records Department, I was told they didn’t know the answer, and I should contact the Property Room, the District Attorney’s office, and the Medical Examiner.
At the District Attorney’s office, I was told the case was currently ‘closed’. There would be no current requests for evidence from them because no one was working it, and the files themselves were in storage – the case was inactive.
At the HPD Property Room, which was where the biological evidence was signed out from – I was told there is protocol in place, and in order to find out why the biological evidence was signed out, I would need to go to Homicide and speak with the investigator on the case.
At Homicide, I was told it was a ‘cold case’ and there was no active investigator on the case, I would need to talk to the person in charge of cold cases.
The cold case investigator wasn’t in and never returned my phone call.
I later received a phone call from D. Wilker in Homicide. I was told ‘only the Property Division could answer my questions’. Of note – the Property Division is where I had originally gone and was told that due to ‘protocol’, I would need to go to Homicide.
During that phone conversation, I was also told Ms. Wilker would reach out to the Property Division to see if she could get an answer for me, but she couldn’t make any promises. In addition, she informed me ‘we are mandated to test every piece of evidence’, suggesting that the evidence was taken out for testing. Ms. Wilker also suggested an investigator could have requested the material be checked out, but as I had already been told – there was no investigator on the case at that time. I was told she would get back in touch with me after she reached out to the Property Division.
After a couple weeks and no contact from Ms. Wilker – I called her. Ms. Wilker told me the rape kit results I was looking for at that time, which I later found without her assistance, were ‘irrelevant’. I was told the defense had every piece of evidence they needed to have. The ‘window of opportunity’ for finding out anything was closed. And, finally, yes, the evidence had been checked out in 2019 and had been in the possession of Mary K. Childs-Henry, but it was now back where it belonged. It had been checked out for ‘cataloging purposes’.
I then asked Ms. Wilker if she considered the matter closed, and she told me she did.
After that phone call I wrote a letter to Internal Affairs and the Chief of Police, as ‘cataloging’ two pieces of twenty year old biological evidence didn’t seem logical, and I had just been told the rape kit results that were never shared with Mamou were ‘irrelevant’, which also seemed illogical considering evidence was collected .
The Houston Police Department responded, telling me no one had done anything wrong. “In your letter, you inquired about procedures for removing evidence regarding Mr. Mamou’s case. The District Attorney is the only person that can authorize any type of evidence to be released for any reason. There are procedures in place for care, custody and control of evidence that is stored in the Property Room. You may reach the Harris County District Attorney’s Office at ….”
As of this date, it remains unclear why the biological evidence was signed out in 2019.
Charles Mamou has spent over two decades on death row and is awaiting an execution date. In a case without evidence shared with the jury, the prosecution painted a picture. In the painting, the jury was told Mamou sexually assaulted the victim and murdered individuals in previous unsolved murder cases. They were shown autopsy photos of another murder victim, from another crime, and heard the impact statements from the victim’s family in that crime.
One might argue with HPD that evidence is relevant. It’s relevant to victims and their families, and it is relevant to defendants. Charles Mamou’s little sister recently described the last Christmas Eve she shared with her brother over twenty years ago. She and her family spent the day at her Uncle White’s house in Lafayette. Their uncle had a house big enough for everybody, and his gumbo took all day and night to cook, but was worth the wait.
When the family got home that night, they could barely get through the living room because Mamou and his friends had been busy picking up gifts while everyone was gone. The kids weren’t allowed to open anything until morning, but their mom did allow them to set off the fireworks Mamou had brought home. There were so many, Mamou’s sister remembers the sky turning pink, and she remembers seeing two of Mamou’s children that night and the step kids he treated like his own.
For over three years I’ve been writing for Walk In Those Shoes, a sounding board for prisoners whose voices would otherwise be muffled behind prison walls, as well as a call to action for readers. In a world of social statuses, cultural practices and racial characteristics that serve to divide us, we remain connected through our human experiences. We’ve all lost a loved one. We’ve all dreamed. We’ve all had childhood crushes for that special someone that turned our words to mush. We’ve all done something we wish we could take back, and we all have something yet to attain. Our experiences link us in a way that voids our differences, the fabric of our worldly relationships woven in our stories.
It was after reading personal and thought-provoking essays by writers like John Green and Charles Mamou, that I recognized the importance of Walk In Those Shoes. Each piece was thoughtfully edited and kept true to its writer while providing a visual nexus that was soulful, stories not told with rhetoric but the realism of childhood abandonment, abuse and regrets. There were also tales of familial joys, kindness and compassion. I could hardly wait to join such an astonishing cast of writers whom I’d come to admire through their shared vulnerability.
On October 5, 2017, Walk In Those Shoes featured a piece titled I’m Still Breathing, an homage to Dr. Maya Angelou. In addition to the message, there was an image of a rusted manacle laid bare on granite siding. This visual selection was a symbol of empathy meant to resonate with my words. It was my first writing to be published on Walk In Those Shoes, my induction into a brotherhood of writers and one of my proudest moments.
Simply put, Walk In Those Shoes is a proverbial reminder that we are not without empathy. It is a platform for writers with broken pasts to make whole their productive future. I’m grateful for my fellow contributors for their courage to share their experiences. Our stories are not meant to suffer in silence, our stories are meant to heal.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and his creative resume is rapidly growing. His is a co-author of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, a book banned from prisons in North Carolina; he is an active board member of Walk In Those Shoes as well as one of several frequent contest judges; and he continues to work on his memoir, as well as a book of fiction. His writing abilities are amazingly far reaching, and we are fortunate to have his voice and input in the direction of WITS. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after studying his case file and transcripts WITS also believes in that innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Suicides, assaults, perpetuated acts of nonsense, exonerations, relationships severed and put back together – I thought I’d experienced all there was on Death Row. I’ve seen mild, treatable medical conditions fester and decline, often turning fatal due to inadequate healthcare. And I’ve seen the dismal look in a man’s eyes, helpless and void, moments away from being executed – yet even after twenty years, nothing could’ve prepared me for today.
For over six months now, due to global restrictions imposed to prevent the spread of COVID-19, all weekly in-person Death Row visitation has been suspended. As an alternative, online video visitation was implemented, which was a welcome remedy to the growing concerns of our loved ones for our well-being. For men decades removed from society, video visits ignited Death Row with an ever burning anticipation to view our family in the comforts of their homes as opposed to a concrete booth with reinforced glass and steel bars. Appointments were made faster than a sweepstakes giveaway and everyone that returned from a visit had a tale to tell, some recounted with exuberant smiles, some with heavy hearts.
In the following weeks, as per safety regulations, the site for Death Row video visits was moved to another area in the prison. Many of us know the new location as the ‘Death Watch’. It’s where capital punishment is performed. Few men here have suffered the Death Watch prior to having their scheduled executions vacated, one in particular describing the most dreadful night ever with a broken voice to match. More often, the men who’d been hauled off to the Death Watch would not return. It was a wasteland that was now being assigned familial merit and a path on which I would walk.
Friday, September 18, 2020, at 9:03 a.m., a call blared over the P/A system, one that came expectedly as I had awaited the sound since the night before. It would be my first video visit with my family, whom I hadn’t seen in months. The anticipation of it all elevated my mood beyond the reach of my daily struggles. I hopped into the standard Death Row uniform, one meant to evoke guilt – a hot red jumper that draws heavy around the shoulders in a color scheme that clashes with one’s dignity. With nothing left to do but settle my eagerness, I strapped on my face mask and headed on my way.
I joined the company of two other inmates, also with scheduled visits, as they shuffled slightly on their heels, anxious to be off. One guy, like myself, was a first-timer; I surmised he was equally as nervous. The other inmate had attended video visits prior and schooled me on what was to come.
With the arrival of the escorting officer, we set out on our trip from the Death Row facility down to an area usually reserved for visitation, nothing to heighten the excitement along the way, yet nothing to diminish it. We then discontinued the familiar route and veered down a flight of stairs, a control station identical to the one above at the bottom. We crossed the lobby to a sliding glass door that held beyond its threshold something menacing – the very path condemned men had journeyed before as they faced a despicable end.
The door cranked open with a woeful whine, like a symphony of restless souls. I followed the group as they seemingly proceeded with no ills for our whereabouts. What looked to be a short distance to the other end of the hallway became a faraway stretch of land, my steps laden with the realization that, for some, this was their final walk.
Rows of windows, made murky and distorted to deny one last peaceful look at nature, lined the passageway. Here, nothing would be offered to soothe the spirit of the wretched, though in a failed act of humanity, sedatives would be used to ease their pain. At the midway point was a sally port with its inner workings obscured as it sprang into view like a childhood boogeyman, chasing away my sense of security. I needn’t inquire of anyone to know this was the Death Watch. It appeared nothing like the horror I’d dreamed of, yet it incited the same despair. I was standing in the final resting place of a friend of mine named Joe who was executed in ’03 by lethal injection. Longing for his company, I whispered to myself and hoped he could hear me.
We made our way to a waiting area, each taking up a station as the first of us was ushered away to begin his scheduled visit. It would be some twenty minutes later before he returned, talkative and rather giddy as the next guy hurried off in his place. I sat and thought of all the laws passed over the years that would’ve prevented some executions, like the Mental Retardation bill that would’ve saved a man named Perry, or the Racial Justice act for another guy, Insane. One law that was enacted excluded defendants under eighteen years of age from being eligible to receive the death penalty, an amendment that would’ve kept two other men, Hassan and J-Rock, alive today.
The second inmate emerged with a smile so bright I soaked up a bit of his joy. I was sure that I’d seen the worst of the Death Watch. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I stepped around the corner to what I thought would be a cozy, makeshift cubicle with a monitor on which the faces of my loved ones awaited. Instead, I happened onto an arching hallway with blinding lights at the far-end and a metal tank made obvious by the gear-wheel bolted to the door. I was told it was the crank that released the gasses into the chamber during executions. Beside the Death Tank was the viewing area, where the deaths have actually been watched by those who would champion vengeance while holding others to a different standard. I cringed at the thought of such an immoral practice and the historical transgressions. I’ve often wondered if my friends felt alone when they were executed – part of me now prays that they did.
After visitation, I passed by the infamous Death Chamber once more and peered into the darkened sarcophagus. I had hoped to get a feel for my friend, Joe, but all I got was a question of fate.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he and others co-authored Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
I am change in progress, striving not so much to be rid of my adverse circumstances, but to die a better person than I lived, and the last twenty years have taught me a lot. It wasn’t long ago I faced my greatest fear and stepped onto the set of a live production of Reginald Rose’s ‘Twelve Angry Men’ to perform before a swell of doubtful prison administrators. Just this year, I made a goal to start a college fund for grandchildren I’ve yet to meet. And probably the most life-changing thing I’ve done is fully accept myself and taken accountability for the wrongs I’ve done in my life.
My wrongs aren’t what landed me on Death Row though. A verdict doesn’t change the truth. I wasn’t in the Pizza Inn the night its manager got shot and killed, and for over two decades I’ve wondered why my cousin would testify I told him I did. I knew he must have a good reason. Fear, maybe, is one thing I came up with, fear of what the system might do to him if he told the truth, whatever that might be. Since my trial, I have learned his dreadlocks were at the scene of the crime. The jury never heard that. Maybe I wouldn’t be here if they had. Maybe he thought we’d have to trade places if he told whatever he really knows. At least that’s what I told myself for twenty years.
That was before I saw what he told an investigator who sought him out in an attempt to help me. Jesse Hill made it clear he was only interested in keeping me right here.
Far from helping me, my cousin implicated another member of my family as a possible accomplice to the crime, and time and again brought my mother into the conversation, “His momma know he did it. She know how that boy is.” “My aunt did this.” “My aunt should have gave it to you,” when asked his middle name. “Why does my aunt keep doing this shit.” “She need to talk to her son. He done what he did and bragged about it.”
Hill blamed the bad blood between us on me choosing to confess to him – but the truth is, I never did that, because the truth is – I had nothing to confess. I never saw Jesse Hill that night, and I never confessed to him that night. Jesse Hill and Ronald Bullock both know that. Truth doesn’t change.
For all Hill’s fierce condemnation of me, it was a bizarre contradiction when he wanted it on record that his feelings had been hurt. “That’s my family, it hurt me even to go in there. I ain’t see you wrote that down.” I guess he didn’t see the irony in what he was saying.
As much as my cousin wanted to be portrayed as hurt by our familial bonds and clamored for sympathy, his defamation of my character was limitless, his agenda clear. “I know he did it.”
When I was a kid, I looked up to my cousin. I looked up to him when I was a man too, and for over twenty years, I wondered ‘why?’ I still don’t know ‘why’, but it cleared up a lot when my cousin told the interviewer, “I regret even knowin’ ‘em.”
It used to be that the most meaningful word I knew was ‘family’. The term denoted loyalty, safety, honor and trust. It was the highest respect one could pay another. But when a person you once admired says they regret knowing you… what’s left to say? We aren’t family – just people who share an insignificant past. Jesse Hill contends his version of the events on May 16, 1999, are true. I maintain he is a liar. Those who really know who I am – know the truth. And my truth says a lot more about Jesse Hill than he could ever say about me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he co-authored Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
NOTE TO READER. Please contact kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson in Wilson, NC, any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day and night. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful. Details of this case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/
“The State has proved it beyond a reasonable doubt, and presented evidence that puts him there, puts him telling people what he did. And that is enough.”
That was the prosecution during the closing argument that sent Terry Robinson to death row for a crime he has always maintained he knew nothing about. There wasn’t any physical evidence in the case that could tie Robinson to the murder.
We don’t have to have DNA. We have to present enough evidence so you know in your heart that he was involved, and he did this. The State has done that.
“So, convict this man. Don’t let him out.”
The jury did just that.
Robinson was in the area of the murder that night. It was normal for him to be in the area. Robinson lived in Wilson, North Carolina, and he had a girlfriend who lived across the street from the Pizza Inn, where a murder occurred, not to mention friends and relatives in the surrounding area.
DNA exists in connection to the crime, but it does not point to Terry Robinson.
There are also two latent fingerprints and one palm print available, but they do not point to Terry Robinson. According to the testimony of Special Agent Navarro of the NC State Bureau of Investigation, “Terry Lamont Robinson did not make any of the latent fingerprints that were of value for identification purposes.”
When asked, “The long and the short of it is, palm prints or other kinds of prints, nothing matched?”
Agent Navarro responded, “That is correct.”
There were hairs collected. They weren’t hairs that matched Ronald Bullock, the one man who said he was involved in the crime. They weren’t Terry Robinson’s. According to Special Agent James Gregory, assigned to the Trace Evidence Section, when asked if he was able to find a match between what was collected at the crime scene and samples from Ronald Bullock and Terry Robinson, “I did not find any hairs that had a root attached to them that were consistent with the known head hair standards collected from the – from Terry Robinson, or Ronald Bullock.”
There was a gun associated with Terry Robinson, which Robinson doesn’t deny being connected to. But when asked specifically if the bullets used in the murder were from the gun associated with Robinson, Special Agent Marrs responded, “It could not have been fired from that .380 pistol, State’s Exhibit Number Two.”
Terry Robinson was not an angel. He had a criminal record and sold drugs for a living, but the gun associated with him was not the gun used in the crime.
The case rested with two men who accused Terry Robinson of murder. Both of those two individuals have since contradicted their own testimony. According to the testimony of Ronald Bullock, who accused Terry Robinson of hatching the plot to rob the Pizza Inn, pulling him into it, and eventually murdering a man in front of him, they stopped by Jesse Hill’s home before the crime. Bullock testified that Robinson asked Jesse Hill to participate in the crime as well.
“He said he didn’t want to be part of it. We were crazy.” Bullock then testified he and Robinson dropped Jesse Hill off at his mother’s home.
After Robinson’s conviction and sentence to death, Bullock had something different to say – things he didn’t share with the jury. “Jed (Jesse Hill) gave me his dreadlocks and a headband to wear as a disguise. Jed rode with us to the Pizza Inn and to ride behind the Pizza Inn at the apartment complex.”
Bullock went on to say that Jesse Hill, “was going to get some money for his part for the help.” Bullock, in a written statement then described the robbery which differed from how he described it in his original testimony, and he also stated Jed said, “I want my dreadlocks back.”
That written statement, made in 2003, was how Terry Robinson first learned the dreadlocks he had heard about at his trial – belonged to Jesse Hill. The dreadlocks used as the murderer’s disguise, were actually made of hair that belonged to one of his accusers. A jury never heard that. They actually heard Jesse Hill described by the prosecution as an innocent ‘hero’ who received nothing for his help with the case. That turned out not to be true as well.
Jesse Hill has had a few things to say since the trial also, much of which contradicts what the jury heard.
Following is more of the closing argument from the prosecutor when he described Jesse Hill – at length.
“Now, Jesse Hill. If you ever wondered why people don’t want to come forward and testify in cases when they witness things, or they know things in a crime? If you ever wondered why? Because this man gets up there and he is trying to tell you the truth. And all the defense can do is malign him, to go on and try to trip him up on times, which don’t matter, because he said it was light or dark or whatever, and then act like, ‘You’ve got worthless check convictions?’ as if that would somehow equate with what happened in Boulder, Colorado when the Ramsey girl disappeared. Or, maybe a Bosnian war criminal.”
“He knew about something that happened that was terrible, and he could not live with the fact that they had told him about it, he knew about it, and he knew it was wrong.”
“This man is a hero.”
“He testified against his cousin, and he’s getting nothing out of it. And, don’t you know that if he was getting something out of it, both of these men would have brought it up. But, no, they want you to become cynical. They want you to look at everything, even when a man is trying to do the right thing, they want you to look at it like, ‘Well, what’s he getting out of it?’”
“Did Bullock ever come forward and say, ‘Well, yeah, Hill was involved, too. He did so-and-so.’ Which they’re going to try and make you believe, which isn’t true.”
It turns out… the prosecution was mistaken. Ronald Bullock has since stated Jesse Hill was involved, from the planning, to supplying a disguise, to being promised a cut, only the jury never heard that part.
If Terry Robinson had known anything about the murder at the Pizza Inn on May 16, 1999, if he had gone to Jesse Hill’s home prior to the crime, taken Jesse Hill’s dreadlocks and worn them in the Pizza Inn while he murdered somebody – it stands to reason he would have nudged his attorney when the dreadlocks were submitted as evidence at his trial. It stands to reason he would have said, “Hey, that hair right there belonged to Jesse Hill.” It stands to reason, facing a death sentence, Robinson would have indicated the man being hailed as a ‘hero’ was involved in the crime and his hair was found at the crime scene. It also stands to reason – Terry Robinson didn’t say anything because he didn’t know where the dreadlocks came from at that point in time.
In 2003, eight days after Ronald Bullock told an investigator the dreadlocks belonged to Jesse Hill, Hill confirmed the dreads where his, saying he supplied the dreadlocks to Ronald Bullock for a disguise, and that they were his hair. He also told the investigator he had told the police and the prosecutors about supplying the dreadlocks, but he didn’t remember when he told them. In addition, Jesse Hill said he received $5,000 for his help in the case.
Over the years, Jesse Hill, has been interviewed on a couple occasions. According to the original case file in 1999, Hill initially called police and told them Ronald Bullock and Terry Robinson were responsible for what took place at the Pizza Inn, and after sharing that information with police, Hill then drove with them to show them where Bullock lived. More recently he remembers it differently, saying Bullock turned himself in, “I heard he called the police while I was at my sister’s house.” “I heard he called them, they came down there and they locked him up.”
In contrast to Bullock’s 2003 statement regarding Hill’s involvement, Jesse Hill is adamant he had nothing to do with what took place that night in spite of his own 2003 interview with an investigator in which he admitted supplying the disguise. “That man had a family. You don’t do stuff like that. Get a job. I had a job. They coulda had a job, they coulda worked. They didn’t have to do what they did. Come on, man.”
When asked about Bullock’s statement regarding a cut of the money from the planned robbery, “No! I don’t know nothin’ about no money. Come on, man.”
Although they don’t agree on a lot there is one thing the two agree on. Jesse Hill and Ronald Bullock both agree Terry Robinson shot and killed a man on May 16, 1999.
Several years ago, when asked if he would have testified in court about the dreads if he had been asked, Jesse Hill responded, “Sure, if he asked me, yeah.”
But – neither attorney did ask him. So, the jury never heard Jesse Hill, the ‘hero’, was involved in the crime.
Jesse Hill, in contrast to what he said years earlier when he admitted to supplying a disguise for the crime, later said, “They did it them self, they need to handle it.” “They robbed that place because they want to. I ain’t got nothing to do with that.”
He even seems to have a different perspective of who went to the police, “Montrel was with him. Montrel the one told people what happened. That’s why they had so much on him. Cause he was with him. Shit, it ain’t got nothin’ to do with me and nobody else.”
I have reached out to Ronald Bullock and Jesse Hill for a response, but have not heard back. I’ve also reached out to the public, and I am doing so again. If you saw Terry Robinson at any time during the day or night of May 16, 1999, please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. According to Robinson’s accusers, he was with them the entire day from midday through approximately midnight.
The above photograph was shared with me by Terry Robinson’s mother, who has quietly stood by her son’s side for over two decades. She told me Robinson was about fifteen years old in the photograph. He is second from the left with the white hat on, and had been working in the tobacco field that day. Although not asked, Jesse Hill also spoke of Terry Robinson’s mother several times.
“His mama know how that boy is. I don’t know why she’s trippin’.” “She know how her son was.”
Terry Robinson writes for WITS when he is not working on other various projects. You can read some of his work here. He has also co-authored Crimson Letters, available on Amazon. Details of his case can be found here. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
