Terry Robinson has quietly maintained his innocence for two decades, and many would prefer it remain that way – quiet. It’s easier. For Robinson to be innocent, someone has to be guilty. When a death sentence weighs heavily on the word of family or close friends – there is typically silence. I’ve heard it described as ‘the dark time’ by different families from different parts of the country. Time marches on, no one talks, families break apart. To defend the one accused – is to imply the accuser did the unthinkable.
This is some of what happened twenty years ago.
A man was killed in 1999, and a family lost him forever at
the hands of someone. Mary Hoskins, Terry Robinson’s mother, also
lost her son. And so began the dark time,
and I imagine she wasn’t able to grieve openly, the way a mother should. No one
talks. No one compares statements. No
one reads the testimony. As the saying
goes – let sleeping dogs lie. Sometimes
the truth gets buried in the silence.
Mary Hoskins could have concocted an alibi for her son when
she was interviewed by police, but she didn’t.
Out of all the interviews and statements, hers had to be the most
difficult and because of that, probably the most accurate. She knew what she said could impact her son –
for better or worse. As hard as it was,
she didn’t give Robinson an ‘out’ for the time of the crime – she told what she
knew. That very fact, speaks to her
integrity. And when she became aware
police were looking for her son – she tried her best to give them information
on where they might find him. She didn’t
want him hurt in the search. Following
is the interview of Mary Hoskins:
Mrs. Hoskins stated
that she is the mother of Terry Robinson, and that back on the Sunday that this
incident happened, she stated that she had got off of work around 3:30 PM. She stated that she works at the N.C. Special
Care Center, and that when she got home, that Terry and his girlfriend,
Shahara, were there. She stated that
she’s not sure of what time they left, but that it was still light
outside. She stated that Montreal
Bullock who lives next door to them came over, and she thinks that Terry and Shahara
left with him. Mrs. Hoskins stated that
she didn’t see Terry again until the next night. She stated that Shahara told
her that they went to her mother’s house, and her mother brought them back out
to her house and they stayed in the barn that Sunday night.
The defense didn’t call any witnesses, so although Mary
Hoskin’s interview could have called into question the credibility of Ronald
Bullock and Jesse Hill – Mary wasn’t given that opportunity. No defense was presented.
Sophia Hoskins, Robinson’s sister, was also interviewed by police. She didn’t give her brother an alibi or say what she thought might help defend him. She gave a brief, credible interview.
Sophia stated that
Terry is her brother, and that on Sunday afternoon that Terry and Shahara were
at the house. She stated that she left to go to work at Harris Teeter around
4:30 P.M. and that she got off work that night around 9:30 P.M. She stated that when she got home, that she
went to the bathroom, and then to her bedroom. She stated that she didn’t see
Terry or Shahara after she got back from work.
Again, the defense chose not to call Sophia Hoskins to the
stand, although her interview contradicts the trial testimony of Ronald Bullock
and Jesse Hill, who both told police that Robinson was with Ronald Bullock organizing
a robbery on Sunday afternoon and not with his girlfriend. Jesse Hill was interviewed by police and said
that Ronald Bullock and Terry Robinson were at his house at 3:00 discussing the
plans and asking him to participate.
The jury never heard anything regarding the interviews of
Mary Hoskins or Sophia Hoskins, nor did the defense call them to testify. Nor was the jury given the opportunity to hear
from the girlfriend who was said to have spent time with Robinson for a good
part of that day – although it appears investigators didn’t even interview her,
as I see nothing regarding that in the case file.
Instead they heard from Jesse Hill, Terry Robinson’s cousin,
whose interview with police contradicted both Mary and Sophia.
Mr. Hill stated that
yesterday around 3:00 P.M. while he was on Kincaid Avenue, his two cousins,
Terry Robinson and Montreal Bullock came over in a gray four door car. He stated that they told him that they needed
some money, and that they were going to rob the Pizza Inn. Mr. Hill stated that he told them they were
crazy. Mr. Hill stated that they then
took him over to his mother’s house on Stantonsbury Road and dropped him
off. He stated that later that night he
asked his sister to take him back over on Kincaid Avenue.
The above interview goes on and contradicts Mr. Hill’s own
trial testimony on some points, as well as contradicting Mr. Bullock’s trial
testimony, the other individual who testified Terry Robinson committed murder. While stating that Terry Robinson was
planning a robbery, in contrast to the information Robinson’s mother and sister
had both given to the police – Jesse Hill also gave himself a solid alibi for
the evening, stating he was at his mother’s house.
If the police questioned Mr. Hill’s mother, I have not been
able to find those records.
Without a defense, the prosecution didn’t have to deal with any of the contradictions. But the reality is, Terry Robinson couldn’t have been planning a robbery with Bullock and Hill at 3:00 that afternoon if he was at his mother’s home with his girlfriend. The jury didn’t get the opportunity to decide who they believed because they were never presented any of that information.
Terry Robinson was sentenced to death two decades ago and
has spent every day since then on death row.
If anybody has any information regarding the whereabouts of Terry Robinson
or his accusers on any part of Sunday, May 16, 1999, please contact me. kimberleycarter@verizon.net
That’s what a homicide detective in Houston told me last
week.
Charles Mamou has spent two decades on death row for the
murder of Mary Carmouche – a crime he has always denied committing.
What the case lacks in physical evidence, it makes up for in questions. In 1999 the prosecution didn’t have much, but when they went looking for a man in connection to the murder, Mamou’s younger cousin, that man quickly told police that Mamou confessed to him. The cousin’s original recorded statement and his actual courtroom testimony are vastly different versions of the ‘confession’, and in between the two versions there also exists a letter the witness wrote saying that Mamou ‘didn’t tell me shit‘. The jury never saw that letter or a transcript of the cousin’s original statement, although a comparison of the video statement and testimony was written about on this site and can be seen here.
Letter written to Charles Mamou from his cousin – the key witness – who testified that Mamou confessed to him.
In an absence of evidence, the prosecution, with the help of Mamou’s cousin, painted a picture of Charles Mamou meant to secure a conviction – not based on evidence. Mamou was accused of crimes he was never tried for, and the jury was also shown graphic autopsy photos of a victim of a crime Charles Mamou was never charged with. They heard heartwrenching testimony from family members of victims of crimes that were not connected to Mary Carmouche.
The jury was also told by the prosecution and Mamou’s cousin
that Mamou sexually assaulted the victim, although he was never charged with
that crime. Sexual assault become part
of the picture painted by prosecutors and reported as fact in the media.
Following is one version of the sexual assault the jury heard, as described by a prosecutor in the courtroom.
“He marches her to the
back, and he makes her commit oral sodomy, makes her suck his penis. Imagine that ladies and gentlemen. That’s what he did, as she’s there. And imagine the look on her face, the terror
in her eyes and how afraid she is. She’s
only seventeen, and she doesn’t want to die.”
This year – two decades after the trial and after a recent
records request – it was learned Joyce Carter, the Chief Medical Examiner at
the time, ordered a rape kit collected when the body was discovered.
Charles Mamou never knew the kit was collected and never saw the results.
The prosecution never mentioned the rape kit during trial, although they were aware it existed and records indicate the prosecutor requested that HPD process the kit months before the trial took place. At this point in time, Charles Mamou has only just learned the rape kit existed, and has never seen the results of the processed kit.
Autopsy Evidence Request Form, received in the Lab on December 9, 1998.
Finding the results of the rape kit was only one of the reasons I flew to Texas this year. There was something else interesting revealed in the recent
HPD records request.
Two pieces of biological evidence were signed out of the lab this year – twenty years after the crime. Under ‘status’ on each of the related forms it states, ‘Report Written or to Follow’. Even more interesting, both signed out items were described as, ‘Sealed envelopes said to contain biological evidence’. Both items were signed out this year – one in April, 2019, and one in June, 2019. Both items were signed out by Mary K. Childs-Henry, who was mentioned in several articles in the Houston Chronicle in the early 2000’s. Those articles can be seen here:
Evidence signed out on April 17, 2019 and June 2, 2019
About a week after I returned home from my trip, in a phone conversation with D. Wilker at HPD – who contacted me – I was informed the rape kit was “irrelevant”. She also told me that, yes – Mary K. Childs-Henry did have the evidence in her possession at one time. I was told the evidence was now back where it belongs. I was told the evidence was not tested, as previously noted on the documentation, and that Ms. Childs-Henry had removed the evidence to ‘catalogue’ it.
The investigator who called me did not explain why biological evidence from a twenty year old case would need to be physically removed from storage to be catalogued two decades later. Not one piece – but two pieces within two months. Nor was it explained why the paperwork would say it was removed for testing – not cataloguing. It is also unclear how long the biological evidence was not located in storage, under what conditions it was stored while it was not in storage, what the evidence removed actually was, what the procedures are for chain of custody when evidence is removed from storage for cataloguing and if it was manipulated in any way while it was out of storage.
When I asked Ms. Wilker if she considered the matter closed – she informed me she did. She also told me that if the defense wanted to test something – they should have done that years ago. As stated above, Charles Mamou found out this year that a rape kit was collected.
As it stands, Charles Mamou will be executed for the murder of Mary Carmouche, a crime he has always denied committing. There is at least one relevant witnesses who was not spoken to by investigators at the time of the crime, there is a rape kit the defendant only recently learned exists and has never seen the results of, there are several contradictions in the star witness’ testimony of a confession and his original statement, as well as a letter in his own writing saying he didn’t know anything – and an overwhelming lack of evidence.
There is a timeline that makes it impossible for Charles
Mamou to have completed all he is accused of in the time it took to get from
the drug deal gone wrong, where the crime originated, and to the apartment
complex where witnesses saw him not long after.
Although I was told the ‘the rape kit is irrelevant’ by HPD, it was relevant when the prosecution requested that it be processed twenty years ago. They requested that it be processed – because they wanted to see the results. It only became ‘irrelevant’ to the state of Texas after they did see the results – results the defense has yet to see and results the jury was never aware existed.
I tried to contact the court appointed attorney that originally defended Charles Mamou as the investigator at the Houston Police Department told me that he was aware of the rape kit, but he has not responded to my requests.
Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. Anything you share with me will be confidential.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
I hate being on Texas Death Row. The air.
The stripping nude four times a day on average so officers have
something to do or look at. The cold,
faux-food. The redundant radio station
playing the same ole’ commercialized songs every half hour. I hate my current existence so much, I even
hate telling you about it.
We’re all enigmas here. Each emotionally abused and scarred in some way, shape or form. This is a place where a guy named Marty McFly can change his name into something catchy and it sticks like a new skin – Big Mac, Marty the Leotard, Mc-Dawg. Guys can rename themselves after their city, town, zip code, favorite animal, or even a car – something they never would have thought of had they been free. That’s one thing I don’t hate. I find the names quite creative and the choices interesting. At one point, I went by the name Louisiana because others couldn’t pronounce my last name correctly.
In some regard I think I’m better off than some in here,
having battled my own thoughts of suicide and self-harm. There are times that are comforting, like
when it’s quiet and I can read a good book and see the words come to life on the
inner stage within my mind. There’s
nothing greater than that.
Then – there’s visitation.
I love getting visits and a chance to get out of this cell, to be
allowed to interact with ‘freeworld’ people and have a moment of
nostalgia. I saw a kid race another
across the floor, and it brought back memories of seeing my own daughter doing
the same exact thing two decades earlier.
I wasn’t much of a talker when I was free, but I’ve since
acquired a taste for conversing. People
fascinate me and I want to know and understand how they see the world, and how
different cultures can be.
I recently did a BBC interview with a lovely reporter. It was my understanding the segment was to be focused on my beloved friend, Mary, who was here to visit me. Perhaps I understood the angle. Perhaps I didn’t. Or, maybe, I was a self-centered bastard who thought that – once the camera began to roll – it was ‘action time’ and all about me. Which would explain why I wanted to shave away the grey hairs from my face before the interview. Why I urgently smoothed the Olay moisturizer sample I received inside one of my girlie magazines on my face to give me a glow when the big lights came on. And maybe it explains why the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “Where’s my glam team?”
A few days before the interview I had to have a tooth
removed, and I found myself talking on the opposite side of my mouth so the
camera didn’t catch the side-gap in my mouth.
I am many things – true. Add ‘vain’
to the long list.
I attempted to change the narrative of the interview by
talking about me, my case and this environment as the British reporter shifted
right to left in her chair out of patient frustration. She was chasing a story. I was chasing freedom and wanted the world to
know it while I still had a chance to express it. I could tell she ‘understood’. Somewhere, hidden beneath her eyes, she knew
I was a lonely soul, cast into a lonelier sea.
I may have seemed a bit ornery to her, or she may have even thought I
was a meshugana. I’ve been called the
latter a few times.
The reporter was a true pro. Smooth. She sensed it when my own oxygen began to run out. She had to have seen it in the finality of my expressions. The desperation of my emotions. The expression of agony of two decades of being mentally lynched within the halls of solitary confinement.
“Can I ask you one final question?” she asked with a
smile. I invited her to ask me anything,
confident that nothing asked would be too complicated for me, until she asked, “Do
you have any regrets?”
Mentally? I began to
perspire. Emotionally – I could see
air-bubbles form with no words. I was caught
off guard. Speechless. Suffering from a ten-second delay of censorship. Was this a trick question? Was she asking about my case? My life as a whole? I was truly confused and didn’t like it. I rubbed my head, looked into the camera and
explained that I was innocent in every way from the conviction that molested my
freedom from me. Sure – it wasn’t what
she wanted. But, it was what I
needed. I needed to say it.
I’ve been told an Italian saying that goes, “Vivere Senza Rimpianti” – to live with no regrets. And when I came back online mentally, that was the only thought I had. So, I told her, “I have no regrets.” Perhaps I regret saying that without fully explaining what I meant. Perhaps not.
What no one can see is that I’m not the same person I was
when I was free, thinking I knew everything about everything, when in reality I
knew nothing about anything. I’ve traded
in gangster rap lyrics for informative literature. I now get intoxicated on history, philosophy,
politics, psychology. Not beer, wine or
champagne. I’m a different person today
because… and I HATE to admit this, but
my limited environment gave me access to unlimited knowledge.
Since I’ve been on death row, I’ve met so many people from
all over the world. People I have no
doubt I would have never encountered had such a wicked kismet not fallen upon
me. People I love more than I love myself. People who have educated me, visited me,
defended me and my innocence and have taken care of me as if I was always one
of their own. A love that transcends mere
words of affection. A love that does not
judge my past, but supports my future. A
love that isn’t defined by social acceptance or traditional neglect for those
like me who are incarcerated.
I believe that if you regret some things, you will learn to regret
all things. I love who I am. It’s my past mistakes that have made me who I
am today. I learned from them. I grew from them. You can wish that certain outcomes never happened
the way they did, but regrets?
Traditionally, our mental wells have been poisoned into not challenging clichés
and social norms when we know a challenge is needed.
When I told the reporter, “I regret nothing,” I meant that. For I could not and do not want to entertain an existence where I live without my friends who are family. I wouldn’t trade my freedom for them. Living would be a ‘regret’ if I didn’t have them in my life. Vivere Senza Rimpianti!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas. He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.
He can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
For several months when I was a kid, we lived on Powell Street, a lowly
urban neighborhood rich with crime.
Daylight brought a liveliness for drugs and alcohol, while nighttime a
thirst for violence. Powell Street was a
cautious city block where pilfers and opportunists inhabited the shadows, and a
street hustler, Slim Rodgers, stood at the heart of its workings.
Slim was ghetto royalty, a middle aged, bald headed, ebony prince, whose
influence pressed on the locals. He was exceptionally introverted with keen
observation, often lounging on the porch in his Lazyboy recliner while
overseeing the day’s take. Occasionally,
he doled out coins to the neighborhood kids for sweets at the corner bodega. We
didn’t dare to steal. If we were caught
stealing, it was said that Slim would ‘get us’.
I thought it meant he would get us in our sleep.
Once, after spending all our coins at the arcade, we headed over to the
liquor store to bum for spare change.
Slim found out. He corralled us
together with a heated glare, then marched us up the street to his apartment.
After disappearing inside, Slim returned holding a yard rake, trash bags and a
velvety purple pouch. He said that
begging was disgraceful, and if we wanted something, we should work for
it. At seven, I had no idea what the
word ‘disgraceful’ meant, but I still swore off begging. Slim handed over the items and tasked us to
rake leaves; the pouch was filled with coins.
One summer day in 1981, while Powell Street happened outside, tragedy
nearly struck my family. We were
gathered in the rear bedroom of our apartment, my mother tending to the diaper
change of her newborn daughter. My
brother, Ray, was making weird faces to distract Sophia, whose bawling was
unsettling the quiet evening, while I snickered away in the corner. For my
untimely humor, I received the worst detail of all.
“Here…” my mother said as she bundled up the stinky diaper, “…go put that
in the trash.”
I clamped the diaper with two fingers and hurried toward the kitchen, my
scrunched nose grateful for the midday breeze.
Once there, I chucked the waste into the trash bin, then lustily eyed
the fridge as I figured on some stolen sips of Kool-Aid. I peeped down the
hallway, cracked the icebox, and guzzled the sweetened beverage. My mischief was suddenly shattered by an
eerie, watchful presence. I turned to the door, and there stood a stranger.
He was tall and beefy with a matted afro, his beard tuft and nappy. His light colored tee was darkened with
stains and drooped over narrow shoulders, and his hulking fist was wrapped
around a brown paper bag as he tarried on the porch and peered into the
kitchen. Uncertainty fixed our gazes on one another, while the awkwardness of
the moment rendered us still. He then
glanced over his shoulder, tugged on the handle and said, “Hey! Open this door!”
I sat the pitcher aside and headed over to the door, where the strange
man dithered noticeably. Stretched upward on my tiptoes, I fumbled at the latch
when I heard my mother shout disapproval.
“Duck, what chu’ doing, boy! You
better git away from that door!”
I jumped back, confused by the stranger’s face, which twisted in
defiance. A violent pop announced his
intrusion, as the door blasted open.
My mother rushed over and pulled me close behind, while I struggled to
see around her sturdy frame. The man moved into the kitchen with his eyes wild
and his hand fastened to a gun. It had chrome cylinders, much like a cap gun,
except heavier and more menacing. Immediately, I thought, ‘I want one’, as the urgency in his voice grabbed my attention.
“Where Slim at?”
“Who?” my mother responded, her own voice standoffish.
“Slim!” he repeated.
“Slim don’t stay here. He lives next door.”
There was an unexpectedness in the air that filled the awful silence, as
protector and intruder faced off. Finally, he muttered, somewhat
apologetically, “Uh… can I go out the front door?”
A profound sense of relief poured through the room, dousing any signs of
trouble. It seemed as though discord had no place wherever Slim was
mentioned. With a nod, my mother
permitted the man’s exit, as he tucked the gun away. He then dashed across the
living room, peeked through the window and vanished out the door.
Within moments, my mother’s anger turned my way. “Don’t cha know that man could’ve killed
us!”
Unsure if I was being questioned or warned, I decide to keep quiet. She
hauled me to the bedroom where my siblings remained, then she went about
securing the house. When she returned,
my mother sat with me and disclosed a terrible truth.
“Everyone who shows up at your doorstep aren’t always good people,” she
explained. “Some may try to hurt you, or
worse.” She counseled me to never open the
door for a stranger, and I promised that I wouldn’t.
It would be many years later before I realized the dire possibilities of
that day. I watched as my mother jumped
into action to protect her children with little regard for her own safety. Her devotion was the mark of a great parent and
something I hoped to inherit someday. It
was discovered that the man had robbed a liquor store, and he was desperate to
hide out. His intrusion gave me a
glimpse into the hostile capabilities of wrongdoers in their efforts to avoid
penalty.
However, the thing that impacted me the most that day was the measure of
one’s power and influence, how some circumstances are dictated by the promise
of retribution. I witnessed as Slim’s reputation alone tamed potential tragedy.
I wanted that same power and reputation someday, if only to protect my family.
I wanted conflict and disorder to be a fleeting notion in the face of my
influence. It would shape my perspective in a way that was flawed, affecting
poor choices.
Slim, too, was flawed by certain legal standards, but he wasn’t without decency. He was not the ideal role model for kids, but neither was he unworthy to inspire. My childhood hero was not some great man honored throughout the pages of history, but I will forever be inspired by the day our lives were secured at the very mention of the name Slim.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a gifted and thoughtful writer who is currently working on two novels. He lives on Death Row but maintains his innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
In June, 1993, I came home after serving 27 months in prison. While I was gone my mother had relocated from the projects where I grew up to an upscale community on the outskirts of town. I arrived home to a section of seemly brick homes, spacious yards and lush greenery in a neighborhood that was relatively safe – but boring.
The morning after I arrived, I checked the mailbox at the end of our driveway and later strolled to the neighborhood store, noticing each time I left that I drew the attention of a young boy across the street. He had sunbaked hair, hazel eyes and skin the color of butterscotch, with a slender frame under clothes that were marked by rough play. In the yard were toys and other objects to which he showed no interest, seemingly content to sit and stare all day. When my mother returned from work, I inquired about the strange boy across the street.
She succinctly replied, “Oh, that’s Chad.”
In the following days Chad proved to be as normal as the other kids as they boisterously played throughout the day. Oftentimes he tussled with his dog or shot hoops in the backyard, other times he simply observed. He was around eight years old with two older siblings and a kid sister. Their mother worked two jobs, and their father frequently came and went. Their house wasn’t the most adult supervised one on the strip, but it was a crime-free neighborhood so there was little concern.
One day I set out to walk our dog and saw Chad headed my way
at a determined pace, his head held sharp and unwavering. He stepped to me and asked if he could walk
my dog. I didn’t have the heart to tell
him no. Before I knew it, I was strolling around the neighborhood with the most
inquisitive kid ever. Many of his questions had simple answers, though Chad
posed them in a difficult way. He had a
budding curiosity that was pleasant company and reminded me of myself at his
age.
Soon Chad found an excuse to come over almost every day,
whether to help with yard work or to show me something he had found. His attentiveness gave me such a feeling of
relevance that I looked forward to having him around. One time a friend of mine
spent the night. She went outside early
for the morning newspaper, and when she returned, she asked, “Who dat lil’ boy
sittin’ on ya’ll doorstep?”
I guessed safely and answered, “Oh, that’s Chad.”
Chad and I often fished at the local pond or practiced
target-shooting with pellet guns. We washed cars, mowed lawns and played video
games all for the sake of filling the days. He was so willing to learn and committed to
work that he never once complained. And although
he could be incredibly annoying at times, he was still the best part of waking
up to a new day.
Two years would pass before trouble pierced our rural haven, and I wound up handcuffed in the back of a squad car. Chad looked on from the curb with confusion etched on his face. I sat in prison for 31 months for a crime I didn’t commit, and by the time of my release, I was a fragment of myself with little good to offer.
Chad was like a one-man welcoming party, exhilarated by my return. Just seeing him helped me to shuck some of the bitterness and appreciate the warmth of home. I would peep outside some days and see Chad sitting idly on his porch waiting for our front door to open. When it did, he would rush over just to say, “Hi.” He was the reason I stayed home many a day, though my vengeful heart kept me gone most nights.
I turned to drug dealing and petty crimes to validate my sense of self-worthlessness, carrying on destructively to mirror how I felt inside. I was caught between being a hooligan by night and a mentor to Chad by day, as I appropriated stories of my nighttime endeavors to preserve a wholesome image. Occasionally, Chad would ask if he could go with me to town, and I would come up with an excuse. Then I discovered that not only was he a curious bug, he was also quite persistent.
One night I arrived home around 2 a.m. to reup on drugs, not
the least bit surprised when Chad wondered over.
“What’s up, Duck? Are
you staying home?” he asked.
“Nope,” I answered while in a mad dash inside to grab the
dope supply and head back to the block.
When I returned, Chad was still there waiting in the chill
of night, determined to get a word. “Lemme
go wit’ chu, Duck. I’ve got money.”
“I’ve got sumpthin’ to do tonight, Chad.”
It was the scene that had played out countless times before
except this time the outcome was different as his shoulders collapsed and his
smile faded. He turned and started for
home.
“Hey, Chad….” I called out to him without giving it much thought because at that moment all that mattered was his happiness, “…C’mon, get in the car.”
Ecstatically, Chad bound over and jumped in the backseat as I dipped inside the house, removed all the illegals, and joined him in the taxi.
We were dropped off in the filthiest, most crime-infested area in the heart of the city’s drug market, where the unlikeliest shadows gave rise to dope fiends jonesing for a fix. Cars cruised surreptitiously along narrow side streets as dealers kept an eye out for trouble, and while many residents’ doors were closed and bolted for the night, others were just beginning to open.
The first spot we headed to was the bodega for knickknacks
and arcades. We then took in a spectacle of rambunctious trash-talkers over an
intense game of craps. With loads of money scattered on the ground and
vulgarities stirring, I thought it best that we split, and Chad didn’t have to
be told twice to move – he stayed close behind.
Next we walked a few blocks to the poolroom for chili cheese
fries and chicken wings, then we settled in a vacant park and scoffed down our
meals. While there, Chad delved up tons of
questions, some even provoking thought, and I could tell that he was having the
time of his life because I was too.
We finished off the night with a fast-food breakfast and
caught a taxi home at the cusp of dawn. Once there, Chad hopped out with a yawn
and said, “Thanks, Duck. I’ll see ya later, a-ight.”
I watched as he shuffled to his house across the street and disappeared
behind the door, not knowing that it was the last time I would ever see Chad.
Days later I was charged with murder and within a year I was
sentenced to death. I prayed that Chad would
get used to me not being around anymore.
Four years later, I learned through a visit with my mom that
Chad had been killed. It happened during a skirmish that he was fatally injured
and his body was recovered in the woods. I couldn’t believe it – Chad was gone and he
was only sixteen. I sat with the news
gnawing at my conscience, feeling crushed beneath a swell of guilt while
imagining the inquisitive kid I first met – not understanding why someone would
want to take his life. I blamed myself for not being there for Chad and prayed
to take his stead. He was a much better
person and deserving of life than I could ever be.
I have lived with the guilt of Chad’s death for over sixteen years with tomorrows still to come, wondering how our lives would’ve been had I not gone away. I try not to remember how Chad was taken – I remember how he lived, and I’ll forever keep the fond memory of our night on the town together.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and lives on death row. He has always maintained his innocence for the crime he is incarcerated for, but often uses his writing to honestly confront the mistakes he’s made in his life. His honest revelations are an inspiration and a testament to who he is.
Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
In 1999 Wayne Hill, Charles Mamou’s court appointed defense attorney, thanked Mamou’s mother, Angelice, when she handed him a letter he could use to defend his client. Mamou was facing the death penalty, in a case centered on a ‘confession’ to murder. A confession Mamou said never happened. His defense attorney held in his hands a letter written by the man claiming to have heard the ‘confession’, Terrence Dodson. In the letter written to Mamou, Dodson wrote, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me shit about that cause I don’t wanna know shit, I feel better off that way.”
In addition to the letter, Wayne Hill had access to Dodson’s video statement. Police paid Terrence Dodson a visit early in the investigation when they were looking at him for his involvement in the murder. At that time, he made a video statement claiming Mamou confessed to him. Hill had access to that video, and if he watched it, he would have known all the contradictions between Dodson’s statement and his actual testimony in court.
One of the most significant contradictions was how and when
the alleged ‘confession’ took place. According
to Dodson’s video statement, Mamou called him on Tuesday morning from Louisiana
– even though Mamou wasn’t even in Louisiana on Tuesday morning – and confessed
in a single telephone conversation. Yet
on the stand, Dodson said Mamou began the confession in Texas, face to face, on
Dodson’s sister’s porch. He then went on
to say that the confession continued over a ‘couple days’ in ‘several’ conversations. That wasn’t the only contradiction Dodson
made, there were several.
Wayne Hill, the defense attorney, never entered the letter
Dodson wrote as an exhibit for his client’s trial. He never mentioned the letter,
nor did he mention Terrence Dodson’s many contradictions of his own video statement.
Terrence Dodson is Charles Mamou’s cousin. The prosecution used that relationship to
solidify their argument of guilt, pointing out that Mamou must be guilty if his
own family would testify against him.
They wanted another cousin of Mamou’s to testify as well. That would make the ‘relative’ argument stronger. The only problem with the other cousin, Anthony Trail, was, he didn’t know anything about the night in question. He wasn’t there, and no one had told him anything about what had happened to the victim. He had no desire to get involved because he didn’t have any relevant information to add. The prosecution wanted him involved though. At one point, while being questioned, he had decided he would not testify. Then a man came into the room. According to Trail, he believed the man was the victim’s father, and that was the impression he was given. The man proceeded to persuade Trail to get involved and eventually Trail agreed to testify. We will probably never know if it was actually the victim’s father who persuaded him or someone that was just trying to give that impression. Trail’s testimony added nothing material to the trial because Trail had no knowledge of what happened that night nor had anyone shared with him a ‘confession’. The prosecution didn’t ask him those things on the stand, but rather used him as another ‘family member’ who testified against Mamou. They asked Trail about some sunglasses Mamou and he had picked up the day after the murder, leaving the impression the glasses were some type of evidence, but it was never pointed out for the jury by the prosecution – or defense – that the glasses they picked up were nearly five miles from the crime scene.
Throughout the Mamou trial a sexual assault was repeatedly referred
to for the majority female jury. Although
it was presented as important in the courtroom, outside of the courtroom there was
no urgency to find out if any sexual assault actually occurred that night. Dr. Joyce Carter ordered a rape kit to be done
when the body was found, to include oral swabs, fibers, clothing, fingernail
scrapings, etc. On December 11, 1998, those
items were picked up by an HPD officer and placed in the HPD property room
freezer. There they sat. The rape kit was not ordered to be processed
until long after Charles Mamou was in custody. Eight months after the crime, on July 8, 1999,
and shortly before Mamou’s trial the D.A.’s office requested the rape kit be
processed by the HPD crime lab. The
results – no semen was detected on any items analyzed.
Although the District Attorney’s office ordered the test processed and was given the results, graphic references to sexual assault were repeatedly used throughout the trial, in what appeared to be an effort to inflame the jury – although Mamou was never charged with sexual assault. There was never any evidence a sexual assault took place by anyone, according to the incident report.
Mamou’s defense team left the sexual assault accusations
without argument, never telling the jury that a rape kit was processed months
after the crime that turned up nothing.
Also of note, ‘hairs were collected from the t-shirt’ of the
victim. The hairs were never mentioned
by the prosecution or the defense. It appears they are still in the HPD property
room.
Charles Mamou always maintained his innocence, and the only
witness statements available support his account of his whereabouts that night,
although a couple statements appear to be currently missing as of an Open
Records Request done this year. What is
known is – the victim and Charles Mamou were both on Lantern Point Drive at
approximately 12:00 midnight on the night of December 6, 1998. On that point, all accounts are in
agreement. After a drug deal gone wrong, Mamou and Samuel
Johnson drove away in two separate cars, with the victim in the backseat of the
car Mamou was driving.
Charles Mamou says both men drove to an apartment complex on
Fondren where he was staying while he was in Houston – about a ten mile
drive. That is also the location where Johnson
lived.
A witness statement taken from the woman who lived at the apartment
where Mamou stayed that night indicates Mamou was back at her apartment at
approximately 12:45. In her statement
she spoke of waking up at “about 12:15 AM.”
She then says, “It seem like was around thirty minutes later I heard a
knock on the door.” She goes on to say, “I
asked my brother who was at the door. He
told me it was Chucky.”
That statement indicates that Mamou was exactly where he
said he was forty-five minutes later.
Unfortunately – the jury never knew that statement existed and that
information was never presented to them by Mamou’s defense team.
During the trial the woman’s husband, Howard Scott, testified
and when questioned he was shown his own statement, “when you say Mr. Mamou got
there, does reviewing that statement specifically refresh your memory that it
was 12:15 and 12:45?”
Scott’s answer, “Yes.”
Question, “Okay. So
you’re positive it couldn’t have been later than 12:45?”
And the answer, “No, sir.”
Two witnesses who had no reason to defend or support Charles
Mamou both supported exactly what Mamou said happened. The body of the victim was found on
Lynchester Drive, a location that was about thirty minutes from the Lantern
Point Drive location where the drug deal gone wrong took place. The prosecution’s version of a sexual assault,
murder, and dropping sunglasses at a location on Ashford Point Drive – couldn’t
have been done in 45 minutes. The time
constraints were never outlined for the jury.
There is something else very troubling about Howard Scott’s
testimony. The statement he was shown
while on the witness stand – is not in the case file as of the recent Records
Request.
Howard Scott made two statements to police – one on Tuesday, December 8, and one on Wednesday, December 9. The incident report, received through an Open Records Request only includes one statement. The Incident Report refers to the ‘missing’ statement on December 8, “It was then decided to bring Howard Scott to the homicide office to be interviewed there since there were some discrepancies between his story and Robin’s. Officer Hollins then transported Howard Scott to the homicide office where he was interviewed by Sergeant Novak.” This interview is not in the incident file that was received pursuant to the Open Records Request.
The missing interview is mentioned more than once. It is also referred to later in the incident
report, stating that at 9:45 on Wednesday, December 9, Sergeants Yanchak and
Ferguson went to pick up Robin and Howard Scott to be ‘re-interviewed’.
It is referred to again, “On this date, Sergeant Yanchack
and Sergeant Ferguson assisted Sergeant G.J. Novak and Officer H.F. Chisolm in
the follow up investigation into this offense.
Earlier this date, we had ‘re-interviewed’
two witnesses named Robin Marie Scott and her husband, Howard Scott.”
Even on Page 3 of Howard Scott’s statement taken on Wednesday, December 9, 1998, he refers to the interview the day before, on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, “Around 11:30 AM two detectives showed up and began asking me about Chucky. I told them that Chucky left earlier and gave them permission to search my house. I later came with them to the homicide division.”
But, Howard Scott’s first statement did at one time exist and was also referred to in the court transcripts when Wayne Hill asked Scott to look at it and refresh his memory. The second statement of Howard Scott’s makes no reference to when Mamou arrived back at his apartment, so the statement referred to in court is the one that is now currently missing from the file.
There are other things that appear to be missing from the
file, unless the detectives did not document their work. According to a News Release put out by the
Houston Police Department shortly after the crime, “A second suspect drove away
in what was initially described as a red Dodge Intreped. It has since been determined the vehicle was
an orange Dodge Concorde that was recovered
and inspected.” The news release
referred to the vehicle that Samuel Johnson was driving that night.
During the trial Johnson was specifically asked about that
car. “Did the police then examine your
car?”
Johnson, “They examined it a couple of days after I got out
of jail.”
Although there are photographs of the vehicle in the file,
there is no written report or documentation regarding what was found in the
vehicle.
According to Samuel Johnson, a resident of Houston as well
as an employee of Orkin at the time, he went home after the drug deal, drank a
soda, took a shower and went to bed, not even disturbing his wife to tell her
of his involvement in a shoot out on a dark alley. And
there is no documentation other than photographs of anything that was
discovered inside of the vehicle he was driving.
Other documentation not included in the file are any notes or statements made by other parties located at the apartment complex that night, including interviews of Shawn Eaglin. Eaglin was an integral part of introducing several of the parties according to statements, and the police spoke to him. But there are no statements or interview notes in the file regarding interviews of him. As with the vehicle documentation, there is no way to know if the detectives chose not to document their work or if the documents have been removed from the file. But, according to Robin Scott’s statement, she discussed with Eaglin the homicide division going to her home, Shawn’s home, and the employer of Shawn’s cousin, ‘Ced’.
According to Robin Scott’s and Howard Scott’s statements,
Eaglin was at the apartment complex on the night in question and it would be
expected that detectives spoke to him. Unfortunately, there is no record of those
conversations.
In addition to the impossibility of the 45 minute window of time – it is highly unlikely Mamou could have located the backyard of the house for sale on Lynchester Drive where the body was found. He was from Louisiana, and not a resident of Houston. In the Houston Police Department’s incident report, the location was described by a detectives as follows, “The 9200 block of Lynchester Street is located in the Keagan’s Woods sub-division located on the south side of the 14000 block of Bissonnet Street in Harris County. The Keegan’s Woods subdivision is best accessed by turning south onto Bering Wood Street and continuing south to Plantation Valley and then turning west on Plantation Valley. Lynchester Street intersects with Plantation Valley. Lynchester Street does not intersect with Bissonnet and is a difficult street to locate.” That is how a HPD detective described the location, and an investigator recently told me she had difficulty locating it, even with her GPS.
The ability of Charles Mamou, a resident of Louisiana, to
have found the location was never brought up by Mamou’s defense attorney for
the jury.
For whatever reason, Charles Mamou’s defense team did not present most of the above information. The jury wasn’t left with a lot to consider regarding Mamou’s innocence. As unusual as this may sound – they were given a lot more than in a typical trial. The jury was shown autopsy photos and heard painful, heart wrenching testimony from family members of victims of crimes Mamou was never charged with. As unbelievable as that may sound – it happened. Mamou’s mother, Angelice, was on the elevator with some jurors when she heard them discussing how they were going to decide. It was agreed by the jurors she overheard that they would, ‘vote with the majority’. Ms. Mamou reported what she overheard at the time it happened, but nothing came of it.
They say truth is stranger than fiction. Charles Mamou has been in prison for twenty
years, most of it in solitary confinement on death row. Blind faith in the courts is often
misplaced. According to the National
Registry of Exonerations, the number of exonerations is currently at
2,488. It would be a good bet that a
state such as Texas, that executes numerous people a year – has executed innocent
people. If the witnesses are to be
believed in the Mamou case, there will be one more when he is executed. He couldn’t have done the things he will die
for in the time allotted for him to do it.
There is not one shred of physical evidence putting him at the scene of
the crime. There is not a weapon to
test. There is not a footprint at the
scene. There is not a fingerprint at the
scene. The jury was shown photographs
and heard testimony from crimes Mamou was never charged with. Mamou was portrayed as having sexually
assaulted someone without a shred of evidence and his attorney did not point
that out. There was substantial evidence
to call into question the testimony of the key witness who said Mamou
confessed, that was never presented by the defense. There are ‘hairs’ that no one seems
concerned to follow up on. There was no
independent lab testing ever done by the defense. There is documentation that was either
never filed or is no longer accounted for – in addition to a statement that at
one time existed – but seems to have disappeared.
It reminds me of something I heard recently – close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Can we add ‘or in a courtroom’ with a public defender, the wrong skin color, the wrong year, the wrong state…
Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. Anything you share with me will be confidential.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
Friendships are pleasurable relationships that often stand the test of time. They are the sharing of ourselves and our innermost feelings with those whom we trust the most. Even cultivating them can be an everlasting treat, like a stroll down the candy aisle of life. However, just as sweets can be tasty yet terrible for our health, sometimes friends can do more harm than good.
It was a chilly Saturday morning in 1979 – I was five years old. The trailer we lived in was quiet, my mother buried beneath the covers after working a late shift. I poured a bowl of cereal and took my place before the television set, anticipating my favorite cartoons. Suddenly, familiar voices trickled in from outside – it was my older brother Ray, cousin Sam, and Kenny, a neighborhood friend. I dashed to the bedroom, slipped into some clothes and bolted out the door. The three of them were bunched together, walking steadily. Kenny spoke in a hushed tone while Sam and Ray listened. I eased into their group and kept quiet – they paid me little attention.
Their discussion was about the local tadpole pond, which
wasn’t much of a pond at all, but rather an abandoned foundation with busted
pipes that formed a humongous sinkhole.
We often passed by the vacant site on the way to the corner store, and
each time I guessed at the mysterious ripples in the water. Kenny let on that he and Sam were headed to
the pond to see a dog that drowned. Ray
was eight and impressionable – he would follow those two anywhere. After agreeing to join them, the trio set out
while I was tightly wound in their shadow.
We walked a short way before a voice called out and collared
me from behind, “Hey, ya’ll, wait up!”
It was Junior, a tubby, spirited kid from around the way who
had an enduring appetite for mischief. He
and I were friends, yet often turned rivals whenever my brother was around to
stir the competition. Only then did our
Big Wheel rides become fierce battles to the finish line or a game of marbles
end in a fight. Our spats never lasted long – Junior and I were usually back to
being pals before the turn of day. His
cheeks wobbled like cozy gelatin as he hustled to catch up to our party.
“Where ya’ll going?” he inquired.
“To the tadpole pond,” I answered.
We arrived at an enclosure and paused to take in the sights,
a quaint oasis of thriving vegetation at the edge of the trailer park. Incredibly dark waters swayed passively with the
morning breeze, glistening with the rising sun.
Kenny slipped through a breach in the fence, Sam and Ray soon followed. I was content to observe from beyond the
barrier until Junior squeezed through as well. I tucked my head and dipped past
the opening in the fence, fearful yet eerily excited.
We stood scattered around the water’s edge as the ever dreadful tadpole pond lay before us, polluted with trash and a sodden couch partially submerged at the center. Kenny pointed out a floating object that was fuzzy and swollen round. He then looked for something to fish out the carcass while Sam and Ray gathered rocks. Junior fixated on the water and began to inch forward – my curiosity willed me closer.
There were tadpole, tiny critters with long squirmy tails,
that flowed along the shallow end. I
squatted low until my reflection bounced back off the face of the water. It was the first time I’d ever seen a
tadpole.
“We need a can,” Junior proposed and disappeared behind me
to search for a container. Enthused by the idea of having a pet, I was toying around
with names when suddenly I was thrust forward and pitched into the water.
Like a phantom cutpurse, the chilling temperature stole my
breath away. I opened my mouth to yell,
but gurgled as the agony gushed in. My
head was a jumble of fear and confusion – frozen with the shocking reality that
I was cast beneath the mystery of the rippling pond – and I didn’t know how to
swim…
My jacket and denims became weighty with absorption, like
linen anchors wrapped around my limbs. Algae and other slush minerals surged down
my nostrils and set my lungs afire. I flailed about in a desperate fight against
the sinking madness until my wild kicks propelled me above the surface.
Water erupted from my mouth in a vicious spray as the scum fell away from my eyes. I saw my brother racing toward me.
“Help me, Ray!” I pleaded, splashing about to stay afloat until
the menacing hand of gravity pulled me under. I drew in a quick breath and held it tight
within as the world collapsed around me.
Slowly, I drifted down into the hazy unknown, kicking, screaming in my head for my mother. Again, my flapping elevated me, and I burst free from beneath the murky water. Ray shouted words, but they were lost in the frenzy. Kenny appeared and stretched out toward me.
“Ray!” I cried before my pleas were cut short by another
cruel descent into the black. Lashing
out in one final attempt to thwart my tragic end, I somehow grabbed a hold of
an object – it was a stick with Kenny holding the opposite end as he plucked me
from the horror.
I was drenched, shivering, and felt utterly defeated as I considered the dire possibilities. Sam peeled off my jacket and replaced it with his own while Kenny assured me that everything was okay. Ray held me tight, but said little as he busied himself with an explanation. And Junior – he was halfway up the block hightailing it for home.
Today, I saw Junior for the first time in twenty years. It was a thrilling moment to see how much he had changed, yet concerning for the troubles he faced. His thick, woolly dreadlocks dangled like tassels over eyes that drooped with sadness, while casting aside his ill-predicament to sympathize for my own. Junior’s trouble was life in prison, mine was the death penalty. It’s ironic how parallel our lives felt to that day at the tadpole pond. Still, the quiet agony was short lived and our jaded smiles reciprocated as we stared at one another through a Plexiglas divider and worked to repress our misery. I realized that Junior was my oldest of friends despite our childhood quarrels. It had been forty years since the tadpole pond, and even now we hurt for one another. For all the rivaling we did as kids, our friendship survived the chaos – even though he almost killed me, we’re friends all the same.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a gifted and thoughtful writer who is currently working on two novels. He lives on Death Row but maintains his innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
My Best Friends Are Behind Bars – that’s going to be the title of my book someday. And some of them are innocent…
I’m not naïve. I work
with a lot of people who have done a lot of bad things. They live with regret. Most of them did ‘something’. People get exonerated all the time though,
and statistically, it was bound to happen – I would find myself working with
some innocent people. What’s fascinating
– my innocent friends didn’t tell me
they were innocent. Our writing
relationships were the focus, but when my instincts tell me something doesn’t add
up, I want to know more.
This week I heard the federal government was going to resume
executing people. That news hurt my heart.
An attorney once told me during a discussion about the flaws in the
system, justice is like the highway.
People want to have highways even if they result in lives lost in auto
accidents. She explained it’s the same with
justice. People are willing to have our
system of control, even if we lose some people to the ‘mistakes’. Collateral damage.
I don’t see it that way – there’s no arguable need for the death
penalty. Every state, every country,
that executes – executes the innocent as well as the guilty. That’s just a fact. Is a ‘tough on crime’ stance worth the
mistakes when the mistakes are human lives?
One of my favorite writers, Terry Robinson, lives on Death Row. He’s never written about being innocent. After I came to realize he wasn’t capable of
what he was there for, I asked him why he didn’t openly speak of it. He told me he felt it would be disrespectful
to the victim of the crime he was incarcerated for to write about that. That’s the type of man he is. He has such a quiet dignity and respect for
others, I can think of no one who compares.
It’s because of that character I asked to see his transcripts. I got some clarity as I read. He was no angel, and he has never claimed to be. But the core of who he is was always there. The night of the crime, Mr. Robinson was ‘in the area’. He was black. Another individual who was arrested in connection to the murder said Mr. Robinson did it. That’s all it took. That individual is now living a free life.
When it came time for Mr. Robinson to present his defense, I was anxious to read that portion of the transcripts. I had read everything the prosecution laid out, and I thought there was a lot left unknown – not to mention DNA that wasn’t tied to anyone. I was anxious to hear what would be revealed during the next portion of the trial. I pictured myself, facing a death sentence, and how I would present everything possible, how I could call into question so many things that had been shared. He would surely tell of where he was and who he was with. He would contradict the key witness. After all – it was a trial that could result in a death sentence.
What I read next, stunned me. “Judge, we have consulted with the defendant,
and it’s his choice not to present evidence at this time.”
I had to reread it…
What?
The next time I spoke to Mr. Robinson, I asked, “So… You didn’t present any defense. Am I to understand that correctly? Why?”
He explained to me how his attorneys told him that if he
defended himself it would make him look guilty – so the defense presented
nothing.
What has me scratching my head in confusion will have him executed.
Terry Robinson was sentenced to death.
The individuals who had a hand in restarting the federal death machine would obtain the best legal representation available in a criminal case – because they have the means to do that. But – what about those who are a minority? What about those who are black and convicted in a southern state with all that we know goes hand in hand with that? What about those whose attorneys are appointed by the Court? There is an enormous difference between an attorney that is shopped for and one that is operating under a set fee by the courts while also carrying paying clients. If an attorney has paying clients – the court appointed cases go to the bottom of the stack. That’s reality.
Terry Robinson has so much character it can’t be covered up with a red Death Row jumpsuit. Mr. Robinson writes under the pen name Chanton. His essay, ‘Being Better’, which he wrote earlier this year, speaks of accidentally stealing forty dollars nearly two decades ago – and how he was driven to confess that mistake. ‘Duck’, Chanton, Terry, Mr. Robinson – is ‘collateral damage’.
It’s okay to say it – you are innocent. You have every right to say it. You are not the first person to be incarcerated for something you didn’t do. You are not the first person on Death Row to know you don’t belong there. There are other people who know you don’t belong there. Your previous mistakes in life don’t make you deserving of this. The loss that is the reason for this discussion is not diminished by you speaking truth. Truth is never a mistake. And the truth is – some innocent people live on death row, and may very well die there.
Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Anybody with information related to his case can contact me
at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. Anything you share with me will be
confidential.
Charles Mamou has never wavered in declaring his innocence, but the key witness at his trial testified that Mamou ‘confessed’ to him. In a case without a weapon, or a fingerprint at the scene, or a hair, or a fiber, or DNA, or an eyewitness, or a violent history – the testimony of Terrence Dodson was a key factor in Mamou’s death sentence. But, in matters of life and death, should claims of ‘confessions’ be held to a reasonable standard of reliability?
Dodson wasn’t just an uninvolved witness. According to his own testimony, he clearly had
reason to be concerned about his well-being.
When asked, “Were you a little
concerned about the fact that you might be charged with a crime?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t have
that concern now, do you?”
“No.”
Over and over, Dodson maintained his understanding that he had
a lot at stake.
“And at that point in
time, what exactly are you thinking at the time that you were picked up by the
police? Is it clear to you that they are
looking at you as a suspect for capital murder?”
“Yeah, it was clear to
me.”
“So, at that point, is
it a fair statement to say you’re very concerned about your future and what
might happen to you?”
“Yeah, it’s a fair
statement.”
Dodson knew the gravity of the situation and the possible consequences to himself. That would be enough to make one wonder if his testimony regarding Mamou’s ‘confession’ could be relied upon, but self-preservation wasn’t the only issue that would bring into question everything that Dodson shared in the courtroom. There were also contrasts between his original statement to police and what he testified to during the trial.
During the police interview, Dodson repeatedly said he had
nothing to do with the drug deal that took place that night. He simply wanted to go home.
“He told me that he
was going to buy a kilo – coke, and I was like, man, take me home because I don’t
want to be around the transaction or whatever.”
“So, him and Bud
started looking at me saying just chill out man, chill out, man, you are
tripping, I was like, man, no, just take me back to the house, that’s all I am
asking.”
“And he kept saying, just
chill, we got out there. I’m like, oh
man, just take me back.”
“And I am like, just
take me back, man, I am not with all that.”
Yet, during the trial, when asked about his involvement in
the drug deal, Dodson describes it differently.
“What was your part
going to be?”
“My part in the
robbery?”
“Right.”
“To rob them.”
“With what?”
“With a gun.”
“You had a gun?”
“Yeah, I had it on me.”
“So, what is it that
you’re supposed to do, you, personally?
What is your role on this jack on jack?
Of course, you’re not knowing
that it’s a jack on jack at that point, are you?”
“Exactly.”
“So, what is your
role? What are you supposed to do?”
“Once I see the dope,
I pull out my pistol and take the dope.”
“You’re comfortable going
in a situation like that with a gun; and if somebody shows you the dope you
just going to take the dope?”
“Pretty much.”
The star witness consistently contradicted himself and his
prior recorded statement. While being
questioned by detectives, Dodson described Mamou’s ‘confession’ as taking place
in one phone call.
“Ok, and where was he
calling you from?”
“He said, Louisiana,
but we don’t have a caller I.D., so he said, what’s up? I said, what’s up? He said, what’s going on? I said, there is nothing going on, what’s
up? He said, have been watching the
news? I say, yeah. He said, man, he just started telling what
went down, that he, in so many words, did it, and I like, man, and he told me
step by step how it went down.”
Dodson lived in Houston, and Mamou lived in Louisiana. Dodson told police that after Mamou returned to his home in Louisiana, he called Dodson and confessed. Yet – at trial, Dodson changed his story, describing how the confession took place differently.
“Now you gave a whole
lot of information in response to the prosecutor’s questions about conversations
you had with Charles and go into detail about the jack on jack and these guys
had a bible. There was a shoot-out and
goes into detail about where the people were shot and everything. And then, also talking about the girl had
been shot, that they had been outside.
And he asked you about talking with Detective Novack, and she supposedly
had performed oral sex on him. When did
you get that information? What time is that?”
“I don’t really
recall, I got, like I said, bits and pieces in person.”
“Everything that you
said here in court today, you’re attributing to him?”
“Yeah, everything I
said that was told to me was told to me by him.”
“It is one conversation
or several?”
“It was several.”
“Over what period of
time?”
“I don’t really
recall, a couple days.”
Terrence Dodson didn’t just contradict himself throughout his statement and testimony. He also told a version of the drug deal during his statement to police that no one else did. According to him, Mamou confessed to getting into the Lexus before the shooting. He clearly describes the violence taking place inside the car. He also paints a picture of two drug dealers throwing a bag of ‘money’ back and forth between them.
“So the dude that drove the Lexus approached Chuckie or whatever, so this is how we are going to do it, you gonna ride with my boy in my Lexus, and you all do the business and we gonna stay here with Bud or Buk whatever. So, Chuckie was like, no, no, I don’t even like the way that sounds. So, if I am going to do the business, is going to be with you, because you are the one I talked to. So the dude must have said, they all loaded up in other words, and the dude told Chuckie we are fixin to do the business down the dark street, so Chuckie said you want to do it in front of Bennigans, but the dude said, it is too hot over here. So they went down the dark street. Dude asked Chuckie where is the money? So, Chuckie said, I got the money, and threw him the paper bag, whatever. The dude threw it back, so Chuckie said, what’s up? The dude said, take the money out, I want to see it. Chuckie said the money is right here, threw back at him. Chuckie said, by that time, he see the dude flinch – like moving into his seat. Chuckie said, he came out with his pistol and was like, man, what’s going on, and the dude was pulling for his. He said, he just thought something, and shot him up on whatever and burnt off with the girl in the Lexus.”
“His exact words were,
shit, I threw him the money, and he threw it back. I threw him the money again,
and he threw it back, know what I’m sayin’, and that’s when I threw down to see
what’s goin’ on.”
The two witnesses and participants in the drug deal, Charles
Mamou, and the police have established that the drug deal and shooting took
place outside of the vehicle. None of
the other individuals described a bag being thrown back and forth.
Not long after Terrence Dodson told the police that Charles
Mamou ‘confessed’ to him, he wrote a letter to Mamou. In it, Dodson once again contradicts himself,
writing, “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 is currently on death row in Texas and waiting
for his execution date.
Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. Anything you share with me will be confidential.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
My attorneys told me we didn’t need to call any witnesses. Those intelligent white jury members understand what happened.
I’m no killer, and I was and never will be a rapist. I never physically hurt anyone who was
innocent in my life. When I refused a
plea deal to help them convict the ones they felt were responsible, I became
the Kunta – that would never be their Toby.
So they did what they needed to ‘teach me a lesson’.
A few days before my trial began, I sat in the courtroom before the Assistant D.A., Lyn McClellan, and my state-appointed trial attorney, Wayne Hill. Lyn McClellan was good at sending people to death row and was friends with my attorney – I’ve heard rumor McClellan was the godfather of my attorney’s son. I guess if it’s true, that makes them practically family. It wouldn’t surprise me – that’s Harris County, Texas. On that day McClellan turned to me and said, “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t prosecute this case. It’s clear what happened here. But it’s not up to me. My boss wants this case to go through. I may even lose.” McClellan’s boss was the legendary Johnny Holmes.
I was arrogantly naïve, thinking the truth would set me free
– justice.
There were subliminal messages being sent before the trial
even started. Referring to the famous
O.J. Simpson case, the judge assured jurors that was, “not going to happen
here. This is the real world. It is not California.” He compared the job of a juror to, “being a
pallbearer at a funeral.” “And when a
child acts out we must discipline that child.
We may not like it, but we have to do it.” My trial hadn’t even started, and he was
telling the jury I was already guilty. There
was no need to over think it.
The finality came during Dodson’s testimony though. The moment he told the jury I ‘confessed to
him’ that I sexually assaulted Mary – women on the jury began to cry and look
at me with vengeance. I had to turn away
from one woman’s glare after she took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. My character was castrated for an act that
never happened.
Before the trial when they questioned me, trying to get me to take a deal – they told me they had DNA. So, why didn’t they use it? If they had it, they didn’t use it because it wasn’t mine. They said I sexually assaulted her – but there was no DNA presented at my trial. Why?
I had two defense lawyers.
One was hired a month before the trial began and knew nothing about the
strategy or defense in my case. The
people representing me had a letter written by the ‘key’ witness – Dodson – and
his initial interrogation video. They
had in their possession evidence to dispute the key witness’s testimony, but
they never presented it. They allegedly
‘misplaced’ that evidence during my trial.
They miraculously found it after I was found guilty. Dodson said I confessed to him – the letter
he wrote said he didn’t know shit. The
jury never saw it.
I didn’t kill Mary. They had someone testify about me finding my sunglasses after Mary disappeared. They presented the glasses testimony like a smoking gun. If the glasses were near the body – I had to be the killer. What the jury never heard was that the glasses were found nearly five miles away from the body. I’d dropped them in the grass two days before I ever met Mary and nowhere near where she was found. My attorneys didn’t tell the jury that either. Nor were they told how many miles I would have had to have driven that night in a car with a flat tire in order to do what they said I did. They just listened to the prosecution paint their picture.
So, why did I testify? I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t, but after having the media portray me as a drug dealing rapist and murderer, just short of a serial killer, I was tormented so much that I knew if I ever had the chance to set things straight, I would. If I was going out on lies– I wanted the record to show my mother I didn’t lie.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas. He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.
He can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
