Charles Mamou had a fifteen to forty-five minute window to do what the prosecution said he did, according to their witness, Howard Scott. By everyone’s account, Mamou was on Lantern Point Drive at approximately midnight on December 6, 1998. Scott testified he was back at his apartment on Fondren between 12:15 and 12:45. Could he have murdered the victim in forty-five minutes or less?
At midnight that evening, there was a drug deal on Lantern
Point Drive in Houston that ended in gunfire.
The majority of the witnesses testified that Mamou’s driver, Samuel
Johnson, pulled away when the shooting began, leaving Mamou behind. Mamou then jumped in the running vehicle left
behind by the individuals he’d just had a shoot out with.
After that – the stories differ. Mamou testified he realized Mary Carmouche was in the car after he fled the scene. He also says he saw her for the last time after they both exited the car at the apartment on Fondren, where the vehicle was later found by police. Mamou also said there were several other people at that location who had contact with Miss Carmouche.
The drug deal took place at approximately midnight. The drive from Lantern Point Drive to Fondren
is 9.3 miles and 18 minutes. When the
police later recovered the Lexis at the apartments, one of the tires was completely
flat and partially off the rim. Howard
Scott testified that Mamou arrived at his apartment between 12:15 and 12:45
that evening.
The state presented a different version of events. The prosecution claimed Mamou, who lived in Louisiana,
left Lantern Point Drive after the shooting and drove to a deserted home on
Lynchester Drive, located 17.9 miles away.
They say he then took Mary into the backyard, forced her to perform oral
sex and shot her. No explanation was
offered as to how Mamou may have been able to locate an abandoned home on
Lynchester.
There was no evidence introduced in the courtroom regarding a sexual assault – not a hair, not a semen sample, no DNA. After the shooting, Mamou would have had to drive from the house on Lynchester to the apartments on Fondren and park the car where it was found. The drive from Lynchester to Fondren takes thirty minutes.
That scenario would have taken an hour and five minutes in
driving time, not taking into account the condition of the tire, locating a deserted
home, a sexual assault and murder. The
travel time to get to the crime scene was never addressed during the trial.
The Mamou case is riddled with questions. For many, it calls into question the concept of ‘innocent until proven guilty’. Among the areas of concern:
Although the jury was told Mamou sexually assaulted the
victim, he was never charged with sexual
assault and there was no physical evidence to support that claim.
Each of the parties involved in the drug transaction
testified against Mamou, and it appears none
were charged.
The only witness who came close to putting Mamou near the
crime scene testified that Mamou confessed to him. That same witness later wrote a letter to
Mamou while he was incarcerated stating, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me shit
about that cause I don’t wanna know shit, I feel better off that way.” The
jury never saw that letter.
The state’s witnesses all
contradicted themselves and each other throughout the trial, as well as all
testifying to lying at various points of the investigation.
Mamou, who had no prior charges of violence, was described as
‘vicious’, ‘ruthless’ and ‘cold-blooded’ during closing statements. He was also accused of murdering other individuals during the prosecution’s closing
statements.
Autopsy photos and testimony were presented to the jury, as
well as victim impact statements from victims
of crimes Charles Mamou was never charged with.
Charles Mamou was never
charged with any crime connected to Anthony Williams who died months before. The prosecution told the jury more than
once, “And he murders Anthony Williams.”
Charles Mamou has maintained his innocence for over twenty years.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
During the penalty phase of Charles Mamou’s capital murder trial, detailed testimony was given regarding the autopsy of Anthony Williams, along with a variety of photographs taken during the process. The imagery and description of the deceased’s wounds were shared in an effort to ensure the jury would come back with the ultimate punishment – death.
And the jury did. But Charles Mamou was never on trial for the murder of Anthony Williams. Charles Mamou was on trial for an unrelated crime in which he has always maintained his innocence and in which there is actually no physical evidence tying him to the crime scene. Not a fingerprint. Not a footprint. Not a hair. No DNA. No weapon. No eyewitness. No confession.
As the country’s leader in sending people to death row, Harris County, Texas, is skilled at getting capital murder convictions. In 1999, the year Charles Mamou was sentenced to death, the state executed 33 people. The following year, that number was even higher.
During the Mamou trial, the state didn’t just present photos of Anthony William’s body. They also went into great detail regarding the man’s death in September, 1998 – three months prior to the crime Mamou was on trial for. After the graphic autopsy testimony, William’s older sister was brought in to testify regarding the impact the loss of her brother had on her family. She spoke of Anthony as a baby and testified about the last time she saw her brother. She also shared how her older brother cries over the loss of his baby brother.
Next, the mother of Terrence Gibson was brought in to testify regarding the loss of her son. Terrence Gibson was the man who got shot during the attempted robbery of Charles Mamou. Mamou was never charged in the death of Terrence Gibson. Ms. Gibson testified regarding memories of her son and the affect his loss had on her and her family.
There was actually more testimony in the punishment phase of the trial regarding crimes Charles Mamou was never charged with than the crime he was tried for. Two decades later, Charles Mamou remains on Death Row and is out of appeals, and Harris County keeps its place as a leader at ensuring executions.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
No confession. On the contrary – Charles Mamou has never wavered regarding his innocence. That’s why he didn’t take a deal when he was offered one. He put his faith in the truth and Texas justice nearly two decades ago. That turned out to be a deadly mistake. His fate was left in the hands of Harris County, Texas – a community with a long and well documented history of condemning people to death.
And so Mamou’s trial began. The O.J. Simpson trial was still fairly fresh on peoples’ minds – and Charles was a black man in Texas. The words of the Judge set the tone from the beginning, as he referred to O.J.’s trial that ended in an acquittal, stating that was, “not going to happen here. This is the real world. It is not California.” The Judge also compared being a juror to, “being a pallbearer at a funeral.” This was followed up with, “the State is going to seek the appropriate punishment in this case; that is, their claim that it will be the appropriate punishment, punishment of death.”
The case against Charles Mamou revolved around the hearsay testimony of individuals who were all involved in criminal activity, and some very questionable ballistics testimony regarding a never recovered gun.
But, everyone agreed on where everything began. Five men met on Lantern Point Drive, near the Astrodome, for a drug deal that went terribly wrong. Charles Mamou and Sam Johnson arrived in one car. They were met by Deion Holly, Terrance Gibson, and Kevin Walter, who arrived in another vehicle. Unbeknownst to Mamou and Johnson – Mary Carmouche was in the backseat of the second car. Deion, Terrance and Kevin brought a seventeen year old girl to a drug deal they approached with loaded guns.
Things went wrong quickly, and the shooting began in both directions. Terrance Gibson was killed holding a loaded gun – a clear indication his death was the result of self-defense, in which no one was ever charged. The other two men with Gibson, Deion Holly and Kevin Walter were also shot, but survived.
At some point during the shooting, it appears Sam Johnson hopped in the car that he and Mamou arrived in, and drove down the street. Mamou thought his friend had left, although Sam was actually turning around and coming back for him. In that moment, Mamou made a life changing decision. Alone in that alley, he got in the other men’s car and drove away – with Mary in the backseat.
According to Mamou’s testimony, when he realized Mary was in the car – he stopped and asked her to get out, but she refused. He then met up with Sam Johnson and they drove to Howard Scott’s apartment.
There, Mamou got out of the car, asking Mary to get out as well. He was then met by Sam Johnson and Shawn England, another acquaintance. Mamou was crying and upset, and Shawn pulled him aside to say, “those guys got what they deserved.” Shawn and Mamou then went inside, leaving Sam Johnson and Mary outside.
Once inside, Mamou was provided with clean clothes, and Shawn England and Howard Scott went outside to search the car that Mamou had arrived in and wipe it down. Mary was still outside and talking to Sam. Eventually, another friend arrived on a bike – Kevin. They all talked for a little while longer before Sam Johnson, Kevin, and Mary left together.
Mamou left the apartment complex to make a call, and when he returned, he saw Kevin and Sam Johnson come back. Johnson went inside briefly before leaving again with Kevin.
Later that night, Sam Johnson and Kevin returned, and Kevin got on his bike and left. A cab came for Shawn England, who also left. Mamou spent the night in Howard Scott’s apartment.
According to Mamou, Shawn England had taken the gun from Mamou while at the apartment.
Mary Carmouch was later found dead with a gunshot wound to her chest.
The prosecution disagreed with Mamou’s version of events and centered a good portion of its case on an unfired cartridge that was found near Mary’s body. They claimed the unfired cartridge matched the fired casings at the scene of the drug deal gone bad. It was their theory that those casings had travelled through the same gun barrel. The science used to support such a theory is arguable even in the best of circumstances, but in this case – there was no weapon to test the theory out on. The weapon used in the drug deal shooting has never been recovered. So, there was ballistics evidence that is not a certainty in the best of circumstances, but in this situation there was even less certainty, as it was comparing used and unused casings from a weapon that couldn’t even be tested.
The prosecutor falsely argued the match was a certainty. He actually used the word ‘identical’ when comparing casings, and also stated as fact, “this was placed in the same magazine that the fired bullets were placed in, thus, fired through the same firearm.” He lied. The prosecutor simply lied to the jury.
The other ‘evidence’ the prosecutor had was the testimony of five men who were all involved in criminal activity and willing to testify and point their fingers at Charles Mamou. It was never investigated or made clear just how those men might have benefited from their testimony, although it is reasonable to assume they did benefit as they were incriminating themselves with their testimony. In addition to the very real possibility that they received personal benefit for their testimony, three of them were inconsistent and admitted lying and being untruthful with police. None of the men ever claimed they saw Charles murder Mary.
A good deal of the prosecution’s time was spent trying to paint a picture of Charles Mamou as a killer who had killed before, but the reality is – Charles Mamou was never tried for any other killing.
Charles Mamou’s defense attorney didn’t strongly defend his client, but rather seemed to flounder. At one point during the crucial ballistics testimony he stated, “not sure if I understand what that means.” In reference to magazine marks he said, “what is the word I’m looking for to describe what a magazine mark is?”
The total amount of time the defense spent ‘investigating’ Charles Mamou’s death penalty case was under ten hours. The total amount of time Mamou’s counsel spent meeting with ‘the investigator’ was 2.5 hours.
Although all of the testimony available to the defense during the sentencing phase of the trial wasn’t used, the words of those people who could have spoken describe Charles Mamou as kind, generous and respectful.
The thoughts of Claudia Milton, who knew Charles Mamou and his family, were never shared with the jury. “When Chucky was older he would often talk to my son about his problems. My son was on drugs and Chucky would try advise him to do better things with his life. I wanted my son to be more like Chucky. There was times when I went shopping and Chucky was in the grocery store, he would buy my groceries and never wanted any money back. There were many other people in town that Chucky would help buy groceries, pay rent or their electric bill. Chucky helped people.”
The defense also did not share the thoughts of Mark Benolt, who has said in an Affidavit, “To me, Chucky does not have a ‘rough bone’ in his body. I have witnessed him paying bills for friends, family members and other people in the community. Charles Jr. is a friend that everyone wishes to have once in their life.”
Oddly enough, even though all of the testimony that could have portrayed Charles Mamou in a positive light was not pursued by defense counsel, the prosecution was permitted to bring in victims of crimes Mamou was never even tried for, along with referencing these other deaths throughout the trial with misleading references to, “evidence that Mamou had killed two other people.” And in describing those deaths that Mamou has never been tried for, it was stated, “Terrence Gibson. Anthony Williams. They were brothers. They were sons. They were dads.”
Charles Mamou was never on trial for any other murders, yet victim impact statements were allowed from relatives of Terrence Gibson and Anthony Williams. Emotion filled testimony was given detailing how the loss of those men impacted their families. This was followed up by the prosecution, “And when he pulled the gun and he fired and killed Terrence and Anthony, he ripped those families apart. He devastated and destroyed. And that’s all he’s ever done, with his drugs, with his guns.”
During the penalty phase of the trial, the Judge also stated, “it’s no more different than it is when we’re raising kids. It’s just no more different. If we ever told a child not to do something once and the child does it again, we’re going to react one way. If we have told a child ten times in the last thirty minutes not to do something and they have done it for the tenth time, we’re going to react a different way.”
The U.S. Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals has denied Charles Mamou’s last appeal, and he is currently awaiting an execution date.
Regarding the denial of his final appeal and the knowledge that he will soon be executed by the state of Texas, Mamou recently expressed his frustration, “Nobody believes in me! I love me. America isn’t the land of equality. Never has been. Let’s not pretend. Let’s admit what it is. And before I take my last breath, the whole world will know they fucked me over. That will be the symbol of why I lived.”
If only we didn’t need a dead body to know that the trial of Charles Mamou wasn’t just.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
Wednesday, November 17, 1999… I found myself encircled by three huge Harris County transport deputies, all well over six feet tall, all tipping the scale over 280, and all looking like offensive lineman for a professional football team. “Strip out your clothes, lift your nut sack, spread your butt cheeks and squat!” the lead deputy bellicose barked.
“Squat? I’m not squatting. I’m a man. I’m a Mamou!” I defiantly yelled back. I then noticed the other two deputies putting on their black gloves, the way a surgical doctor places latex gloves on his hands before dealing with a patient.
“We got a live one,” another deputy spat.
“You have five seconds to take your clothes off, lift and squat as I ordered, or we send you off to your new home with a ass whoopin’ you’ll never forget.”
Back then Harris County jailers and deputies were notorious for gang jumping inmates, so much so they were called ‘The County Klan’. I once witnessed eight officers jump one frail looking black drug addict. The beating was so vicious his left eyeball popped out of its socket. I’d never seen anything like that before. Afterwards, one of the sergeants beamed with pride at their dastardly work before giving the unconscious and bloodied offender one more kick to the head. They had a license to beat anyone they chose within their jail’s walls and the numbers were always in their favor. The county jail was their castle, and they were royalty.
I grew mad – so mad my blood pressure rose, and I began to feel dizzy. I wanted to fight them all, to show them where I was from, being ‘Bout It’ was more important than any beating one could get or give. In fact, it was a dogmatic honor to go out swinging – win or lose. But I wasn’t a fool. During the 3 ½ month stay in their county jail while awaiting trial, I had stressfully lost 24 pounds. I was a sick looking stick figure, and I knew it and felt it. I was merely a doppelgänger of my old self. Taking that into consideration as the lead deputy began reaching for his nightstick, I stripped nude and squatted, bringing wry smirks to the now cherry faced deputies. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I wanted to kill a man.
Once my forced faux-striptease was concluded, I was shackled around my ankles with a long chain that led to the handcuffs around my wrists. Then an iron black box was placed over the chain that tightly connected my ankle restraints to my wrist restraints, making it impossible to walk upright. Blood began to form from cuts to my ankles brought on by every snail step I took.
One of the escorting deputies noticed the blood and asked sarcastically if the cuffs were too tight. It was a dumb ass question deserving a dumb ass response because I didn’t want them to see how vulnerable I felt. I drew on a hubris mantra for strength that reminded me of my last name every time I grew weak or was on the brink of an emotional breakdown. Why my last name? Because at that moment it was all I had. It was the only mental I.D. that kept me revisiting who I was to those that loved and cared for me.
As a kid my father’s father used to pick me up every Saturday morning to go get a haircut from the ‘brutal barber’, Mr. Plumbar. He had a reputation of using a straight razor on little boys’ heads, then slapping alcohol across the cuts he had made when he was done. Young boys feared getting a haircut from him, and older fathers and grandfathers brought their young boys to him to prove that their sons were brave.
“What’s your last name?” my grandfather would always ask before we entered the barbershop. Once I proudly told him and he was satisfied, he would say, “Mamous don’t cry! No matter what we go through, we suck it up. Understand?”
After my haircut he would always take me to get a treat in the form of ice cream or some other snack. But for the life of me, every time that alcohol hit my scalp I wanted to flee that barber’s chair as if a swarm of killer bees were attacking. But I never did. I sat and took the pain because it was embedded in me from a young age that ‘Mamous don’t cry in front of those trying to hurt us.’ So as the blood flowed and the pain in my ankles increased, I said nothing.
I was led to the back of the van. It was nothing fancy. It came equipped with a cage inside that took up the entire cargo space, reminding me of a dogcatcher’s transport vehicle. It had side windows for me to look out, helping to take my mind off the pain I was feeling and how I was chained up like a slave from the movie Roots. We hit the highway heading towards the prison that held Death Row inmates. Over the next four hours, I would notice scenes through those windows I had never noticed before – and I realized how beautiful the free world seemed when one was no longer free. To be continued…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a gifted writer living on Death Row. The issues with Mamou’s trial are more than troubling. I share details about his case often, and I’m happy to talk about the details. Many can be found on a Facebook page dedicated to his story. He can be contacted through USPS, and also via email through JPay. Please leave your mailing address if you contact him via JPay, as he cannot respond through JPay.:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
“To understand the flavor of wine, you must drink it. However, to understand its nature and the essence of wine itself, you must become a winemaker. You must grow grapes with care and attention and then you must stomp and dance upon them to press out the juice.” – David Spangler
In the Information Age more than any other time in history, the notion of ‘walking in the shoes’ of another is widely disseminated in conversation, in print, and throughout social media, while few people actually accomplish such a thing properly and many more don’t attempt to.
Why is the notion of ‘walking in the shoes’ of others so widespread, but rarely attempted?
While the internet makes the notion available, it may be impossible for a person to completely ‘walk in someone’s shoes’ – or put another way, to completely empathize and understand someone else’s experiences. It’s hard enough with family and friends, and the gap only widens between people of a different race, culture, gender, time period and class.
But, let’s try. Travel this path with me, try on these shoes.
Imagine coming home from a hard day of work, kicking off your shoes, and dropping your coat and bag at the front door. You make your way through your own home, seeking the arms of your significant other. In warm anticipation you open your bedroom door, hoping to surprise your lover. But, when it swings open you are shocked to discover them making love to a stranger in your bed.
How would you feel if you came home one day to a strangely quiet home, the children’s toys freshly scattered about the living room floor, and the television displaying a colorful picture of a Dragon Ball Z cartoon?
The scent of burning turkey diverts your attention, and when you investigate, you find an unattended kitchen. You turn off the stove and pull the burnt turkey out of the oven. Smoke clouds the air, causing you to gag. This makes you drop the pan in the sink and retreat to the bathroom for fresh air. In the bathroom you notice your lover’s jewelry laid on the counter top next to an overflowing bathtub, with the water still pouring.
In deeply seated panic and confusion, you run throughout the home in search of your family, but you find no one. You call their cell phones and only get through to voice mail. This makes you yell their names from the pit of your stomach, only to hear the echo of your own voice yell back.
Picture being trapped on the top floor of a burning fifty story building with no escape from the horrors of the hellish flames. You make your peace with dying in such a painful way, and within seconds the fire engulfs your entire being, the pain indescribable.
However, a glimmer of hope soothes your mind when you see a firefighter within reach. He raises the fire hose toward your scorching body, only for the extinguisher to spray gasoline instead of water, incinerating your soul.
Imagine twelve individuals with ice picks for fingers who decide to point blame toward you and viciously poke your body from every angle. When you try to run away, you only end up in the arms of a mob. They start to beat you senseless with lead gavels.
Once the beating is done, you lie on the cold street, paralyzed and gasping for breath while drowning in your own blood. Your last recollections are of people relishing the moments of your mortal devastation.
How would you feel if you were screaming for help, but no sound came out of your mouth? You had a knife stabbed in your back and people walked past you, not noticing you slowly die on the side walk because you were invisible.
Picture being a baby trapped in the polluted womb of a drug addicted mother who feeds you amphetamines throughout the entire pregnancy, causing you to be born addicted to a toxic substance, forcing you to lie crying, craving the milk of death.
Imagine lying in a clear, glass casket for all to view while in a church at your own funeral, then watching loved ones and haters alike, slowly exit the church after your eulogy is read. What disturbs you most is the conviction on everyone’s face that you will never be seen again.
How would you feel when placed into an open grave, in that same glass casket, still breathing. The more you beg them to stop, the more dirt is shoveled in the hole, the darker it becomes. The dust starts to dry your throat and you experience a death silence, so silent you can hear the thumps of your own heart slowly stop.
The metaphoric and symbolic language I use are my attempts to make you an emotional pair of shoes, styled as closely as possible to the ones I presently wear on my feet.
These shoes belong to an African American man who has been incarcerated for a murder he did not commit. Yes. I am innocent. My sense of pain and loss due to twenty years of this continued experience cannot be fully described.
My reality is one of injustice. I believe real love and humanity is created when we attempt to understand others. We become inspired to act and prevent injustices such as the one I suffer.
Early in this incarceration, I became bitter and hateful against those who persecuted me, but it was too consuming to hold on to. Hope, faith and love fills my heart, but I’m sharing with you a glimpse of my pain, because you would not be able to appreciate my light without knowing my darkness. Some people won’t feel my pain, but I will try again to be understood.
I’m stabbed repeatedly
By the knife of misery,
I campaigned for many years
But the world ain’t hearing me.
My soul dying from its wounds,
But ya’ll ain’t feeling me,
The very hands of time
Is right here killing me.
Softly, I’m falling down
Like a brown autumn leaf,
I reach for the warm sun
But its light I don’t see.
To find my lost seeds
Leon and Koby,
To come and hug me
Before they slug me.
I don’t care what the world thinks
As long as ya’ll love me,
With that said,
How can I ever feel lonely?
But I feel dead
Then where in the hell is my dead homies?
Its too many smiley faces
From strangers who don’t love me.
So often, I’m isolated,
Like in a coffin for days,
My thoughts get lost
In my old hood like a maze.
To see yellow rain
Fall from the ceiling is strange,
Muthafuckas out there
Pissing on my grave.
These shoes are too harsh for the average person to walk in for very long, especially when I’ve already worn the ‘soul’ out of them. I apologize for asking anyone to walk in them, nobody should have to. Help me get rid of ‘em, by throwing them on the highest telephone line and leaving them there as a symbol of shoes that no one will ever have to wear again. Imagine that…
Leon Benson #995256
PCF
4490 W. Reformatory Road
Pendleton, IN 46064
(Due to mailroom restrictions, any communication with Leon Benson is required to be written or typed on notebook lined paper. Unfortunately, he cannot receive printed correspondence.)
If you are innocent of a crime and are offered three years in prison to say that you are guilty – what do you do? In this country, you better think long and hard about the answer. Three years in a prison and a criminal record – or your life.
It’s ‘the system’. If you don’t take the time and punishment you are offered, the charges will be stacked so high, you won’t ever see the light of a free day again. Messiah Johnson, among others, has learned that. Some might say our ‘freedom’ is merely an illusion in America, and in this case, it would be hard to argue that point.
In 1998, nearly twenty years ago, Messiah was sentenced to 132 years in prison. Hearing a sentence of that length, people assume things. The first assumption is that at least one person must have been killed. That didn’t happen. Nobody was killed. As a matter of fact, no one was injured.
In 1997 a robbery took place at a salon. Messiah was offered three years to say he did it in a fairly weak case against him. Three years became 132 years without parole when he refused to take the deal.
Today, Christmas 2017, Messiah Johnson is spending in a prison cell, as he has every Christmas and every day since his 1998 sentencing. This has happened before and it will happen again. Without reform of our Criminal Justice System, people like Messiah Johnson will be harshly punished for not agreeing to what they are offered and die locked up in the most incarcerated country in the world, without anybody ever being the wiser.
As it turns out – someone other than Messiah has confessed to the robbery in the salon. Despite that, Mr. Johnson is spending another Christmas behind bars in the state of Virginia. The Innocence Project has been on this case for five years.
RESOURCES
Green, Frank. “Man Serving 132-year Sentence for 1997 Robbery under Consideration for Clemency.” Richmond Times-Dispatch. N.p., 22 Dec. 2017. Web. 25 Dec. 2017.
Burden is a thing I carry as a consequence of donning the fabric of hardship red each day. Oh, yes, hardship red is a color. It falls somewhere between credit department red and eternal brimstone red. Hardship red is the mark of cruelty and justifiable death. Its burden is the stigma that comes with those who are systemically unaware that my character is not defined by my circumstances.
Another thing that I carry is loyalty. I carry it to a fault. I believe that power is vulnerability, and that even the mightiest of men have an Achilles heel. Mine is the naiveté that everyone views loyalty the same as I.
There is a King James Version Bible that I carry, one given to me by the mother of a friend of mine in 1999. That Bible is my oldest possession and the thing I cherish most. It has been a chariot of hope and comfort throughout a taxing ordeal that can be spiritually depleting.
I carry an appreciation for social proximity and the opportunity to inspire. Evolution is not growth in isolation. Evolution is the necessity to impact one another constructively, as we are all vital building blocks to the future. It’s my fondness for proximity to others that has me strive for social compatibility. I like to think that I make friends easily, but the truth is, I’m not very good at it. The flaw is my hardened demeanor, with shoulders that are tense and eyes that are instinctively suspicious due to the hardship of another color. Proximity to others keeps me aware of my truths. It reminds me of our humanitarian duty to each other to accept people as they are. I’m reminded that it’s our very flaws which give us the strength of individuality and uniqueness.
I carry a liking for fantasy books and soap operas as a means to lose myself. Many would say that those pastimes are lame for a forty-four year old black man to enjoy, but what better alternative is there than fantasizing when my reality is so unkind.
I carry a passion for reggae music and its essentialness to the music genre. Music is a platform of global influences, and it’s the wisdom of roots and culture reggae that is the blue print for unity and world peace.
I carry the ashes of regret for the many bridges I’ve burned. My life today is a looking glass of my present self viewing my past. Maturity is about accountability and correction, yet, when the opportunity for correction is unavailable it can cause daily emotional strain.
But the thing I carry most is my undying devotion to family. I believe that blood ties alone should warrant trust and security. Dr. Martin Luther King once said, “A man who has not found something worth dying for is not fit to live.” I stand here today, on North Carolina’s death row, willing to die for family. And though the sentiment is not always mutual, still, it’s something that I will never regret.
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
I caged a bird once when I was a kid. I used a small box to build a makeshift trap, equipped with string, a branch, and bread crumbs for bait. Then I crouched down in my shadowy perch and counted off the seconds as I lay in wait, imagining the thrill of victory. Before long a small bird soared into view, landed near the hidden dungeon, and ventured inside. Unable to contain my excitement and anticipation, I yanked the string, and the box slammed shut.
I was so elated to see the trap had actually worked. I sprang towards the prize with little consideration for anything but my own sense of accomplishment. I had outsmarted the opposition and conquered it. I had won.
Initially, the commotion from within the box confirmed the prey was inside, but then everything went silent. I contemplated my next move. Where to keep the bird? What to feed it? It struck me that, more importantly, the bird needed air. So while firmly holding the box with both hands, I lifted it just slightly enough for a crack of sunlight and air to creep through. Nothing happened. I started to doubt if I’d even captured the formidable adversary or if its innate elusiveness had something to do with magic. The curiosity was killing me. I had to know.
I eased the box higher, just enough to peep inside. That’s when the bird saw its chance and made a break for it. It shimmied out the slit, hopped several times, building momentum, then took flight. I stood motionless, disappointed, as I watched my victim escape. I felt duped and deprived, as though the bird was at fault for defying me and not conforming to an outcome I had set. It had stolen the feeling of invincibility from me, and it just didn’t seem fair. I was the greater force at work. My happiness was the only thing relevant.
Today, I was caged by a bird. It sat perched atop the windowsill outside my cell here on death row. At first, I tried paying it no mind, but its looming presence was impossible to ignore. Then I tried shooing it away. Unfazed by my frivolous antics, it refused to budge, instead peering at me here in the box with, seemingly, no consideration or regard for the victim trapped within, its eye stoic, holding no empathy or remorse for the horrible conditions I suffered. I suddenly remembered a time when the roles were reversed.
The day I watched the bird escape and fly away, not once did I consider what an ordeal it must’ve been like for it, how afraid it must’ve been, being swallowed up in the darkness. The loneliness it must’ve felt. Confusion. The hurt and anger of being violated and victimized. And what of the consequences had it never returned to the nest? Would its family miss it? Would there be songs to mourn its absence? Were there young that depended on its safe return for survival?
I have known what it’s like to be the bird outside my window but not the one that I trapped in the box, until now. Today I am that bird, trapped beyond the cruel dark thresholds of North Carolina’s death row. Except here there are no cracks to breath, no slits from which to escape, and the only air to breath holds the aroma of death.
Sometimes I think it’s karma. The encounter with the bird was certainly not the only stain on my moral canvas. I would go on to do many things I regret. Other times I think maybe it was a test. That the bird was sent to metaphorically provide an escape from a gateway of terrible decisions and a path from which there was no return. Maybe the bird was never really trapped at all. Maybe it was me all along. If so, then here I wait – afraid, lonely, and confused, feeling violated and victimized, and desperately hoping for the day when a crack of sunlight will come creeping through.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. 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 me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson at any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or the two individuals who accused Robinson of murder. No detail is too small. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful.
Details of Terry Robinson’s case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/
You can cast me in the darkest pit And turn from it while seething. And erase me from this very world, But baby, I’m still breathing. Does it really make me worthless And deserving of no love? ‘Cause the strength to overcome your madness Courses through my blood. Just like town halls and chow calls Your antics are meant to weaken. Just like fish under mountains of troubled waters, Still, I’m breathing. Did you think that I would take it Now you want to unleash your wrath, ‘Cause I’m angry, black, and dysfunctional The product of your bloodbath. Do you really mean to demean My legacy to a lie? ‘Cause I take your punches in the gut While holding my head high. You can dub me a gangster, thug, or crook A hoodlum, or a heathen And strip from me everything I love But still, like wine, I’m breathing. Do you really think that I deserved The lashings on my back. ‘Cause I made it through your troubled storm With my soul still intact. Til the ashes of Mother Earth yields up the voices of my people, I’m breathing. Til the day when materialism no longer determines my equal, I’m breathing. Til chains, chairs, and chambers are no longer justices’ end and my fellow American can call me brother, regardless of my skin, I’m still breathing. When my past sins reinvent themselves as my present day regrets, I’m breathing. When the weight of the entire world is riding on my chest, I’m breathing. When reason enough for the war to be won Is just knowing that I’m somebody’s son And I’m breathing, I’m breathing, I’m still breathing.
*This poem was written as an homage to Maya Angelou’s – “Still I Rise”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. 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