I want to get out of prison. As a Christian, this desire hasn’t decreased at all – but my reasons for wanting to get out have changed, some of them, at least. Before, I just wanted to return to my old, pre-prison life. Over time, I began to pray for God to let me demonstrate my repentance, promising I would serve Him better if I were free, help those in need. Those of us in prison who identify as Christian have probably all prayed and promised some variation of that. Repeatedly. It’s been about twelve years since I last did.
And God answered me! Just not by granting my request. Rather, God first answered with a question He wanted me to contemplate, and I could sense the question like a rock in my gut. “If you won’t serve me wholeheartedly now, in a place and situation with fewer temptations and distractions, what makes you think you’ll serve me when free, when inundated with many of the same choices and temptations that condemned you to begin with?”
My initial reaction was to argue that I had changed. But had I, really? Maybe I wasn’t selling drugs or using them, but I had no trouble with fighting if the situation arose. I could also turn a blind eye to the needs of those around me. And I had this attitude that because I was in prison, I could do whatever it took to survive, to do my time. I realized I didn’t really stand for anything; rather, I was like a chameleon, adapting to my surroundings.
But in my heart, I wanted to be authentic, to be the same person God wanted me to be regardless of where I was living, regardless of being imprisoned or free. I prayed, “God, how can I possibly serve you right here, on death row?” All I heard was silence, as if my heart wasn’t quite ready for God’s response. Nevertheless, my question seemed to hover before my eyes everywhere I went.
Then, one day, God suddenly broke into my thoughts. I was in my cell working on an art project when I saw this vision of myself putting together a bag of commissary items and handing it to an elderly, less-fortunate prisoner. He had a very abrasive personality (almost nobody liked him, including me), so I didn’t want to give him anything. Further, he lived on another pod.
Attempting to set aside the man’s grumpiness and my personal dislike, I asked, “Lord, how would I even get it to him? You know the guards won’t just let me walk over there and pass it to him – it’s against the rules!” In answer, God brought another scene to mind: me walking toward my pod’s door, carrying the goodie bag. That was it.
I got the message, “Just do what I tell you to do.”
So, I headed toward my pod’s door, bag in hand. As I approached, the pneumatic door hissed open. Looking up at the control booth, I saw no guard. And coming around the corner was the very person I was to give the bag to, hobbling along with his cane. “Hey!” I exclaimed.
The old man recoiled and screamed, “Hey!” Then he eyed me warily. I quickly stepped into the hall and thrust the bag into his free hand, saying, “Uh… God wanted you to have this…” I felt weird saying it, though he seemed unfazed. In fact, he brightened.
“Okay! Thanks! I gotta see the nurse,” and he shuffled off, rattling the bag as I stepped back into my pod. I was a little stunned about how it’d all played out.
A guard appeared in the control station’s window ten feet in front of me and saw the open door. She gestured angrily, as if I’d opened the pod door. I shrugged at her and walked away, hearing the door hiss and bang shut behind me.
Now I understood. I didn’t need to know how God would accomplish his goals. To be of service is simple. I need only to maintain a humble, willing and obedient heart – and do what God tells me to do, when He tells me to do it, how He tells me to do it. Period.
Whether I’m in prison or out of it, if my heart’s in the right place, I am useful to God’s purposes.
Of course, I still want to get out of prison. Only now, getting out isn’t a precondition God must meet in my life before I’ll serve Him.
Amen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row in NC. I think that this piece, more than any other shared here, is the greatest reflection of the person I have come to know. George is an accomplished poet, writer and artist. He is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Crimson Letters and Beneath Our Numbers. More of his work can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
My father was a wild man who lived with his feet off the ground an eagle soaring on the wings of errant pride he was love on fire scorching heart beat on the move swaying to the groove of a guitar and a mended spirit a cue-pid ball gliding across the evergreen way chasing all the pretty numbers in the school yard he was brick pile wild the allure of promise jive talk over corn stalks and hawk bills in hip pockets perched on high a rooftop throne of rock tiles and sometimes regrets the king of tickled bellies shot gun shells and shattered windows of proven love crazy with that “I wish you would…” courage My daddy was cold Budweisers and ‘son, bet wiser fitted caps and waist tucked tees and greeted death with a smile on his face he was hard work potential and good old memories and 2 o’clock gatherings over hymns and hyperboles the greatest dad ever salute Wild Man Steve
“God called my daddy, Steve Robinson, home on November 6, but he left us with a lifetime of memories and three generations to carry on his name. Hug your family while they’re still here.”
Steve Harris Robinson July 27, 1948 – November 6, 2022
Terry Robinson he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com OR you can follow the writer, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson, on Facebook, all messages left there will be forwarded to him.
I find it hard to express what solitary confinement is, knowing what I explain may be totally different from another’s experience. There are situations in solitary confinement that are less harsh than other situations, where someone might have TV, an in-cell shower, better food, phone access and other means to communicate daily. Here in Texas, we don’t have shit.
I cannot begin to fathom where I would be mentally if I didn’t have the luxury of having caring family and friends to support me through this quarter-of-a-century’s incarceration. No doubt those who are committed to being in my life are the glue of stability for me, but even I know it takes me… more of me… to maintain sanity.
I’m often conflicted on whether or not to explain to my family and friends, being honest and raw, my existing conditions – if I told the nuts and bolts operations of solitary confinement, would it be mentally constructive for either of us?
Early on in my unjust prison term, not being home during traditional celebrations, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, would be an indescribable emotional pain. I used to hold myself with my own arms at night to go to sleep, craving the human comfort of another.
I’ve been stabbed by a deranged inmate while I was escorted to the shower by an officer. I’ve had roaches and insects crawling in the ‘food’ officers pass out. When I complain I am greeted with a ‘human-disconnect’ by officers who feel I should be grateful to be given anything. I’ve had to do things on my own while handcuffed behind my back, like put on my shoes or grab things to get to the shower, as if Texas DR inmates are Superhuman Inmates. I’ve had to deal with racism on all levels by officers and inmates. Yearly, we are promised additional activities to our daily existence, yet all they do is continue to take and take things from us, adding nothing. Psychological games from their playbook on how to mentally abuse us are implemented daily. In the summer time the heaters have been switched on. In the winter the A/C has been at full blast. I recall one winter putting on every piece of clothing I had, including two pairs of socks on my hands, and socks and boots on my feet.
Bad press, truthful or not, adds to the mental anxiety we go through when an appeal is denied. We have to then explain the situation to our loved ones, that we have inched closer to an execution date. It’s like being resurrected, only to be killed all over again.
Redundancy is a constant, and too much can be the asphalt one walks on into the realm of insanity. For me, doing the same thing as a way of programming myself to stay busy is a necessity, not a madness. But I still must be creative. I have a make-shift basketball goal that is nothing more than a small brown bag with its bottom cut out and taped to the top of the cell’s door. I then construct a faux-basketball out of a sheet of paper that I crumple up in a ball, then wet it, and leave it to dry for a day until it is hard. I then get encased in my own personal metaverse where I am a college star adored by screaming fans, or I will imitate NBA athletes who play games on their way to a championship. I can get lost in this act for hours, hours that I am not mentally aware of my cell’s surroundings. The draconian reality is absent for a while.
I suppose the most brutal and chaotic experience in solitary confinement on Texas Death Row is finding yourself sitting. Watching the walls. Pacing the floor back and forth, five steps forward, four steps back – for hours, unaware of time, as one tends to converse with themselves, trying to rationalize the isolation, worries and stress. People advise me not to worry, “Worrying will only lead to stress, which you do not need.”
What they don’t realize is that isolation is the creator of worry and stress. How can it not be? It’s unavoidable. You realize that – there’s no one to call. No one to share a laugh or tear with. No one who can understand what, for me, is understood.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a long-time WITS writer, so I couldn’t be happier to say he came in third place in our most recent writing contest regarding solitary confinement. But there is more to his story.
Charles Mamou, Texas Death Row
Charles Mamou and his case inspired me, personally, to go back to school, become a private investigator and also pursue a degree in social work. What I learned from Charles Mamou, and what is abundantly clear and documented in his case – is that people can be sent to death row in cases where the prosecution does not share all of the relevant and available evidence with the defense.
For example, among a number of questionable actions taken in Mamou’s case, the prosecution was aware physical evidence was collected from the victim and the prosecution not only knew this, but had the evidence processed. Mamou had no idea that physical evidence existed and exists – until it was recently discovered. He should have been told that a quarter century ago. There are other issues as well. Phone records that were not shared with him. Those records contradict the testimony of key prosecution witnesses. Yet, Charles Mamou is waiting to be executed and out of appeals. You can read more about Mamou’s case and sign a letter requesting an investigation – please add your name to his petition.
Charles Mamou can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
Note: This is fourth in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
February 3, 2015 (Tuesday, 11:14 pm)
I’m praying, God. I heard it said that you know our hearts. Don’t do me like everybody else has done.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Over the 22 years I’ve been on Death Row, the days have become progressively more difficult. The physical toll it exacts is unabating; the mental toll, too strenuous to bare. Incarceration is like starting off every morning at the bottom and laboriously scaling up the ladder to morale. Nobody wakes up in prison feeling good about themselves, and feeling worthy comes with effort. For many, being incarcerated will be our greatest challenge in life, shaping us in the best or worst way. It’s adversity come to declare war on our peace of mind and the price of defeat is our mental wellness. It should come as no surprise, the drawbacks of this system that devalues human rights, which is why it takes a special kind of resilience to get through the day.
Over the years, I have relied on several mechanics to stave off the despondence of daily restrictions. I’ve put in long hours at the poker table. I’ve watched enough TV to go blind. I’ve swapped war stories, read tons of books, and even meditated to fill the void. I’ve sang and written and turned to prayer when singing and writing didn’t work. But the one thing that has been a constant relief for me is dance. Yep, you read that right… dance. Dancing has gotten me through the toughest moments, not just on Death Row but throughout my life.
I came up in a time when family and friends frequently expressed their love for one another through dance. Drunks slow grinding. Church folks stomping. And those non-dancing head boppers who just couldn’t help themselves. I started dancing myself when I was around four, merely twisting and shaking to the music while the grown-ups chuckled and pitched me coins, showering me with a feeling of acceptance. By thirteen, I was plagued with insecurities and too ashamed to dance. I envied the other teens during Friday night dance battles at the community center as they performed, seemingly without fear or reservations. Envy gave way to passion, and I began practicing dance in private, choreographing routines with the help of my kid sister. Then one day I danced before a crowd, and all my insecurities slipped away. I knew right then I would never stop dancing again.
I didn’t set out in life to be a great dancer, just one who wasn’t ashamed. It didn’t seem right to quit doing something I loved for the sake of others’ opinions. Too often we buy into the narrative of dance with words like rhythm, grace, and beauty. Yet we lose sight of the most important attribute of dance – its potential for healing. I dance whenever the C/O’s piss me off. I dance when I’m locked in the cell. I dance to prevent shit talking inmates from provoking me to fight. I dance around the dayroom, the rec yard and throughout the hallways – wherever I’m in the mood; and what’s validating is when the other inmates not only encourage me – but are themselves inspired to dance.
Dancing isn’t meant to be taken too seriously, unless you’re a serious dancer. It’s okay to clown around if it helps us to feel better about ourselves. I, myself, am a fan of crumping, a dance style that consists of hard-hitting, chest popping versatility, except I’m forty-eight with bad knees, self-taught, and mediocre at best. But do I let that stop me from reaching my happy place… hell no. I man up and go for mine. And when the dance ends and the euphoria fades away, I find that prison is a little more bearable.
Dance doesn’t belong to the rhythmic and the graceful – it’s a force that’s driven by emotions, the therapeutic resolve of our inner conflict when words otherwise fail. Dance has been not only a confidence builder for me, but also my source of inspiration allowing me the spontaneity to express myself in a place where emotional expression is generally discouraged. It is a spiritual catalyst that transcends incarceration and brings me closer to peace of mind, therefore I dance to get through the days in prison because dancing sets me free.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Note: This is third in a series. I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
September 2, 2014 (Tuesday, 7:46 pm)
Man, what a wonderful day – not necessarily for me and especially not for all hating-ass envious dudes who don’t wanna see nobody get ahead, but for Big Hen and the McCollum family. Dude went home today – wow, man, how great is that. I was speechless when I saw the news, but happy nonetheless. I guess it does pay to have hope. I lost my hope a long time ago and didn’t even know it. I held on for as long as I could, then I just stopped believing in justice. I’ve gotta get my hope back – sometimes things do get better.
My man, Big Hen. Good luck out there bruh, and I’m gonna miss you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
routinely waking up at 4 a.m. while the prison sleeps. it’s as if the concrete softens when foamed in silence.
filling my clear plastic tumbler with scalding water, scooping in dusty coffee, then watching it bloom through the water. like the emotion i feel when my girlfriend laughs at my jokes.
when my buddy Kenny (whose dementia makes him unsteady as hell) suddenly buckled at the knee, i caught him just inches off the floor. in front of witnesses.
when I called my elderly mother, i honestly thought my sister had answered – so strong, steady, and wrinkle-free, her voice.
the perfectly shaped handprints on the floor of Cliff’s cell. he’s ratcheted out so many push-ups in the same spot, his palmsweat has blackstained the gray cement.
remembering how respect washed across our prison chaplain’s face her first day, when she borrowed my Bible to locate a verse and discovered my underlines, highlights, and notes covering every single page.
when I saw white dust all over the navy blue apron draped across my chest during my haircut, i thought it was baby powder, not gray hair.
i am still grateful for the tingly feeling in my belly that signals a great poem idea, though it also means i need to shit.
i love how loopy time is. despite having been in prison seventeen years, freedom feels fresh as yesterday. at the same time it feels like prison is all i’ve ever known.
the euphoria triggered by late-afternoon light. it has a mystical, dreamlike quality. rocks spew water and walls crumble at a word in light like this. it reminds me: anything is possible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer, co-author of Crimson Letters, and author of his very own, recently published Interface. I love to hear from him. He has a unique style, all his own. The above poem was compiled from excerpts from his gratitude journal. As he puts it, he “wanted to look for things I loved about everyday life.” As always – I love it when George sends his writing our way. To read more of his work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
My life was over. I could tell from the looks on their faces. No more was I Duck, Dreadz or EyeGod – brother or son. When I stepped into the courtroom, I was nothing. Blank, a clean slate, yet covered in the dirt of my past, so much so that the me I knew disappeared under the grime. And now I was just a stage show, a star villain in a real-life tragedy that left a man dead and others calling for my execution. There was no going back after that. It was as sure as that prickly feeling nagging me for the first time ever – whether good or bad – my old life was gone.
I was dressed in a flannel button-up and beige dockies – the first clothes I’d worn in eleven months besides jailhouse jumpsuits and prison browns. I was supposed to look civilized, already mitigating before the judgment began. My black and white Airforce sneakers and outfit didn’t match, but neither did the stories match that were told about me, so my clashing wardrobe was keeping with the theme. Still, I wanted to explain away my uncoordinated attire and tell the jury that I had better clothes to die in, but silence was the etiquette when trying to elicit sympathy. So, I didn’t speak. I didn’t tell them that they had the wrong man. I hoped my sober face, mismatched clothes and nappy Afro said it all – I didn’t kill John Rushton.
I was escorted by a sheriff who held my elbow in a grip that was bolt-resistant. I didn’t blame him for thinking I would run. I’d done so twice before. Seated at the table were my defense attorneys, looking busy as they shuffled through a mess of papers, cutthroat attorneys whose aim was all wrong since they kept trying their tactics on me.
“One juror is your mother’s coworker? …that could work in our favor.” “Oh, you weren’t supposed to pass the IQ test,” and, “Have a look at the victim’s body and tell me… does it make you wanna sign a plea?”
They were persistent at trying to invoke a sense of guilt and responsibility in me – now if they could just be as committed to defending me. My eyes swept over the room in search of my mother. I didn’t want to lose her face in the crowd. I was comforted by thoughts of my mother during those cold dark nights in solitary confinement when I took myself to trial. I found her amongst the section of the pews reserved for those in sorrow, the woman who nursed me when I had a cold or scraped my knee was now watching a capital boo-boo unfold that her Band-Aids couldn’t fix. Her face looked unendurably strained, like commercial glass pelted by a storm’s debris. A face that had long ago shattered, but one she put back together for my sake. She was trying to be strong for me. But who was going to be strong for her? I picked my head up and acted like it all meant nothing.
The jurors were seated side-by-side in a wooden box, their arms and legs shielded from view allowing them to fidget anxiously in private. I was told that they were a panel of my peers, but I’d never seen any of them on the corner selling dope, so to me they were strangers, there to judge my life without repercussions to their conscience. They were decent-looking folks who all claimed to be Christians but said they could come back with a penalty of death. I figured they were reading from the Bible with a typo that read, “Thou shalt not kill, unless…” They appeared like the heads of a mythical creature, inhabiting their wooden box as they waited to lay waste with their pens and perspective. I made the mistake of looking over at them and many glared back, but only one of us turned to stone.
The door swung open and in walked the judge with a blond comb-over hardened with gel. He was a small man sporting a giant personality, his shoulders raised and eyes steady as he flowed across the room draped in black, a good place under which to hide his personality. He took to the stand and seized hold of his gavel, the same one from the day before when he struck down my attorney’s motions. I sucked in a deep breath of air and held it there bracing myself for the impact.
The judge spoke fancy gibberish that made some eyes narrow with wonder, lawyer talk for ‘now’s the time to tell me what this boy has done’. The prosecutor lead off by saying he could prove I carried out the murder. I was immediately concerned, more than I already was – his accusation sounded like a fact. Mild mannered and with an affinity for neatness, he straightened his tie and said he would ask the jury to kill me. I could tell they were thinking about it – they hardly looked my way again.
My attorneys continued their paper shuffling while pitching whispers at one another. Every so often they gave me a reassuring grin – somewhere in those papers was proof of my innocence. They, in turn, gave a compelling opening argument to rival the prosecution, and for a moment I was proud to have such prestigious white men speak adamantly on my behalf. The judge banged his gavel signaling the end of the preliminary warmups as the real fight was about to begin.
The prosecution called on several law enforcement officers to take the stand, each laying out the credibility of his case. It was a professional exchange that grew more intense the longer the inquiry lasted. For the most part I was able to follow along, but I kept getting tripped up in the terminology so I paid attention only when they mentioned my name. By the time it was over, my word was already shot. These were men and women with guns and integrity for the law, and all I had was a story full of holes.
During the cross-examination, my attorneys recovered, though they didn’t fill in any holes but rather created some of their own by asking questions that warranted answers scientifically in my favor. But I didn’t care much about the DNA, as I knew it wouldn’t point to me. I was waiting on the testimony of the two people I knew – Jed and Udy.
Udy was a neighbor whom I’d known since we were kids. We were in-laws since we were born. He was an impressionable teen with a propensity for trouble – but hell, so was I. I’d been to prison twice before and talked with Udy about what it was like. I tried to steer him on a different path because he was like a brother to me. I’d made whole-hearted attempts on several occasions to keep him out of prison, so it was not only shocking for him to say I encouraged him to do a robbery – it was insulting.
Jed was a different matter – he was trouble personified yet a charmer masquerading as civil. He was a master manipulator which didn’t bother me before because we were blood relatives, and I looked up to him. But now he was claiming I confessed murder to him and that he reported me because it was the right thing to do. Bullshit! Jed was up to something, and I needed to look into his eyes to figure out what.
Udy took the stand wearing a dress shirt and tie with a fresh buzz cut and a youthful face, the kind of look that made it hard to discredit him. He testified to the same story he’d made previously in a statement to the police, except now the details were extensive. He sounded so believable that I wanted to puke. His lies were so sickening that they made me regret our friendship, yet strangely enough my anger wouldn’t keep me from feeling sorry for him.
Then Jed, who was kept sequestered to preserve his grand entrance, burst through the door, all mad and determined. Part of me was hoping that, as family, he would be bound by a code of ethics to tell the truth. But swearing on the Bible was like swearing on a matchbook to Jed because his story was even crazier than Udy’s. It was all the same I guessed to a Christian jury who believed God would support their vote for death. He gave such a heartfelt testimony of how much it hurt him to have to turn his cousin in, claiming he did it because it was the right thing to do. It was then his motives became obviously clear. Jed had no allegiance to any higher power – his God was self-preservation.
I could hardly wait to take the stand on my own behalf and tell the jury what really happened. There were corroborating witnesses to vouch for my whereabouts – I was off selling drugs that night. I didn’t own a gun. I wasn’t hard up for cash. I didn’t make any robbery plans. I’ve never killed anyone in my life, and I certainly didn’t confess to doing so. Still, the jury would want to know why my cousin and friend said I did those things, and for that – I had no answers. But the burden of proof wasn’t on me, right? Right?
Turns out, I wouldn’t get the chance to testify. At the last minute my attorneys advised me not to, assuring me that putting on evidence would ruin any chance of a favorable verdict. “The DA has the burden of proof. You heard them, Terry – they didn’t prove a thing. If we start throwing crackheads on the stand, it’s gonna look like we’re grasping for straws and they’ll find you guilty for sure. Besides, our putting on evidence would mean we’d have closing arguments first, and I want to argue last.”
I didn’t give a damn about straws and arguing strategies. I wanted to fight for my life. But I also couldn’t afford to piss off the only two men assigned to defend me and I was unfit to deal with their tantrums, so I stood up in open court and waived my right to present evidence. It felt like I killed myself. It took the jury a few hours to decide that any man who won’t confront his accusers is likely guilty. As they read the verdict I fiddled with the fabric of my clothes, so I wouldn’t forget what it was like to be me.
The rest of the trial was a haze of legal formalities that grew limbs and sprouted into the death penalty. While all the mitigating, paper shuffling and scrounging was going on, I was still trying to figure out how I got there. A man was dead. I was accused. I didn’t say shit to the jury – and just like that, my life was over. The numbness softened the blow, the sentence not affecting me like I thought it would – that’s what happens when you judge a stone. I was afraid that at the mention of the word ‘death sentence’, I would keel over and die. Nope. They were saving me for the lethal injection. I wondered about the jurors, when their lives were done and their day of judgment came, what would they do when they learned that they were wrong?
As I headed to Death Row in a prison van, my wrists and ankles bound by a chain, I took in the sights around my hometown for the last time. I cried not because I’d lost my life to injustice. I cried because they took my name.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row.
He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Note: This year, I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they went through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
July 9, 2014 (Wednesday, 1:05 p.m.)
Aw, man – I just got to meet Mr. Eugene Brown. What an experience. I’ve talked about the movie, ‘Life Of A King’, so much, and now I’ve met the man that inspired the movie. I was really surprised by his aura of normality – I was expecting much different. Now I realize it was his normalcy that gave such realness to his words. Dude is truly a powerful man, and I think his philosophy can potentially change the world. I am a King, and I do control the pieces of my life… definitely. I’ve gotta start making better decisions for myself if I want to finish with a strong and relevant end game. It was cool that Mr. Brown came out to see us – I’ll carry the things he said to us forever. A true blessing to have experienced that today. I wish I could talk to my brother right now, I would pay it forward. We are all our own Kings. Wow – what a day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. I have asked Terry to share some of his journal entries with us.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
A lot has changed since I first arrived on Texas’ nefarious death row. I’ve met a lot of guys over the years, and many seem like decent men. They even gave me a nickname – Louisiana. The name was more about keeping the peace than seeking a new identity. Texas folks, inmates and officers, have a difficult time pronouncing my last name, which was irritating me ‘cause I assumed they were doing it out of ignorance and not because they couldn’t pronounce a name they had never heard before.
Some tried to say it like ’ma’am’ followed by ‘ooouuu’ or other variations. Then there was one redneck officer who called me ‘Moe-Moe’. I ignored him and wouldn’t answer. The convict population within Texas’ death row saw this would become a future altercation, so they simply agreed to call me Louisiana since that’s the state I was from. I settled with it.
I wasn’t the only guy with a nickname. Everyone seemed to have one. There was a Spanish guy named Casper (the ghost). There was a guy named Soultrain. There was a Youngblood and other names like, Freaky Frank, Oso Bear, Juke-box, Icy Red, Cash, B-Down, South Park, Third Ward, Sunshine (which he quickly changed to Youngsta), and on and on the list went. There was even a Ms. Good Pussy. And then there was Mookie.
I was still fighting off depression at the time, though I had become a little more optimistic. My mother had written me a powerful, religion-laced letter, and though I didn’t follow her instructions for praying to Mother Mary, Saint Peter, Saint Paul or any of the other Catholic saintly crew, I did however reread the line she wrote saying, “Talked to the lawyers today, and they told me in five years the system will correct the mistake they made and bring you back home…”
Five years? Granted, I didn’t want to hear that, at the time it seemed like a life sentence, but it did give me something to focus on. I mean, that was still 1,725 days away, but at least I had a benchmark to look to. That’s what I needed to keep hope alive.
I was allowed to go to group recreation which was a huge stress reliever. Just to be able to play basketball with other guys, bodies banging against other bodies, having locker room talk about ex-lovers. We were able to watch TV, Family Matters or ESPN, or play chess or dominoes at the tables back then. Camaraderie. I miss it.
The first day I was allowed to join the others in group recreation, I was the last one to be escorted out. I immediately went through the process of matching guys with voices I had heard from my cell. Okay, that’s Casper. That’s J-Dubb. On and on it went. Guys came up to me and introduced themselves, but there was one guy that stood out. He was standing alone, arms folded, wrapped around himself. He was dark and handsome and stood a little over six foot tall. ‘That’s gotta be Mookie’, I thought. Everything I had assumed about him was wrong. I introduced myself, and our first meeting was very brief.
Days later I read about him in the newspaper. He had an upcoming execution date. Impregnated with the declaration my mother once made about my future, “Chucky will be a preacher one day,” I felt as if I was a shepherd and needed to tell my flock to follow me. I wrote Mookie a brief note, telling him to renounce his sin so he could enter the Kingdom of Heaven. You never know what kind of response you will get when you try to force your ideologies upon another, but I felt I had a duty to save this man’s soul.
He accepted my note, read it and told me he would get back with me later. Since his execution date was days away, he was allowed to spend commissary money on anything he wanted. He chose to buy everyone a pint of ice cream, which we all enjoyed and appreciated. Then he wrote me back, four pages, on yellow stationary. His handwriting was neat and artistic. He told me a parable.
The story was about a father and son. The son was asked to carry a pot full of water to a nearby town. What the boy didn’t know was that there was a hole in the pot, and by the time he arrived at his destination, all the water was lost. The boy was distraught, thinking he had let his father down, but his father told him not to blame himself. The two rewalked the path, and to the son’s amazement his father pointed out the beautiful flowers that grew along the side of the road where the water had been ‘wasted’.
Mookie went on to explain the story’s meaning. He taught me that I was in no position to judge any other, for I was not God. He taught me that every creation has its flaws, we all make mistakes. Some get public attention. Some don’t. Some people get caught. Some don’t. None of us are any better than the next. Mookie humbled me. He was executed/murdered days later.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a long-time writer for WITS. He has also been the subject of WITS’ in depth look at how cases are sometimes mishandled.
Over the years, we have shared here how evidence was clearly kept from the defense in a death penalty case, information was manipulated and truth put on the back burner. For example, among a number of questionable actions taken in Mamou’s case, the prosecution was aware that physical evidence was collected from the victim and not only knew, but had the evidence processed. Mamou had no idea that physical evidence existed and exists – until it was recently located by an advocate. Yet, Charles Mamou is waiting to be executed and out of appeals. If you or I were to have knowledge of physical evidence and have it tested, not sharing that information with the opposing party, that would be an issue for the Courts. Why is this not an issue? You can read more about Mamou’s case and sign a letter requesting an investigation – please add your name to his petition.
Charles Mamou can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
