emerging from an ink-filled womb – that’s how it feels: the visitation
room is a quarter mile from death row down steep half-dark corridors
except the last chamber-locked hallway whose walls consist of frosted plexiglas panels
ablaze with light from outside. as if protesting my arrival, the last pneumatic
sallyport door shrieks and the guards and i flinch
and stumble down the hall. blinking rapidly i wonder,
as dazzled as they are, whether my eyes will be able to hold yours.
II. churning
my heart feels like my eyes, hot and bloodshot with nerves and excitement. it’s been a long time
since I’ve been anything more than a foggy thought or disembodied voice
on the phone to those i love. i marvel at my callused hands, how blurry they are speed-shuffling cards i smuggled into the booth.
Kat, there’s so much i want to show you! (like the symbol i designed by combining the marks beside our signatures: your paw print, my peace sign)
but first i need you to see me perform a magic trick to reconcile the illusive conflict
between Fate and Free Will: how it’s possible that privilege and poverty marked us early enough to make our past lives
and the paths we chose from there seem almost completely other to each other – yet both our souls
and hearts in recent months sensed the irresistible power of agapé and poetry seeming to churn and turn
the very earth and stars beneath our feet, to bring us here, as kindreds.
III. luminosity
and there you are, pushing the door shut behind you, smiling prettily in anticipation. we greet each other from feet away. you take your seat and frown
at the plexiglas between us, the bars, squinting and muttering something like, “It’s a little hard to see your face – the light coming in behind me
is making me see my own reflection.” having been down here before, this hindrance isn’t new to me, but to hear your frustration, to witness your shifting and determination, the poet
in me thinks, you are the perfect embodiment of empathy, the effort it takes to see past ourselves to an other. the moment your gaze clicks into mine
i feel my blood thrum and body harden into a real human being. “There you are!” you say, sounding so delighted to see me, i struggle not to cry.
IV. luminaries
i think, fuck my trick for a minute as we start sharing skin and ink. i unbutton this red jumpsuit, slip it to my waist. i remove my shirt to show you LOVE NEVER FAILS tattooed in sturdy letters across my chest. you lift up your shirt sleeve to show me the plump sugar skull on your upper arm. we compare sprinkles of moles that appear in similar spots on our bodies: forehead, cheek, neck, collarbone, so close to the glass our breath smokes against it. by the time i remember the cards there’s no real need for tricks or explanations, and it feels irreverent to use magic to describe the miraculous – that we met; that you drove for hours to spend minutes with me in a suffocating prison visitation booth; that throaty laugh – how when we speak it feels like freedom in my mouth, how with you i feel i’m home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer with a unique style and a solid commitment to his craft. I know when I see a submission from George, I am in for a treat, and I am grateful to be able to share his work. He is consistent, he is original, he is thought-provoking. He is only an occasional contributor to WITS because he is working on his own book projects, and he is also a co-author of Crimson Letters. To enjoy more of George’s work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
Writing this letter is harder than I thought, but for you – it is worth trying. I’ve never known anyone to write a dog before. Maybe that’s because no dog has ever meant so much to someone. It’s crazy to think where we both ended up – you buried somewhere in an unmarked grave and me worse off than dead. That’s what Death Row is, Bear – a place between life and death. It’s where people are deliberately kept alive long enough to anguish over the fear of being executed, tormented until all peace of mind is used up. Only then are we ripe for slaughter. How I got here on Death Row is too long a story and too depressing for the details – but, do you remember the guy next door whom I was cool with? …turns out he wasn’t so cool. I may never know why, but he accused me of taking another man’s life during a robbery. Can you believe that? That’s why I couldn’t get home.
Anyway, getting back to the purpose of this letter. Bear, I had a dream about you just now. Hold on! Before you start bouncing around with those lofty cartwheels of yours, you should know it wasn’t a good dream. In fact, it was probably the saddest thing I’ve ever dreamt, even though part of me wishes I could’ve stayed under. I woke feeling unfulfilled, like when waiting your whole life for something to happen, then realizing five seconds too late that it’s gone. But I believe the dream was necessary, it put things in perspective. I now realize that in life, I left a lot of people behind.
So, the dream – it started out with me finally being released from Death Row. I was given some clothes and a severance package, but when I got outside, no one was at the gate. No family. No friends. No news cameras covering the story. It was as though any relevance I had owned had succumbed to my absence, and the world had moved on without me. I headed home, but when I got there, it wasn’t the same house I remembered. The place was trashy and run-down with neglect, nothing left of the garden but wilted stems. The barn where we held so many of our family outings was now a crumbling derelict, trying to weather the times. All the holiday memories we made in that barn, and now it was no more than a safety hazard. Then I noticed a strange-looking structure. It looked like an igloo made of wood. And who do I see hobbling out from this dog house… yep. Bear – it was you.
You looked so mangy, worn-out and pitiful. Your eyes drooped with the age of years past. You looked like a dog that had been to hell and back with one foot still on the other side. The chain around your neck whined and creaked with the rust of twenty years. Your semblance, I hardly recognized. Then you looked at me and wagged your tail, and something in it spoke of you. I wouldn’t have guessed that any feeling could amount to walking off Death Row after twenty years, but seeing you was an unspeakable joy. And to think you’d waited for me all that time. The gratefulness brought me to my knees. You then bound into my arms with your incessant tongue laps and tail thrashing. No homecoming reception was ever more welcoming.
I was struck with the fact that you had been tethered on a chain for more than two decades. Blame set in on me like a scolding tongue for my leaving you to suffer so. Then I remembered… we never kept you on a chain. My eyes stung with the indecency. It seemed you were also unjustly serving time. I stormed off towards the house, ready to spit fire at the new tenants and demand the key to let my dog loose, but when I burst through the door, spraying glass shards and splinters, I unintentionally shattered the dream.
There is no ache like waking up to the longing of a friend who has never let me down. I kept trying to get back to sleep to rescue you and discovered that the most meaningful things in life are the most elusive. So, you see – it wasn’t a good dream at all, except for the joy of seeing you again. It made me realize what my sudden absence must’ve been like for you, how you must’ve felt abandoned by me.
Did you know the first time I saw you waiting inside the fence, I was reluctant and afraid. I was just dropped off by a parole officer, fresh out of prison that day. I wasn’t aware we even had a dog. I guess my fears stemmed from learning of the era when White supremacists set upon Black people with their dogs. I mistook your panting, pouncing, and acting so unafraid of me as a clear sign of your aggression. But then you settled down and let me pet you, and I realized that all you wanted to do was play. My first impression of you was so unfair. Maybe that is the real source of my guilt.
Needless to say, I was wrong about you, Bear. You just didn’t have it in you to hurt anyone. Well – there was that time when you snagged ahold the pants of that sheriff, but hell, you were only trying to get him off top of me. I remember thinking, ‘this crazy dog gonna get hisself killed’. Nobody had ever risked their life for me like that. I was so freaking proud of you.
I guess I should talk a little more about whatever since this will probably be the last time. It’s not really considered normal behavior for people to write to their deceased pets. I don’t mind coming off as weird; that’s just another word for unique, and sometimes it’s the most abnormal approach that is the only path to closure.
Often enough, there are times when I felt that you were the only one I could talk to, when I could do without anyone’s judgment or advice – I just needed somebody to listen. So many late nights I came home with my pockets heavy from all the dirt I’d done and my conscience weighing on my shoulders. I thought I had to wrong people to survive in the streets, when really I was just trying to be seen. My coming home to you was the only time when I felt normal. With you I could be my ugly self. I would unload all the day’s baggage at the doorstep while you lay curled at my feet, listening as my silent resolve. Bear – I can’t tell you how much having your ear meant to me. Hell, I’ve told you shit I ain’t told no one else. And on those rare nights when I didn’t drop by to unlatch your kennel and chat… well, on those nights my shame was a bit too heavy.
I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back to you, Bear, in both the dream and reality. I just didn’t know that my doing so much dirt would get other people’s dirt on me. I know you waited for me, and that must’ve sucked – wondering why all the late night walks around the neighborhood ended without reason, why all our fun just stopped. I want you to know that it wasn’t because I abandoned you, Bear – not intentionally. No. I didn’t come back because I, myself, am tethered by a red jumpsuit and Death Row has a really short reach. I keep on seeing that chain around your neck. I hope that wherever you are – somebody there will take it off. If not, I don’t know how the spirit world works, but I promise to take care of it when I get there.
So long, old friend, and thanks for all the times when your company gave me solace. There is no loyalty like a dog’s love. And, yep… I learned that from you.
Always, your trusted friend and spirit brother,
Chanton
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. On our Facebook page, we regularly share stories of wrongful convictions, they are real, frequent, and Terry has been living one for over two decades.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
“What does it feel like to be innocent on Death Row?”
My answer?
“A setback for mankind.”
I was born in the ‘70s to black parents in black times in a world that was gray at best. My earliest lessons on guilt were not determined by wrongdoings, but by the color of one’s skin. I saw the guilty as they were dipped in tar and strung up for public viewing, or set upon for sitting down to eat. Guilt then becomes a psychological impression on the minds of black communities; a sense of guilt that is the origin of the criminal mind – a reflection of how we feel. Guilt is the cultural identity that leaves behind a trail of regrets, so I am dissociated with feeling innocent in a country that charges people guilty for having black skin.
I was convicted of the murder of a restaurant manager in April, 2000, and sentenced to die by a consenting jury by way of lethal injection. Arriving on Death Row, I conceded two things – my innocence was insignificant and justice grotesquely one-sided. I decided that neither guilt nor innocence had brought me there – it was powerlessness. I was powerless to take charge of my life and break the cycle of recidivism. I was put on the path to prison at the age of seven, the time I first stole, my impropriety promising to progress over time. By the age of twenty-seven, I was the product of circumstances and my road ended here, yet despite all my wrongdoings, still I did not deserve to be on Death Row.
I avoided eye contact with men, sparse with my words, afraid that my difference would show and the rapists, brutes and murderers would figure out I was not. There was no introduction guide to Death Row, but if there was, I imagined it would’ve read,
Innocence does not thrive here, your hope is your despair.
For the first year, I uttered not a word about innocence, though the subject was one of recurrence, casually hinted at by some in conversations, while others were more straightforward. I wondered if my own innocence sounded as disingenuous as theirs when spoken aloud. The improbability of their innocence caused me to dismiss their claims as prison colloquialism.
Over time, I learned to shelve my innocence while emulating the hardened killers. I was wary and distrusting, argumentative, and constantly on the lookout for a fight. At night, sometimes, my mind broke free, much to my dismay. I never knew fantasizing could hurt so bad. I envisioned life as a working-class citizen, doing stringent work that was wearisome but decent, with a pension as opposed to a penalty. Other times, I grasped at the wilting memories of family and friends as their influence crumbled under their hefty absence, and their faces yielded to time.
Then came the biggest news… a Death Row man was freed from here after being awarded a new trial. I was skeptical, challenged his innocence, as he was someone I previously dismissed. Still the question lingered… what if he was innocent? And what if there were others? These men I’d subjected to my silent criticism, fostered by widespread belief. Unable to relate due to their menacing aura, my innocence was too fragile to trust, so I rejected them based solely on my preconceived notion. It was the very same rejection I feared. I wanted to be happy for a guy whose stay on Death Row was at its end, but with my errant dismissal of him and my own self interest, I was too ashamed.
As the years rolled by, cases were amended and death sentences overturned – mental retardation and the prohibiting of minors were enactments that saved lives. In some few cases, the men were exonerated on the likelihood of innocence, an unsettling error revealing that behind the virtue of our courts was depravity. There was a time when I presumed our judicial system stood on the right side of public service, but with the growing number of death sentences vacated, an alarming truth emerged. Wrongful convictions were not the result of legal mishaps – but a setback in the evolution of justice. It was a systemic trade-off, conviction rates in return for support at the ballots. On the verge of understanding how my injustice came to be, I was nowhere close to help, as I struggled to wish well those men who departed… their hope was my despair.
Every day I longed for my freedom until all my hope was spent, and I was left with nothing more than a stale existence. With each reversal, I felt sorely abandoned by the securities of the laws. I pondered the plausibility of my injustice and came away rejecting myself. I used recreational drugs, obscenities and conflict to propel my downward spiral. I severed outside connections, quit my aspirations and rigorously questioned my faith. It seemed my road didn’t stop on Death Row, but I was headed to a place much darker, and no matter how far my mind drifted from my mad reality, the executions pulled me back.
On those nights I ached helplessly as the clock wound down on the lives of men tethered to a gurney. I wondered if they winced at the needle’s prick like I did as a kid at the clinic, or closed their eyes in defiance to die alone. Done with feeling helpless, I put their deaths out of my mind and tried to remain unaffected by the executions until a death date arrived for a friend of mine… and my helplessness turned to surrender.
It was thirteen years later before I gained some clarity into the disorder taking place in my life. It began with written essays that chronicled my past offenses, offenses unrelated to my stay here, restoring in me a sense of worth. Accountability for my previous wrongs – saved my life. Without it, I would’ve given up. With the many death sentences being vacated, I couldn’t wait one more turn, and through accountability, I discovered there was redemption behind these walls, the potential to reinvent the principles of humanity – and the most promising yet was the willingness of these men to die with more dignity than that with which they lived.
So, what is it like to be innocent on Death Row is best answered by the word ‘unrest’. It is a constant grinding of the mind in an effort to determine how we tolerate such criminal indecency. My being wrongfully convicted is a laborious affliction under the stigmatic strain of disbelief – a strain that offered one resolve for me, complacency for my accusers. It’s lonely being innocent with no one to talk to about the certainty of my innocence. And frightening. Only Ichabod Crane, a character from my childhood, terrified me so. Often enough, being innocent feels pointless after 21 years of punishment, when death is no longer a menacing possibility but a welcome alternative.
Being innocent on Death Row is soulfully depressing, granting little peace of mind. It is my fight to hold on to the hope I deserve, when the culpability isn’t mine to bear. My innocence is no more relevant than the next man’s guilt when the ink on our status reads the same – and yet, what does it matter, guilt or innocence, in a nation such as our own, where both are punishable by death.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. On our Facebook page, we regularly share stories of wrongful convictions, they are real, frequent, and Terry has been living one for over two decades.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Note: This year, I’ve asked Terry Robinson to share entries from his journal. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they went through. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. That’s it. This is the first in this series.These entries are not edited, but shared in their original format.
February 5, 2014 (Wednesday, 12:43 a.m.)
Sitting here on my bed staring off into nothingness as so many thoughts fill my head about where I am and why I am here. Does it even matter whether I’m innocent or not? Am I destined to die here regardless? Sometimes I wish they would just get it over with. The heartache and pain from missing my family is unbearable – death has to be better than this. Then I think… does this make me suicidal to prefer death over agony? To know sadness day in and day out for more than fifteen years is a recipe for insanity. Constantly engulfed in darkness. Always alone, even when others are present. Avoiding my reflection in the mirror each morning as I am afraid to face myself and the reality that is my life, or so my death. I may never get to hug my mother again or go fishing with my father. To many others that knew me, I am long forgotten; a conviction and a sentence has erased me from existence in all the ways that count. The tears are more frequent and the numbness is without end. Some say, ‘prayer changes things’. If that’s true, then the only thing it seems to have changed in my mind is that prayer changes things. My hope is not just fleeting – it has long fled, but who the hell cares?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. I have asked Terry to share some of his journal entries with us.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
Walking into the prison felt like walking into a medieval castle at the height of the dark ages. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever leave.
The humiliation of ‘processing in’ was surpassed only by my fear of the unknown. I had never been to prison, and now not only was I going to prison, I was going to death row, the home of men like John Wayne Gacy and the so-called ‘I-57 Killer’, among others.
Up until then, I had only read about such men in newspapers or saw them on television. I never, even in my worst nightmare, thought I would be counted among them, considered one of them. It was then that the reality of the situation smacked me in the face so hard I could almost feel the sting followed by the bruise. This was worse than when I came to grips with the fact that I was in a life and death situation. These men were hardened killers, and I was now among them and meant nothing to them.
At that moment, right then and there, I decided they wouldn’t mean anything to me either. I was ready to do whatever I needed to do in order to survive. I hardened my heart and dismissed all thought of the outside world. My only reference material was movies I had seen, and in all the movies, the convict-guy acted as though the outside world didn’t exist. It sounds funny now, but when you’re twenty-one and have never been to prison, you cling to whatever works for you, and that worked for me.
I took a deep breath, lifted my head a little higher and walked to the cell that would be my new home. I was expecting to hear all kinds of prison noises. You know, the names and calls that always seem to happen on television when the new guy gets to prison. To my surprise (and relief), there was none of that.
I arrived at my cell, and as I was watching the key being put into the lock it all seemed to be happening in slow motion… the door sliding open… my bedroll being placed on the bunk… the door sliding shut… and the worst sound of all… the door being locked behind me.
ABOUT THE WRITER. I never stop being touched by the writing we share here. Tony Enis is our second place contest winner for the last contest of 2021. Sometimes there is grace found in the darkest of places and Tony captured the grace in the silence of those around him. He has only shared his work with us once before. I really hope he continues to work with us. Tony Enis has been incarcerated for over thirty-four years, and maintains his innocence. He can be contacted at:
Anthony Enis #N82931 P.O. Box 1000 Menard, IL 02259
In the free-world separating true worshippers from fake can be difficult. No doubt, some are true to what they believe, and for them, their faith defines their identity. In prison sorting the true worshippers from the fake is nearly impossible, many ‘in it’ only for what they can get in return. In here we have little variety, so the little variety offered, multiplies in significance.
Prison-issue anything is homogenous, monotonous, bland, devoid of personality. Even one’s personality can start to look prison-issued unless one actively strives to individuate – by getting sleeves of bad tattoos, for instance. Religious affiliation also offers a chance to stylize and spice it up a bit since each religion gives access to exclusive privileges.
If one registers as Jewish, he can receive a ‘special diet’ tray at meals, prepackaged Kosher food that’s fresh and edible, especially compared with typical prison-made grub, which is often congealed, stale, and wilted.
To prevent a choke hazard – think garrote – necklaces are prohibited. However, if registered as Catholic, one may place an order with a vendor for a fancy rosary. Nothing displays one’s piety (and class) like gold-fixtured, dried-blood-looking rosary beads made from compressed rose petals.
Muslims get access to Kuffs (knitted skullcaps) of various colors, and giving alms to the less-fortunate is obligatory. For some guys the deciding factor is the stylish cap that highlights their eyes. For the indigent, the guarantee of commissary items from their brethren is the appeal – plus they get a couple of annual feasts and can brag about (or sell) the lamb, fried chicken, hot sauce, and delicate flaky baklava they get to eat that we don’t.
Back in 2009, tobacco products were banned in state facilities, including prisons, but not for Native American practitioners, for whom tobacco is an essential element in praying. Overnight the Native population exploded from two people to thirty. Death Row’s population is only about 140. Each man lined up outside, stepped to the center of the sacred prayer circle, and the chaplain would hand him a medicine cup containing a teaspoon of pungent tobacco pressed into it’s bottom like a fat brown quarter. They could smoke it in their pipe, burn it in their smudge pot, sprinkle shreds of it into the wind – or secretly smuggle it back to their cellblock and sell it for a dollar per hand-rolled cigarette at least. They could easily get five bucks for that teaspoon – that’s 20 ramen soups or 25 coffee packets: that’s nine stamps or, for the druggies, five pills; or for the perverted, a blowjob from Randy. The Natives also get an annual feast they can brag about or sell food items from.
We can register with only one faith group at a time, but are permitted to change faiths every 3-4 months. That alone should tell you something about the waxing and waning of devotion in prison. Often, when one changes religions, his former faith’s paraphernalia – now contraband in his hands – finds its way to the black market. Headbands and Tupperware sacred-item boxes, prayer rugs, Kufis and Rasta caps, thick Bible dictionaries, prayer beads and shiny crucifixes. It’s all for sale.
Back when they banned tobacco, I registered as Native American so I could smoke and sell tobacco three days a week. I did this for years, despite being a professing Christian. Eventually, I felt so guilty that I left the prayer circle and re-registered as a Protestant. That first Sunday rolled around and I had no intention of attending church services with some I knew were hypocrites. Lying in bed, fiending for a cigarette, I heard a voice in my head that I attribute to God sounding like Charleton Heston in that old movie in which he played Moses. It was a deep, authoritative voice, with a slightly ironic tone. He said, “You went outside to smoke three times a week for an hour at a time for three years straight and missed not one day. In the rain. In the freeze. In the scorch. In the ants. You skipped weekly movies. You skipped recreation. You went through the strip searches… And you can’t go to church twice a week because of the hypocrites? So, there weren’t any hypocrites in the circle? Well, maybe not now, not since you quit going.” Of course I’m paraphrasing, not quoting verbatim, but you get the point.
I got out of bed and went to church. And I haven’t missed a day since, even after we Christians lost our three annual feasts we used to humble-brag about. I also no longer pass judgment on who’s real or who’s a hypocrite because I realize that despite being a sincere worshipper, I often do things to make this hard life a little softer, which from an outside perspective probably makes me look fake as hell. Even so, I am a Christian… meaning I’m forgiven, not flawless.
To demonstrate my devotion, I own the most expensive Bible in our small congregation, ornate, leather-bound, handmade (in China).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer with a unique style, and a solid commitment to his craft. I know when I see a submission from George, I am going to enjoy the read, and I am going to share his work. He is consistent, he is original, he is thought-provoking. He is only an occasional contributor to WITS because he is working on his own book projects, and he is also a co-author of Crimson Letters. I am grateful he takes the time to share his voice here.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
“Man, fuck Wilbert… he can’t tell me what to do. He ain’t my mutha-fuckin’ daddy.”
That was a recurring phrase I heard about the director at the local community center, kids fuming over rules and regulations and a man dead-set on enforcing them.
I first heard of Wilbert over monkey bar banter during recess at elementary school, dissenting conversations about fun and rules that turned into a tug-of-war of words. I heard enough to know I wanted to know more about the man who could inspire such joy while rousing such fury. The next day, I walked home from school, giddy with anticipation as we made our way to the Center.
The Reid Street Community Center was everything I had hoped for. Everything I dreamed. Their basketball courts were indoors and had polished wood. In the projects where I lived, there was only dirt. There were billiards in the game room, air hockey and puzzles. A dance studio with full-length mirrors. Vending machines and a playground. A kitchen. A pool. Arts and crafts. Oh, yeah… and Wilbert.
He came in well short of his reputation which was prominent enough to be a titan, though he towered over the heads of onrushing kids as they poured through the doors of the Center. His skin tone was dark, rich and as appealing as cocoa on a winter morning. He was clean-shaven with a trimmed moustache that made him approachable while his steady glare gave me pause. His fitted tee showed off bulging biceps, his warm-ups and sneakers making him look the part of a bona fide athlete in search of the competition. I held my breath along with my opinion as I breezed by him, seemingly unnoticed. It would be my first day in a place that would become a second home.
Wilbert turned out to be a cool guy – not some half angel/demon to which I presumed. He was laid back, even when he was engaging kids and their activities. His voice was mellow and well composed. Sure, there were rules plastered on almost every wall throughout the Center, but it’s not like he used them to browbeat us into submission. Wilbert was as stern as he needed to be to teach us kids discipline and self-respect; a purpose well-served since many of us had no one else.
The Reid Street Community Center sat in one of the most impoverished neighborhoods in town, where lack of resources often included a lapse in effective parenting. Kids from broken homes with single, working-class, mothers and absentee fathers were those who most frequented the Center. Many of them were unruly by cause-and-effect and didn’t give a damn about following the rules. But where some home-life offered negligence and abuse, the Center was a sanctuary.
Wilbert wasn’t just the activity coordinator, he was also a mentor to troubled kids. His goal was to tap into the potential of every kid there and draw out our self-worth. Sometimes it meant giving someone the boot for flagrant or repeated offenses, though the ban seldom lasted more than a day since Wilbert was exceptionally forgiving.
There were other staff members that helped out around the Center, counseling and facilitating events and proving their devotion to the cause. As such, Wilbert could often be seen in his office toiling over paperwork as he figured out how to keep the place running, yet he left his door open, always willing to stop in the middle of budget cuts to make himself available to talk.
He was the Center’s little league football coach, the basketball referee and also the swimming instructor. He hosted Friday night dances in an effort to raise money for the equipment. He showed up on rainy days, worked long after hours and drove the kids home when they were running late for curfew. And yeah… he caught some flak at times for being strict when enforcing the rules, but it was only because he held us to high standards. Still, no matter how many times the kids cussed him out and spewed their harsh opinions about Wilbert, he was always there for them the next day.
Wilbert went on to effect many lives with his work at the Community Center, a feat that was sure to offer its share of challenges. The building was marred by paint chips and broken windows, the equipment was rickety and threadbare. Bullies and other misfits came around at times and turned the grounds into a battle field. And with the Center serving as a hub for every urban kid in the surrounding neighborhoods, too often it was understaffed. Yet Wilbert was the driving spirit that kept that place alive, his devotion the keys to the door. It was his very stance on the policies and his unwillingness to compromise that made many of us kids feel safe. Sometimes I would wonder how much he would take before he up and left us, but as it turned out, Wilbert was already home. And he was never out to try to be anyone’s ‘daddy’… No, Wilbert was determined to do better.
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. His unique writing style is in a league of its own. He is gifted. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share his story and his case. He wrote this essay in response to our recent contest, which he couldn’t enter due to his position on the Board. He’s a man who goes the extra mile even when he doesn’t have to.
Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and he can be contacted at (Please Note, this is a change of address, as NC has revised the way those in prison receive mail): Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
I will never forget August 30, 2006. I was on A-pod, occupying B-dayroom’s recreational section, nexus to Death Watch on Texas Death Row. It was after 5:30 p.m. and visitation was over, so I headed toward the front of the dayroom, hoping to catch a guy I affectionately called RoadDawg. His real name was Derrick Frazier, but many knew him as Hasan. Before that, he was Castro – like Fidel, Cuba’s former dictator.
Hasan never knew his father. His mother left when he was fifteen, weeks later to be found dead of a drug overdose. He had an abusive stepfather. Eventually, Hasan grew tired of the abuse and ran away. He began living in the streets and soon after was adopted by Crip gang members. Becoming a new member meant he had to get a new name, and that’s how Castro was born.
I didn’t meet Castro until after he arrived on Texas Death Row. It was then that he denounced his gang, took up religion and became a Muslim. He studied the religion relentlessly, renaming himself Hasan and following the ways of Islam. He founded two newsletters – Operation L.I.F.E. and the Texas Chapter of the Human Rights Coalition, and that is how I came to know him. Hasan took his money from that and practiced ‘zakat’ towards his fellow death row inmates, no matter what race or religion. If you didn’t have, he gave clandestinely.
When he told me he had received an execution date, he said it as if he was telling me the score to a football game that I had missed, there was no emotion – at least, none on the outside. He told me he was going to unroll his mat and pray… and he did.
Hasan had a friend from Canada that was seeing him through visits. He even had her visit me. He was visiting with her on August 30, 2006, as I stood in the dayroom waiting to get a glimpse of him, to somehow communicate my solidarity through a look I planned on giving him. Shortly after 5:30 that evening he came walking through the door, looking like a king who stared down adversaries without an ounce of fear. He hadn’t noticed me, so I called out to him. Robotically, he turned my way, and seeing me, broke free from the escorting officers’ grips and started my way. He was handcuffed, and the guards didn’t stop him. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I stuck my hands out of the bars and gave him a hug. He began to cry, tears that fell rapidly, knowing time was running out.
Then he kissed my left cheek, whispering into my ear, “RoadDawg, do me a favor. You have the best chance of any of us here. Get free. Go home. Don’t let these folks win. Promise me!”
I told him nothing. Not that I didn’t want to. I was still shocked he kissed me, and at the same time the guards started calling his name and came to retrieve him to bring him into the ‘death watch’ cell. It all happened so fast, words eluded me, and I watched my friend walk off.
That night I was standing in the door of my cell, all the lights off on the pod, when I became aware of something I was seeing. If I looked at the pod’s control picket that is made of glass, I could see the reflection of all the cells on death watch, and I turned my attention to #8 cell, which held Hasan. There he was, standing in the door with his light on. His light was on. Mine was off. I watched him for a few hours. He didn’t move once. Through the years I wondered what he was looking at. Was he soaking in his last hours of life as he looked out in the dark jungle of iron bars and steel gates? Trying to understand how he came to his final moments? Was he waiting and hoping for a miracle? Or was he wondering what was I doing standing in my cell’s door in the dark? Did he see me? Eventually, I went to lay down. I said a prayer for my friend and would get up to come to the door every so often only to see him still standing there.
Hasan left at 7:40 a.m. for his last few hours of visitation with his friend from Canada. I also was told that an aunt came to see him. He never came back.
When they pronounced him dead a little after 6:30 that evening, I cried, unconsciously holding the cheek he’d kissed. My friend was the epitome of change, strength, and courage. I will never forget that about him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is the first place winner of our most recent writing contest. Although a long-time writer for WITS, he rarely enters our contests. I’m glad he did. Mr. Mamou has always maintained his innocence, and after extensive research into his case, WITS actively advocates for him. If you would like to know more about his 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
My grandmother died a day after my quick conviction. “She saw you on TV after you were sentenced to death and she died. You killed her by breaking her heart.” I got hate mail from my own flesh and blood after my conviction. – Charles Mamou
Charles Mamou’s family was divided, according to Mamou, half quickly disowning him and wishing he were dead.
But, what did they know, really? They knew the same thing I did when I first looked up articles on Charles Mamou, a new writer for WITS, what the prosecution wanted them to know – what the jury, the defense, and the media heard. I read various versions of a brutal, lone murderer who sexually assaulted a girl before killing her in an abandoned house. It wasn’t a wonder he got hate mail. I’d learned to look past the headlines, things not always as they seem.
After reading the transcripts, I got a slightly clearer picture. As the prosecution’s story goes, Charles Mamou went on a killing rampage sparked by a drug deal gone wrong, drove off with the victim, sexually assaulted her, and murdered her in a very hard to find backyard in Houston – a city he didn’t live in. All the other individuals involved in the drug deal, all residents of Houston, slept after the initial drug deal and knew nothing, a couple of them testifying for the state…
So – I looked even closer. If it were a card game, there would be money on the table, not a life, and some would say the deck was ‘stacked’. It turns out, the state had information that not only could have supported Charles Mamou’s claims of innocence, but the information could have also led to finding out what really took place that night. Evidence that existed all along and more recent interviews reveal a few things. The state had a list of phone calls that were made that night. All of the callers in those records, the individuals involved in the drug deal, from the ‘cooker’, to the driver, to the introducer, were not sleeping that night according to their phones. Not only that, recent interviews put them all in the parking lot of Howard Scott’s apartment that night, along with Charles Mamou – who was supposed to be off on a lone sexual assault and murder. If Charles Mamou was in the parking lot along with the car he was driving – so was the victim. Which is what Charles Mamou has always asserted – that he fled the drug deal gone wrong and drove back to Howard Scott’s apartment complex.
In the absence of shared information, the existing phone records, witnesses were not called to testify, and those who were called testified they were sleeping – even though the state knew their phones were in use. Does an attorney have an obligation to bring it to the attention of the court or his witness when they are not telling the truth and the attorney is aware of it?
Phone calls that should have been traced, never were – no one will ever know where the calls were placed from. They could have been dialed from the backyard where the body was found. They could have been placed from anywhere in Texas. The calls would have certainly helped determine what happened that night. The callers never had to answer questions about where they were when they placed the calls. The owner of the phone line they called – never had to explain who was calling and what they said. The man whose phone was receiving the calls testified for the state, saying he was asleep and his phone was not ringing. Regardless of records indicating that was not true, the state’s witness was never corrected by the prosecutor. No one questioned why his phone was ringing until 3:43 a.m. the night the victim was murdered and why one phone call went out at 3:59 a.m. requesting a cab – yet the state had information these calls took place.
One of the callers to the home did the same, testifying for the state and saying he went home to bed that night and didn’t use his phone. The witness and driver in the drug deal did not have to explain why his cell phone dialed Howard Scott’s apartment at 2:37 a.m. or where he was at when the call was made. Rather, he testified he had went to bed.
The other callers on the record never even had to step foot in a courtroom. They were never called by either side. But, all the callers were up and about that night, not sleeping, and witnesses have since said they saw all the callers in one parking lot that night – Howard Scott’s parking lot.
It isn’t surprising the jury came back with a guilty verdict, no more surprising than it would be in a poker game with no aces in the cards dealt to the other players, but rather held in the dealer’s hand. Charles Mamou certainly looked the part, he was a drug dealer. Just in case though, they hung on to one more card. The sexual assault. While fighting for the death penalty, the prosecution called him ‘vicious’, ‘ruthless’, and ‘cold-blooded’. The jury was told he ‘devastated and destroyed’, that he ‘marches her to the back, and he makes her commit oral sodomy, makes her suck his penis. Imagine that, ladies and gentleman’.
While saying those words to the jury the prosecution knew not only about the phone records that could have been used to defend Mamou, they also knew something else. There was a rape kit collected from the body along with trace evidence, and that kit was collected by the medical examiner who did not make one note of it in his autopsy report. He also did not breathe one word of it in his testimony. The prosecutor’s office not only knew about the collection of the evidence, they requested that it be processed and they had received the results. The results indicated there was ‘no semen found’. In addition to that, trace evidence was collected that Mamou never knew about. For two decades – he never knew. Neither did the jury, or his family, or the victim’s family.
There is no nice way to say it. The state had information that not only could have supported Charles Mamou’s claims of innocence, but the information could have also led to finding out what happened that night. Evidence and interviews that have since taken place tell us a few things. All of the callers in those records were not sleeping that night. Recent interviews put them all in the parking lot of Howard Scott’s apartment, along with Charles Mamou – who was supposed to be off on a lone sexual assault and murder. Involved parties, according to the phone records, were not called to testify, and those who did testified they were sleeping – regardless of what the state knew.
Charles Mamou absorbed the anger for the loss of his grandmother. He had no other choice. Since his conviction, he has been living in a 9 x 6 cell in solitary confinement. No one sees his tears. No one can measure his depression. People have moved on with their lives, his children have been raised, his grandchildren don’t know him. As it stands now, he will be executed. His appeals are exhausted, he is waiting on a date, and if his parents are still alive when it comes, they will watch their son be belted down to a table as poison gets pumped into his veins and he takes his final breath. Is that the justice we should be shooting for?
Many anti-death penalty activists find their stance not because they are necessarily opposed to the death penalty. They base their stance on the knowledge the deck sometimes gets stacked. Not every prosecutor is as interested in finding out exactly what happened as they are in securing a win. If anyone wanted to know what happened to the victim twenty years ago, those phone calls would have been traced. The individuals making the calls would have been interviewed, their stories documented, statements taken and compared. It defies logic to even try and argue differently, to suggest those individuals not be interviewed and those calls not be traced. A girl was murdered – every stone should have been turned over to find out what happened. Instead – nothing. There is not one recorded interview with two of those callers that night, both of whom are said to have been in the parking lot, and one of who’s name is recorded as being the caller for a cab from Howard Scott’s apartment at 3:59 a.m. Yet – not one interview with him or the other individual calling the apartment and seen in the parking lot that night. As a matter of fact, Howard Scott’s first interview with police that was performed on the first day he was transported to HPD – is not in any file. It does not exist. I was told, “Not everything makes it into the file.”
What could have been discovered if, in 1999, this case had been investigated and the phone records and physical evidence shared? Where were the phone calls made from? What would the callers have said about what they were doing that night had they been asked? What would the recipient of the phone calls have said if he had been confronted with the question, rather than allowed to say – ‘I was sleeping’?
The window of opportunity on what could have been determined is shut. The Harris County prosecutor’s office did that, not Charles Mamou. The deck was stacked against Mamou, the victim’s family, Mamou’s family, the jury, and anyone who has ever read the story. Everybody loses. The prosecution may have felt not sharing the information they had would secure a ‘win’ for their office, but how is that winning? You can’t win when you cheat, it’s a façade, a farce. One person does not get to decide what part of the puzzle we can use. To argue a case in a court of law, what people look towards for truth, justice, equality and fairness, while keeping information to yourself, and not only doing that but also exploiting the lack of knowledge and arguing scenarios such as witnesses sleeping and sexual assault – that is not a win.
There is also a facebook page dedicated to sharing Charles Mamou’s troubling case.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
You can also reach him through jpay.com.
SIGN HIS PETITION – LEARN ABOUT HIS CASE. Charles Mamou is a long time WITS writer. He is part of our writing family and his case has been studied and shared here for a couple years. Please sign a petition requesting that his case be truly investigated – for the first time. If you learn enough about his case, you will likely agree, there was not much done in the way of investigation. What we have been able to learn, supports that. Please sign.
He stormed on to Death Row with his fists balled tight, a sneer on his face that was either a challenge or a deterrent. His wavy hair was spinning, too well-kept to have just fought someone, so if he wasn’t in trouble, then he must be looking for it. ‘Who the hell comes through the doors on Death Row inviting conflict with hardened killers?’ I thought. Not me. I arrived on Death Row the day before, and I was trying to go unnoticed. He was trouble alright, with his tattooed neck and gangster lean as he slung his sack of property on the top bunk with a thud. Young. Unruly. Someone to avoid. My judgment of him was just getting started when, unexpectedly, he turned and offered me a cigarette.
That was how I first came to know Eric Queen, it was upon our arrival on Death Row. Two young men trying to wrap our heads around the most terrifying thing to happen to a person. At least, that’s what receiving the death penalty was for me. Eric seemed too mad to give a damn, an anger that burned without direction. I should’ve been just as mad since I was there without cause. I’d taken a beating to my reputation at trial court with the lies and accusations. Maybe I thought playing nice would earn me a reprieve, when the truth was, I could have used some of Eric’s anger.
We bonded over Newport cigarettes, shared adversity and the recent events that brought us to Death Row. As the menthol smoke spewed from our lungs and dissipated into nothingness, so too did the intensity ease from Eric’s face. What I once thought was an unruly, trouble-making thug was really a harmless-looking average guy. Harmless with the potential to be lethal, like a steel trap that lies rusting idly away over time as long as nobody comes fucking with it. His brown eyes gleamed with the curiosity of someone eager to learn. His skin was the color of sunset at the end of a blistering day. A man in his early twenties, his youthful facial features were likely to require proof of I.D., with a gap-tooth smile that he sported with such confidence it left him on the right side of handsome.
He said he preferred to be called E-Boogie. Funny. He didn’t seem like the dancing type. He bobbed when he walked, his arm like a pendulum swaying ridiculously side-to-side with each step, but that appeared to be the extent of his rhythm. Still, it occurred to me that almost every black person on Death Row went by a nickname. Bedrock. Yard Dog. Napalm. Dreadz. There was even an Insane. I thought to get me one since the name ‘Terry’ was in no way as intimidating as Insane. That was the night I became known as Eye-G and E-Boogie and I first shook hands.
In the days and weeks to come, E-Boogie and I grew to know more about each other. I considered my own story as boring as a silent film, but his was action-packed. He told me about being a military brat, though I must say it sounded more like a confession. The packing up and leaving friends, always the new guy at school, the unstableness of it all. I couldn’t pretend to know the struggles of life on the base, so I mostly listened. Many of his tales lasted about as long as a punch line, then he was on to the next. It was only when he reached his experiences with gangs that he spoke at length. The only thing I knew about gangs was that I didn’t want to know about gangs but without it I could never fully come to know and understand E-Boogie.
Out of tolerating our differences, we found we had many things in common. We played basketball together every day, usually on the same team, but we both had a competitive spirit so rivalry was in the air. Our love for music kept us up at night listening to rap songs and debating which hiphop artist was better. Sometimes it was an all day affair at the poker table, cheating our asses off with hand signals only to walk away with a few pennies to show. We liked the same movies, ate the same foods and drank about the same amount of prison hooch before staggering to our bunks and crashing for the night. Every day spent with Eric was taxing yet we woke up and did it all over again as our shenanigans kept the adverse conditions of Death Row at bay and staved off the awaiting pain.
Our coping with conviction did not come without dissent from the other inmates. Some thought that our rowdiness violated their personal space. It kind of did, but it wasn’t intentional. Prison strips a person of almost every dignity, every liberty you could think of until all you have is an incredible sense of personal space. It’s all bullshit when even our personal space belongs to the state, yet it’s the only thing left for us to claim in this world in order to say we’re still here. No one understood that more than me. Hell, I was holding on to something too. While they were griping about personal space, I was fighting to keep my sanity. Even E-Boogie and all his thug moodiness would not deliberately infringe on someone’s personal space. Yeah… he was mad as hell at times, but I think it was more at himself. His and my antics were simply that – antics to distract from the chaos of having a death sentence. It was hard to accept the reality that my life as I knew it was over.
Nothing good lasts forever. That’s the motto of Death Row. We’d gone a few months fending off the misery and picking each other’s spirits up. Maybe we had no right to be enjoying ourselves while Death Row was grinding away at the minds of those around us. Well, E-Boogie and I would both learn that the misery was infallible and friendships were bound to suffer. It started one day with a dispute between he and I over something so petty I can’t remember. The exchange got heated. We both were talking shit. Suddenly E-Boogie called me out to fight. We argued over something so frivolous I believed he wasn’t serious. I walked up to him, looked him in the eyes – and he punched me in the face. I was so shocked, my breath caught in my chest and my heart sunk with betrayal. Eric, the person I relied on the most, had violated my personal space. The fight that ensued wasn’t much of a fight at all, rather a bunch of grappling to try and salvage our friendship. Before the day was over, we were back in each other’s good graces… but something between us had changed.
Afterwards we explored other friendships while maintaining a strained connection. We still got together and did all the things we enjoyed, but when it was over we’d go our separate ways. Eric made friends with a few people whose company I did not care for. Even from a distance, I could see his mood darkening to a point where I was overly concerned. He started getting into fights, in fact, he and I would go another round. It wasn’t anything our friendship couldn’t survive, but it wedged us further apart. One day we watched Eric’s sister, Kanetra, play college basketball before the nation on TV. After the game he went to his cell and closed the door, proud and isolated for two days.
On a few occasions he and I got together and talked like old times. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him. At the time, I wasn’t doing all that great in coping with Death Row, but Eric seemed to be doing a lot worse. I promised myself I would be there for him more, the way he was there for me.
Eric opted out of the annual basketball tournament, which left everybody on Death Row like… “What?” He was a top player. He upped everybody’s game. The tournament wouldn’t be the same without him. He did, however, coach that year. I was chosen to play on his team and man – we butted heads all season. I didn’t expect favoritism, I was too proud for that. I earned my spot on the team. In the end, we lost terribly in the elimination round, and I didn’t speak to Eric for over a week. Now, I wish I had.
I was at the card table that day when the announcement came over the PA system.
“Lockdown. Lockdown. All inmates report to your assigned cell. Lockdown. Report to your cells now.”
It was 5:00 p.m. We hadn’t gone to dinner yet. What the hell was going on? We packed up the poker chips and headed to our rooms. My biggest concern was winning my money back. The chatter started behind the doors. Speculation mostly. A fight broke out downstairs. A fight? Downstairs? E-Boogie was housed downstairs. Money was now the furthest thing from my mind. I knew in my heart it was Eric. The cell doors stayed closed throughout the night, and I went to bed wondering with whom Eric had a fight.
The next morning, I was standing in front of the mirror brushing my teeth when a guy popped up at the door. His face was rather long, his eyes dodgy, and he shifted from one heel to the other. He said that he was just dropping by to check on me since he knew E-Boogie and I were close.
“What the hell you talkin’ ‘bout? What happened to E-Boogie?” I asked.
“He hung himself, dawg. E-Boogie is dead.”
There were no tears to soothe the burning in my eyes as they were a river cascading down my heart. I wanted to sling my toothbrush aside, run downstairs and save him, but my chance for that was gone. I couldn’t remember the last words I said to him, and I couldn’t forget saying nothing. I felt like I failed him for not being there for him like he was for me when I needed a friend the most. The word about Eric spread like wild fire in a gasoline storm. He was found hanging in a mop room closet and pronounced dead on the scene. I realized Eric had been fighting after all; I just never guessed it was a fight with himself. Maybe there wasn’t much I could have done about that, but I owed it to him to try.
Eric Queen perished on August 5, 2007. He was 28. He was a hothead at times, but he was generous and if he loved you, he made sure you knew it. Eric made mistakes in his life, but I never heard him make excuses. In fact, one time he said to me, “Life don’t bend over for nobody, Eye-G. We just gotta roll with it.”
I’m still wondering where he got that from with his young ass. Eric swore he was a philosopher, and at times he really was. Dude was smart as hell. He could figure out anything – he just chose to figure out the streets. Can’t say I blame ‘im. The streets are tempting; they’ve led a lot of good people down bad paths. Still, there is redeem-ability after the streets. I wonder if Eric believed he could be redeemed. We never talked particularly about the crime that led him to Death Row, so no speculation there. But I know he had regrets in other areas of his life – we both did. It was us sharing those stories and being vulnerable with one another where we became like brothers. I just wish he knew his life was so much more than the evil that plagued him that day. If nothing else, his redeeming quality was in all that he did for me. I was spiraling into an unhealthy mental space when he walked through the doors that night. Eric put aside his own burdens to get me through my worst of times. I only wish I could’ve done the same for him… maybe through my writings I can still try.
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. When he first started writing for WITS, it was apparent he was a gifted writer, but he keeps striving for more – and he continues to achieve it.
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
