Category Archives: Sentenced to Death

Should We Kill? My Thoughts On The Death Penalty

Jesus was executed, as well as countless others throughout history.  Although Christians believe that was a necessary evil, looking at what was done to a man that had a reputation for kindness and advocating for the downtrodden, one is struck by the injustice and immorality of it.  Jesus wasn’t a murderer or a rapist or a thief.   Can anything justify the torture and execution of a man that committed no crime, other than irritating those in power? 

Even if looked at from the retributive theory, Jesus’ execution was not justified.  He did not commit murder, and Pilate most likely did not believe Jesus deserved the sentence he was given, but felt pressure at the time.  Thus, Jesus was executed.  The most famous of all retributive punishments is an illustration of all that can go wrong with the perspective that execution is acceptable. Although Christians know that Jesus had a path to walk, looking at this case apart from the religious aspects, it couldn’t have been more poorly justified.

Jesus’ crime, according to authorities, was treason, calling himself king.  For that he was beaten, tortured, and left to die on a cross.  The punishment did not fit the crime.  Those same words can be said about what sometimes happens in the halls of justice every day on every reach of the planet – outside forces, such as pressure in this particular case, influence the sentence.  It could be a court appointed attorney with no time to adequately prepare up against a highly motivated prosecutor, well practiced at manipulating a jury.  It could be a police force that has a tendency to toy with evidence.  It could be the color of the defendant’s skin in a courtroom full of people that don’t resemble him or her.  But, as we saw in the case of Jesus, people are not perfect and sentences don’t always match crimes.  This happens more than anyone would like to believe, and it is certain to continue happening.

As of this writing there is a man on death row in Texas, and he has been there for over two decades.  In his case, the prosecution had evidence they did not share with the defense that could have been pursued, and if it had been shared, could have very well impacted the outcome of the case.  This information is now known, documented and available to anyone who wants to see it, but Charles Mamou has had four attorneys over the last two decades who never located the information.  It wasn’t until an unpaid advocate came along and started researching the case that everything that had been there all along came to light.  It wasn’t a trivial tidbit, there was actually a rape kit discovered twenty years later that has physical evidence in it.  There were phone records of key witnesses who testified they were asleep.  The information was never shared with the defendant.  Mamou’s case is not an anomaly.  If you work with the incarcerated for any length of time, you will come to learn cases like his happen more than anyone would like to admit.

The argument that the number of lives saved from the use of capital punishment as a deterrent, is hard pressed if the true number of unfair prosecutions were tallied.  There is no way to even calculate them all accurately, as most cases are left unpursued in spite of questions left behind.  It is naivety that believes wrongful or over incarcerations are few in numbers and therefore a viable trade off.  From the beginning of time, and the execution of a man whose reputation has remained that of a ‘good man’ over hundreds of years, until today when you can walk in any well-populated death row facility and find people that have not had a hand in murder, we have gotten it wrong.  The numbers are greater than anyone would like to publicly acknowledge.

For the sake of argument, and although unarguable evidence has shown us differently from the beginning of time, we will pretend justice is always perfect.  We will overlook the imperfections and intentional mistakes along the way, such as the execution of Jesus, a good man.  Let’s say then, punishment should reflect the crime, an eye for an eye.  Yet, we have been getting it wrong one way or another from the beginning of time on that as well.  If it were truly to be an eye for an eye and a reflection of the crime, we would rob from robbers, we would rape rapists and we would murder murderers.  In the world of right and wrong and if we are going to make rules of order, you can’t compare apples to oranges.  A perfect system of an eye for an eye that punishes according to crime, can’t have exceptions to the rule.  What makes murder any different than rape? 

In our country, we execute people who have not actually had a hand in a murder, sometimes letting the actual ‘murderer’ receive a lesser sentence.  It is called the Law Of Parties, and people who have not had a hand in murder have been and will continue to be executed under it.  So, in the ‘eye for an eye’ thinking, we make exceptions for all cases except murder where we stand firm on taking a life for a life, while letting the rapists go unraped, and not only do we make exceptions, we make exceptions within the exceptions.  If a murderer has the right attorney and chooses to testify against other parties, involved or not, he betters his chances of not having to pay the price of murder with his life, making himself an exception, and in doing so, assists in the execution of an individual who played no part in the murder, creating another exception. The overall theory of justifying capital punishment under the ‘eye for an eye’ platform that justifies the act as the appropriate punishment has no foundation, as it is not even close to being uniformly performed and enforced.

To the argument that there is no equal punishment to the taking of a life other than the taking of a life, there is the nasty side of the argument that most like to sweep under the rug.  Let’s suppose that we never make mistakes, and the system is always fair, and we always execute the actual ‘murderer’, and not the driver of the murderer or the friend who was with the murderer on that particular evening and had no idea a murder was going to take place. In a perfect system, murder would be the appropriate choice, but should we require a murderer to murder themselves?  How do we accomplish taking a life without getting our own hands dirty?

When we get to the point when we are going to actually take a life, what justification can we use for our action of taking a life, and how are those who have a hand in the act absolved?  Does that call for more exceptions to the rules?  Is it acceptable to murder a person who we have ‘decided’ is guilty of murder, not necessarily guilty?  At this point, we have to embrace all the exceptions to all the rules that we have already established as acceptable, and accept those who are innocent, those wrongly accused, those who were involved but did not murder and those who actually did commit murder and lump them all together.  They are all equally ‘guilty of murder’, and we can only accomplish this if we have decided we are justified in killing an innocent person in the name of maintaining the death penalty.  So, we find ourselves having to pay people to then become murderers of the innocent as well as the guilty because of all the exceptions to the rules that have to be in place to maintain a death penalty.

It doesn’t end there.  According to our own policies and systems, involved parties are sometimes executed along with the actual murder or murderers.  One would have to label those who purposefully lead a person to the execution chamber, the one who voices the command to start the process, the actual medical personnel involved in the process as all parties to the taking of life of the guilty and innocent, we have determined that exception has to be made.  By our own standards, what about those who have fattened up the victim for the kill for over two decades, are they not a party to the murder?   Can it end there?  What of the prosecutor and his co-counsel?  What of the Judge and jury?  What of the defense counsel who did not bother to look for the evidence?  So, the actual taking of a life of someone like Charles Mamou, will have participation of countless people along the way, including some who simply turned a blind eye.  Should we include those who were informed before his execution but chose to proceed with the knowledge that his trial was unfair and did not provide all the information to the jury?

How many people have a hand in the murder of the innocent, in a society that endorses capital punishment?  How many people turned a blind eye to what was happening to Jesus when he was executed? Which brings us back to the religious justification, people often building their argument on words from the Bible, using their interpretation of segments to further their cause.  What can be certain about the teachings of Jesus was his call for love, mercy, and compassion.  Portions of the bible can be picked out to justify murder, but there is no strong case for it, not nearly as strong as Jesus’ teaching of loving your neighbor and turning the other cheek.  Who are you to condemn?  Although the execution might be punishment of the murderer, who is to say that vengeance is not God’s?  I’d much prefer to err on the side of caution, and not hold someone down in an execution chamber and pump poison into their veins, assuming that vengeance is mine.  Using religion as an argument to justify murder is at best a stretch, at worst a mockery. 

So, what of the argument that there is only one punishment called for when a person walks into a movie theater and starts shooting, murdering fifty innocent people before being taken into custody before witnesses.  Death, surely, is the only choice. That is the strongest argument I have heard, and I appreciate the sentiment and desire, yet, it is not that simple.  It comes full circle, back to the beginning.  We have a system that has been proven unjust repeatedly since the execution of Jesus. Influence brought about his execution, not any action on his part.  The ramifications of leaving the door open in the name of our hypothetical deranged murderer who murdered fifty in cold blood in front of witnesses needs to be considered.  The system doesn’t just end with his execution.  Let’s say we all want that one man dead.  At what cost?  We have an unfair system, influenced by power, money, race, and, believe it or not, sometimes bad intentions.  The system is run by humans, both good and bad.  The price to pay for leaving the door open to execute our theater murderer, is, in part, the lives of the innocent lost, the humanity of the officers who have spent a decade with the individual they have worked around and know is innocent and a good man, and the future resentment of the children of the innocent man who in turn possibly become murderers because of an unjust system.   By leaving the door open for our theater murderer, we are leaving the door open to the mistakes that have been and will continue to be made, along with the unjust on-purposes, and the chain reaction of it all.

The death penalty is not cost-effective.  It cannot be justified by religion.  It makes murderers out of innocent people.  It has and will continue to be used to kill people who have not committed murder.  It does not make us safer by taking mass murderers off the streets, when that person is already removed from the streets. It does not deter the mentally ill or suicide bombers or people determined to inflict pain.  The death penalty leaves the door open to all that can and does go wrong and has no moral justification.  There is a heavy moral price to pay for maintaining a method of disposing of our movie theater madman.  

“But, what does my innocence matter?  Where did it get me but a bus ride to prison while shackled both by ankles and spirit to a dread that becomes so unbearable – death is a welcome resolve.  How relevant is innocence to time long gone and opportunities forever missed, when your dignity is in a shambles, you’ve been stripped of your identity and you have nothing left to call your own but an Opus number.  With no pride left for which to hide behind, to admit wrongdoing would not be so difficult – the hardest thing to do is continue proclaiming my innocence.” – Terry Robinson, Death Row, NC

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The Things That Remain

Some tragedies are gradual, prolonging dismay, others swift and unexpected, yet loss in any form effects in us a void that can only be filled with time.  It is loss to which we are all akin, regardless of status, color or creed, none excluded from the woeful affliction all of humankind will suffer.  Tear-stained cheeks, fine suits and condolences are the soothing, necessary etiquette, after which we look to move on – but occasionally we find we can’t.

Chris was a childhood friend I grew up with on Fountain Drive, a project housing development set on the outskirts of town.  There were no ills of the inner-city there, like drugs and prostitution.  Sequestered by fields and lush greenery, we were burgeoning country folk.  We scoured ditches for crayfish, climbed trees to pick wild berries, and explored the far reaches of the surrounding woods where we carved out a world all our own.

A favorite pastime was the community football game.  Narrow eyes stared across a makeshift field as we rivaled one another.   We tackled, grappled, and cussed with fervor to demonstrate our toughness, but in the end we always left as friends, looking forward to carrying on the next day.

It was the older kids in the neighborhood that first ganged up on Chris – my brother and his closest friends.  It was an assault that came without merit as Chris had committed no offense.  Instead of contesting their egregious violation, Chris up and ran away, unaware the flight-mode mentality would begin a lifelong recurrence.

Although a rural bubble, Fountain Drive was not the easiest place to live. No one qualified for low-income housing more than single mothers and senior citizens, and with many of our moms off working to improve their conditions and the elderly nestled up to their daytime television shows, we ran around mostly unsupervised and growing unrulier by the day.

We had petty differences, some escalating to fist fights, that seldom outlasted the day.  We ransacked the neighborhood community center and egged each other on to steal.  Everything from throwing rocks at passing cars to prank calling the fire department, our mischief knew no bounds, yet nothing would ignite our frenzy more than chasing after Chris.

Chris, himself, was a passive misfit – just barely on the right side of wrong.  His misdeeds were rather frivolous, swiping an item from a clothesline or lifting coins for his mother’s purse.  He was never one to talk trash, though his size was intimidating enough.  At ten, he was a head taller than most teenagers, and by thirteen, he was the same age as his shoe size.  With shoulders as wide as a welcome embrace and powerful legs that were the getting-away kind, we stood almost no chance of catching him, yet we were thrilled to try.

Chris, however, was a gentle soul.  He was thoughtful and forgiving, and usually, within a day or so, he was back amongst the clique.  Despite his hulking size, he had a boyish quality that was much more fun to keep around, and over time, our betrayals became less frequent, until we no longer chased him away. 

By fifteen, Chris’ interests had matured, and he began to venture outside the neighborhood to other parts of town.  It was courting girls that had procured his attention, and he thought to visit them whenever possible. However, as we had long given up chasing Chris, other kids from around town had just begun, until it seemed that bullying Chris was the most expected thing to do.

Once, I witnessed him fleeing from some guys – but did nothing in the way of help, afraid I was a word in his defense away from being bullied myself.  Chris, though, had an impeccable reputation for outpacing his foes, as many of his aggressors gave chase for sport, all except one… Mikey.

A local badass who favored drinking and fighting, Mikey was the epitome of trouble.  He was the guy the other bullies steered clear of.  It was a brisk night outside a nightclub when Mikey set his sights on Chris – but this time, there would be no running away.  Instead, Chris fought back.

As it turned out, Chris didn’t run all those years because he was fearful – it was a method of harm prevention.  He figured as long as he didn’t hurt anyone today, things would be better tomorrow.  He ran away because he was being a better friend to us than we ever were to him.  Unlike Mikey, who was ruthless – not to mention a sore loser.

Some few nights later while walking home alone, Chris spotted a suspicious vehicle.   He discovered that it was Mikey, along with some friends.  Outnumbered, Chris had little choice but to flee, taking cover behind some houses as Mikey stepped out of the car with a gun and fired a shot in the dark.  Assuming Chris was long gone, Mikey and his crew sped off, unaware the bullet had hit its mark as Chris lay dying in the night.

It wasn’t until the next morning his body was discovered, entangled in the brush.  Chris had been killed at just sixteen…  and I never got to say, ‘I’m sorry’.

Regrets, juxtapose to loss, are the things that remain, the stuff of good memories, shared experiences, and lost opportunities.  After 32 years, it’s regrets that have kept Chris alive in my heart, and without which, I fear I will lose one of the best people I ever knew.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS. He is an author who has found purpose not only in his love of writing, but also in lending his voice to those who cannot speak for themselves. He is also an innocent man who has lived on death row for over 20 years. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction, and we are proud to call him a member of this team.

Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

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Dressed For Halloween

Holidays locked up are a mix of emotions – happy to be alive, sad to be here, indifferent to being surrounded by people you don’t know instead of loved ones.  When I was free, holidays were usually spent celebrating with family, eating too much, drinking too much, and regretting it the next day, all with a smile on my face. 

As a child, I loved Halloween.  I’d dress up in my costume on October 30th and sleep in it just to be prepared.  I loved candy, especially free candy, and I wanted to be ready to go.  Those memories are engraved in my head.

October 31, 2018, changed my Halloween memories of free candy. People in the free world were dressing up in costumes that day, and I was in Dallas County Jail dressing up in a suit and tie for my final day of a capital murder trial.  It was the day the jury would make the life or death decision.  They could either send me to spend the rest of my life living in prison or sentence me to death by lethal injection. There I was in a courtroom on free candy day, dressed to impress and hoping for the best. 

Death was their final decision – forever replacing my joyful memories of Halloween. October 31 is now just a dreadful anniversary…

ABOUT THE WRITER. Kristopher Love has never written for WITS before, but he submitted this piece to our last writing contest. I am not a judge, so I don’t look at the entries very closely, but as I was going through the returned material, this caught my eye. I hope Mr. Love continues to pursue writing. He can be contacted at:

Kristopher Love #999614
Polunsky Unit
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX 77351

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Class of 99: Day 3…

It’s all a dream. Or is it?

Something was off, I could sense it.  It looked like Madear’s home, it just didn’t feel like her home.  I could hear a familiar hymn being sung sotto voce towards the side of her home where her adjacent storage building was.  She kept her washer and dryer there.  She also had two extra freezers in there holding tons of assorted meats.  Sodas were stacked to one side of the wall as high as five-feet, and gallons of assorted juices lined the floor.  Madear loved buying in bulk because she loved to cook and feed others.  There was an area opposite the beverages where all her holiday decorations were kept – including a unique white crystal four-foot holiday colored Christmas tree she proudly displayed in her window every year.  To this day I’ve never seen anything like it.  It was also the place I first kissed a girl, Carla Landry, and I liked it!

This area was not huge by any standard, but my little brother and some of my friends often used the wash-house, as we called it, as a club house. Madear would be there daily, putting loads of clothes in to wash, and once dried, she would fold and inspect to see if the whites were white enough or if the colored clothes were bright enough.  She had no problem rewashing the clothes until they met her satisfaction. 

So, it wasn’t odd to find her inside.  I rushed through the door and saw her rocking away in her hand crafted wooden rocking chair that she used to find her Zen-moments in, relaxing or simply contemplating what she would do next.   Madear didn’t speak much.  I never heard her raise her voice, but she always evaluated any situation before acting, and when she did speak, her observations or opinions were always thought-out.

I could not see the features of her face, no eyes, mouth or lips – nothing.  There was nothing but warm, blinding light.  The rest of her body, from the neck down, was there.   Even her favorite sundress graced the length of her body.  She rocked away, faster than I recalled her doing.  I tried to advance closer, but I could not move.  It was as if I was stuck in cement that had long since dried, my feet buried. 

“Don’t worry, Baby.   Everything will be fine.  You’ll see.  You’ll be fine,” she repeated.  Her voice sounded as if she was speaking to me from behind a waterfall… though soothing and comforting.  I wanted to lay my head on her lap, allowing her to pat and massage me the way one would do a cat.  Her voice brought about a sense of conviction to my soul.  I could feel tears, hot tears, running down my cheeks.  My heart started to beat more urgently.  I blinked for a second and Madear and her rocking chair started fading away in the pasture behind her home.  She faded the way a home run baseball floats away…  and is gone.

“Chow time, maggots!  Get your asses up if ya’ll wanta eats!” barked a guard.

‘Fuck!’  Steel gates crashed into more steel.  ‘It was all a dream?  A stupid, fucking dream!?!’  The mist of tears I had shed were still damp on my cheeks.  My heart was still thumping.  I turned over to see what time it was, fifteen minutes after three in the morning.  I’m not a morning person and my weakness was affirmation of that as I turned on the cell’s light.  I’m not a breakfast eater either, and I was going to refuse because it was too early to be eating, but the growling sounds coming from my empty stomach were the motivation I needed to eat something.   I was hungry.  No, I was starving, having eaten little to nothing my first few days on the famous Texas Death Row.  Pancakes were served.  They were not IHOP worthy, but I wasn’t going to be picky.  I was also given an 8-ounce carton of milk, a 4-ounce carton of orange juice and four spoons of fruit cocktail.  I ate everything before going back to sleep, hoping I wouldn’t dream again. 

Around ten o-clock in the morning an officer opened the bean slot to the cell and threw a big commissary bag in, “Some of your fellow-condemned brothers put some things together for ya.”

I stared, my eyes fixed on him, wondering if he was joking.  I don’t know if I expected a snake to crawl from the bag or a bomb to go off at any moment.  Sure, I was paranoid.  This wasn’t Kansas anymore.  I didn’t know what ‘this’ was.

After some time, I got up, kicked the bag a little, and waited for a reaction.  Nothing.  I gently opened the bag to find a bunch of snacks, four writing tablets, envelopes, and over fifty bucks in stamps which, due to my naiveté, I used to tape photos of my children to the walls.  I had no idea I was supposed to use stamps to write.  No shit.  I hadn’t written a letter to anyone at that point.  I communicated through daily phone calls or visits.  There were socks, a thermal top, and some much needed hygiene products, all of which I greatly appreciated.   No note was given. No one shouted to get my attention.  Nothing. The act of charity was empathetically done.  Guys knew I was going through some things because they went through the same ‘new beginning’.  It was an act of kindness I greatly appreciated even though I had no one to thank.

I walked to the front of the cell to look out.  The place was teeming with sounds of existence, a farrago of inmate laughter, crashing steel, buzzing light fixtures that looked like something you’d expect to see in the beginning of the 20th century, as well as radios and multiple televisions that blared recklessly.  This ‘new world’, was too much for me to embrace, so I returned and sat on my bunk.  I grabbed photos of my children and their mothers, my mother and siblings, and I thought about what they were going through.  I loved them all dearly, and the more I thought about them, the more I cried.  I saw an unopened letter I had received the night before.  It was from one of my children’s mothers.  It started off like a Dear John letter.  She was telling me she was getting married to a truck driver.  A year earlier I shared a bed with her.  I immediately thought, ‘Where the fuck did he come from?’   At that moment, I was certain.  I was no longer dreaming.

ABOUT THE WRITER: Charles Mamou has been writing for WITS for quite some time and has always maintained his innocence. In the summer of 2019, it came to my attention Mr. Mamou had become very quiet. When I asked why, he explained he was out of appeals and awaiting an execution date. I asked to look at his documents. It didn’t take long to become very disturbed by what I saw. Some issues regarding Mr. Mamou’s case can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at contact@walkinthoseshoes.com.


There is also a facebook page dedicated to Charles Mamou’s troubling case.

 Photo, courtesy of ©manfredbaumann.com

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.

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Promise

The following is an excerpt from a poem written for his mother, a gift woven in words.

When I was but a little girl
I made myself a promise,
To rear my children with dignity,
Teach them to be honest.

But first, I had to grow,
Endure lots of pain,
Survive the throes of ghetto woes
Time and time again.

Things would not come easy,
At times I felt like crying,
Determined to gift-wrap the world
Or willing to die trying.

Winter boots and Easter suits
And summers filled with glee.
Never mind if I was suffocating,
As long as my kids could breathe.

So, I toiled by day and learned by night
Lunched on rice and bread.
Wore my children’s hand-me-downs
Just to get ahead.

I cooked and cleaned and in between
Encouraged my children to strive.
I scraped and clawed but through it all,
My eyes stayed on the prize.

Destiny for me was simply
Duty without break.
If asked to do it all over again,
I would not hesitate.

See, all I ever wanted
Was the life I never had
Served to my babies
In the absence of their dads.

I wanted to show them through persistence
They could have it all,
What matters most is how we rise,
Not so much how we fall.

My kids are now grown with kids of their own,
Some of those kids with child.
Some day when my story is told,
I hope I’ve made them proud.

All we have to offer the world,
The legacy we leave behind.
I pray all mothers love their children
As much as I love mine.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and is a co-author of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. The above is only an excerpt from a poem he wrote for his mother who has been his biggest supporter. Terry continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. He has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

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Painted Guilty – Charles Mamou

Photograph of Charles Mamou, courtesy of ©manfredbaumann.com

A fax cover sheet addressed to Assistant District Attorney Lyn McClellan and dated September 24, 1999, along with an HPD officer’s handwritten caller ID records were seen for the first time by Charles Mamou in 2020, over twenty years after the Houston Police Department and District Attorney’s office had access to them.  The cover sheet and phone records were not shared with Mamou at trial, and could have assisted in the investigation as well as discredited the testimony of two of the prosecution’s key witnesses.  In a case without physical evidence, those witnesses were critical. The jury that found Charles Mamou guilty and sentenced him to death never saw the documents, and they were only recently obtained by Mamou’s advocates.

Charles Mamou was sentenced to die in 1999, not long after this fax is dated, for the kidnapping and murder of Mary Carmouche.  Mamou has always maintained his innocence and describes fleeing a drug deal gone wrong in a car that didn’t belong to him – Carmouche was in the backseat – and returning to an apartment complex in Houston, Texas, where he was staying.  Mamou lived in Louisiana and was in Texas, in most part, for a drug deal.  According to Mamou, he last saw Carmouche alive and in the parking lot of the apartment complex, along with several other individuals, two of whom would end up being key witnesses for the prosecution, claiming they were at home in bed, and never saw Mamou after the drug deal – also claiming they did not make or receive phone calls that night.

The phone records – one of two pieces of actual evidence in the case – were never shared with Mamou or the jury.  The other piece of evidence that Mamou and the jury never heard about was a rape kit that was collected, which included the collection of ‘trace evidence’ and ‘hairs’.  In a case with no fingerprints at the scene of the body, no footprints, no witnesses, no weapon – a rape kit and phone records are the next best thing.  The prosecution knew about both.  The jury and Mamou knew about neither. Not only did the prosecution know about the rape kit – they also told the jury Mamou sexually assaulted the victim.

The HPD investigator’s notes include identifying notations next to the phone numbers.  The victim was last seen alive on the evening of December 6, 1998, early morning of December 7, 1998.  The key witness, Howard Scott, lived at the apartment complex Mamou said he drove the car to. These are Scott’s caller ID records from that night, as written by an HPD investigator that went to Scott’s apartment on December 8, 1998.

11:19 p.m., Oretha Gray;
11:25 p.m., Sun Suites;
11:46 p.m., Emily Griggs;
11:48 p.m., Meri Eubanks;
12:14 a.m., payphone;
12:19 a.m., M.E. Brinson – Shawn’s mother;
1:54 a.m., Meri Eubanks;
2:37 a.m., wireless [WRITER’S NOTE:  the phone number listed at 2:37 is identified in HPD’s file as belonging to another key witness, Samuel Johnson];
3:12 a.m., M.E. Brinson – Shawn calls for Howard;
3:43 a.m., call notes.

Mamou could have used this information in his defense, and investigators may have had an opportunity to pursue the location of the wireless phone call made at 2:37 a.m. from a cell phone used by Samuel Johnson, a witness who testified he was home in bed and didn’t talk to anyone that night. Johnson’s contradicting statement and testimony are sufficient reason to pursue the origin and purpose of the 2:37 a.m. phone call for anyone trying to find answers in a murder investigation.

Charles Mamou did not live in Houston. All of the key witnesses did, and Samuel Johnson also worked for Orkin at the time, testifying that his area was in the southwest area of Houston. Although it was often reported that the victim was found near some abandoned houses, she was actually found in what detectives described as a hard to find location in a suburban neighborhood in the southwest area of Houston in the backyard of a house that was for sale – not some abandoned houses.

When the HPD investigator went to Howard Scott’s apartment on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, the investigator was actually hoping to arrest Mamou. They knew he was there that morning from Howard Scott’s wife, and they knew Mamou had been involved in the drug deal that Mary Carmouche had last been seen at. Investigators didn’t find Mamou, but they wrote down Scott’s caller ID records and transported Scott to HPD that day to make a written statement. Not only is that documented in HPD’s case file, Detective Novak also testified regarding Howard Scott’s written statement that day.

That original statement from Howard Scott is nowhere to be found. It is not in the HPD case file, and according to the District Attorney’s office, they don’t have it either. I was told by HPD, that ‘everything doesn’t always makes it into the file’. The following day, police brought Scott and his wife back to HPD and took written statements again on Wednesday, December 9, 1998. Both of Robin Scott’s statements are available, but Howard Scott’s original statement is missing.

I tried to speak to Scott in 2019, but he refused to talk to me. He has spoken to other people over the years, and his statements are inconsistent throughout. The most recent of which, in 2019, includes a physical description of Carmouche from that night, and seeing Samuel Johnson, Charles Mamou and Mary Carmouche all at the apartment complex at the same time – a complete reversal from his testimony, in which he claimed he was home in bed and did not see Samuel Johnson or Charles Mamou after the drug deal, and his phone did not ring. Howard Scott described seeing Samuel Johnson, Charles Mamou, Mary Carmouche, and Kenneth Duplechan all alive and at the apartment complex parking lot after the drug deal.

The jury never heard that. The prosecutor who, according to the the fax cover sheet, was sent Scott’s caller ID records on September 24, 1999, listened to his witness testify two weeks later on October 7, 1999, about going to bed between 11 and midnight, and about how the phone was ringing prior to that, as he sat with ‘Shawn’ and Ken. Scott told the jury there were ‘no more phone calls’ after he went to bed. Neither the jury nor Mamou are ever told ‘Shawn’, the man Scott said he was talking to in his apartment before he went to bed between 11 and 12, called Scott’s apartment at 12:19 a.m., and again at 3:12 a.m., and that Scott’s phone didn’t stop ringing until 3:43 a.m. Although Howard Scott has consistantly contradicted himself for twenty years, and his first statement is missing, he was a key witness in the case against Mamou.

Samuel Johnson, the driver in the drug deal gone wrong, who fled the alley without Mamou, testified he went straight home to bed and spoke to no one, never seeing Mamou or Carmouche again, not seeing or speaking to anyone that night. According to the HPD investigator’s notes, Samuel Johnson called Howard Scott’s apartment at 2:37 a.m., from a wireless phone. At that time in history, landlines were frequently used for phone calls made from a person’s residence, and wireless calls were more likely to be made when away from home. Mamou never had an opportunity to point out to the jury that Johnson’s phone made a call to Howard Scott’s apartment nor was he able to investigate the location of the call’s origin. The prosecution did not share the available information with the jury.

‘Ken’ who Howard Scott mentioned was sitting in his living room in his testimony, has since been interviewed, although there is nothing in HPD’s file to indicate that anyone involved in trying to find Carmouche’s killer ever interviewed him during HPD’s ‘investigation’. In 2019 Kenneth Duplechan told an investigator he saw Charles Mamou, Howard Scott, Samuel Johnson and Shawn Eaglin in the apartment complex parking lot that night – along with the blue Lexus Mamou fled the drug deal in. That statement contradicts everything the jury was told. Kenneth Duplechan also stated he stayed in the parking lot talking to Howard Scott and Charles Mamou after Samuel Johnson drove away. The jury never heard any of that, but the phone records reveal one name coming up twice on Scott’s phone that night – Meri Eubanks. Meri Eubanks does appear to know Kenneth Duplechan, but Eubanks and Duplechan will not respond to inquiries from me. Although the HPD investigator is the individual who wrote down the name Meri Eubanks in his notes as a caller to Scott’s apartment, there are no records of anyone at HPD interviewing Eubanks in their efforts to locate Carmouche’s killer.

There were other phone calls made to the apartment that night that could have been investigated, but according to police files were not, and Mamou was not aware of them at the time, so he was unable to pursue them himself.

The prosecution also knew about actual physical evidence that was collected as part of a rape kit. They did not share what they learned with the jury or Mamou. That information has been kept from Mamou for over twenty years.

On July 8, 1999, two months before Mamou’s trial, an investigator for the District Attorney, Al Rodriguez, contacted HPD and asked them to process a rape kit.

On July 12, 1999, the results were back, indicating that no semen was detected, trace evidence and hairs existed and had been collected.

During the trial, the medical examiner testified at length about the procedures during an autopsy as well as reviewing the autopsy report itself. At no point throughout the entire trial, or in the twenty years since, was Charles Mamou or the jury told a rape kit existed. Quite the opposite. The rape kis was so well not documented, that in 2007 a private investigator looking for more evidence had to report back to Mamou that he could not find more evidence obtained by the medical examiner.

Last year, on October 30, 2019, after I had gone to HPD and the District Attorney’s office requesting the results of the rape kit and being told they don’t keep that kind of information, I contacted the Harris County Medical examiner looking for the information. It was confirmed for me at that time that the rape kit had been collected at the time of the autopsy in spite of the medical examiner neglecting to include that information in his autopsy report and testimony.

On November 19, 2019, I was able to obtain the results to the actual rape kit, noting no semen found and trace evidence collected.

The information wasn’t just kept from Mamou and the jury, the prosecutor also told the jury that a sexual assault took place, but failed to share with the jury or the defense that no semen was found .

A lot of things were told to the jury to steer them in the direction of a guilty verdict. The day after Carmouche went missing, Mamou was with his cousin when he picked up some sunglasses that he had dropped during his stay in Houston. Without surrounding information, the sunglasses became tied to the victim in the courtroom and later in news reports. It was never pointed out for the jury that the glasses were found approximately five miles from the body.

There were a lot of things not pointed out for the jury. Mamou never saw the original video statement of his cousin, Terrence Dodson, who told jurors that Mamou confessed to him. In 2019, I sent Mamou a transcript of the original statement. Although Dodson testified Mamou confessed to him over days, partially in person and partially over the phone, HPD investigators had recorded Dodson originally telling them Mamou called him from Louisiana ‘before day’ on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, and told him everything. Investigators knew, while they were listening to Dodson’s statement, Mamou had not left Houston until Tuesday at 1:30 p.m. on a bus. The interview took place on Wednesday, December 9, 1998.

Dodson’s testimony not only differed from his statement, but Mamou never saw Dodson again after the morning of Monday, December 7, 1998. He could not have confessed to him in person as he testified, nor could he have confessed in one phone call from Louisiana before day on December 8, 1998, as he said in his original statement because Mamou did not leave Houston on a bus headed to Louisiana until Tuesday afternoon at 1:30.

The jury also never saw a letter Terrence Dodson wrote to Mamou a month after Carmouche was murdered, stating he was glad Mamou didn’t tell him anything.

In 2019 it was noted in the HPD case files linked to Mamou’s case that biological evidence was signed out. I inquired at HPD, the Property Room, the Homicide Department, and the District Attorney’s office regarding why the evidence was signed out.

At the HPD Records Department, I was told they didn’t know the answer, and I should contact the Property Room, the District Attorney’s office, and the Medical Examiner. 

At the District Attorney’s office, I was told the case was currently ‘closed’.  There would be no current requests for evidence from them because no one was working it, and the files themselves were in storage – the case was inactive. 

At the HPD Property Room, which was where the biological evidence was signed out from – I was told there is protocol in place, and in order to find out why the biological evidence was signed out, I would need to go to Homicide and speak with the investigator on the case.

At Homicide, I was told it was a ‘cold case’ and there was no active investigator on the case, I would need to talk to the person in charge of cold cases.

The cold case investigator wasn’t in and never returned my phone call.

I later received a phone call from D. Wilker in Homicide.  I was told ‘only the Property Division could answer my questions’.  Of note – the Property Division is where I had originally gone and was told that due to ‘protocol’, I would need to go to Homicide.

During that phone conversation, I was also told Ms. Wilker would reach out to the Property Division to see if she could get an answer for me, but she couldn’t make any promises.  In addition, she informed me ‘we are mandated to test every piece of evidence’, suggesting that the evidence was taken out for testing.   Ms. Wilker also suggested an investigator could have requested the material be checked out, but as I had already been told – there was no investigator on the case at that time.  I was told she would get back in touch with me after she reached out to the Property Division.

After a couple weeks and no contact from Ms. Wilker – I called her.  Ms. Wilker told me the rape kit results I was looking for at that time, which I later found without her assistance, were ‘irrelevant’.   I was told the defense had every piece of evidence they needed to have.  The ‘window of opportunity’ for finding out anything was closed.  And, finally, yes, the evidence had been checked out in 2019 and had been in the possession of Mary K. Childs-Henry, but it was now back where it belonged.  It had been checked out for ‘cataloging purposes’. 

I then asked Ms. Wilker if she considered the matter closed, and she told me she did.

After that phone call I wrote a letter to Internal Affairs and the Chief of Police, as ‘cataloging’ two pieces of twenty year old biological evidence didn’t seem logical, and I had just been told the rape kit results that were never shared with Mamou were ‘irrelevant’, which also seemed illogical considering evidence was collected .  

The Houston Police Department responded, telling me no one had done anything wrong. “In your letter, you inquired about procedures for removing evidence regarding Mr. Mamou’s case. The District Attorney is the only person that can authorize any type of evidence to be released for any reason.  There are procedures in place for care, custody and control of evidence that is stored in the Property Room. You may reach the Harris County District Attorney’s Office at ….”

As of this date, it remains unclear why the biological evidence was signed out in 2019. 

Charles Mamou has spent over two decades on death row and is awaiting an execution date. In a case without evidence shared with the jury, the prosecution painted a picture. In the painting, the jury was told Mamou sexually assaulted the victim and murdered individuals in previous unsolved murder cases. They were shown autopsy photos of another murder victim, from another crime, and heard the impact statements from the victim’s family in that crime.

One might argue with HPD that evidence is relevant. It’s relevant to victims and their families, and it is relevant to defendants. Charles Mamou’s little sister recently described the last Christmas Eve she shared with her brother over twenty years ago.  She and her family spent the day at her Uncle White’s house in Lafayette.  Their uncle had a house big enough for everybody, and his gumbo took all day and night to cook, but was worth the wait. 

When the family got home that night, they could barely get through the living room because Mamou and his friends had been busy picking up gifts while everyone was gone.  The kids weren’t allowed to open anything until morning, but their mom did allow them to set off the fireworks Mamou had brought home.  There were so many, Mamou’s sister remembers the sky turning pink, and she remembers seeing two of Mamou’s children that night and the step kids he treated like his own. 

Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net.


There is also a facebook page dedicated to Charles Mamou.

 Photo, courtesy of ©manfredbaumann.com

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.

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The Knowledge Of Good And Evil

I.

Scene:  Death Row – a Christmas
tree, ornamented, tinseled, well-lit,
complete with phony gifts beneath. 
It crowds one
half of the hall as we shoulder on
around en route from and to chow.
Most guys walk on by – eyes ahead;
but some press
close to thump a tiny colored light
bulb hard enough to
                                                darken it,
pinch needles into zees, or brazenly
slap the crap out of plastic dec-
orations, as if to say, “I’m hurting
you because you’re hurting me.”
Still other men oohhh and aahhh,
like little kids, eyeing mint-condition
memories that are kept shelved
except for special occasions.  Never-
theless, the Lord is my shepherd-
                                                I shall not want.

II.

The other day an officer stood
there peering deep
into its depth of plastic branches,
then grabbed it roughly, angrily
even, and shook-shook-shook
the fuck out of it, rattling off a
noisy mess of decorations.  “Nope,
Sarge, nothing!” he hollered up
the hall, his voice rolling over
scattered ornaments and turning
a sharp corner to enter the office,
from where a faint, unconcerned
reply returned:  “Okay.”  The officer
                                                scanned
the wreckage.  Then looked at us
and shrugged.  He goosestepped back
back to the office.  We rebuilt our tree.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer, always keeping us on our toes. He is an occasional contributor to WITS, a co-author of Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row, and his writing can be found on several other platforms. I’m happy to say, he is also the third place winner in WITS’ final writing contest of 2020.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

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A Writer’s Way

For over three years I’ve been writing for Walk In Those Shoes, a sounding board for prisoners whose voices would otherwise be muffled behind prison walls, as well as a call to action for readers.  In a world of social statuses, cultural practices and racial characteristics that serve to divide us, we remain connected through our human experiences.  We’ve all lost a loved one.  We’ve all dreamed.  We’ve all had childhood crushes for that special someone that turned our words to mush.   We’ve all done something we wish we could take back, and we all have something yet to attain.  Our experiences link us in a way that voids our differences, the fabric of our worldly relationships woven in our stories.

It was after reading personal and thought-provoking essays by writers like John Green and Charles Mamou, that I recognized the importance of Walk In Those Shoes.   Each piece was thoughtfully edited and kept true to its writer while providing a visual nexus that was soulful, stories not told with rhetoric but the realism of childhood abandonment, abuse and regrets.  There were also tales of familial joys, kindness and compassion.  I could hardly wait to join such an astonishing cast of writers whom I’d come to admire through their shared vulnerability.

On October 5, 2017, Walk In Those Shoes featured a piece titled I’m Still Breathing, an homage to Dr. Maya Angelou.  In addition to the message, there was an image of a rusted manacle laid bare on granite siding.  This visual selection was a symbol of empathy meant to resonate with my words. It was my first writing to be published on Walk In Those Shoes, my induction into a brotherhood of writers and one of my proudest moments.

Simply put, Walk In Those Shoes is a proverbial reminder that we are not without empathy.  It is a platform for writers with broken pasts to make whole their productive future.  I’m grateful for my fellow contributors for their courage to share their experiences.  Our stories are not meant to suffer in silence, our stories are meant to heal.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and his creative resume is rapidly growing. His is a co-author of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, a book banned from prisons in North Carolina; he is an active board member of Walk In Those Shoes as well as one of several frequent contest judges; and he continues to work on his memoir, as well as a book of fiction. His writing abilities are amazingly far reaching, and we are fortunate to have his voice and input in the direction of WITS. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after studying his case file and transcripts WITS also believes in that innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

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Breaking News

I.
My block housed only 18 to 24-year-olds.
For my one hour of recreation on my first
day there, weighted with full-restraints (hand-
cuffs, ankle-shackles, waist-chains connect-
ing them) I clank-paced the tier.  Each
cell door had an eight-inch square of
window, some framing faces that peered
at me.  Marko, a feral-looking latino who
had come from home to hole as a pretrial
detainee, flagged me as I passed.  He was
breathless with excitement and blinking
rapidly as he testified:  “God speaks to me.”
He’d tried but failed to pluck out
                                                his eyes,
so, to receive divine enlightenment,
he instead had committed to hand-
copying the Bible’s one thousand
three hundred and eighty-nine
chapters, every jot and tittle
using crayon-sized floppy-
rubber pens that were
approved (suicide-proof)
for segregated inmates.
He’d been at it two
years, during which
his hair and beard
grew like Jesus’.
His eyes widened,
crackling with
supernatural
energy as he
showed me a
waist-high
tower of
babbling
pages.

II.
Skyler, freckled and well-muscled
from toting hay bales, had never
traveled past city limits until he
got arrested.  An accent is not an
accent in one’s hometown – it’s
invisible – but Skyler’s tobacco
bent even further into ‘baccer.
At first.  Six months in, we were
friends.  I called his name from
behind my door, since it’d been
several days since we’d spoken.
I pressed my ear to my door’s
steel crack to catch his answer.
That’s not my name.  My name
is Fahbo (Fabulous, in short)
from New York.  I’m an ahtist.
 
I could feel his tongue wrang-
ling his identity, twisting
it’s straight but tilted
spine into a kind of
personal scoliosis,
figuring nobody
would care to
remove his
corselet.
He was
right.

III.
This one guy loved the hole.  He’s been in
and out of many holes since age fifteen.
This manimal fancied himself a hunter.
He’d cover his cell’s light fixture, and his
rear-wall’s strip of window; so, to see in,
an officer was forced to shade her eyes
from the tier’s glare while leaning
face against the eight-inch
door window.  They’d hear a faint
but steady friction:  ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-
and suddenly a milky roar would
splat into the Plexiglas at mouth-
                                    level,
followed by a weaponized penis
thudding and rubbing it in.  The
guard would scream a variation of, “Oh,
you nasty muthafucka!  Get your sick
ass down from there!”  He’d built
a ‘deer stand’ he bragged, by
stacking books on either side
of his door so he could
get a clear head shot.
He seemed shocked
when I admitted
I didn’t do it
too, as if I
were some
strange
beast.

IV.
Evidently, prison administrators
have figured out how to remove
evolution’s rev-limiter
                                    and take off
its restrictor plate.
Its transformative
mutations now take
place in as little as six months using
Therapeutic Seclusion – also known
as THE HOLE, in prison lingo.  No
one who passes through ever leaves
the same person if he entered a year
ago.  The hole is a tool designed to break
man down to his quintessence.  It hyper-
bolizes by creating a parody of one’s character.
I’ve seen it strip away the masks and games of faith –
no time for masquerades when insanity is
gaining – forcing a sort of apotheosis.  I
have watched it petrify pretense
into cement, making men fake
forever.  I’ve even witnessed
it dissolve humanity in
atavistic acid:  acting
like an animal now
comes naturally
to him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer, always keeping us on our toes, and an occasional contributor to WITS. Mr. Wilkerson is a co-author of Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

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Six Cubic Feet

As a Boy Scout grasping the basics of wilderness survival and hiking through buzzing, mosquito-infested forests while life as I knew it faded behind, I first had to grapple with transience and the pain and fear interwoven with impermanence.   Everything I carried served a practical function, and after being rolled up, tucked, folded, stacked and packed, it altogether occupied six cubic feet, or so my canvas rucksack advertised.

An object’s value was the sum of its utility minus its volume and mass, measured in cubic inches and ounces.  The less I had, the freer I felt.  My sense of liberty kindled when I was limited to basic necessities, my creativity sparked to life by the demands of simple survival.  One of my handiest items was twine, a fat spool of the sturdy kind for starting fires, building snares, catching fish, dangling food from a tree branch, wrapping tourniquets, and generally for binding.  Many things find a higher purpose when bound.

Now I camp in a cell with the square footage of a tent.  According to prison policy, I should be able to fold tuck, roll, stack and pack all my belongings into three boxy, flimsy, white plastic shopping bags about the size of brown paper grocery bags, all amounting to a total of six cubic feet.

Books qualify as personal property, no more than ten.  It takes ten books to adequately study my faith, but it also takes ten law books to adequately work on my legal appeals and get my body off death row. That’s 2.5 cubic feet of mental and spiritual acuity for me.

I own one cubic foot of hygiene items, luxuries to prevent odors, rashes and to preserve dignity, to soothe my itchy need to feel neat and clean. Two more cubic feet are crammed with my creativity – paper, pens, poetry, essays, drawings, notebooks full of ideas.

That leaves half a cubic foot for commissary food and sentimentality.  I own a large brown envelope packed with tattered pages scrawled on by my dad before he died and crappy-but-cute kindergarten drawings by my nieces who swear I’m the world’s best uncle even though I was already here when they were born.  I also have a two-inch stack of photos of my brothers and me when we were little boys, of our parents prior to their divorce, of people I’ve never met and places I’ve never been but that are important to my friends or family and therefore important to me.

That’s how I fill and maintain my six feet of cubic space, carved from a hard place.  Technically, then, my commissary food is actually considered contraband and could be confiscated.  To keep anything new is to discard something old. 

I keep my life packed up in bags that tear easily, which is fine by me.  In the end my real treasures – my faith, my memory, my love and my creativity – they all inhabit the infinite space inside my soul, incorruptible, ethereal, eternal… and free to bloom.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer and occasional contributor to WITS. Mr. Wilkerson is also a co-author of Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

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