Suicides, assaults, perpetuated acts of nonsense, exonerations, relationships severed and put back together – I thought I’d experienced all there was on Death Row. I’ve seen mild, treatable medical conditions fester and decline, often turning fatal due to inadequate healthcare. And I’ve seen the dismal look in a man’s eyes, helpless and void, moments away from being executed – yet even after twenty years, nothing could’ve prepared me for today.
For over six months now, due to global restrictions imposed to prevent the spread of COVID-19, all weekly in-person Death Row visitation has been suspended. As an alternative, online video visitation was implemented, which was a welcome remedy to the growing concerns of our loved ones for our well-being. For men decades removed from society, video visits ignited Death Row with an ever burning anticipation to view our family in the comforts of their homes as opposed to a concrete booth with reinforced glass and steel bars. Appointments were made faster than a sweepstakes giveaway and everyone that returned from a visit had a tale to tell, some recounted with exuberant smiles, some with heavy hearts.
In the following weeks, as per safety regulations, the site for Death Row video visits was moved to another area in the prison. Many of us know the new location as the ‘Death Watch’. It’s where capital punishment is performed. Few men here have suffered the Death Watch prior to having their scheduled executions vacated, one in particular describing the most dreadful night ever with a broken voice to match. More often, the men who’d been hauled off to the Death Watch would not return. It was a wasteland that was now being assigned familial merit and a path on which I would walk.
Friday, September 18, 2020, at 9:03 a.m., a call blared over the P/A system, one that came expectedly as I had awaited the sound since the night before. It would be my first video visit with my family, whom I hadn’t seen in months. The anticipation of it all elevated my mood beyond the reach of my daily struggles. I hopped into the standard Death Row uniform, one meant to evoke guilt – a hot red jumper that draws heavy around the shoulders in a color scheme that clashes with one’s dignity. With nothing left to do but settle my eagerness, I strapped on my face mask and headed on my way.
I joined the company of two other inmates, also with scheduled visits, as they shuffled slightly on their heels, anxious to be off. One guy, like myself, was a first-timer; I surmised he was equally as nervous. The other inmate had attended video visits prior and schooled me on what was to come.
With the arrival of the escorting officer, we set out on our trip from the Death Row facility down to an area usually reserved for visitation, nothing to heighten the excitement along the way, yet nothing to diminish it. We then discontinued the familiar route and veered down a flight of stairs, a control station identical to the one above at the bottom. We crossed the lobby to a sliding glass door that held beyond its threshold something menacing – the very path condemned men had journeyed before as they faced a despicable end.
The door cranked open with a woeful whine, like a symphony of restless souls. I followed the group as they seemingly proceeded with no ills for our whereabouts. What looked to be a short distance to the other end of the hallway became a faraway stretch of land, my steps laden with the realization that, for some, this was their final walk.
Rows of windows, made murky and distorted to deny one last peaceful look at nature, lined the passageway. Here, nothing would be offered to soothe the spirit of the wretched, though in a failed act of humanity, sedatives would be used to ease their pain. At the midway point was a sally port with its inner workings obscured as it sprang into view like a childhood boogeyman, chasing away my sense of security. I needn’t inquire of anyone to know this was the Death Watch. It appeared nothing like the horror I’d dreamed of, yet it incited the same despair. I was standing in the final resting place of a friend of mine named Joe who was executed in ’03 by lethal injection. Longing for his company, I whispered to myself and hoped he could hear me.
We made our way to a waiting area, each taking up a station as the first of us was ushered away to begin his scheduled visit. It would be some twenty minutes later before he returned, talkative and rather giddy as the next guy hurried off in his place. I sat and thought of all the laws passed over the years that would’ve prevented some executions, like the Mental Retardation bill that would’ve saved a man named Perry, or the Racial Justice act for another guy, Insane. One law that was enacted excluded defendants under eighteen years of age from being eligible to receive the death penalty, an amendment that would’ve kept two other men, Hassan and J-Rock, alive today.
The second inmate emerged with a smile so bright I soaked up a bit of his joy. I was sure that I’d seen the worst of the Death Watch. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I stepped around the corner to what I thought would be a cozy, makeshift cubicle with a monitor on which the faces of my loved ones awaited. Instead, I happened onto an arching hallway with blinding lights at the far-end and a metal tank made obvious by the gear-wheel bolted to the door. I was told it was the crank that released the gasses into the chamber during executions. Beside the Death Tank was the viewing area, where the deaths have actually been watched by those who would champion vengeance while holding others to a different standard. I cringed at the thought of such an immoral practice and the historical transgressions. I’ve often wondered if my friends felt alone when they were executed – part of me now prays that they did.
After visitation, I passed by the infamous Death Chamber once more and peered into the darkened sarcophagus. I had hoped to get a feel for my friend, Joe, but all I got was a question of fate.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he and others co-authored Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
I am change in progress, striving not so much to be rid of my adverse circumstances, but to die a better person than I lived, and the last twenty years have taught me a lot. It wasn’t long ago I faced my greatest fear and stepped onto the set of a live production of Reginald Rose’s ‘Twelve Angry Men’ to perform before a swell of doubtful prison administrators. Just this year, I made a goal to start a college fund for grandchildren I’ve yet to meet. And probably the most life-changing thing I’ve done is fully accept myself and taken accountability for the wrongs I’ve done in my life.
My wrongs aren’t what landed me on Death Row though. A verdict doesn’t change the truth. I wasn’t in the Pizza Inn the night its manager got shot and killed, and for over two decades I’ve wondered why my cousin would testify I told him I did. I knew he must have a good reason. Fear, maybe, is one thing I came up with, fear of what the system might do to him if he told the truth, whatever that might be. Since my trial, I have learned his dreadlocks were at the scene of the crime. The jury never heard that. Maybe I wouldn’t be here if they had. Maybe he thought we’d have to trade places if he told whatever he really knows. At least that’s what I told myself for twenty years.
That was before I saw what he told an investigator who sought him out in an attempt to help me. Jesse Hill made it clear he was only interested in keeping me right here.
Far from helping me, my cousin implicated another member of my family as a possible accomplice to the crime, and time and again brought my mother into the conversation, “His momma know he did it. She know how that boy is.” “My aunt did this.” “My aunt should have gave it to you,” when asked his middle name. “Why does my aunt keep doing this shit.” “She need to talk to her son. He done what he did and bragged about it.”
Hill blamed the bad blood between us on me choosing to confess to him – but the truth is, I never did that, because the truth is – I had nothing to confess. I never saw Jesse Hill that night, and I never confessed to him that night. Jesse Hill and Ronald Bullock both know that. Truth doesn’t change.
For all Hill’s fierce condemnation of me, it was a bizarre contradiction when he wanted it on record that his feelings had been hurt. “That’s my family, it hurt me even to go in there. I ain’t see you wrote that down.” I guess he didn’t see the irony in what he was saying.
As much as my cousin wanted to be portrayed as hurt by our familial bonds and clamored for sympathy, his defamation of my character was limitless, his agenda clear. “I know he did it.”
When I was a kid, I looked up to my cousin. I looked up to him when I was a man too, and for over twenty years, I wondered ‘why?’ I still don’t know ‘why’, but it cleared up a lot when my cousin told the interviewer, “I regret even knowin’ ‘em.”
It used to be that the most meaningful word I knew was ‘family’. The term denoted loyalty, safety, honor and trust. It was the highest respect one could pay another. But when a person you once admired says they regret knowing you… what’s left to say? We aren’t family – just people who share an insignificant past. Jesse Hill contends his version of the events on May 16, 1999, are true. I maintain he is a liar. Those who really know who I am – know the truth. And my truth says a lot more about Jesse Hill than he could ever say about me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he co-authored Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
NOTE TO READER. Please contact kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson in Wilson, NC, any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day and night. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful. Details of this case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/
A few years ago here on Death Row, a handful of men were summoned to our unit manager’s office. They didn’t return for weeks. Prison administrators accused the men of plotting… something that was never explained. All we knew was that the guys, our friends, were put in segregation while being ‘investigated’. They returned a couple weeks later after nothing turned up, a few pounds lighter physically and also in terms of their property.
Putting a prisoner ‘under investigation’ is the prison’s way of segregating him without charging him, without writing him up for an infraction, without due process. It’s a way to punish in advance while searching for a legitimate reason to justify a formal write-up. It’s a discretionary tool administered in response to rumors or suspicion of a rule violation, vengeance, say, for pissing off a duty lieutenant.
Prisons are highly structured, highly controlled environments, governed by routine, every day much the same as the food – bland, monotonous, repetitive. You’d think being permanently imprisoned would mean where a person lays their head would be set in stone, right? Despite control mechanisms shaping nearly every facet of daily life, being incarcerated means shit can happen at any second. No one can be sure where they will sleep at night – their current cell, bandaged on a hospital bed, shivering in a psyche ward, handcuffed in a holding tank, waiting for a cell assignment in solitary. And anytime someone is forced to move off the unit, their personal property is searched and held to the strictest standard. Extra anything equals contraband.
Every time we get sent to the hole, we lose our personal property. Our jailers, tasked with packing our belongings for these moves, say much of our property is ‘contraband’ because it ‘exceeds space limitations’.
Right before I came here in ’06, someone wrote an anonymous note on one of the guys already here. The staff despised him, and he was accused of bullying the men on his pod. Though no one ever came forward with evidence or testimony to substantiate this claim, he was placed ‘under investigation’ and didn’t return for years.
Once you are in solitary confinement, if you violate even the most trivial policy – having an extra pair of socks, things that typically go ignored or at worst elicit a verbal warning – you earn additional write-ups. Fifteen days. Thirty days. Forty-five days. Days pile onto your stay. Receiving a series of write-ups in quick succession can get you recommended for long-term isolation, a minimum of six months but usually at least a year.
Another time, while awaiting my trial, officers raided the cell next to mine. Through an interconnected air vent, I heard the officers informing the irate and disbelieving occupant that they had to take all of his property, including the clothes he had on, because he was being put on suicide watch. I never found out whom he’d offended, but somebody – a prisoner or staff member – had filled out a sick-call in his name, posing as him and threatening to kill himself. He was forcefully stripped naked and dragged to an observation cell on the psych ward, where he spent the next two weeks.
Incarcerated people accumulate a ton of attachments, possessions, sentiments, activities, etc. We latch onto them, make them a part of us, become dependent on them. They make us heavy. For that reason, many guys in here walk around high-strung and hyper vigilant about their interaction with staff, “Man, I won’t even speak to that officer. He’s too spiteful. I don’t want him searching my cell – I’ve got too many books.” Or photos. Or art supplies. Or food. Any time I’m called to the office for an appointment or to pick up legal mail, my heart races. I question whether I’ve pissed off anyone, I wonder if I’ll return.
Before officers enter our area to search cells or arrest someone, they stop in the hall at the guard booth and start putting on blue latex gloves like nurses wear. We watch through the Plexiglas wall. Someone will holler, “MAN DOWN!” and during the fifteen seconds prior to the guards’ entrance, we ask ourselves, “Who are they coming to get? Did they glance up at my cell?”
Several toilets will flush, swallowing…. whatever. Most of us prop ourselves in doorways, or continue what we were doing in the dayroom, watching but not watching TV, playing but not playing chess, stiff but nonchalant, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves in case the guards are undecided about who they are coming for.
Some guys are sentimental hoarders, their cells thick with excesses of everything. Others keep nothing. Other than a cup, toothbrush, toothpaste, bar of soap, and neatly made bunk, their cells hardly look occupied. They give the guards nothing to hurt them with, no leverage. They’re nearly invisible and are impervious to prison life.
Incarceration has a transient quality, akin to homelessness, forcing us to continually determine which of our possessions are extra baggage. And, how do I avoid the unavoidable and unpredictable? I don’t. I simply prepare for it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and is undeniably talented. Not only does Mr. Wilkerson sometimes share his writing with us, he was also a contributor to 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
“The State has proved it beyond a reasonable doubt, and presented evidence that puts him there, puts him telling people what he did. And that is enough.”
That was the prosecution during the closing argument that sent Terry Robinson to death row for a crime he has always maintained he knew nothing about. There wasn’t any physical evidence in the case that could tie Robinson to the murder.
We don’t have to have DNA. We have to present enough evidence so you know in your heart that he was involved, and he did this. The State has done that.
“So, convict this man. Don’t let him out.”
The jury did just that.
Robinson was in the area of the murder that night. It was normal for him to be in the area. Robinson lived in Wilson, North Carolina, and he had a girlfriend who lived across the street from the Pizza Inn, where a murder occurred, not to mention friends and relatives in the surrounding area.
DNA exists in connection to the crime, but it does not point to Terry Robinson.
There are also two latent fingerprints and one palm print available, but they do not point to Terry Robinson. According to the testimony of Special Agent Navarro of the NC State Bureau of Investigation, “Terry Lamont Robinson did not make any of the latent fingerprints that were of value for identification purposes.”
When asked, “The long and the short of it is, palm prints or other kinds of prints, nothing matched?”
Agent Navarro responded, “That is correct.”
There were hairs collected. They weren’t hairs that matched Ronald Bullock, the one man who said he was involved in the crime. They weren’t Terry Robinson’s. According to Special Agent James Gregory, assigned to the Trace Evidence Section, when asked if he was able to find a match between what was collected at the crime scene and samples from Ronald Bullock and Terry Robinson, “I did not find any hairs that had a root attached to them that were consistent with the known head hair standards collected from the – from Terry Robinson, or Ronald Bullock.”
There was a gun associated with Terry Robinson, which Robinson doesn’t deny being connected to. But when asked specifically if the bullets used in the murder were from the gun associated with Robinson, Special Agent Marrs responded, “It could not have been fired from that .380 pistol, State’s Exhibit Number Two.”
Terry Robinson was not an angel. He had a criminal record and sold drugs for a living, but the gun associated with him was not the gun used in the crime.
The case rested with two men who accused Terry Robinson of murder. Both of those two individuals have since contradicted their own testimony. According to the testimony of Ronald Bullock, who accused Terry Robinson of hatching the plot to rob the Pizza Inn, pulling him into it, and eventually murdering a man in front of him, they stopped by Jesse Hill’s home before the crime. Bullock testified that Robinson asked Jesse Hill to participate in the crime as well.
“He said he didn’t want to be part of it. We were crazy.” Bullock then testified he and Robinson dropped Jesse Hill off at his mother’s home.
After Robinson’s conviction and sentence to death, Bullock had something different to say – things he didn’t share with the jury. “Jed (Jesse Hill) gave me his dreadlocks and a headband to wear as a disguise. Jed rode with us to the Pizza Inn and to ride behind the Pizza Inn at the apartment complex.”
Bullock went on to say that Jesse Hill, “was going to get some money for his part for the help.” Bullock, in a written statement then described the robbery which differed from how he described it in his original testimony, and he also stated Jed said, “I want my dreadlocks back.”
That written statement, made in 2003, was how Terry Robinson first learned the dreadlocks he had heard about at his trial – belonged to Jesse Hill. The dreadlocks used as the murderer’s disguise, were actually made of hair that belonged to one of his accusers. A jury never heard that. They actually heard Jesse Hill described by the prosecution as an innocent ‘hero’ who received nothing for his help with the case. That turned out not to be true as well.
Jesse Hill has had a few things to say since the trial also, much of which contradicts what the jury heard.
Following is more of the closing argument from the prosecutor when he described Jesse Hill – at length.
“Now, Jesse Hill. If you ever wondered why people don’t want to come forward and testify in cases when they witness things, or they know things in a crime? If you ever wondered why? Because this man gets up there and he is trying to tell you the truth. And all the defense can do is malign him, to go on and try to trip him up on times, which don’t matter, because he said it was light or dark or whatever, and then act like, ‘You’ve got worthless check convictions?’ as if that would somehow equate with what happened in Boulder, Colorado when the Ramsey girl disappeared. Or, maybe a Bosnian war criminal.”
“He knew about something that happened that was terrible, and he could not live with the fact that they had told him about it, he knew about it, and he knew it was wrong.”
“This man is a hero.”
“He testified against his cousin, and he’s getting nothing out of it. And, don’t you know that if he was getting something out of it, both of these men would have brought it up. But, no, they want you to become cynical. They want you to look at everything, even when a man is trying to do the right thing, they want you to look at it like, ‘Well, what’s he getting out of it?’”
“Did Bullock ever come forward and say, ‘Well, yeah, Hill was involved, too. He did so-and-so.’ Which they’re going to try and make you believe, which isn’t true.”
It turns out… the prosecution was mistaken. Ronald Bullock has since stated Jesse Hill was involved, from the planning, to supplying a disguise, to being promised a cut, only the jury never heard that part.
If Terry Robinson had known anything about the murder at the Pizza Inn on May 16, 1999, if he had gone to Jesse Hill’s home prior to the crime, taken Jesse Hill’s dreadlocks and worn them in the Pizza Inn while he murdered somebody – it stands to reason he would have nudged his attorney when the dreadlocks were submitted as evidence at his trial. It stands to reason he would have said, “Hey, that hair right there belonged to Jesse Hill.” It stands to reason, facing a death sentence, Robinson would have indicated the man being hailed as a ‘hero’ was involved in the crime and his hair was found at the crime scene. It also stands to reason – Terry Robinson didn’t say anything because he didn’t know where the dreadlocks came from at that point in time.
In 2003, eight days after Ronald Bullock told an investigator the dreadlocks belonged to Jesse Hill, Hill confirmed the dreads where his, saying he supplied the dreadlocks to Ronald Bullock for a disguise, and that they were his hair. He also told the investigator he had told the police and the prosecutors about supplying the dreadlocks, but he didn’t remember when he told them. In addition, Jesse Hill said he received $5,000 for his help in the case.
Over the years, Jesse Hill, has been interviewed on a couple occasions. According to the original case file in 1999, Hill initially called police and told them Ronald Bullock and Terry Robinson were responsible for what took place at the Pizza Inn, and after sharing that information with police, Hill then drove with them to show them where Bullock lived. More recently he remembers it differently, saying Bullock turned himself in, “I heard he called the police while I was at my sister’s house.” “I heard he called them, they came down there and they locked him up.”
In contrast to Bullock’s 2003 statement regarding Hill’s involvement, Jesse Hill is adamant he had nothing to do with what took place that night in spite of his own 2003 interview with an investigator in which he admitted supplying the disguise. “That man had a family. You don’t do stuff like that. Get a job. I had a job. They coulda had a job, they coulda worked. They didn’t have to do what they did. Come on, man.”
When asked about Bullock’s statement regarding a cut of the money from the planned robbery, “No! I don’t know nothin’ about no money. Come on, man.”
Although they don’t agree on a lot there is one thing the two agree on. Jesse Hill and Ronald Bullock both agree Terry Robinson shot and killed a man on May 16, 1999.
Several years ago, when asked if he would have testified in court about the dreads if he had been asked, Jesse Hill responded, “Sure, if he asked me, yeah.”
But – neither attorney did ask him. So, the jury never heard Jesse Hill, the ‘hero’, was involved in the crime.
Jesse Hill, in contrast to what he said years earlier when he admitted to supplying a disguise for the crime, later said, “They did it them self, they need to handle it.” “They robbed that place because they want to. I ain’t got nothing to do with that.”
He even seems to have a different perspective of who went to the police, “Montrel was with him. Montrel the one told people what happened. That’s why they had so much on him. Cause he was with him. Shit, it ain’t got nothin’ to do with me and nobody else.”
I have reached out to Ronald Bullock and Jesse Hill for a response, but have not heard back. I’ve also reached out to the public, and I am doing so again. If you saw Terry Robinson at any time during the day or night of May 16, 1999, please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. According to Robinson’s accusers, he was with them the entire day from midday through approximately midnight.
The above photograph was shared with me by Terry Robinson’s mother, who has quietly stood by her son’s side for over two decades. She told me Robinson was about fifteen years old in the photograph. He is second from the left with the white hat on, and had been working in the tobacco field that day. Although not asked, Jesse Hill also spoke of Terry Robinson’s mother several times.
“His mama know how that boy is. I don’t know why she’s trippin’.” “She know how her son was.”
Terry Robinson writes for WITS when he is not working on other various projects. You can read some of his work here. He has also co-authored Crimson Letters, available on Amazon. Details of his case can be found here. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Following is testimony taken from trial transcripts dated October 13, 1999, during the Punishment Phase of the case against Charles Mamou, Volume 22, beginning on Page 67. The disturbing case – which includes information the District Attorney had that was never shared with Mamou, including a rape kit and untested evidence, the prosecution not bringing attention to information they had that could discredit two of their witnesses while they were on the stand, a letter written by a key witness that the court appointed defense never presented and even biological evidence being signed out by an HPD employee with no explanation in 2019 – had returned a guilty verdict. At this point in the trial – the goal was to ensure Mamou received the death penalty. The prosecution brought Joseph Melancon to the stand to testify that Mamou had killed someone else months before. Mamou was never tried in this case, nor given an opportunity to defend himself. I’ve abbreviated the testimony here, but it is taken directly from the transcripts.
Q. Did you then meet up with the defendant, Charles Mamou, on that Saturday evening? A. Yes. Q. And where did, where did you meet him at? A. At my house.
Q. And was he by himself or with someone? A. By himself.
Q. And did ya’ll end up then going out that evening? A. Yes. Q. About what time, if you know, did you leave? A. 8:30, 9:00, 9:30, something. Maybe 9:30, 10:00. Q. All right, and where were you going to go when you left? A. We was going to Jamaica. It’s a club.
Q. Did you get to the Jamaica Club? A. No, we didn’t. Q. What happened on the way to the Jamaica Club that prevented you from getting there? A. Chucky got a phone call on his cell phone. Q. And do you know who he was talking to? A. No, I don’t. Q. You just heard his end of the conversation? A. Yeah. Q. What was he saying in the cell phone? A. He said, you got that for me.
Q. What did he say next, if you recall? A. He hung up. Q. All right. Where did you end up going? A. To the little store on Buffalo and West Fuqua.
Q. When you got to the store at Fuqua and Buffalo Speedway, what kind of store was it, do you know? A. It was like a convenience store.
Q. What happened when you arrived at the convenience store? A. They had three guys standing out at the convenience store. Q. Okay. Did ya’ll park or what did you do? A. We pulled up. And one of the guys came to the car’s front passenger door, and I got out and they got in. Q. Did you know who that person was? A. Yes, I did. Q. And how did you know who – what did you know that person’s name to be? A. Bruiser.
Q. And what did you say the person you’ve identified as Bruiser did when he came to your side of the vehicle you were in? A. He opened my door. Q. Okay, and did you get out or did you stay in? A. I got out. Q. Where did you go? A. I went and talked to the two guys that was standing up with him. Q. And who were the two guys? A. A guy named Lonnie and Wiener Man. Q. What did Bruiser do after you got out of the vehicle? A. Him and Chucky was in the vehicle talking. Q. All right. So did Bruiser get in the vehicle? A. Yes. Q. What did you see the defendant, Charles Mamou, do then, the next thing you saw him do? A. He got out of the vehicle and went into the store. Q. Did you see him come out of the store with anything? A. Yes. Q. What did he come out of the store with? A. Two brown bags. Looked like something to drink was in them. Q. All right. What did he do after he came out of the store? Where did he go and what did he do? A. He got in the driver’s seat and drove off. Q. All right. Did he say anything to you before he drove off? A. No.
Q. What were you doing then after you saw the defendant and the person you identified as Bruiser drive off in a vehicle driven by the defendant? What were you doing? A. I was talking to Lonnie and another guy named Wiener Man. Q. And while you were outside the store talking, did you hear anything unusual? A. Yes. Q. What did you hear? A. Sounded like a gunshot. Q. One or more? A. One. Q. After you heard what sounded like a gunshot, did someone come to the location where you were at? A. Yes. Q. Do you know who this person was? A. No. Q. Without telling me what they said, did they say something? A. Yes. Q. As a result of what they said, what did you do, if anything? A. I got in the car with Lonnie, and we rode over on West Fuqua by the entrance to the Almeda Manor neighborhood, the entrance to the subdivision. Q. What was there at that location? A. It was a lot of people around, and Bruiser was laying on the ground. Q. Now, did you get out of the vehicle? A. Yes, I did. Q. Did you go to where Bruiser was? A. Yes, I did. Q. Did you hear anything Bruiser was saying? A. Yes, I did. Q. What was he saying? Judge, We object to hearsay. The Court, It’s overruled. Q. What did you hear him say? A. He said, My boys shot me, and he just kept saying it over and over. Q. After you saw Bruiser laying there, what did you do? A. I walked over about two houses down with another friend of mine from the neighborhood, and I used his phone. Q. Okay. And who did you call? A. I called my wife.
The witness then goes on to testify he fled Houston out of fear for his life. He said he didn’t ‘feel safe’. When questioned by the defense –
Q. Did Lonnie and Weiner Man stick around with you for the police to get there that night? A. I was with them when the police and the paramedics got there. Q. And you offered information to them and gave them your name? A. No. Q. Police ask you what your name was? A. No
Q. How long after you saw Bruiser and Mr. Mamou drive off did you hear what you thought might have been a gunshot? A. Maybe four or five minutes. Q. And who are you talking to at the time that that happens? A. Lonnie and Wiener Man.
Q. When you talked to Sergeant Herman from Houston Homicide Department, do you tell him basically what you‘ve told us here today? A. Yes.
Q. Now, did you introduce Bruiser to Charles Mamou? A. No, I didn’t.
After the testimony of Joseph Melancon, the medical examiner was called to the stand and autopsy photographs of ‘Bruiser’ were shared with the jury, including close up views of the gunshot entrance wound and his face. The deceased man’s big sister then testified regarding the loss of her brother and how it impacted her family.
Charles Mamou was not on trial for the murder of Anthony Williams (Bruiser). He was on trial for the kidnapping and murder of Mary Carmouche in a case I’ve detailed extensively and some of those details can be found here. The prosecution pushed for a death sentence after they already had a ‘guilty’ verdict. Going into the punishment phase, they knew they already had the upper hand and were privvy to things – Mamou only found out this past year.
The jury only heard the above testimony – which seems pretty cut and dry. What I’m sharing here is what the jury never heard, what HPD knew all along, and I would venture to guess the prosecution did as well since Lynn McClellan supplied Det. Novak with a grand jury subpoena in connection with this investigation on September 23, 1999, during the Mamou trial. This is what the jury never heard:
Unlike his testimony, according to the HPD file, Joseph Melancon contacted police on October 16, 1998, after he heard police wanted to talk to him. Sgt. Herrmann recorded what Joseph Melancon stated at that time.
Joseph Melancon stated the possible suspect, Chucky Mamou, called him and came and picked him up and they went to the Shannon’s Club on Buffalo Speedway and Fuqua. Joseph Melancon stated this was some time around 11:00 PM. Joseph Melancon stated just after he and Chucky Mamou arrived at the Club, Chucky Mamou met the complainant and they started talking.
Joseph Melancon stated, in a short while, Chucky came and told him he had to do some business, and at that time Chucky Mamou and the complainant left the Shannon’s Club. Joseph Melancon stated he remained at the Shannon’s Club and he was visiting with a man called Weiner Man and also a man named Lonnie. Joseph Melancon stated while they were talking someone came up and told Weiner Man that the complainant had been shot.
This original statement, made less than two months after the murder, is a far cry from Melancon’s testimony. There is more that police knew.
The next actual ‘witness’ police spoke to that knew anything about the incident was the man known as Weiner Man. On December 7, 1998, police talked to him. According to police records, he stated, ‘he was at the club in the next block south of where the complainant got shot.’ Police went on to say, ‘after he learned the complainant had been shot, he went to where the complainant was laying on the parking lot of the auto repair shop.’ ‘he heard the complainant say that my home boy shot me.’
The first two statements in the file made by individuals who might know something, Joseph Melancon and Weiner Man – both contradict the testimony used at Mamou’s trial. According to Weiner Man, he doesn’t mention Mamou, and he says he was in a club at the time of the shooting. Investigators also spoke to Mamou’s father early on in the investigation and were told he’d seen his son, Charles Mamou, in Louisiana that Sunday, as there had been a family wedding on the day of the shooting.
On September 20, 1999, during Mamou’s trial, Detective Novak of HPD, the investigator that weighed heavily in the highly questionable case built against Mamou, re-opened the Anthony Gibson (Bruiser) case. He immediately spoke to a cousin of Joseph Melancon’s who made a video statement that was summarized in the police file. His description of what Melancon told him happened is different than the others. According to the police summary, “They all three met up and went over to Mannies to discuss what they were going to do. He says that Bruiser and Chucky then bought a beer at the store and that Bruiser and Chucky then left and went back to Mannies. He says that his cousin, Joey, then told him that a few minutes later he heard some gunshots and he took off running. He stated that he had never met Chucky Mamou nor had ever seen him. He says that he learned through his conversation with his cousin that the guy was Chucky Mamou and that Chucky and his cousin grew up with one another in Sunset, Louisiana, and Opelousas, Louisiana, and attended school together. He stated that Joey told him that it was a marijuana deal and that Chucky was paying $7,500 for the marijuana. He said his cousin helped set up the dope deal. He says that his cousin also was standing in close proximity to Mannies and saw the sport utility vehicle pull up at Mannies and soon afterwards he heard two gunshots and that is when his cousin took off running. He says that his cousin fled to Dallas after Chucky threatened to kill him if he ever told.”
In contrast to the testimony, Melancon’s cousin has the three parties meeting up at Mannies prior to anything happening. It indicates Melancon arranged the exchange and also states twice that Melancon took off running, rather than getting in a vehicle with Lonnie, as he testified, and going toward the shooting. Of note, it also says that Bruiser, Mamou and Melancon all met up at Mannies, ‘and after Bruiser and Chucky got to know one another they took his cousin back to the store and let him off’. So – in this version, Melancon introduced Bruiser and Mamou and all three were in a car together at one point. This contradicts every previous statement.
On September 21, 1999, Sgt. Novak takes a written statement from a man named Adam Peterson. He describes what he saw in the parking lot of the convenience store, after he pulled up and saw Bruiser there. ‘When I was talking to Bruiser, I noticed a sport utility vehicle that was dark in color either black or green, pull into the parking lot. I saw Joey walk over to the sport utility vehicle on the driver’s side. Joey and the driver were talking. I then got out of the truck and walked in the store.’
Peterson goes on to describe the driver of the vehicle going in the store and purchasing a beer. Peterson drove away from the parking lot, and didn’t know anything else. When shown a photo spread which included Charles Mamou, he could not identify anyone. Of note, Peterson also says, ‘I talked with Joey very briefly. Joey is a cousin to Joseph Malbrough. Joey told me that he had just been on Main and that was a bunch of women out there. And my response to him was if there were so many women out there, then why wasn’t he out there. His response was that I had just left from out there.’ What’s interesting about this portion of the statement – Joseph Melancon will later tell police he’s never heard of this man and didn’t speak to him in the parking lot. Also interesting – this witness told police Melancon was not in a car with anyone, but rather at the store when the vehicle pulled up that had its occupant go in and buy a beer.
On September 22, 1999, Weiner Man went to the homicide office. Again, this investigation was occurring during Mamou’s trial. Weiner Man stated, ‘He had gone to the Buffalo Store and saw Bruiser and Lonnie in the parking lot. He stated he talked to Bruiser and that he told him not to leave.’
He went on, ‘He stated he told Bruiser that he was hungry and he went to Shannon’s and ordered a hamburger. He stated that Bruiser came in the club and shortly thereafter, Joey entered the club. He stated that Joey was dressed up in a crisp white shirt like he was clubbing. He stated that Joey went over to Bruiser and they spoke out of his hearing and that Joey left the club and Bruiser and Lonnie followed.’ The witness than stated, ‘that he remained inside Shannon’s and a short time later Cedric came running and told him that Bruiser had been shot. Eric stated that he went to the parking lot of Mannies and tried to talk to Bruiser and that Bruiser told him, My homeboy did this.”
This statement was made by someone who, by all appearances, had nothing to gain, and it contradicts everything said on the stand. It doesn’t even mention Charles Mamou being with Melancon.
Then – once again – police spoke with Joseph Melancon, days before he testified, on October 4, 1999. This is what he told police during that interview:
I brought my wife the car, she got in, I told her that me and Chucky, we was gonna go out, I’d talk to her later. Got in with Chucky. Umm, we left. When we was gettin’ on 635 we supposed to be going to Jamaica, and, uh, Chucky got a phone call. And, he, when he got off the phone, he said he needed to go take care of something, umm, and then we would go out. I was ridin’ with him, I said fine. We pulled up at a store off of Buffalo, I was familiar with the area, I have some cousins that live in the area. We pulled up at Buffalo. Umm, Bruiser, umm, Weinerman, and Lonnie was standing out. I got out the truck. Bruiser got in the truck. I was talking to Lonnie and Weinerman, umm, next thing I know, Chucky got out the truck, and he went inside the store. So, I asked Bruiser what was going on, Bruiser kinda looked at me like, it’s wasn’t none of my business, he said Chucky’s just going in the store, and buy us a couple a beers, then we gonna go around the corner, and we gonna be right back. So, I walked away from the truck, continued to talk to Lonnie and Weinerman. They left. They made a left on, umm, Almeda. Me, Lonnie and Wienerman was talking and we heard something. And Weinerman said, did you all, did you hear that? And I said, yeah, it kinda sounded like a gunshot. And we just went on talking. The next five, six minutes, guy came running from down the street, said Bruiser had been shot. I jumped in the car with Lonnie, rode to the, I saw Bruiser laying down, he had been shot. Umm, got out there, you know, I saw him layin down, and I knew Bruiser, we used to play basketball in the neighborhood, umm, off Almeda Manor, the neighborhood right approaching where he got shot at. I just, kinda, I was shocked. I was real shocked. Umm, I saw him laying down there. One of my other partners was out there, Chris. I told Chris, I said, uh, man, let me go use your phone…”
Just when you think there can’t be more contradictions – there are. In his video statement, Melancon describes Mamou getting a phone call in the car regarding a drug transaction. He states that Chucky said, “you got that for me?” to the person on the other end of the line. Melancon doesn’t mention setting up the deal or introducing anybody.
When asked about talking to Adam Peterson, who also went by the name Tim, in the convenience store parking lot, the man that Detective Novak had spoken to and who detailed a conversation with Melancon in the parking lot, Melancon states, ‘No. I don’t know. I don’t recall.’
‘Tim’s’ real name is Adam Peterson.
‘Tim. I don’t know a Tim. I don’t know Adam Peterson.’
Did you walk up to anybody in a truck and start talking to anybody in a pick-up truck?
‘No.’
While you were in front of the Buffalo Store?
‘Uh-uh.’
You positive?
‘I’m positive. The only conversation I had was with Lonnie and Weinerman. And we was just talking, just shooting the breeze. And I didn’t, no. I didn’t go up to no pick-up.’
Try as they might, detectives couldn’t get any of Joseph Melancon’s versions of what happened that night to match anybody else’s.
They asked him, “Did he say anything to you, to let you know where he was going? That he was going to come back and pick you up?”
‘No.’
Police had Melancon’s earlier statements when he described being inside Shannon’s Club with Mamou, stating, ‘a short while Chucky came and told him he had to do some business, and at that time Chucky Mamou and the complainant left the Shannon’s Club.’
That is a lot for one person to get confused – two people in a club and one coming to say he was leaving vs. two people in a convenience store parking lot and one not saying anything when he left. Detective Novak and HPD had done a lot to secure the conviction, so it seems this contradiction, along with all the others was irrelevant to the detective and the District Attorney.
Melancon’s interview proceeded.
Investigators had been told by Melancon’s cousin that Mamou had threatened him. Yet when they asked, “Did Chucky Mamou ever threaten to kill you?”
On this particular day, Melancon replied, ‘No.’
At any time?
‘MMM-mmm.’
Melancon’s cousin had also told police that Melancon had told him it was a marijuana deal. So they asked, “Did he say specifically what he had?”
‘No, he didn’t never say, you got the dope for me. He never said nothin’ he just said, do you have that for me.’
Police had also heard from Melancon’s cousin that Melancon had introduced Mamou and Bruiser. But on this day, “Who introduced Chucky to Bruiser?”
‘I don’t know. I…’
“Why is everybody telling us that the introduction was made by you? And again – you’re not in any kind of trouble.”
‘I don’t know.’
“You’re not in any kind of trouble. And I’m not sitting here trying to tell you, we’re trying to make a dope case on you, cause that’s not – “
‘Right.’
“Cause that’s not what we’re trying to do. I’m trying to get you to tell me the truth about what happened. Is it coincidental, are you wanting me to believe it’s coincidental that Bruiser and Chucky got together?
‘Yeah.’
During all three conversations with Melancon that are on record, including this lengthy recorded video, Melancon never mentions seeing Bruiser as he was dying or hearing him make any statements. It seems reasonable that if Melancon had been standing over Bruiser as he spoke his last words, he would have relayed that information to police previously, or shared that information with his cousin. He does, however, comment when detectives show him a photo of Charles Mamou, ‘Yep. Been dreaming about it. I’ll never forget his face’ It isn’t until October 13, 1999, nine days after his last recorded interview with police and over a year after the murder of Bruiser took place – that Joseph Melancon testifies to something he has never once stated on the record before, ‘He said, My boys shot me, and he just kept saying it over and over.’ According to his testimony he’d stood over a dying man and heard him speak, yet in over twelve months, several interviews, and versions he’d told his own cousin, he’d never said that before.
Lynn Mclellen succeeded in acquiring a death sentence, and the jury nor Mamou ever heard any of the witness statements that were sitting in HPD’s case file. Melancon’s own statements don’t support each other and every other existing witness doesn’t support Melancon’s testimony. What’s also interesting – anyone who says Mamou was ‘involved’ was told that by someone else. Charles Mamou is out of appeals and waiting on his execution date.
All posts and details of this case, can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case or the above case that was used to obtain a death sentence, can contact me, kimberleycarter@verizon.net. There is also a facebook page dedicated to sharing the truth.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
You do not know me, but I know you well. I used to be you. I say used to, because I am no longer just you. I am the combined product of your sheltered, formative years and my introduction to reality, an amalgamation of our early childhood and adolescent life lessons – the bumps, bruises and growing pains – and the harsh reality of adulthood.
As the evolved you, what I need to impart is vital to our impending maturation process and our overall view of – not what life is supposed to be, but what it actually is. Nothing about life is static. At some point, everything changes. There will be some good changes, some bad, and sometimes you will be powerless to do anything about them. How you learn to deal with the effects of change will be key in determining where you go in life. The real world doesn’t give handouts or love you just because you think it’s what you deserve.
These times are the best you’ll ever experience. Some kids couldn’t imagine living as you do – a loving home with a mother and a father, plenty of food, toys, and not just clothes and shoes, but the latest styles. It’s blissful being given mostly everything you desire and having no real boundaries. You’ve been blessed to enjoy stress-free living in the way that all kids should, but many – if not most – do not. And obviously, at this point, you cannot imagine anything evil enough to step in and destroy this life.
I, however, must warn you about and prepare you for something so catastrophic that it will implode the comfortable and safe bubble in which we exist. Without warning, the leisurely, carefree life that our loving, yet enabling, parents – who love us more than anything but fail at “tough love” – work so hard to provide will suddenly be gone. Unfortunately, this “life of Riley” existence is lacking in discipline and creating an air of entitlement, though you cannot currently comprehend it, that makes you lazy, unappreciative, and irresponsible – character flaws that often obscure rational decisions.
There’s an epidemic on the horizon. Within five years these little, white cracked up pieces of what appears to be soap will not only destroy your life and the lives of most of the people you know, but it’ll also destroy millions of other lives – entire cities even.
Yes, it’s hard to imagine your parents choosing anything over their love for you, and even with all that I now know, I still cannot find the words to explain how it happens. It gets no tougher or more painful than when your first experience what betrayal is at the hands of the people you trust most.
Addiction is the unimaginable evil. It swoops in and destroys everything good about life. Because of it, your life will never be the same. You will trade a modest three bedroom home in the suburbs for the housing projects. You’ll see the woman you love more than anything on this earth – who nurtured you, cared for you when you were sick, sewed costumes for your school plays, and would die a thousand miserable deaths to protect you – sell her body for drugs, which will eventually lead to you having to hurt someone to protect her because she’s the only mother you will ever have. You will barely see your father, the man who took you on fishing trips and to your Saturday morning little league football games (and in a couple years will awkwardly and uncomfortably attempt to explain “the birds and the bees”). You’ll lose regular contact with your extended family, the people who you’ve spent almost every weekend of your life alternating visits between. You’ll lose what identity you thought you had and embark on journeys without safety nets, just brutal, unforgiving streets, to discover who we are and could’ve been.
Fortunately, as you grow into us, God provides a guardian angel for guidance, and we make it through the assumed biggest challenge of our short life and never lose our ability to dream. Then, we make the 3,000 mile cross-country trek to pursue our dreams. Unfortunately, in that pursuit, enraptured by the glitzy, glamorous facade that is Hollywood, I get us lost – misguided by my character flaws – and make the worst decision possible for us.
In a few years many of our Hollywood ‘friends’ will laud us for our exceptional talents, the same ego stroking we’ve encountered since childhood, which encourages us to regress to our old ways of expecting to be given instead of working. But don’t get sucked into a lifestyle of partying and drugs – remember how drugs destroyed our entire world just a few years ago. Don’t forget that! Only by working can you earn what you deserve.
You’ll be offered a great job – take it. Don’t let your ‘friends’ and your ego convince you that you’re too talented to work for someone else. Not only will it be a great opportunity to build bridges and your reputation within the industry, but it will also lead you away from a situation that will lead to the biggest challenge we’ll ever face.
The sole purpose of this letter, written by me to me, is to forewarn you of the perils of being a spoiled and lazy dreamer. Give us a chance to do better and to be better.
Had I taken that job, I wouldn’t be here now writing this letter to myself from the bowels of American society – Florida’s death row. It’s here where I’ve spent almost three decades – more time than all my years in society – regretting nothing more than that one misguided decision.
Wish I didn’t have to wish we could go back knowing what we now know.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Reshi Yenot is a talented writer who uses his words thoughtfully and purposefully. He puts his heart into his work, and is also very talented musically. I’m glad he entered our recent contest and happy to say he came in second place. Mr. Yenot writes under a pen name and can be contacted at: Reshi Yenot P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, VA 23255
For two years, WITS has shared the story of Charles Mamou, two decades on death row and awaiting an execution date. In those two years, this site has shared a letter written by the key witness that the jury never saw, rape kit results the DA had that Mamou never knew existed, phone records the DA had that Mamou never knew existed, documentation of biological evidence being signed out in the case with no explanation or accountability, missing statements and/or interviews, witness interviews from 2019 indicating Mamou was exactly where he said he was twenty years ago when he last saw Mary Carmouche and more. Yet – he awaits execution. I recently asked him, ‘How has it impacted you, knowing the lengths Harris County went to in order to sentence you to die?’
Since I’ve been on Texas’ Death Row, where reading is the only natural form of entertainment, I have read a lot of history books. When I think of my situation, there is little difference between 1898 and 1998 – I was just a young, dumb, poor black kid who stood alone. I wasn’t the first, and I wasn’t the last. It was the norm. Racist and overzealous prosecutors saw me and those that look like me the same, ‘a menace to society’, deplorable and judicially dispensable, while off-colored jokes were made in the locker room, no one having the gumption to tell them in public.
Here’s what I want people to know. Even after I was convicted and sentence to die by a jury that looked nothing like me, I still blew it off. ‘I’ll win on appeal, cause there is no way I won’t get action’. I didn’t know an appeal is just a maze of malleable interpretations of laws, many not even heard on appeal, getting ‘procedurally barred’. The system only works if you have the money to move it in your favor.
I knew one thing in 1998. I didn’t bring Mary to that night. I didn’t kidnap Mary. I didn’t kill Mary. And I sure as hell didn’t rape her. My lawyers didn’t care about me at all, told me that in five years I would win my case on appeal. I believed what I was told. Then five turned to ten and ten to twenty, and I realized America wasn’t about the truth. The D.A. had evidence during trial that their own witness’ were lying – but said nothing. Phone records show phone calls were being made all night, but both men claimed they were asleep.
I’m not the first man to sit innocent on Death Row. I know the real meaning of HATE and what it feels and tastes like to be hated. The difference between me and them – I don’t hide from who I was and who I am. And in case anyone wants to know – you’re damn right, I’m mad.
All posts and details of this case, including phone records that were not shared with the defense, a letter from the ‘key witness’ stating he didn’t know anything, and how Mamou was even accused of an unsolved murder during his trial can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. There is also a facebook page dedicated to sharing the truth. Share his story.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351 Mamou can also be contacted through JPay via email, but please include your mailing address if you contact him this way, as he can only respond through the mail.
He was called Little Tee – befitting since he stood no taller than the BMX bicycle he struggled to mount, eager to tag along with the older kids to the mall. His cheeks flushed, absorbing the praise, while my friends boasted over his skill for thieving. I knew they were manipulating him, but I didn’t speak up – being equally manipulative in my silence. I hoped he would grow tired on our trail and turn back, but he didn’t, determination cascading from his forehead with each trickle of sweat. We arrived at the mall and did wheelies in the parking lot as Little Tee vanished inside. By the time we later headed for home, we all sported new gold chains.
That was the first day I met Little Tee, a burgeoning menace with an unwavering desire to prove himself. He stole anything that wasn’t nailed down, his confidence like silk in his veins. Thievery was only a fragment of his willingness to fit in; one simply had to dare Little Tee. He hung out all hours of the night, putting doubts to rest with a fearlessness inspiring to watch.
Nights at my house were sometimes spent with Little Tee sprawled out on the sofa or scoffing cold-cuts and gawking at video vixens. I wondered about his family and whether his whereabouts were anyone’s concern. He was no more than eight or nine, and yet no one ever came looking for him. I didn’t mind that he showed up unexpectedly and seemed to never want to leave; I liked having him around. He had a timely sense of humor and dreams of the future big enough to lend me some. He gave unsparingly and never asked for anything in return. To him, charity was synonymous to wealth. Little Tee was a joy, but he did have a mean-streak and fought with other kids all over town like it was the latest craze. The bane of his freedom, it would earn him some stints in juvenile detention where he ultimately grew more devious.
A few years later, Little Tee transitioned from thieving to dope dealing. He hopped into cars haggling crack rocks and turned profits with the best of ‘em. He smoked cigarettes and weed, drank beers and cussed. No one seemed bothered by his youthfulness, instead they encouraged him. The more his behavior worsened, the more popular he became. By twelve years old, he had as much clientele as dealers twice his age. He was always the smallest guy on the block, but nobody had more heart.
One night Little Tee was at a local hangout when a scuffle broke out between two men with their pride at sake, one of whom had a shotgun. Scorching iron-pellets ruptured Little Tee’s flesh as he was inadvertently shot in the face. It would be months before he healed from his physical injuries, but his psyche hardly recovered. Suddenly, he was torn between upholding his image and breaking free from his notoriety. He had grown weary of his terrible ways, yet he couldn’t break character. The truth was, the shooting ordeal changed Little Tee and heightened his conscience in a way others could never understand. He wanted so much to be done with the streets… but the streets don’t always let go.
On Christmas day, December 25, 1997, I was posted up on the block when Little Tee strolled through. We greeted one another and shared some laughs before his eyes took on a piercing glare. He then let on about his dissension with rival dealers in a nearby neighborhood and asked for my help. By then, Little Tee was like a brother to me – it was all the answer he needed. Apparently, he had rented a car and parked it on Gay Street. He said he would swing by and pick me up later. Little Tee disappeared up the street. Some minutes later, gunshots devoured the joyous holiday evening. Gossip raced along the streets on the lips of hearsayers – Little Tee was just killed by the police!
I bolted heedlessly for Gay Street while at the same time down a road in my head that had no end. I kept thinking that if I got there quick enough, maybe I could save him. I prayed the whispers were wrong but the look of despair on the faces of the spectators confirmed my worst realty. Someone was dead. “Please, God, don’t let it be Little Tee.”
The shooting had taken place in the backyard which obscured my view of the body. Rumors of what happened ran rampant among those gathered, igniting a bon-fire of tempers. The ambulance arrived and carted out a body partially covered under a blood soaked sheet. I recognized the sneakers and fell to the ground wailing… Little Tee really was gone.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he co-authored Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
NOTE TO READER. Please contact kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson in Wilson, NC, any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful. Details of this case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/
Houston’s Police Chief, Art Acevedo, recently received cheers from protestors, “We will march as a department with everybody in this community. I will march until I can’t stand no more.”
Charles Mamou has lived on Death Row for over twenty years for a case built by the Houston Police Department and prosecuted by Harris County, Texas. Mamou is out of appeals, and despite what that means for a man on death row, the Houston Police Department is not interested in addressing any mishandling of his case. A few short months ago, I was ‘dismissed’ by the Houston Police Department when I tried to obtain answers. I was told by Ms. Wilker at HPD that what I was looking for was ‘irrelevant’ and the ‘window of opportunity’ to obtain the information was ‘closed’.
I tried to explain to Ms. Wilker during our several conversations that it was relevant and what I was looking for, rape kit results, were significant because the prosecutor told the jury Charles Mamou sexually assaulted the victim. Ms. Wilker wouldn’t acknowledge the importance of the information.
I was able to obtain the rape kit results without the help of HPD or the Harris County District Attorney’s office. As it turns out, the results revealed the D.A. knew prior to trial that while they were accusing Mamou of sexual assault, there was no semen found. They also learned before the trial and from those results that trace evidence existed in the case. They never told Mamou, and they didn’t tell him a few months ago when I was requesting their help in the matter. Again, HPD’s position, according to Ms. Wilker, the rape kit results are irrelevant and the window of opportunity to obtain that information is closed.
Legally, Mamou’s case has been rubber-stamped and through the Texas process – he will be executed in the near future. But this is what people should know when the execution takes place. I didn’t just go to HPD looking for rape kit results. There is a lot more the jury never knew in the Mamou case in addition to a rape kit and the results from it.
In 2019, twenty years after Mamou’s death sentence began, the case file states ‘biological evidence’ was signed out on two different occasions. Mamou, who has always maintained his innocence, is going to be executed so it seems reasonable he should know why biological evidence was being signed out in his case. Coincidentally or not, the employee who signed for both items has been written about on several occasions in the Houston Chronicle for issues related to mishandling of evidence. The employee also worked in the HPD lab back in 1998 when the crime occurred, and it appears someone that looks strikingly like that employee is in Mamou evidence photographs from the time. For all those reason, I also inquired at HPD as to why the evidence was signed out.
I was told by HPD to ask the District Attorney’s office and the HPD Property Room, which I did. The District Attorney’s office told me they had not requested any evidence to be tested, the file was not active. The Property Room told me to go to Homicide and ask the investigator working the case. Homicide told me no one was working the case. My question came full circle back to HPD, and I was told by Ms. Wilker in a phone conversation that the evidence was signed out and in the possession of Mary K. Childs-Henry at one time, but it was ‘now back where it belonged’. Not satisfied, I asked if she considered the matter closed – she responded she did.
After that phone call, I wrote to Internal Affairs and copied Chief Art Acevedo, hoping to address why evidence in the Mamou case would be signed for if there was no detective working the case and the District Attorney did not request it. HPD responded via a letter dated December 17, 2019. “The incident described by you does not support an allegation of misconduct on the part of a member of the Houston Police Department. There is no allegation described by you that would initiate an investigation.” It went on to say, “The District Attorney is the only person that can authorize any type of evidence to be released for any reason.”
And so – no one needs to explain why biological evidence in a capital murder case gets signed out.
It doesn’t end with an undisclosed rape kit, or undisclosed trace evidence or having to not account for removing evidence in a capital murder that resulted in a death sentence.
The case was built from the ground up on a one-time suspect telling police that Mamou confessed to him. HPD investigators were aware when they were recording that suspect’s statement that what he was describing couldn’t have taken place the way described. The witness, Terrence Dodson, said Mamou confessed to him in a one phone call ‘confession’ from Louisiana on the previous day, Tuesday morning ‘before day’. The police didn’t stop him at that point. At the very time he was making this statement, police were taking a statement in another room from a man who said Mamou was in Houston, Texas, on Tuesday morning, and that man drove Mamou to the bus stop on Tuesday in the afternoon, around 1:30.
Mamou and Terrence Dodson, the witness who testified Mamou confessed to him.
That wasn’t all. Police knew Mamou was in Houston on Tuesday because the man who was recording the statement, Det. Novak, had actually spoken to the woman whose apartment Mamou had slept in on Monday night and that detective also obtained a warrant in Houston on Tuesday morning as police tried to arrest Mamou at that apartment located in Houston. They missed Mamou, who was later dropped off at the bus stop by the witness in the other room at HPD. The HPD interviewer, Novak, also notarized the statement of the man in the next room who said he drove Mamou to the bus stop. Novak was also the one who spoke to the woman whose apartment Mamou slept at and where he was located on Tuesday morning.
If that wasn’t enough, the ‘star’ witness also clearly told police Mamou was planning on taking a bus from Louisiana to Houston on Tuesday and had asked the witness to pick him up at the bus station. Again – detectives knew Mamou was not in Louisaina on Tuesday morning and they also knew he actually took a bus from Houston to Louisiana on Tuesday – the exact opposite of what the witness was describing.
That witness’ testimony later changed at trial, and he described a confession that took place over days, over the phone and in person, even though Mamou never saw that man again after Monday morning. Mamou never saw the interview, and was unaware of the discrepancies until last year.
There is more.
Investigators, when they went to the apartment that Tuesday morning to talk to the resident there, Howard Scott, they wrote down every single one of the phone calls on his caller I.D. from the night of the crime. That information was never shared with Mamou, but would have discredited two of the state’s witnesses who testified they were in bed sleeping and not using their phones. Howard Scott said his phone simply stopped ringing between 11 and 12 when he went to bed. When asked on the stand if it was because it was unplugged, he said no. It was because it simply stopped ringing.
An HPD investigator faxed the phone records to the District Attorney during the trial and before that testimony. The District Attorney didn’t pull his witness to the side during his testimony or in any way indicate the witness was lying. There was also at least one phone call that went out of the apartment that night according to the caller I.D. of Yellow Cab.
Included in the fax HPD sent to the D.A. were the phone calls placed to the apartment by another suspect, Samuel Johnson. Samuel Johnson also testified he was in bed sleeping and had not contacted anyone or made any calls to Howard Scott – whose caller ID said he did. Again, the District Attorney did not ask his witness to tell the truth, or ask for an opportunity to speak to his witness on the side and explain to him that he needed to tell the truth on the stand.
What’s even more important about Samuel Johnson’s phone call – it was made from a cell phone. In 1998, it would be common for people to use their landline for phone calls from their residence and a cell phone if they were not at home. Unfortunately, those phone records were never shared with Mamou, and he didn’t know they existed until recently. The opportunity to trace that phone call is gone.
There is more about that Tuesday and the police talking to Howard and Robin Scott. Police drove them both to HPD to get their statements. Robin Scott’s statement from that day is in the file, Howard Scott’s is not – even though it is well documented that Howard Scott was taken to HPD on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, for a statement. In addition, Detective Novak testified he took a written statement from Scott when he went to HPD that day, and Howard himself has since told an investigator that HPD would not let him and his wife leave the police department that day until their statements matched.
As if that wasn’t enough. Detective Novak reopened an investigation into an unsolved murder in Houston from months earlier during the trial. What’s found in that file, isn’t much, but there is a witness statement in there that describes an individual in a bar, even describes how he was dressed, who left the bar with the victim. He also describes someone coming in a short time later saying the victim had been shot. That statement was never shared with the jury. Rather – the ‘man in the bar’, Joseph Melancon, testified at Mamou’s trial. His testimony did not match any of his earlier recorded accounts, but the jury didn’t know that, and Mamou got accused of the unsolved crime. The jury never heard the witness statement describing Melancon leaving with the victim, nor did they get to hear any defense from Mamou. Mamou was not charged with that crime, although he is listed as charged. The jury got to see the dead man’s autopsy photos and hear from his grieving family members though.
That is what took place in the hands of Harris County and the Houston Police Department. If you try to inquire with them regarding what took place, you may be told what you want to know is “irrelevant” and “the window of opportunity is closed”, but I would be happy to share with you what I have.
When Charles Mamou gets executed, his parents will most likely be offered the opportunity to watch, but it won’t be on camera for the world to see.
Chief Acevedo and the Harris County prosecutors always have the power to do the right thing and the window of opportunity is never closed. It is more open now than it has ever been.
“Compassion takes courage,” Mamou wrote me recently. Will the powers that be have the courage to do the right thing – or keep insisting some window is closed?
All posts and details of this case, including phone records that were not shared with the defense, a letter from the ‘key witness’ stating he didn’t know anything, and how Mamou was even accused of an unsolved murder during his trial can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. There is also a facebook page dedicated to sharing the truth. Share his story.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351 Mamou can also be contacted through JPay via email, but please include your mailing address if you contact him this way, as he can only respond through the mail.
A boundless void, daunting and ever present, a place where even the pleasure of a night’s dream is wrecked by the reality of the waking day – that’s where I live. It’s a domain that spans a mere 6×10 feet, made of menacing concrete and steel, and offers the barest resources within an atmosphere that effects only sorrow. That’s life on Death Row, rankled daily by restrictions… told what to do, how to dress and when and where to go with little choice but to comply, dutifully denied the simplest liberties many folks take for granted and yet the real punishment seldom comes by day, rearing its head most often at night.
IU240 are the numbers of my prison cell, a crypt of sorts, where memories are elicited and misery reserved. With twenty years of digital sequences like IU240 to mark my identity, I am a nameless statistic with nothing left in the world to call my own. The days here are but a tireless effort to distract from Death Row – tabletops, TV, books and gossip, anything to cope with the pain. Yet ‘Lock Down’ call begins an agony anew, one from which there are no delusions or escape.
IU24O, a paltry wasteland of fussy dust mites that gather in hard to reach places. Lonely, except for the crowd of tender thoughts that threaten to devour my complacency. “Stand clear!” the warning blares as the mechanical gears churn and the vaulted door slams shut while I struggle to regard IU240 as a sanctuary rather than something worse than death.
The nights number 7300 that I’ve spent in isolation. My voice yearns for companionship, but the solitude is stifling, the air bland and smells nothing of freedom, more of apathy. As the brightness in the room plummets, I cling to a reason to steady the light within. I am afraid in the dark I may lose my way. Trivial items that lie dormant by day are now crawling reminders of the oppression, making rest and peace of mind laborious and evasive.
There is a column of tissue rolls stacked in the corner that serves as a coffee table and a desk constructed from Maruchan soup boxes and shoddy adhesive. Bed sheets suspended from paper clips along the walls are all there is for privacy, yet in a world of trash where there is hardly treasure, one must improvise. There’s a stainless steel mirror that erredly reflects the stains of my past transgressions, a toilet that ticks tauntingly and faucet water that tastes like lead. The concrete and steel with an eerie affinity to that of the blood and spirit of the many who have perished already and those who await their fate.
It is likely I will die in prison, a truth that is written on the age lines of my face. Already twenty years of my life’s essence etched into the fabric of these walls, and yet, IU240 isn’t some infamous badland where hope doesn’t exist. It doesn’t stand in the way of accepting responsibility and the effort to amend wrongs.
On the contrary, it’s a place where accountability offers temperance and renewal… a place where I have emerged from chaos a better person than when I arrived.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
NOTE TO READER. Please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson at any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day. Thank you to those who have come forward already. It is not easy for someone falsely accused to ever leave death row – no detail is too small. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful. Details of this case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/
