Category Archives: Views From The Inside

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Dear Me,

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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

©Reshi Yenot

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Views From The Inside

Letter To Self

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Had I a pen, that could send message to self,
I’d pour out my heart, there’d be nothing left.

Given a chance to change my path,
I’d speak these words to detour my past.

I know life is already hard,
You’ve seen so much.

I know the pain you hold inside,
The nights in bed when you cry.

I know momma is strung out on drugs,
That’s why the tears, ‘cause you feel no love.

I know you steal, ‘cause there’s no food.
No money for clothes, so you steal those too.

Oh, there will be beatings, but you will survive.
There’s always a chance when you are alive.

But pretty soon they will take you away,
To live with an aunt, where you wish you could stay.

I think that’s enough, of telling your past.
Now you must listen, so you can last.

Your future is bright, but there’s darkness ahead,
Choices to make that weigh just like lead.

There are roads to travel and one you must not.
Crime is no future, so you must stop.

I know you get hungry, when times are hard,
But miss a few meals and you will not starve.

The clothes on your back will last for years,
Don’t worry about trying to get new gear.

You have no idea what is ahead,
Even though you think you’re better off dead.

Let me tell of the ill chosen road,
Where life is hell, there’s sorrow of soul.

Where doing what’s wrong, is accepted as right,
And there’s fights in the day and screams at night.

Being in prison, is living in hell,
Your entire life crammed in a cell.

Sun up, sun down, you’re told what to do.
Does all this sound appealing to you?

Yes, I know the things you will see,
But you must be strong if you want to be free.

Pay attention in class, and don’t be a fool.
Play basketball, get a job after school.

Stay away from the drugs, don’t pick up the gun.
One pull of the trigger, your life will be done.

The chance you were given will be taken away,
And as you look back, there is nothing to say.

So, listen to me and have a good life.
Be a father to kids and a husband to wife.

Now be successful and have much wealth.
I hope that you listen, to this letter to self.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Mr. Mann is a third place winner in our most recent writing contest. I’m always excited to share a new voice here, and I hope he continues to pursue writing and shares his work with us again. Mark Mann can be contacted at:

Mark Mann J06393/K11335
Tomoka C.I.
3950 Tiger Bay Road
Daytona Beach, FL 32124

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Views From The Inside

Young Thoughts Caused It All

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I constantly ask the relatively preserved looking 62-year-old man in the mirror, “How in the hell did you Iet me get caught up in this madness?” I can’t help but reflect back on the 15-year-old boy who thought he could navigate the mean streets of Detroit and live and survive on his own. Little did he know his backward and irresponsible thinking would lead him toward a world of trouble. The man staring sternly back at me in that rusted, steel framed plastic mirror constantly reminds me of the boy whose bad choices and poor decisions caused a litany of problems…

Without addressing the neglect, abuse and trauma you experienced when you were just a little fella, those experiences build up and contributed to you exploring and resorting to an unhealthy outlet that lead to criminality and a propensity for violence.  Some 47 years ago, your young thoughts influenced and ruled everything about you.  Jewels, you had so much going for you, and you threw it all away for what amounts to insignificant, temporary gratification.

Man, do you remember when you were hired as a files clerk for the Genesee County Department of Social Services and were one of the only male employees in an office full of women? You were being vetted at 17-years-old to become a permanent employee with the Michigan Department of Social Services to work as a staff member at W.J. Maxey Boy’s Training School.  You always excelled in your endeavors, stood out amongst most of your peers. In grade school many of your fellow students displayed jealousy because you were always getting A’s and B’s and winning spelling bees. Had you stayed on track and not dropped out of school, no telling where you would be right now. I know you could’ve been anything you put your mind to – a doctor, a lawyer, judge, scientist, even an astronaut, but you were drawn to what you thought was the fascinating street-life.  A life that ultimately caused you to lose your freedom.  I know you’re probably saying, “Why didn’t you pull up on me back then and give me some game because maybe I would’ve taken a different path.”

I can’t turn back the unstoppable hands of time, they wait on no one. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I would make sure you knew and learned the ropes to get through the life that unfolded before your young, innocent eyes. If given the chance, I would lend you some advice…

Make amends by trying to right the wrongs you’ve done.
Learn to forgive yourself for those you’ve harmed.
Face your fears and insecurities without pause.
Be comfortable with being uncomfortable.
Rebuild the community you helped to destroy.
Make something of your life and live righteously.
Love yourself and others.
Be compassionate, kind, loving, and patient.
Help as many people as you possibly can without reward.
Do everything you can to make this world better.

You should know some good came out of who you once were.  You were beyond brilliant, and had you embraced your God given greatness and utilized your inner-most being, tapped into the core of your existence, man, there’s absolutely no limits to where you could’ve soared in this universe. I hope you will one day find it in your heart to forgive me for leading you astray with my wayward thinking, because from that foolish thinking, an attitude of destruction formed, and it filtered into very dangerous and negative behavior that contributed to people getting hurt and you messing up your life. I am not going to blame the environment, the neglect, abuse, or trauma that we experienced, but I want you to understand one thing, all of this wasn’t our fault. There were other factors beyond our control that made it hard for us to navigate in this world simply because of the color of our skin. Yeah, the deck has always been stacked against us, there have been systems strategically placed for us, as black men, to fail, and blindly destroy one another.  But you and I have the spirits of our ancestors flowing in our soul and we will and shall overcome all the obstacles, struggles, trials and tribulations we may come to face.

They say everything happens for a reason, so I will venture to say it’s no accident things turned out the way they did.  On some real, 100 stuff, it all boils down to one’s thoughts causing it all.

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Ricardo Ferrell is one of the two third place winners in our most recent writing contest – we had a tie! Mr. Ferrell doesn’t just write, but also spends his time trying to do exactly what he referred to in his essay – make the world better. He is involved in several projects, and keeps himself busy trying to advocate for those around him, as well as those on the outside. Ricardo Ferrell can be contacted at:

Ricardo Ferrell #140701
Gus Harrison Correctional Facility
2727 E. Beecher Street
Adrian, MI 49221

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Views From The Inside

A White Tee And Docs At Sundown

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This story is for my brother, Ty.  It’s about sturdy white t-shirts and durable black boots. Ty happened to be wearing both when he died.  Today he would have turned fifty.

My brother died on a Harley Davidson.  Actually the bike was on him when he finally came to rest face down in a lonely Idaho field.  He had a broken neck and a B.A.C of 0.29.  I imagine Ty smiling as he barreled headlong into the sinking September sun.  Three short years have passed since my cousin erected a six-foot wooden cross at the crash site.  If only the cool grey dirt could speak. 

The rub is, Ty didn’t try to negotiate the familiar curve.  There were no skid marks, just a beeline into oblivion.  My brother had belonged to a Harley’s Only club.  Over a twenty-five year period, he had ridden that Heritage Softtail from Mexico to Canada and everywhere in between.  He died two miles from home.

After Ty’s body was cremated, my niece, his youngest, drove west to scatter her dad’s ashes across a windswept Oregon beach.  That same day in Utah, her mother, Sue, Ty’s estranged wife, shot herself in the right temple with the 9mm Taurus my brother had inherited from me fifteen years prior when I was sentenced to life in prison.  Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in a soap opera. 

I hurt a lot of people who loved me.  One f those people was my little brother.  His life was never quite the same after I abandoned him. When I selfishly planned and carried out a murder, I hadn’t thought about how the ripple effect would harm so many others who were left to clean up and live with my mess.  How would things have been for them if I hadn’t imploded?

Somewhere between missionary and murderer, amid the muddled decades of my life, I lost a prized Hard Rock Café Las Vegas t-shirt to a karaoke groupie named Venna.  By the time I realized she had take it from my closet and left a less-desirable Miller High Life tee in its place, she had moved away.

I ended up logging a lot of miles in that shirt.  My brother called it a ‘wifebeater’ and laughed out loud when he first saw me wearing it on a fishing trip, and I spent a good deal of time trying to wear it out, everything from singing karaoke, gambling, hunting geese and ducks, camping, skiing, snowmobiling.  Turns out Hanes makes  a tough shirt – almost as tough as black Doc Marten boots.

Though my brother chose not to visit me in prison, he did write me one letter. That letter remains sealed and locked in a plastic box under my bunk.  His daughter had enclosed the sealed letter with some photos she sent me after Ty’s sudden death.  She said she had found the letter addressed and stamped in Ty’s business safe. 

Exactly what that letter says, only my brother knew – at least until I find the courage to open and read it.  I imagine myself dying of cancer and reading it just before my last breath. 

Among the photos my niece sent, one stands out.  Ty is standing on the deck of a chartered fishing boat off the coast of Mazatlan, Mexico, with a drink in his hand.  One of Ty’s friends, Sean Bybee, used to call Ty Dean Martin, because he had some sort of alcoholic beverage in his hand at all times, or at least it seemed so.

At any rate, in that photo my brother was wearing the black Docs and the wife beater. He had them on when he crashed, and he wore them on a vacation with his family.  I have to wonder if he wore those inherited items often, and if maybe he was reaching out to me in some way, maybe trying to somehow live vicariously.  Maybe the articles of clothing were his bond with me.  Lord knows a part of me resides in that shirt and those boots.  No amount of laundering will ever remove every particle of mud, blood, sweat and tears.

It’s been said we shouldn’t judge a man until we’ve walked a mile in his shoes.  I suppose this maxim applies to boots and t-shirts as well. I don’t know how many miles Ty logged in them, but part of himself is surely woven into their fabric. Too bad clothing can’t speak.

They say God works in mysterious ways, sometimes tragedy benefits us unexpectedly.  Surely Christ’s gruesome death on the cross benefits all who believe that his blood has washed away the stain of sin. That said, when Ty died, his funeral notice was posted online.  My estranged son of 23 years saw it and drove nonstop from Phoenix to see the uncle he had never met before he was cremated.  Zac hit the jackpot when he walked into that Mormon churchhouse and met the hundreds of people gathered to celebrate Ty’s life.  He met Ty’s daughter and all of his cousins, reunited with his grandmother, and felt the ground shake in smalltown Rigby, Idaho, when 127 Harleys idled down Main Street in tribute to my kid brother.

Two weeks later Zac walked through the doors of this prison to reconcile with me, the father he hadn’t seen or spoken to since a memorable fishing trip at age five.   When he came through the visiting room door two days before my third grandchild was born, accompanied by the other two and his beautiful wife, I was both proud and sad.

My elation was bittersweet because it took Ty’s death to bring about this reunion, and I realized Ty would could never walk through that door, only the black Docs and wife beater Zac had worn.  My  mother had appropriately presented the items to Zac after they had been removed from Ty’s lifeless body.  A stranger had written the first chapter in the story of that white t-shirt.  Ty and I had added chapters of our own to the saga and woven the black boots into the narrative.  Now it will be up to Zac to continue the legacy.  His chapter might be somewhat tame in comparison.  Zac is a doctor now and a staunch Mormon to boot.  He doesn’t gamble, ride motorcycles or drink beer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. We recieved this piece from Mr. Briggs as an entry to a previous writing contest. Every judge was impressed with the strength of Mr. Briggs’ writing as well as his ability to express himself. He was not chosen as a winner in the contest because his work didn’t exactly fill the prompt – but his work is exactly what this site is here for. I hope we hear from him again. And I’ll aways wonder if he ever opened the letter. Mr. Briggs can be contacted at:

Todd R. Briggs #66972
Idaho State Correctional Center, G Block
P.O. Box 70010
Boise, Idaho 83707

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

“I Didn’t Kill Mary”

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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.

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Small Wonder

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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.

All Posts By Chanton

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/

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Small World

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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

All Posts By Chanton

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/

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Views From The Inside

This, Too, Shall Pass

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In a couple months, I’ll have nineteen years, day for day, in this concrete jungle.  ‘Jungles’ bring to mind wild animals and certain death around the next bend.   In here, society views us as wild animals, and for us, the chow hall can become the location of death around the next bend.

A few years ago some guys and I were on the rec yard discussing who we thought had the best chance to go to and win the Super Bowl.  A couple guys were going with the Patriots, others were going with teams no one even remembered making the play-offs in recent years. Being a Cowboys loyalist, I just knew my team was going to get up in there.

The Patriots won again.

When the discussion was losing steam, a guy we all knew approached our little circle, gesturing and speaking excitedly about a confrontation he heard going on between two cellmates.

To make a long story short, two guys were drinking hooch, got drunk, started arguing and calling one another names only two drunk people would come up with.  When we asked Lil’ K what the argument had to do with us, he responded, telling us one of the guys was handicapped and being bullied.

Generally, in prison, people tend to mind their own business. Even considering the situation, I felt like – this is the ‘joint’, the jungle – and definitely none of my business.  Being on closed custody and dealing with the constant threat of being placed in a cell with a psyche patient, we agreed to wait until we could get all the guys in question together before pursuing the subject further. 

Before the meeting had a chance to happen, a riot jumped off behind the argument the next day at chow hall.

Turns out, upon investigating the situation thoroughly, the two cellmates were as cool as two men who live together and get drunk and high often can be. As the riot was taking place, I found the guy who was supposedly getting mistreated.  I asked him if he and his cellmate were alright.

“Hell, yeah, that’s my boy!”

Go figure.

Instantly, I was reminded of the importance of minding my own business.

Everyone who went to chow that day had to start their closed custody time over, and we were put on lockdown.  Fortunately, no one was seriously injured and no weapons were involved. 

That night I explained to my cellmate what happened. He looked up from his Alex Cross novel, crumbs on his mouth from his peanut butter sandwich, and assured me, “This too shall pass.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: This is Mr. Edwards first submission here. He believes, as do we, in the importance of sharing the ‘mundane’ as well as the dramatic. Andre Edwards lives in a Texas prison and can be contacted at:
Andre Edwards #1139465
3872 FM 350 S.
Livingston, TX 77351

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Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

Lessons Learned In Isolation

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For nine years, I have been confined to a single man cell.  Days, often weeks, pass without leaving this space.  I deserved to be placed here. I am here because I attempted escape and was punished.   To be honest, it was probably the best thing for me – at the time.  My peer group was violent and negative, and upon arrival I was disgusted with myself for having fallen so far.  I resolved to fill the void of what I was forced to leave with positive change and growth.  I began a journey to become the man I knew I was, rather than the man my poor decisions had built. 

I quickly learned any progress I hoped to make would depend solely on my efforts.  There is no education provided to inmates in solitary confinement in Texas.   None.   Anything I’ve learned through reading is the result of donors from the outside.

I also learned tenuous relationships with loved ones in the free world are easily stressed when a person is placed in isolation.  General population contact visits allow hugs with family.  In here I am led to visitors in chains to a booth with a glass partition that forces us to speak over a phone.  What’s worse is, this is the only phone I can speak through.  General population offenders have access to unlimited fifteen minute calls, seven days a week.  Access to telephones is not allowed in solitary.

I have learned solitary confinement is an effective weight loss program.  More often than not, I am hungry at bedtime.  Despite menu descriptions like ‘fresh yellow corn’ and ‘deep rich gravy’,  I can count on the unappetizing reality of at least one or more food items arriving spoiled, and the unclean fact that it has passed through no less than six pairs of hands before getting to my cell.

One of the harder lessons – ‘out of sight, out of mind’ is never more true than when locked away in solitary confinement.  While prison administration might remove an inmate from population for legitimate reasons, once ‘out of sight’ it becomes easier to check the box that keeps the inmate in solitary than to mindfully dedicate the resources needed to rehabilitate the person and release them from solitary. 

Perhaps the hardest lesson is discovering first hand what so much time in seclusion can do to a person. I have spent years tearing down my old faulty value system and building a better one, learning how to make strong healthy choices.  I’ve made progress in so many ways, but so much isolation has begun to injure me.   A few years ago, I began to feel very paranoid during the rare time out of my cell.  For the ten  hours per month allowed out, I felt as if I was being stared at, looked at from the corners of people’s eyes.  It got so bad I didn’t want to leave my cell, prompting me to refuse medical and dental appointments.

I have never been a mental health patient.  None of my family suffers from a mental disorder.  I am rational and clear minded.  I am literal and focused.  Yet, these years in solitary have taken a serious mental toll.   To get ‘help’ from mental health staff carries a stigmatized label as a psych patient.  I was reluctant to contact them, although intellectually I understood what was happening.  Despite the understanding, I could not shake the discomfort I felt when outside my cell.

When I did finally speak to someone in mental health, I worked through the discomfort for the most part.  But recently the symptoms have returned, worse than before.   When outside my cell, I struggle to hold eye contact and find myself trying to mumble at times.  I berate myself.  I know that isolation is the cause of the distress.  I think this must be what it’s like to have a disorder – maybe like a man with Alzheimer’s who, in his clear moments, feels terrible because he recognizes he’s had bad moments, but he is unable to combat them.

I have no real treatment options.  They do not do therapy here. They medicate…  a slippery slope. I do not need medication.   I feel anxious out of my cell. This is caused by my isolation.  I am witnessing, in person, the deterioration of a human mind…  mine. 

After nine years, I no longer belong in solitary confinement.  I am a new man, if not completely, then on my way to being one.  I have had three minor disciplinary infractions during my 3,300 days here, all for covering the 24/7 light in my cell so as to sleep.   But, alas, they keep checking the box that keeps me here.

The unregulated, unmonitored use of isolation damages as many people as it was meant to ‘improve’.    Some of us will one day be neighbors to those in the free world – so shouldn’t those who wield the power to inflict these kind of lessons for years on end be held to a high standard…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Jeremy Robinson is author of The Monster Factory, which he is currently revising. Mr. Robinson lives in a Texas prison and can be contacted at:
Jeremy Robinson #1313930
Polunsky Unit
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Terry Robinson, Views From The Inside

Question Of Innocence

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I am innocent. I did not rob the Pizza Inn restaurant, nor did I shoot and kill its manager, John Rushton.  Ronald Bullock and Jesse Hill testified I did – their testimony the nucleus of the returned guilty verdict.  I didn’t spend the day planning the robbery with them, nor meet them after it was over – as they told the jury.  I didn’t organize their plan. I didn’t participate in it. I wasn’t in the Pizza Inn that night.

None of that happened.  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.

For two decades, I have lived the same as those who are guilty. I’ve stomached the same foods, donned the same disgraceful attire and been governed by the same rules.  I’ve looked into the eyes of men as they were moments away from being unrighteously done in, while inside my innocence has become a little less significant each day.  Capital punishment is not meant to penalize the guilty, but rather to exterminate the worthless while attempting to restore solace to grieving hearts.

Aristotle once said, “We are what we repeatedly do,” and in just a few short years, I will have been a Death Row inmate for longer than I’ve been anything else.  So, what then is my innocence but a conscientious self-declaration to get me through the day? 

My innocence is a reminder of who I used to be – so that I am not lost to who I have become…

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

All Posts By Chanton

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 the trial will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/

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