Wednesday, November 17, 1999… I found myself encircled by three huge Harris County transport deputies, all well over six feet tall, all tipping the scale over 280, and all looking like offensive lineman for a professional football team. “Strip out your clothes, lift your nut sack, spread your butt cheeks and squat!” the lead deputy bellicose barked.
“Squat? I’m not squatting. I’m a man. I’m a Mamou!” I defiantly yelled back. I then noticed the other two deputies putting on their black gloves, the way a surgical doctor places latex gloves on his hands before dealing with a patient.
“We got a live one,” another deputy spat.
“You have five seconds to take your clothes off, lift and squat as I ordered, or we send you off to your new home with a ass whoopin’ you’ll never forget.”
Back then Harris County jailers and deputies were notorious for gang jumping inmates, so much so they were called ‘The County Klan’. I once witnessed eight officers jump one frail looking black drug addict. The beating was so vicious his left eyeball popped out of its socket. I’d never seen anything like that before. Afterwards, one of the sergeants beamed with pride at their dastardly work before giving the unconscious and bloodied offender one more kick to the head. They had a license to beat anyone they chose within their jail’s walls and the numbers were always in their favor. The county jail was their castle, and they were royalty.
I grew mad – so mad my blood pressure rose, and I began to feel dizzy. I wanted to fight them all, to show them where I was from, being ‘Bout It’ was more important than any beating one could get or give. In fact, it was a dogmatic honor to go out swinging – win or lose. But I wasn’t a fool. During the 3 ½ month stay in their county jail while awaiting trial, I had stressfully lost 24 pounds. I was a sick looking stick figure, and I knew it and felt it. I was merely a doppelgänger of my old self. Taking that into consideration as the lead deputy began reaching for his nightstick, I stripped nude and squatted, bringing wry smirks to the now cherry faced deputies. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I wanted to kill a man.
Once my forced faux-striptease was concluded, I was shackled around my ankles with a long chain that led to the handcuffs around my wrists. Then an iron black box was placed over the chain that tightly connected my ankle restraints to my wrist restraints, making it impossible to walk upright. Blood began to form from cuts to my ankles brought on by every snail step I took.
One of the escorting deputies noticed the blood and asked sarcastically if the cuffs were too tight. It was a dumb ass question deserving a dumb ass response because I didn’t want them to see how vulnerable I felt. I drew on a hubris mantra for strength that reminded me of my last name every time I grew weak or was on the brink of an emotional breakdown. Why my last name? Because at that moment it was all I had. It was the only mental I.D. that kept me revisiting who I was to those that loved and cared for me.
As a kid my father’s father used to pick me up every Saturday morning to go get a haircut from the ‘brutal barber’, Mr. Plumbar. He had a reputation of using a straight razor on little boys’ heads, then slapping alcohol across the cuts he had made when he was done. Young boys feared getting a haircut from him, and older fathers and grandfathers brought their young boys to him to prove that their sons were brave.
“What’s your last name?” my grandfather would always ask before we entered the barbershop. Once I proudly told him and he was satisfied, he would say, “Mamous don’t cry! No matter what we go through, we suck it up. Understand?”
After my haircut he would always take me to get a treat in the form of ice cream or some other snack. But for the life of me, every time that alcohol hit my scalp I wanted to flee that barber’s chair as if a swarm of killer bees were attacking. But I never did. I sat and took the pain because it was embedded in me from a young age that ‘Mamous don’t cry in front of those trying to hurt us.’ So as the blood flowed and the pain in my ankles increased, I said nothing.
I was led to the back of the van. It was nothing fancy. It came equipped with a cage inside that took up the entire cargo space, reminding me of a dogcatcher’s transport vehicle. It had side windows for me to look out, helping to take my mind off the pain I was feeling and how I was chained up like a slave from the movie Roots. We hit the highway heading towards the prison that held Death Row inmates. Over the next four hours, I would notice scenes through those windows I had never noticed before – and I realized how beautiful the free world seemed when one was no longer free. To be continued…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a gifted writer living on Death Row. The issues with Mamou’s trial are more than troubling. I share details about his case often, and I’m happy to talk about the details. Many can be found on a Facebook page dedicated to his story. He can be contacted through USPS, and also via email through JPay. Please leave your mailing address if you contact him via JPay, as he cannot respond through JPay.:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
