How To Drown

March 3, 2021 DeLaine Jones Leave a comment

I can’t swim. I can’t even float. It’s not very dignified for a former athlete, but I paddle like a dog, and I’m ashamed to admit my little sister taught herself to swim before I ever knew what dog paddling was.

Some would say that learning to swim is about overcoming large fears. Others would say it’s about overcoming the fear of death and gaining confidence in self. To not learn to swim efficiently speaks of some form of cowardice, a lack of heart – something that can’t be taught. The ability is held in such high esteem that fathers throw their frightened children into the deep, forcing them to literally ‘sink or swim’.

I was eight years old when I left the three foot end of the pool to get in line to dive off the high dive and into the twelve foot end. I knew I couldn’t swim, and I was likely to die. I simply did not care to let this chance pass me by. Some would claim I’d been thrown into the deep end long before that moment.

My heart threatened to break a rib with its hammering, but I’d been my little sister’s protector and her go-to, and whenever she called my name I’d never failed to answer the bell. I could not allow her to continue to see me fail, to see me in fear. So, I got in line. I braved the line not only to confront my fear of death, but my fear of seeing disappointment in my lil sister’s eyes. Truth be told, there were few things in life I feared more. Her love and adoration were, in my mind, forever bound to my ability to protect her, to lead the way, to provide something that neither of us had. Self-worth maybe? Identity?

It all began before that day at the pool. We lived in Compton, California, on Primrose Street. I was still young, it was before I’d started school, before crack and the justice system ravaged my family, but after my mom was murdered. My “G”-mom was simply trying to do right by her daughter’s children, keeping us together, safe and fed while trying to keep herself together mentally and emotionally. She was trying to find a way to hold on to her God’s hand while her own heart and hands were overflowing with pain.

My granny must have been watching from the shadow of the screen door when my sister and I were fighting in the backyard over a toy. To win, I pushed her down, and she began to cry. In a flash, the door banged open and my grandmother had me in her clutches. She lit into me in a real way, and through my tears, she took my cheeks in her hand and pointed to the little girl on the ground.

“That is your sister, not some stranger on the street, but your sister! You are the only big brother she has! Don’t you ever hurt her, and you better not let anyone else ever hurt her!! Do you hear me?!”

Where I come from there’s a phrase for learning to face the very real dangers of life outside the protection of your home. We refer to facing death and learning to survive in the deep end as ‘stepping off the porch’. This was my splash! moment.

I was in middle school when I stabbed a middle-schooler for pushing my lil sister down and taking her money as she waited in the candy store line for me. I’d come home with my sister in hand and a black eye that was talking to me. I’d confronted the kid and he’d took a swing – my first fight ever. He parked me on my butt like he was taking a driver’s test. My black eye elicited a warning from my granny. She better not hear from that school about me fighting, she’d sent me to school to learn, not to fight. No one cared to ask why I had a black eye. Why should they? This was my little sister, not theirs, so it was up to me to deal with it, right?

When my uncles and grandmother found out what happened from my sister and my attempt to wash my bloody school clothes with some Tide, a hairbrush and the water hose, they all called me crazy. Angry. ‘Touched’. All but my grandmother. She never condemned me over what I’d done, nor did she admonish me over the situation. She merely looked at me with a new tilt of curiosity to her head, like she was seeing me for the first time.

I bounced twice from the high dive and did a triple tuck back flip (my grade school had a gymnastics team). I hit the water head first with my arms extended to break the surface, body like an arrow. Best dive of the day! Then I sank right to the bottom, twelve feet of water!

Panic? Never that. I could see the ladder on the other side of the pool. I’d just ‘walk’ over to it and climb out. I pushed off to get a few sips of air into taxed lungs, only to start panting like a dog. A few sips wouldn’t do! Sputtering and choking and thrashing, I sank again. The older kid who came to save me came from behind. I fought, thinking it was an attack. I sank yet again! I passed out in the pool. My lil sis watched me die trying to lead the way – to continue to be her hero. They dragged my lifeless body from the pool and revived me.

Welcome to my deep end.

I once had to face down a kid who had his heart set on chopping me with a machete over my sister. Once brained a grown man with a brick who tried to rape her. I’m otherwise a non-confrontational person, but when it comes to my mother’s only daughter? I would hurt you. Bad.

What I didn’t know was that there were threats in our own home. Family members came to live with us, having fallen on tough times financially. I was only a kid, mom was dead – murdered – and neither of our fathers were worth the ink it would cost to write their names. I never knew the love and trust garnered from helping with homework could lead to the ripping of a soul or that the resulting screams are seldom heard because those who cause them are likely the same who stand at the gates in defense.

When she became pregnant at fifteen due to this molestation, I was in chains already, after being on the row for months. My lil sis was alone. She came to see me – alone. Her belly large, her eyes pregnant with fear and secret pain. We held each other and wept, just as we had in the backyard in Compton, California, on Primrose Street. We both drowned that day. Who knows, maybe if I had learned to swim, things could have been different. Maybe some cries can only be heard under water, when you are out of breath – in the deep end.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Jones has a style all his own. His writing is honest and thought provoking and exciting to work with. I look forward to hearing more of his insight as well as more of his life’s experiences.

Mr. Jones has served 32 years for a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old. He can be contacted at:

DeLaine Jones #7623482
777 Stanton Blvd.
Ontario, OR 97914

Sentenced to Death

Should We Kill? My Thoughts On The Death Penalty

February 28, 2021 kimberleyann Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Views From The Inside

Happy Elation Day Falls On December 29

February 20, 2021 Joshua Kenyon 1 Comment

Holidays are often lost on the incarcerated, memories of a time lost that many may never find again. Often, I find myself saddened by a cheerful Christmas spirit, or thoughts of a Thanksgiving feast, sad because right now I can only pretend that not being with loved ones and family doesn’t hurt, knowing they are missing me too.

Yet, I find myself celebrating a more unorthodox day, my own little holiday. It may be meaningless to most, but it means the world to me. I have found a day I will always celebrate, a day I can smile for, a day that I take stock of all that I am grateful for. On that day, I always eat a big meal of whatever I can scrounge out of my box, all with great joy and happiness.

What is this day I find solace in? To that I say – what comes after a sentence? For many of us, the correct answer is appeals. My special day of celebration is connected to my appeals. It is a day that gave me another chance at life. I won my 35(c) Ineffective Assistance of Counsel and my Rule 33 Motion For A New Trial on December 29, 2017. This is my Christmas, my New Year, all my holidays rolled into one.

I won’t poison my celebration with all the legalities, the ‘should haves’, ‘what ifs’ and everything else that I might not still agree with. I don’t want to take away from or diminish my special holiday in any way. All that matters to me is that on December 29, 2017, my 198 year prison sentence had the door opened, and I was given a chance at life again. Turning 198 years into twenty is something worth celebrating, let me tell you.

Due to my newly found personal holiday, maybe the orthodox holidays will some day feel special again. Maybe one day I will be ‘that guy’ with the annoying overly cheerful Christmas spirit, or have a Thanksgiving feast, and maybe some day somebody will make me their Valentine. One day, I’ll be able to draw designs in the air with sparklers and hide Easter eggs in the neighborhood.

One day, I’ll be able to do all of that, but for me, my favorite holiday will always be Elation Day, December 29.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Kenyon is currently living behind bars. He’s had a positive impact on his furry friends there, and hopes to one day impact lives on the other side of the bars. I have confidence Mr. Kenyon will succeed at whatever he aspires to do. Joshua Kenyon can be contacted at:
Joshua Kenyon #150069
21000 Hwy 350 E
Model, CO 81059

Views From The Inside

The Painting

February 7, 2021 Robert Neibler Leave a comment

Once a tear has fallen
The pain is hard to hide.
Expression of emotion
Of feelings deep inside.

A natural reaction
To entombment of the heart,
Unexpected revolution of
Humans’ purest art.

The art of self-expression,
Painting on your face.
You draw out your perception
Of a dark and lonely place.

Through tenderness and passion
You begin to see a light,
A spark of inspiration,
A beacon in the night.

Reclamation of one’s self,
When all the tears have dried.
The moment of realization
You’ve forgotten why you cried.

ABOUT THE WRITER. Robert Neibler enjoys writing poetry and this is his first contribution to WITS. He hopes to one day compile a book of poetry. Mr. Neibler can be contacted at:

Robert Neibler #399870
Baraga Correctional Facility
13924 Wadaga Road
Baraga, MI 49908

Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

The Things That Remain

February 1, 2021 Chanton © 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Dressed For Halloween

January 24, 2021 Kristopher Love Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

LWOP, Views From The Inside

I Write…

January 18, 2021 Tony Enis Leave a comment

I write to escape,
To hide deep within
Where I can be alone
With my hidden thoughts
And secret hopes.
That secret place
Is mine alone,
I can hide my torment,
Anguish and despair,
Where it need not be on display
For the world to see.
I write to bury my pain,
To cast it aside with pen and paper.
With the stroke of a pen,
I create my own illusion
Of joy and happiness.
But the illusion is a lie,
And like all lies,
It cannot stand up to the light of day.
I write the words my mouth cannot speak,
The words that lay trapped
In the deepest depths of this well
That is my heart.
I cannot give voice to those words,
For then they would become
A part of my reality
And no longer could I seek sanctuary
In the illusion,
In the lie that cannot stand up to the light of day.
I write to stay alive inside,
To keep from dying
A little more with each passing day,
To keep love at bay as she nips at my heart.
Because for me, to love is to die,
Not physically, but inside,
A little more each day.
So, write I must
As love kicks and pounds
At the door of my heart.
That is why I write…

ABOUT THE WRITER. This is the first submission I’ve received from Mr. Enis, but I’m looking forward to reading more of his work. His piece is a direct reflection of why WITS exists. He beautifully expressed what we are all about and what so many of the writers here have in common. Toni Enis has been incarcerated for over thirty-three years, and maintains his innocence. He can be contacted at:

Tony Enis #N82931
P.O. Box 1000
Menard, IL 02259

Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Class of 99: Day 3…

January 11, 2021 Charles 'Chucky' Mamou Leave a comment

It’s all a dream. Or is it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

You can also reach him through jpay.com.

Writing Contests

I Believe In You

January 10, 2021 kimberleyann Leave a comment

Have those words ever made a difference in your life? It might not have been said exactly that way, but do those words make you think of someone in particular?

WITS supports and believes in the limitless potential of positive reinforcement, and wants to hear about a time in your life when someone believing in you – had an impact on your actions and/or choices.

Is there anyone who ever believed in you – and that confidence and belief in you influenced you in a positive way? It could have been a child, a parent, a teacher or a friend – anyone, even a stranger.

That’s the theme of the first writing contest of 2021: Has Someone’s Belief In YOU Ever Impacted Your Decisions And Actions?

I say it all the time – be vulnerable. That may mean writing about your own insecurities.

Only those who are incarcerated are eligible to participate.

We can’t accept anything that has been previously published.

Submission is free – BUT, even if an entry doesn’t win, we consider entry permission to publish and edit. Sometimes we get so many excellent entries, they can’t all win, but they need to be shared.

Entries should be 1,000 words or less.

Submissions can be handwritten.

As done in our previous contests, I will narrow down the entries to the top ten, and then hand them off to individuals to rate the writing with a point system to determine winners.

PRIZES:

First Place: $75
Second Place: $50
Third Place: $25

DEADLINE: March 31, 2021. Decisions will be posted on or before April 30, 2021.

MAILING ADDRESS:

Walk In Those Shoes
Writing Contest Entry
P.O. Box 70092
Henrico, Virginia 23255

As always – I’m excited to see what comes in!

As a reminder, WITS is giving away a book or magazine subscription once a month to a random submission that gets posted for each month of 2021. These posts can be on any topic, and are unrelated to this contest. January’s random book will be Where The Crawdads Sing.

Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Promise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prison Writing and Expression