A pandemic came, The world started falling. A few free phone calls, Family I went to calling. It was all I could do Not to go insane. Never in my life Have I felt so much pain. Dead, buried and forgotten, It seems they want me to be. A free phone call from me, They refused. Back in my cell, I pace. No one ever again Wanting to see my face. My heart, mind, Body and soul Fighting the treason. Alone, mother, Grandmother, father gone. Can’t numb the pain with a drink. Can’t inhale it, Stick it in a vein or in my nose. Just grows. What do you say To someone like me? I extend my lovely smile, Help them approach a new day, Take another step or even a mile.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Brown is the newest addition to our writing family. He enjoys writing, which is what we are all about, and he contacted us with no more than a brief note, so I don’t know much more about him. I’m curious to see where he goes from here. Mr. Brown can be contacted at: Michael Lamar Brown #137280 Graceville Correctional Facility 5168 Ezell Road Graceville, FL 32440
After being in this prison system more years than I have lived on the streets, I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before – like my life was a waste. The world is almost thirty years ahead of me. When I think of people, I think of what life was like outside this prison in 1994. I still see the people who were once my school mates as kids. I still feel like a kid. I was one when I came here. I don’t still think like a kid, but I still shoot basketball and exercise just like when I left the world. I am 44.
I’ve spent over half my life thinking about the events that led up to the night of January 11, 1994 – the day before my eighteenth birthday. Mobile is different now. If I lived there now, it never would have happened. There is a Coalition Against Bullying now. They have Anti-Bullying Awareness Weeks. There is something called a ‘Bullyblocker’. You text a number if you are being bullied – your text goes straight to the District Attorney’s office. I guess it’s too late for me to text that. I did contact the right people at that time though. I went to my parents, the school, and the police. It’s all on record. I just didn’t have that Bullyblocker number. I would have used it if I had – and I wouldn’t be here.
What makes me different than a kid that lives in Mobile today? I was bullied by men that didn’t even go to my high school. There is no doubt the things that were done to me would have gotten a response if I had texted a hotline. It exceeded bullying. I was pushed around, chased, stalked – I was in high school and shot at on more than one occasion. If none of that had happened, what happened on January 11, 1994, wouldn’t have happened. People make excuses for themselves all the time. That’s not what this is. That’s just reality. If the people who were supposed to had resolved the issue like they were supposed to, I, Louis Singleton, Jr., would never have done what I did. I wasn’t raised to hurt anyone. That’s not who I was or am.
I’m smarter though. I refuse to give into the criminal life. I get on to young brothers who can’t seem to give up the drug life – until I break it down for them. They have big dreams of being Big Time Drug Dealers. They call me Unk. I try to encourage them to get out and do better for themselves. The at-home training my late mother gave me is embedded heavily in me. Knowing the difference between right and wrong will always be in me, no matter where they send me.
I’m living in the Alabama prison system, one of, if not the, worst prison system in America. Respect is at an all time low, but I never disrespect anyone, never have, never will. My mom taught me better. I hope those that were affected by my actions forgive me. I don’t expect them to understand because, truly, you’d have to walk in my shoes. You’d have to be the seventeen year old kid who was getting shot at. I don’t want that for anybody.
They see me as a ‘violent offender’. I’m not violent. That label doesn’t make me violent. I was seventeen, and it was a violent crime that never would have happened if I had been able to text that magic number and get help. I’m not even allowed to talk at my own parole hearing. They don’t see me. They see ‘violent offender’.
My first coach told me to never give up, no matter how badly you are losing the game. I haven’t forgotten that to this day. It’s the fourth quarter, the score is 44-10, the other team has the ball with 3:54 left on the clock. Play hard until the clock says 0:00. One time I was in a game playing defensive back, and a guy beat me on a broken coverage. He was running to the end zone, and I was chasing him. He got so far in front of me, I stopped pursuing him. He scored. I got chewed out heavily for that. Anything could have happened. He could have dropped the ball. From that day on, I’ve never given up.
ABOUT THE WRITER: Mr. Singleton’s story can be found here. WITS is grateful for his honest and heartfelt writing, and I hope he continues to write about his life in the Alabama Department of Corrections. Louis Singleton can be contacted at: Louis Singleton #179665 Fountain Correctional Center 9677 Highway 21 North Atmore, AL 36503
Growing up, it seemed every Christmas my imagination would expand more than the year before. I would hope for everything I ever wanted, but in reality my hopes were diminished. At times I only got the Goodfellow’s box and a few other items underneath the Christmas tree. It was tight for us back then, the only means of income in our household, like many others, was the public assistance check known as ADC or Welfare every two weeks. Man, those were some embarrassing times as a youngster. I would go to some of my friends’ houses and see all kinds of toys in their front rooms under huge trees. I don’t think my young heart could form any envy toward them because most all my friends would share their many toys with me. They’d let me ride their new bikes, and play with their electric trains, race car sets, and even their Rockem Sockem Robots.
Although we didn’t have much in the form of material riches, we had a kind of wealth in our hearts which was demonstrated by the love and appreciation we had for each other. I recall my mother and I decorating our tree with Christmas lights, an assortment of bulbs, candy canes, artificial icicles, and ornaments to make our tree look its very best. I was happy to crawl under everyday and pour water into the stand to keep it fresh. We usually waited until Christmas Eve to go down to the Eastern Market and buy us a tree because the price would drop to only a dollar or two. It was an exciting time during the holiday season, and I enjoyed helping to select our tree every year.
On Christmas we would enjoy my mother’s deliciously cooked meal before heading over to visit with relatives, and I could always expect several Christmas presents waiting for me at my Aunt Mae ‘s house. She was what you call hood rich and lived ghetto fabulous. Her house was laid out with the best furniture from Margolis, an expensive furniture outlet where she bought mostly all Italian-style layouts. She was never stingy with her money or riches, and gladly gave us whatever we needed. So, we might have been borderline living way below the poverty level at our household, but it was a completely different story when I went over to my auntie’s house. My Christmas changed dramatically, and so did my attitude of not having much because at my aunt’s house on Seyburn in West Village, I had everything I wanted. That is how I could imagine something different every Christmas morning back when I was growing up, and even though I might be confined behind bars, I can still experience those same fond memories at Christmas time.
While the meals in here can’t compare to the ones my mother and Aunt Mae cooked, where the collard greens, sweet potatoes, baked turkey, deep fried chicken, chitlins, baked ham, potato salad, string beans, cranberry sauce, and butter milk cornbread would literally melt in your mouth, not to mention the best banana pudding you could ever taste, I’m still appreciative because there’s millions upon millions of people who go hungry every single day, many starving to death. I have no room to complain about a poorly prepared and cooked prison holiday meal. What I normally do is close my eyes and imagine those delicious meals I used to eat at a real dinner table. Believe it or not, a smile always comes across my face because I can still imagine tasting what I miss so much.
Today is Thanksgiving, and we’re on ‘quarantine status’ for at least fourteen days as a result of nearly 200 of us in this housing unit testing positive for COVID, which means we’ve been eating cold, poorly prepared meals three times a day out of styrofoam trays since this past Monday. The holiday meal of processed turkey, dressing, mash potatoes and gravy will be served the same way later, and the same meal will be served on Christmas Day, but I’ll do as I’ve done for nearly forty years in here, close my eyes and imagine something different.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Ricardo Ferrell is the winner of our final writing contest of 2020. I’m not one of the judges, but as I was posting this piece – I see why he won. It’s not just the writing – it’s the heart behind the writing. That heart, which he so easily expresses, is exactly why WITS exists. Ricado Ferrell has the ability to express the light that exists within himself and within prisons all over the country. Ricardo Ferrell can be contacted at:
Ricardo Ferrell #140701 Gus Harrison Correctional Facility 2727 E. Beecher Street Adrian, MI 49221
A fax cover sheet addressed to Assistant District Attorney Lyn McClellan and dated September 24, 1999, along with an HPD officer’s handwritten caller ID records were seen for the first time by Charles Mamou in 2020, over twenty years after the Houston Police Department and District Attorney’s office had access to them. The cover sheet and phone records were not shared with Mamou at trial, and could have assisted in the investigation as well as discredited the testimony of two of the prosecution’s key witnesses. In a case without physical evidence, those witnesses were critical. The jury that found Charles Mamou guilty and sentenced him to death never saw the documents, and they were only recently obtained by Mamou’s advocates.
Charles Mamou was sentenced to die in 1999, not long after this fax is dated, for the kidnapping and murder of Mary Carmouche. Mamou has always maintained his innocence and describes fleeing a drug deal gone wrong in a car that didn’t belong to him – Carmouche was in the backseat – and returning to an apartment complex in Houston, Texas, where he was staying. Mamou lived in Louisiana and was in Texas, in most part, for a drug deal. According to Mamou, he last saw Carmouche alive and in the parking lot of the apartment complex, along with several other individuals, two of whom would end up being key witnesses for the prosecution, claiming they were at home in bed, and never saw Mamou after the drug deal – also claiming they did not make or receive phone calls that night.
The phone records – one of two pieces of actual evidence in the case – were never shared with Mamou or the jury. The other piece of evidence that Mamou and the jury never heard about was a rape kit that was collected, which included the collection of ‘trace evidence’ and ‘hairs’. In a case with no fingerprints at the scene of the body, no footprints, no witnesses, no weapon – a rape kit and phone records are the next best thing. The prosecution knew about both. The jury and Mamou knew about neither. Not only did the prosecution know about the rape kit – they also told the jury Mamou sexually assaulted the victim.
The HPD investigator’s notes include identifying notations next to the phone numbers. The victim was last seen alive on the evening of December 6, 1998, early morning of December 7, 1998. The key witness, Howard Scott, lived at the apartment complex Mamou said he drove the car to. These are Scott’s caller ID records from that night, as written by an HPD investigator that went to Scott’s apartment on December 8, 1998.
11:19 p.m., Oretha Gray; 11:25 p.m., Sun Suites; 11:46 p.m., Emily Griggs; 11:48 p.m., Meri Eubanks; 12:14 a.m., payphone; 12:19 a.m., M.E. Brinson – Shawn’s mother; 1:54 a.m., Meri Eubanks; 2:37 a.m., wireless [WRITER’S NOTE: the phone number listed at 2:37 is identified in HPD’s file as belonging to another key witness, Samuel Johnson]; 3:12 a.m., M.E. Brinson – Shawn calls for Howard; 3:43 a.m., call notes.
Mamou could have used this information in his defense, and investigators may have had an opportunity to pursue the location of the wireless phone call made at 2:37 a.m. from a cell phone used by Samuel Johnson, a witness who testified he was home in bed and didn’t talk to anyone that night. Johnson’s contradicting statement and testimony are sufficient reason to pursue the origin and purpose of the 2:37 a.m. phone call for anyone trying to find answers in a murder investigation.
Charles Mamou did not live in Houston. All of the key witnesses did, and Samuel Johnson also worked for Orkin at the time, testifying that his area was in the southwest area of Houston. Although it was often reported that the victim was found near some abandoned houses, she was actually found in what detectives described as a hard to find location in a suburban neighborhood in the southwest area of Houston in the backyard of a house that was for sale – not some abandoned houses.
When the HPD investigator went to Howard Scott’s apartment on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, the investigator was actually hoping to arrest Mamou. They knew he was there that morning from Howard Scott’s wife, and they knew Mamou had been involved in the drug deal that Mary Carmouche had last been seen at. Investigators didn’t find Mamou, but they wrote down Scott’s caller ID records and transported Scott to HPD that day to make a written statement. Not only is that documented in HPD’s case file, Detective Novak also testified regarding Howard Scott’s written statement that day.
That original statement from Howard Scott is nowhere to be found. It is not in the HPD case file, and according to the District Attorney’s office, they don’t have it either. I was told by HPD, that ‘everything doesn’t always makes it into the file’. The following day, police brought Scott and his wife back to HPD and took written statements again on Wednesday, December 9, 1998. Both of Robin Scott’s statements are available, but Howard Scott’s original statement is missing.
I tried to speak to Scott in 2019, but he refused to talk to me. He has spoken to other people over the years, and his statements are inconsistent throughout. The most recent of which, in 2019, includes a physical description of Carmouche from that night, and seeing Samuel Johnson, Charles Mamou and Mary Carmouche all at the apartment complex at the same time – a complete reversal from his testimony, in which he claimed he was home in bed and did not see Samuel Johnson or Charles Mamou after the drug deal, and his phone did not ring. Howard Scott described seeing Samuel Johnson, Charles Mamou, Mary Carmouche, and Kenneth Duplechan all alive and at the apartment complex parking lot after the drug deal.
The jury never heard that. The prosecutor who, according to the the fax cover sheet, was sent Scott’s caller ID records on September 24, 1999, listened to his witness testify two weeks later on October 7, 1999, about going to bed between 11 and midnight, and about how the phone was ringing prior to that, as he sat with ‘Shawn’ and Ken. Scott told the jury there were ‘no more phone calls’ after he went to bed. Neither the jury nor Mamou are ever told ‘Shawn’, the man Scott said he was talking to in his apartment before he went to bed between 11 and 12, called Scott’s apartment at 12:19 a.m., and again at 3:12 a.m., and that Scott’s phone didn’t stop ringing until 3:43 a.m. Although Howard Scott has consistantly contradicted himself for twenty years, and his first statement is missing, he was a key witness in the case against Mamou.
Samuel Johnson, the driver in the drug deal gone wrong, who fled the alley without Mamou, testified he went straight home to bed and spoke to no one, never seeing Mamou or Carmouche again, not seeing or speaking to anyone that night. According to the HPD investigator’s notes, Samuel Johnson called Howard Scott’s apartment at 2:37 a.m., from a wireless phone. At that time in history, landlines were frequently used for phone calls made from a person’s residence, and wireless calls were more likely to be made when away from home. Mamou never had an opportunity to point out to the jury that Johnson’s phone made a call to Howard Scott’s apartment nor was he able to investigate the location of the call’s origin. The prosecution did not share the available information with the jury.
‘Ken’ who Howard Scott mentioned was sitting in his living room in his testimony, has since been interviewed, although there is nothing in HPD’s file to indicate that anyone involved in trying to find Carmouche’s killer ever interviewed him during HPD’s ‘investigation’. In 2019 Kenneth Duplechan told an investigator he saw Charles Mamou, Howard Scott, Samuel Johnson and Shawn Eaglin in the apartment complex parking lot that night – along with the blue Lexus Mamou fled the drug deal in. That statement contradicts everything the jury was told. Kenneth Duplechan also stated he stayed in the parking lot talking to Howard Scott and Charles Mamou after Samuel Johnson drove away. The jury never heard any of that, but the phone records reveal one name coming up twice on Scott’s phone that night – Meri Eubanks. Meri Eubanks does appear to know Kenneth Duplechan, but Eubanks and Duplechan will not respond to inquiries from me. Although the HPD investigator is the individual who wrote down the name Meri Eubanks in his notes as a caller to Scott’s apartment, there are no records of anyone at HPD interviewing Eubanks in their efforts to locate Carmouche’s killer.
There were other phone calls made to the apartment that night that could have been investigated, but according to police files were not, and Mamou was not aware of them at the time, so he was unable to pursue them himself.
The prosecution also knew about actual physical evidence that was collected as part of a rape kit. They did not share what they learned with the jury or Mamou. That information has been kept from Mamou for over twenty years.
On July 8, 1999, two months before Mamou’s trial, an investigator for the District Attorney, Al Rodriguez, contacted HPD and asked them to process a rape kit.
On July 12, 1999, the results were back, indicating that no semen was detected, trace evidence and hairs existed and had been collected.
During the trial, the medical examiner testified at length about the procedures during an autopsy as well as reviewing the autopsy report itself. At no point throughout the entire trial, or in the twenty years since, was Charles Mamou or the jury told a rape kit existed. Quite the opposite. The rape kis was so well not documented, that in 2007 a private investigator looking for more evidence had to report back to Mamou that he could not find more evidence obtained by the medical examiner.
Last year, on October 30, 2019, after I had gone to HPD and the District Attorney’s office requesting the results of the rape kit and being told they don’t keep that kind of information, I contacted the Harris County Medical examiner looking for the information. It was confirmed for me at that time that the rape kit had been collected at the time of the autopsy in spite of the medical examiner neglecting to include that information in his autopsy report and testimony.
On November 19, 2019, I was able to obtain the results to the actual rape kit, noting no semen found and trace evidence collected.
The information wasn’t just kept from Mamou and the jury, the prosecutor also told the jury that a sexual assault took place, but failed to share with the jury or the defense that no semen was found .
A lot of things were told to the jury to steer them in the direction of a guilty verdict. The day after Carmouche went missing, Mamou was with his cousin when he picked up some sunglasses that he had dropped during his stay in Houston. Without surrounding information, the sunglasses became tied to the victim in the courtroom and later in news reports. It was never pointed out for the jury that the glasses were found approximately five miles from the body.
There were a lot of things not pointed out for the jury. Mamou never saw the original video statement of his cousin, Terrence Dodson, who told jurors that Mamou confessed to him. In 2019, I sent Mamou a transcript of the original statement. Although Dodson testified Mamou confessed to him over days, partially in person and partially over the phone, HPD investigators had recorded Dodson originally telling them Mamou called him from Louisiana ‘before day’ on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, and told him everything. Investigators knew, while they were listening to Dodson’s statement, Mamou had not left Houston until Tuesday at 1:30 p.m. on a bus. The interview took place on Wednesday, December 9, 1998.
Dodson’s testimony not only differed from his statement, but Mamou never saw Dodson again after the morning of Monday, December 7, 1998. He could not have confessed to him in person as he testified, nor could he have confessed in one phone call from Louisiana before day on December 8, 1998, as he said in his original statement because Mamou did not leave Houston on a bus headed to Louisiana until Tuesday afternoon at 1:30.
The jury also never saw a letter Terrence Dodson wrote to Mamou a month after Carmouche was murdered, stating he was glad Mamou didn’t tell him anything.
In 2019 it was noted in the HPD case files linked to Mamou’s case that biological evidence was signed out. I inquired at HPD, the Property Room, the Homicide Department, and the District Attorney’s office regarding why the evidence was signed out.
At the HPD Records Department, I was told they didn’t know the answer, and I should contact the Property Room, the District Attorney’s office, and the Medical Examiner.
At the District Attorney’s office, I was told the case was currently ‘closed’. There would be no current requests for evidence from them because no one was working it, and the files themselves were in storage – the case was inactive.
At the HPD Property Room, which was where the biological evidence was signed out from – I was told there is protocol in place, and in order to find out why the biological evidence was signed out, I would need to go to Homicide and speak with the investigator on the case.
At Homicide, I was told it was a ‘cold case’ and there was no active investigator on the case, I would need to talk to the person in charge of cold cases.
The cold case investigator wasn’t in and never returned my phone call.
I later received a phone call from D. Wilker in Homicide. I was told ‘only the Property Division could answer my questions’. Of note – the Property Division is where I had originally gone and was told that due to ‘protocol’, I would need to go to Homicide.
During that phone conversation, I was also told Ms. Wilker would reach out to the Property Division to see if she could get an answer for me, but she couldn’t make any promises. In addition, she informed me ‘we are mandated to test every piece of evidence’, suggesting that the evidence was taken out for testing. Ms. Wilker also suggested an investigator could have requested the material be checked out, but as I had already been told – there was no investigator on the case at that time. I was told she would get back in touch with me after she reached out to the Property Division.
After a couple weeks and no contact from Ms. Wilker – I called her. Ms. Wilker told me the rape kit results I was looking for at that time, which I later found without her assistance, were ‘irrelevant’. I was told the defense had every piece of evidence they needed to have. The ‘window of opportunity’ for finding out anything was closed. And, finally, yes, the evidence had been checked out in 2019 and had been in the possession of Mary K. Childs-Henry, but it was now back where it belonged. It had been checked out for ‘cataloging purposes’.
I then asked Ms. Wilker if she considered the matter closed, and she told me she did.
After that phone call I wrote a letter to Internal Affairs and the Chief of Police, as ‘cataloging’ two pieces of twenty year old biological evidence didn’t seem logical, and I had just been told the rape kit results that were never shared with Mamou were ‘irrelevant’, which also seemed illogical considering evidence was collected .
The Houston Police Department responded, telling me no one had done anything wrong. “In your letter, you inquired about procedures for removing evidence regarding Mr. Mamou’s case. The District Attorney is the only person that can authorize any type of evidence to be released for any reason. There are procedures in place for care, custody and control of evidence that is stored in the Property Room. You may reach the Harris County District Attorney’s Office at ….”
As of this date, it remains unclear why the biological evidence was signed out in 2019.
Charles Mamou has spent over two decades on death row and is awaiting an execution date. In a case without evidence shared with the jury, the prosecution painted a picture. In the painting, the jury was told Mamou sexually assaulted the victim and murdered individuals in previous unsolved murder cases. They were shown autopsy photos of another murder victim, from another crime, and heard the impact statements from the victim’s family in that crime.
One might argue with HPD that evidence is relevant. It’s relevant to victims and their families, and it is relevant to defendants. Charles Mamou’s little sister recently described the last Christmas Eve she shared with her brother over twenty years ago. She and her family spent the day at her Uncle White’s house in Lafayette. Their uncle had a house big enough for everybody, and his gumbo took all day and night to cook, but was worth the wait.
When the family got home that night, they could barely get through the living room because Mamou and his friends had been busy picking up gifts while everyone was gone. The kids weren’t allowed to open anything until morning, but their mom did allow them to set off the fireworks Mamou had brought home. There were so many, Mamou’s sister remembers the sky turning pink, and she remembers seeing two of Mamou’s children that night and the step kids he treated like his own.
Winter holidays are associated with remembrance, love and ‘be with your family’ time. For many inmates, it’s more traditional to cry into their arms when the lights go out during this time of year. Holidays are one more day without mail. Mail is big in an atmosphere of systematic dehumanization. Mail is validation of a prisoner’s humanity rarely received, even in the mirror. Holidays are reminders of the inability to feel your wife smile against your chest, or bathe in the sparkle of your kids’ eyes as they unwrap presents, or even witness a normally grumpy family member catch a bit of Christmas spirit.
Agony.
This Christmas will likely be the worst in Texas penitentiary history because it’s already been seven months since we were allowed family visits, courtesy of COVID-19, and the restriction remains indefinite. Not that Texas allows family visits on Christmas anyway, but the preceding weekends usually fill the visitation room with women, children, laughter and tears, all of which are excruciatingly cherished by men starved for such light.
Thanks to a new prison policy this year, not only will we be deprived of visits, but now all holiday cards from our children and loved ones are forbidden as well. See what I mean about systematic dehumanization?
Holidays are generally unacknowledged by our captors or even ourselves. Decorations, parties, gift exchanging and now – greeting cards – are prohibited by the state, but amongst ourselves there are some exceptions. Beautiful exceptions.
A common penitentiary celebration is the birthday spread. When it’s someone’s birthday, his friends often pitch in with commissary purchased food and make a big meal, or even a cake made in a cage with cookies, oatmeal and maybe some candy – surprisingly delicious, and we’ll have a small get-together. The spread is a subtle expression of what we don’t communicate most of the year, ‘Hey, it doesn’t matter where we are or how tough we act, it’s your birthday, and I love you.’
I tend to dread the mail-less holidays but even after twenty-five years of prison, the dreamer in me still romanticizes Christmas. It’s crazy because as a child I never experienced sitting under a Christmas tree unwrapping presents, or sitting with a family through dinner. Maybe Hollywood movies made me idealize the image of family Christmases, or the rare glimpses I eventually saw myself. As a young adult, I accompanied various girlfriends to their family gatherings. Not enthusiastically or even willingly, but I’m easy to manipulate because I’m terrified of female tears. The problem was that I looked and dressed repellently. I wasn’t a boy that any family, particularly a father, wanted their daughter to drag home. But that’s the magic of Christmas. Those families were unfailingly polite, even warm to me. I witnessed the holiday spirit they showed each other, and it filled me with an almost unbearable longing, knowing I was doomed to always be a guest and never a true family member. All these years later and Christmas still stirs that lonesome longing I felt as a sixteen-year-old.
Believe it or not, even Texas prisons acknowledge the existence of Christmas. You won’t see any blinking lights or Santas, but they do give us an extra tray of food. More importantly, at least to me, they also give us an apple and an orange, which are basically the only fresh produce we’ll see all year. You don’t value the small things until they’re gone, and I torture myself over every piece of junk food I ever chose over an orange when I was privileged enough to choose my diet. Healthy food is merely a pimple on an elephant of regrets, but I’m hungry right now, so bear with me.
Christmas day in prison is not that horrible. The miasma lifts some, it’s quieter and there’s a more positive vibe. Some guards relax a little. Some men wish others a Merry Christmas, and others gather in pockets of fellowship. It could be worse, the whole purpose of prison is vindictive punishment, to inflict misery and demoralization, and it’s wildly effective. But there are moments, you know? And Christmas is as good a day as any to find them.
Merry Christmas.
ABOUT THE WRITER. I’m always excited to hear from a new writer. Mr. Adams entered our recent writing contest, and I’m glad he did. He is our second place winner. His writing is honest, open and a true pleasure to work with and share. It’s my hope he will submit more. John Adams has served twenty-five years of a life sentence and maintains his innocence. He can be contacted at:
John Adams #768543 810 FM 2821 Huntsville, TX 77349
Scene: Death Row – a Christmas tree, ornamented, tinseled, well-lit, complete with phony gifts beneath. It crowds one half of the hall as we shoulder on around en route from and to chow. Most guys walk on by – eyes ahead; but some press close to thump a tiny colored light bulb hard enough to darken it, pinch needles into zees, or brazenly slap the crap out of plastic dec- orations, as if to say, “I’m hurting you because you’re hurting me.” Still other men oohhh and aahhh, like little kids, eyeing mint-condition memories that are kept shelved except for special occasions. Never- theless, the Lord is my shepherd- I shall not want.
II.
The other day an officer stood there peering deep into its depth of plastic branches, then grabbed it roughly, angrily even, and shook-shook-shook the fuck out of it, rattling off a noisy mess of decorations. “Nope, Sarge, nothing!” he hollered up the hall, his voice rolling over scattered ornaments and turning a sharp corner to enter the office, from where a faint, unconcerned reply returned: “Okay.” The officer scanned the wreckage. Then looked at us and shrugged. He goosestepped back back to the office. We rebuilt our tree.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer, always keeping us on our toes. He is an occasional contributor to WITS, a co-author of Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row, and his writing can be found on several other platforms. I’m happy to say, he is also the third place winner in WITS’ final writing contest of 2020.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
It’s been a crazy year, and with only 21 days left, I’m done chronicling it. I’m fortunate to see the end.
I was thirty-two years old when I came to prison. I wasn’t a fighter, wasn’t ready for the predatory violence associated with being locked up. I had to learn how to unlearn all the societal norms I grew up on.
In prison – up is down, right is wrong, and vice-versa. If you’re a male, you can’t show weakness of any type. If you do, you are lunch. You might as well don a neon green jumpsuit and carry a placard saying, ‘Take advantage of me. I’m new. I’m vulnerable.’
I navigated that. Not easily, mind you, but I survived.
It makes me wonder about how females manage. They aren’t just preyed upon by inmates, they also have to run the gamut of officers, more often male, who can be known to take advantage of their positions of power. It brings to mind a few women I’ve known. Three gems. I’ve changed their names to protect the innocent.
Tara. I was assigned to a hospital facility during my COVID experience. I was sent there because I couldn’t walk. I was brought low by an amputated toe and the long-haul effects of COVID-19. The facility was basically a female unit, but the hospital part was both male and female.
Females were assigned there, so they worked in the kitchen, the laundry, for maintenance, and also as utility workers. You never saw them or were permitted contact or to converse with them, and they were escorted through male areas to ensure this didn’t happen.
I first saw Tara while I was being escorted from my hospital room to a video appointment with a doctor about thirty miles away. Tara was locked in a holding tank, and she couldn’t communicate with anyone because she was deaf. I knew this because of the big yellow tag on her shirt, ‘HEARING IMPAIRED’.
A lifetime ago, I had a friend who lost her hearing and had to learn sign language to communicate. I’d had to learn how also. I wasn’t very good, but I understood the basics, and she was always patient with my underachiever status.
I took a chance with Tara. After all, the rules said I couldn’t talk to her, they didn’t say I couldn’t sign to her.
“How are you? Are you okay?”
She explained she was being punished for disobeying a direct order, not packing her property and refusing housing. There were tears in her eyes. She was young, had cropped hair and looked, in a word, vulnerable.
“Don’t give up. Look up, you’re not alone.”
She rolled her eyes. “I have two years left to do. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”
Diane. She was sentenced to forty-five years for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I befriended her while she was incarcerated at a woman’s prison in the mid 90’s. Back then, inmates could write to each other in other units.
I encouraged her to take programs to show she wanted to change her life. She did, and she ended up getting her GED.
Then the ‘system’ shut down letter communication between inmates, supposedly to eliminate communication between gangs.
A dollar for the swear jar, please – bullshit.
I don’t know if Diane ever went home. All of my efforts to find out have been hindered by the system. You see, in Texas, the reality is, they don’t want inmates to be rehabilitated, and they don’t want inmates helping each other.
Melanie. The third side of the coin? Melanie was incarcerated in Kentucky and committed suicide after doing almost ten years. I had her home address, and after not hearing from her for a month, I wrote her mom. Melanie had given up. Many have before her, and many more will after if things don’t change.
Coins are meant to be protected, put in a bank, shown their worth. Priceless…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. John is currently doing another one-year set off, after almost thirty years of incarceration. He is an insulin dependant diabetic, he’s lost a toe to his disease, he’s survived COVID-19, and he is still viewed as a threat to society apparently, since he just got turned down for parole once again. I visited him once in prison. When I left an officer stopped me. He wanted to tell me what a good and amazing guy John Green was. John Green has been a frequent contributor to WITS, and he is also author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir described by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.” John can be contacted at: John Green #671771 Jester III Unit 3 Jester Road Richmond, Texas 77466
I lost my way sometime after 2006. I’m a Marine Corp veteran and father of four amazing children, as well as two beautiful grandchildren, but I still lost my way. I felt like I was on a train, headed down a mountain, without breaks, not realizing pride and selfishness were pushing the train faster, not to mention greed, alcohol and drugs. I thought I was in total control though. My train took me to prison for the first time in 2014.
Before that happened, I had tried to convince myself the people who meant the most to me didn’t notice the condition of my train as it passed them every day. I told myself, ‘I got this.’ I’d pay half the rent one week intending to pay the rest the next week and justifying it all with, ‘Well, at least I paid something.’ Next week would come, the utilities would be due and the other half of the rent, plus the three kids that looked up to me needed lunch money, and the refrigerator was empty. I was so ‘in control’, I didn’t realize the fifty dollars I just spent on drugs was taking food out of their mouths.
Life kept picking up speed. My GPS stopped working, and I was headed in a direction I never saw coming. I’ve tried, over the years, to figure out what made me lose focus on what was really going on. What I finally figured out was – it was me. I was the conductor. I derailed myself at the age of 48-years-old. I have no one to blame but me. And I needed help. I found help in God.
And I had to start believing I was worth happiness, love and forgiveness. I also figured out I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Looking back, I think prison may have saved my life. I could have died on my path. I think it was a sign from above, telling me to steer in the direction of freedom, family and forgiveness. The most important change I’ve ever made is letting God take over as my conductor.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Charles Butcher is new to our writing family, but has said what many writers have shared – ‘prison may have saved my life’. That sometimes get lost in the debate of how to improve conditions and the system. I hope he shares more of his wisdom and perspective with us in the future, acknowledging we can take what’s good and make it better, while fixing or removing all that is broken. Mr. Butcher can be contacted at: Charles D. Butcher #166023 21000 Hwy. 350 East Model, CO 81059
For over three years I’ve been writing for Walk In Those Shoes, a sounding board for prisoners whose voices would otherwise be muffled behind prison walls, as well as a call to action for readers. In a world of social statuses, cultural practices and racial characteristics that serve to divide us, we remain connected through our human experiences. We’ve all lost a loved one. We’ve all dreamed. We’ve all had childhood crushes for that special someone that turned our words to mush. We’ve all done something we wish we could take back, and we all have something yet to attain. Our experiences link us in a way that voids our differences, the fabric of our worldly relationships woven in our stories.
It was after reading personal and thought-provoking essays by writers like John Green and Charles Mamou, that I recognized the importance of Walk In Those Shoes. Each piece was thoughtfully edited and kept true to its writer while providing a visual nexus that was soulful, stories not told with rhetoric but the realism of childhood abandonment, abuse and regrets. There were also tales of familial joys, kindness and compassion. I could hardly wait to join such an astonishing cast of writers whom I’d come to admire through their shared vulnerability.
On October 5, 2017, Walk In Those Shoes featured a piece titled I’m Still Breathing, an homage to Dr. Maya Angelou. In addition to the message, there was an image of a rusted manacle laid bare on granite siding. This visual selection was a symbol of empathy meant to resonate with my words. It was my first writing to be published on Walk In Those Shoes, my induction into a brotherhood of writers and one of my proudest moments.
Simply put, Walk In Those Shoes is a proverbial reminder that we are not without empathy. It is a platform for writers with broken pasts to make whole their productive future. I’m grateful for my fellow contributors for their courage to share their experiences. Our stories are not meant to suffer in silence, our stories are meant to heal.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and his creative resume is rapidly growing. His is a co-author of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, a book banned from prisons in North Carolina; he is an active board member of Walk In Those Shoes as well as one of several frequent contest judges; and he continues to work on his memoir, as well as a book of fiction. His writing abilities are amazingly far reaching, and we are fortunate to have his voice and input in the direction of WITS. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and after studying his case file and transcripts WITS also believes in that innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
I. My block housed only 18 to 24-year-olds. For my one hour of recreation on my first day there, weighted with full-restraints (hand- cuffs, ankle-shackles, waist-chains connect- ing them) I clank-paced the tier. Each cell door had an eight-inch square of window, some framing faces that peered at me. Marko, a feral-looking latino who had come from home to hole as a pretrial detainee, flagged me as I passed. He was breathless with excitement and blinking rapidly as he testified: “God speaks to me.” He’d tried but failed to pluck out his eyes, so, to receive divine enlightenment, he instead had committed to hand- copying the Bible’s one thousand three hundred and eighty-nine chapters, every jot and tittle using crayon-sized floppy- rubber pens that were approved (suicide-proof) for segregated inmates. He’d been at it two years, during which his hair and beard grew like Jesus’. His eyes widened, crackling with supernatural energy as he showed me a waist-high tower of babbling pages.
II. Skyler, freckled and well-muscled from toting hay bales, had never traveled past city limits until he got arrested. An accent is not an accent in one’s hometown – it’s invisible – but Skyler’s tobacco bent even further into ‘baccer. At first. Six months in, we were friends. I called his name from behind my door, since it’d been several days since we’d spoken. I pressed my ear to my door’s steel crack to catch his answer. That’s not my name. My name is Fahbo (Fabulous, in short) from New York. I’m an ahtist. I could feel his tongue wrang- ling his identity, twisting it’s straight but tilted spine into a kind of personal scoliosis, figuring nobody would care to remove his corselet. He was right.
III. This one guy loved the hole. He’s been in and out of many holes since age fifteen. This manimal fancied himself a hunter. He’d cover his cell’s light fixture, and his rear-wall’s strip of window; so, to see in, an officer was forced to shade her eyes from the tier’s glare while leaning face against the eight-inch door window. They’d hear a faint but steady friction: ch-ch-ch-ch-ch- and suddenly a milky roar would splat into the Plexiglas at mouth- level, followed by a weaponized penis thudding and rubbing it in. The guard would scream a variation of, “Oh, you nasty muthafucka! Get your sick ass down from there!” He’d built a ‘deer stand’ he bragged, by stacking books on either side of his door so he could get a clear head shot. He seemed shocked when I admitted I didn’t do it too, as if I were some strange beast.
IV. Evidently, prison administrators have figured out how to remove evolution’s rev-limiter and take off its restrictor plate. Its transformative mutations now take place in as little as six months using Therapeutic Seclusion – also known as THE HOLE, in prison lingo. No one who passes through ever leaves the same person if he entered a year ago. The hole is a tool designed to break man down to his quintessence. It hyper- bolizes by creating a parody of one’s character. I’ve seen it strip away the masks and games of faith – no time for masquerades when insanity is gaining – forcing a sort of apotheosis. I have watched it petrify pretense into cement, making men fake forever. I’ve even witnessed it dissolve humanity in atavistic acid: acting like an animal now comes naturally to him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is a talented writer, always keeping us on our toes, and an occasional contributor to WITS. Mr. Wilkerson is a co-author of Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
