Had I a pen, that could send message to self, I’d pour out my heart, there’d be nothing left.
Given a chance to change my path, I’d speak these words to detour my past.
I know life is already hard, You’ve seen so much.
I know the pain you hold inside, The nights in bed when you cry.
I know momma is strung out on drugs, That’s why the tears, ‘cause you feel no love.
I know you steal, ‘cause there’s no food. No money for clothes, so you steal those too.
Oh, there will be beatings, but you will survive. There’s always a chance when you are alive.
But pretty soon they will take you away, To live with an aunt, where you wish you could stay.
I think that’s enough, of telling your past. Now you must listen, so you can last.
Your future is bright, but there’s darkness ahead, Choices to make that weigh just like lead.
There are roads to travel and one you must not. Crime is no future, so you must stop.
I know you get hungry, when times are hard, But miss a few meals and you will not starve.
The clothes on your back will last for years, Don’t worry about trying to get new gear.
You have no idea what is ahead, Even though you think you’re better off dead.
Let me tell of the ill chosen road, Where life is hell, there’s sorrow of soul.
Where doing what’s wrong, is accepted as right, And there’s fights in the day and screams at night.
Being in prison, is living in hell, Your entire life crammed in a cell.
Sun up, sun down, you’re told what to do. Does all this sound appealing to you?
Yes, I know the things you will see, But you must be strong if you want to be free.
Pay attention in class, and don’t be a fool. Play basketball, get a job after school.
Stay away from the drugs, don’t pick up the gun. One pull of the trigger, your life will be done.
The chance you were given will be taken away, And as you look back, there is nothing to say.
So, listen to me and have a good life. Be a father to kids and a husband to wife.
Now be successful and have much wealth. I hope that you listen, to this letter to self.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Mr. Mann is a third place winner in our most recent writing contest. I’m always excited to share a new voice here, and I hope he continues to pursue writing and shares his work with us again. Mark Mann can be contacted at:
Mark Mann J06393/K11335 Tomoka C.I. 3950 Tiger Bay Road Daytona Beach, FL 32124
I constantly ask the relatively preserved looking 62-year-old man in the mirror, “How in the hell did you Iet me get caught up in this madness?” I can’t help but reflect back on the 15-year-old boy who thought he could navigate the mean streets of Detroit and live and survive on his own. Little did he know his backward and irresponsible thinking would lead him toward a world of trouble. The man staring sternly back at me in that rusted, steel framed plastic mirror constantly reminds me of the boy whose bad choices and poor decisions caused a litany of problems…
Without addressing the neglect, abuse and trauma you experienced when you were just a little fella, those experiences build up and contributed to you exploring and resorting to an unhealthy outlet that lead to criminality and a propensity for violence. Some 47 years ago, your young thoughts influenced and ruled everything about you. Jewels, you had so much going for you, and you threw it all away for what amounts to insignificant, temporary gratification.
Man, do you remember when you were hired as a files clerk for the Genesee County Department of Social Services and were one of the only male employees in an office full of women? You were being vetted at 17-years-old to become a permanent employee with the Michigan Department of Social Services to work as a staff member at W.J. Maxey Boy’s Training School. You always excelled in your endeavors, stood out amongst most of your peers. In grade school many of your fellow students displayed jealousy because you were always getting A’s and B’s and winning spelling bees. Had you stayed on track and not dropped out of school, no telling where you would be right now. I know you could’ve been anything you put your mind to – a doctor, a lawyer, judge, scientist, even an astronaut, but you were drawn to what you thought was the fascinating street-life. A life that ultimately caused you to lose your freedom. I know you’re probably saying, “Why didn’t you pull up on me back then and give me some game because maybe I would’ve taken a different path.”
I can’t turn back the unstoppable hands of time, they wait on no one. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I would make sure you knew and learned the ropes to get through the life that unfolded before your young, innocent eyes. If given the chance, I would lend you some advice…
Make amends by trying to right the wrongs you’ve done. Learn to forgive yourself for those you’ve harmed. Face your fears and insecurities without pause. Be comfortable with being uncomfortable. Rebuild the community you helped to destroy. Make something of your life and live righteously. Love yourself and others. Be compassionate, kind, loving, and patient. Help as many people as you possibly can without reward. Do everything you can to make this world better.
You should know some good came out of who you once were. You were beyond brilliant, and had you embraced your God given greatness and utilized your inner-most being, tapped into the core of your existence, man, there’s absolutely no limits to where you could’ve soared in this universe. I hope you will one day find it in your heart to forgive me for leading you astray with my wayward thinking, because from that foolish thinking, an attitude of destruction formed, and it filtered into very dangerous and negative behavior that contributed to people getting hurt and you messing up your life. I am not going to blame the environment, the neglect, abuse, or trauma that we experienced, but I want you to understand one thing, all of this wasn’t our fault. There were other factors beyond our control that made it hard for us to navigate in this world simply because of the color of our skin. Yeah, the deck has always been stacked against us, there have been systems strategically placed for us, as black men, to fail, and blindly destroy one another. But you and I have the spirits of our ancestors flowing in our soul and we will and shall overcome all the obstacles, struggles, trials and tribulations we may come to face.
They say everything happens for a reason, so I will venture to say it’s no accident things turned out the way they did. On some real, 100 stuff, it all boils down to one’s thoughts causing it all.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Ricardo Ferrell is one of the two third place winners in our most recent writing contest – we had a tie! Mr. Ferrell doesn’t just write, but also spends his time trying to do exactly what he referred to in his essay – make the world better. He is involved in several projects, and keeps himself busy trying to advocate for those around him, as well as those on the outside. Ricardo Ferrell can be contacted at:
Ricardo Ferrell #140701 Gus Harrison Correctional Facility 2727 E. Beecher Street Adrian, MI 49221
This story is for my brother, Ty. It’s about sturdy white t-shirts and durable black boots. Ty happened to be wearing both when he died. Today he would have turned fifty.
My brother died on a Harley Davidson. Actually the bike was on him when he finally came to rest face down in a lonely Idaho field. He had a broken neck and a B.A.C of 0.29. I imagine Ty smiling as he barreled headlong into the sinking September sun. Three short years have passed since my cousin erected a six-foot wooden cross at the crash site. If only the cool grey dirt could speak.
The rub is, Ty didn’t try to negotiate the familiar curve. There were no skid marks, just a beeline into oblivion. My brother had belonged to a Harley’s Only club. Over a twenty-five year period, he had ridden that Heritage Softtail from Mexico to Canada and everywhere in between. He died two miles from home.
After Ty’s body was cremated, my niece, his youngest, drove west to scatter her dad’s ashes across a windswept Oregon beach. That same day in Utah, her mother, Sue, Ty’s estranged wife, shot herself in the right temple with the 9mm Taurus my brother had inherited from me fifteen years prior when I was sentenced to life in prison. Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in a soap opera.
I hurt a lot of people who loved me. One f those people was my little brother. His life was never quite the same after I abandoned him. When I selfishly planned and carried out a murder, I hadn’t thought about how the ripple effect would harm so many others who were left to clean up and live with my mess. How would things have been for them if I hadn’t imploded?
Somewhere between missionary and murderer, amid the muddled decades of my life, I lost a prized Hard Rock Café Las Vegas t-shirt to a karaoke groupie named Venna. By the time I realized she had take it from my closet and left a less-desirable Miller High Life tee in its place, she had moved away.
I ended up logging a lot of miles in that shirt. My brother called it a ‘wifebeater’ and laughed out loud when he first saw me wearing it on a fishing trip, and I spent a good deal of time trying to wear it out, everything from singing karaoke, gambling, hunting geese and ducks, camping, skiing, snowmobiling. Turns out Hanes makes a tough shirt – almost as tough as black Doc Marten boots.
Though my brother chose not to visit me in prison, he did write me one letter. That letter remains sealed and locked in a plastic box under my bunk. His daughter had enclosed the sealed letter with some photos she sent me after Ty’s sudden death. She said she had found the letter addressed and stamped in Ty’s business safe.
Exactly what that letter says, only my brother knew – at least until I find the courage to open and read it. I imagine myself dying of cancer and reading it just before my last breath.
Among the photos my niece sent, one stands out. Ty is standing on the deck of a chartered fishing boat off the coast of Mazatlan, Mexico, with a drink in his hand. One of Ty’s friends, Sean Bybee, used to call Ty Dean Martin, because he had some sort of alcoholic beverage in his hand at all times, or at least it seemed so.
At any rate, in that photo my brother was wearing the black Docs and the wife beater. He had them on when he crashed, and he wore them on a vacation with his family. I have to wonder if he wore those inherited items often, and if maybe he was reaching out to me in some way, maybe trying to somehow live vicariously. Maybe the articles of clothing were his bond with me. Lord knows a part of me resides in that shirt and those boots. No amount of laundering will ever remove every particle of mud, blood, sweat and tears.
It’s been said we shouldn’t judge a man until we’ve walked a mile in his shoes. I suppose this maxim applies to boots and t-shirts as well. I don’t know how many miles Ty logged in them, but part of himself is surely woven into their fabric. Too bad clothing can’t speak.
They say God works in mysterious ways, sometimes tragedy benefits us unexpectedly. Surely Christ’s gruesome death on the cross benefits all who believe that his blood has washed away the stain of sin. That said, when Ty died, his funeral notice was posted online. My estranged son of 23 years saw it and drove nonstop from Phoenix to see the uncle he had never met before he was cremated. Zac hit the jackpot when he walked into that Mormon churchhouse and met the hundreds of people gathered to celebrate Ty’s life. He met Ty’s daughter and all of his cousins, reunited with his grandmother, and felt the ground shake in smalltown Rigby, Idaho, when 127 Harleys idled down Main Street in tribute to my kid brother.
Two weeks later Zac walked through the doors of this prison to reconcile with me, the father he hadn’t seen or spoken to since a memorable fishing trip at age five. When he came through the visiting room door two days before my third grandchild was born, accompanied by the other two and his beautiful wife, I was both proud and sad.
My elation was bittersweet because it took Ty’s death to bring about this reunion, and I realized Ty would could never walk through that door, only the black Docs and wife beater Zac had worn. My mother had appropriately presented the items to Zac after they had been removed from Ty’s lifeless body. A stranger had written the first chapter in the story of that white t-shirt. Ty and I had added chapters of our own to the saga and woven the black boots into the narrative. Now it will be up to Zac to continue the legacy. His chapter might be somewhat tame in comparison. Zac is a doctor now and a staunch Mormon to boot. He doesn’t gamble, ride motorcycles or drink beer.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. We recieved this piece from Mr. Briggs as an entry to a previous writing contest. Every judge was impressed with the strength of Mr. Briggs’ writing as well as his ability to express himself. He was not chosen as a winner in the contest because his work didn’t exactly fill the prompt – but his work is exactly what this site is here for. I hope we hear from him again. And I’ll aways wonder if he ever opened the letter. Mr. Briggs can be contacted at:
Todd R. Briggs #66972 Idaho State Correctional Center, G Block P.O. Box 70010 Boise, Idaho 83707
For two years, WITS has shared the story of Charles Mamou, two decades on death row and awaiting an execution date. In those two years, this site has shared a letter written by the key witness that the jury never saw, rape kit results the DA had that Mamou never knew existed, phone records the DA had that Mamou never knew existed, documentation of biological evidence being signed out in the case with no explanation or accountability, missing statements and/or interviews, witness interviews from 2019 indicating Mamou was exactly where he said he was twenty years ago when he last saw Mary Carmouche and more. Yet – he awaits execution. I recently asked him, ‘How has it impacted you, knowing the lengths Harris County went to in order to sentence you to die?’
Since I’ve been on Texas’ Death Row, where reading is the only natural form of entertainment, I have read a lot of history books. When I think of my situation, there is little difference between 1898 and 1998 – I was just a young, dumb, poor black kid who stood alone. I wasn’t the first, and I wasn’t the last. It was the norm. Racist and overzealous prosecutors saw me and those that look like me the same, ‘a menace to society’, deplorable and judicially dispensable, while off-colored jokes were made in the locker room, no one having the gumption to tell them in public.
Here’s what I want people to know. Even after I was convicted and sentence to die by a jury that looked nothing like me, I still blew it off. ‘I’ll win on appeal, cause there is no way I won’t get action’. I didn’t know an appeal is just a maze of malleable interpretations of laws, many not even heard on appeal, getting ‘procedurally barred’. The system only works if you have the money to move it in your favor.
I knew one thing in 1998. I didn’t bring Mary to that night. I didn’t kidnap Mary. I didn’t kill Mary. And I sure as hell didn’t rape her. My lawyers didn’t care about me at all, told me that in five years I would win my case on appeal. I believed what I was told. Then five turned to ten and ten to twenty, and I realized America wasn’t about the truth. The D.A. had evidence during trial that their own witness’ were lying – but said nothing. Phone records show phone calls were being made all night, but both men claimed they were asleep.
I’m not the first man to sit innocent on Death Row. I know the real meaning of HATE and what it feels and tastes like to be hated. The difference between me and them – I don’t hide from who I was and who I am. And in case anyone wants to know – you’re damn right, I’m mad.
All posts and details of this case, including phone records that were not shared with the defense, a letter from the ‘key witness’ stating he didn’t know anything, and how Mamou was even accused of an unsolved murder during his trial can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. There is also a facebook page dedicated to sharing the truth. Share his story.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351 Mamou can also be contacted through JPay via email, but please include your mailing address if you contact him this way, as he can only respond through the mail.
He was called Little Tee – befitting since he stood no taller than the BMX bicycle he struggled to mount, eager to tag along with the older kids to the mall. His cheeks flushed, absorbing the praise, while my friends boasted over his skill for thieving. I knew they were manipulating him, but I didn’t speak up – being equally manipulative in my silence. I hoped he would grow tired on our trail and turn back, but he didn’t, determination cascading from his forehead with each trickle of sweat. We arrived at the mall and did wheelies in the parking lot as Little Tee vanished inside. By the time we later headed for home, we all sported new gold chains.
That was the first day I met Little Tee, a burgeoning menace with an unwavering desire to prove himself. He stole anything that wasn’t nailed down, his confidence like silk in his veins. Thievery was only a fragment of his willingness to fit in; one simply had to dare Little Tee. He hung out all hours of the night, putting doubts to rest with a fearlessness inspiring to watch.
Nights at my house were sometimes spent with Little Tee sprawled out on the sofa or scoffing cold-cuts and gawking at video vixens. I wondered about his family and whether his whereabouts were anyone’s concern. He was no more than eight or nine, and yet no one ever came looking for him. I didn’t mind that he showed up unexpectedly and seemed to never want to leave; I liked having him around. He had a timely sense of humor and dreams of the future big enough to lend me some. He gave unsparingly and never asked for anything in return. To him, charity was synonymous to wealth. Little Tee was a joy, but he did have a mean-streak and fought with other kids all over town like it was the latest craze. The bane of his freedom, it would earn him some stints in juvenile detention where he ultimately grew more devious.
A few years later, Little Tee transitioned from thieving to dope dealing. He hopped into cars haggling crack rocks and turned profits with the best of ‘em. He smoked cigarettes and weed, drank beers and cussed. No one seemed bothered by his youthfulness, instead they encouraged him. The more his behavior worsened, the more popular he became. By twelve years old, he had as much clientele as dealers twice his age. He was always the smallest guy on the block, but nobody had more heart.
One night Little Tee was at a local hangout when a scuffle broke out between two men with their pride at sake, one of whom had a shotgun. Scorching iron-pellets ruptured Little Tee’s flesh as he was inadvertently shot in the face. It would be months before he healed from his physical injuries, but his psyche hardly recovered. Suddenly, he was torn between upholding his image and breaking free from his notoriety. He had grown weary of his terrible ways, yet he couldn’t break character. The truth was, the shooting ordeal changed Little Tee and heightened his conscience in a way others could never understand. He wanted so much to be done with the streets… but the streets don’t always let go.
On Christmas day, December 25, 1997, I was posted up on the block when Little Tee strolled through. We greeted one another and shared some laughs before his eyes took on a piercing glare. He then let on about his dissension with rival dealers in a nearby neighborhood and asked for my help. By then, Little Tee was like a brother to me – it was all the answer he needed. Apparently, he had rented a car and parked it on Gay Street. He said he would swing by and pick me up later. Little Tee disappeared up the street. Some minutes later, gunshots devoured the joyous holiday evening. Gossip raced along the streets on the lips of hearsayers – Little Tee was just killed by the police!
I bolted heedlessly for Gay Street while at the same time down a road in my head that had no end. I kept thinking that if I got there quick enough, maybe I could save him. I prayed the whispers were wrong but the look of despair on the faces of the spectators confirmed my worst realty. Someone was dead. “Please, God, don’t let it be Little Tee.”
The shooting had taken place in the backyard which obscured my view of the body. Rumors of what happened ran rampant among those gathered, igniting a bon-fire of tempers. The ambulance arrived and carted out a body partially covered under a blood soaked sheet. I recognized the sneakers and fell to the ground wailing… Little Tee really was gone.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he co-authored Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
NOTE TO READER. Please contact kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson in Wilson, NC, any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful. Details of this case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/
Houston’s Police Chief, Art Acevedo, recently received cheers from protestors, “We will march as a department with everybody in this community. I will march until I can’t stand no more.”
Charles Mamou has lived on Death Row for over twenty years for a case built by the Houston Police Department and prosecuted by Harris County, Texas. Mamou is out of appeals, and despite what that means for a man on death row, the Houston Police Department is not interested in addressing any mishandling of his case. A few short months ago, I was ‘dismissed’ by the Houston Police Department when I tried to obtain answers. I was told by Ms. Wilker at HPD that what I was looking for was ‘irrelevant’ and the ‘window of opportunity’ to obtain the information was ‘closed’.
I tried to explain to Ms. Wilker during our several conversations that it was relevant and what I was looking for, rape kit results, were significant because the prosecutor told the jury Charles Mamou sexually assaulted the victim. Ms. Wilker wouldn’t acknowledge the importance of the information.
I was able to obtain the rape kit results without the help of HPD or the Harris County District Attorney’s office. As it turns out, the results revealed the D.A. knew prior to trial that while they were accusing Mamou of sexual assault, there was no semen found. They also learned before the trial and from those results that trace evidence existed in the case. They never told Mamou, and they didn’t tell him a few months ago when I was requesting their help in the matter. Again, HPD’s position, according to Ms. Wilker, the rape kit results are irrelevant and the window of opportunity to obtain that information is closed.
Legally, Mamou’s case has been rubber-stamped and through the Texas process – he will be executed in the near future. But this is what people should know when the execution takes place. I didn’t just go to HPD looking for rape kit results. There is a lot more the jury never knew in the Mamou case in addition to a rape kit and the results from it.
In 2019, twenty years after Mamou’s death sentence began, the case file states ‘biological evidence’ was signed out on two different occasions. Mamou, who has always maintained his innocence, is going to be executed so it seems reasonable he should know why biological evidence was being signed out in his case. Coincidentally or not, the employee who signed for both items has been written about on several occasions in the Houston Chronicle for issues related to mishandling of evidence. The employee also worked in the HPD lab back in 1998 when the crime occurred, and it appears someone that looks strikingly like that employee is in Mamou evidence photographs from the time. For all those reason, I also inquired at HPD as to why the evidence was signed out.
I was told by HPD to ask the District Attorney’s office and the HPD Property Room, which I did. The District Attorney’s office told me they had not requested any evidence to be tested, the file was not active. The Property Room told me to go to Homicide and ask the investigator working the case. Homicide told me no one was working the case. My question came full circle back to HPD, and I was told by Ms. Wilker in a phone conversation that the evidence was signed out and in the possession of Mary K. Childs-Henry at one time, but it was ‘now back where it belonged’. Not satisfied, I asked if she considered the matter closed – she responded she did.
After that phone call, I wrote to Internal Affairs and copied Chief Art Acevedo, hoping to address why evidence in the Mamou case would be signed for if there was no detective working the case and the District Attorney did not request it. HPD responded via a letter dated December 17, 2019. “The incident described by you does not support an allegation of misconduct on the part of a member of the Houston Police Department. There is no allegation described by you that would initiate an investigation.” It went on to say, “The District Attorney is the only person that can authorize any type of evidence to be released for any reason.”
And so – no one needs to explain why biological evidence in a capital murder case gets signed out.
It doesn’t end with an undisclosed rape kit, or undisclosed trace evidence or having to not account for removing evidence in a capital murder that resulted in a death sentence.
The case was built from the ground up on a one-time suspect telling police that Mamou confessed to him. HPD investigators were aware when they were recording that suspect’s statement that what he was describing couldn’t have taken place the way described. The witness, Terrence Dodson, said Mamou confessed to him in a one phone call ‘confession’ from Louisiana on the previous day, Tuesday morning ‘before day’. The police didn’t stop him at that point. At the very time he was making this statement, police were taking a statement in another room from a man who said Mamou was in Houston, Texas, on Tuesday morning, and that man drove Mamou to the bus stop on Tuesday in the afternoon, around 1:30.
Mamou and Terrence Dodson, the witness who testified Mamou confessed to him.
That wasn’t all. Police knew Mamou was in Houston on Tuesday because the man who was recording the statement, Det. Novak, had actually spoken to the woman whose apartment Mamou had slept in on Monday night and that detective also obtained a warrant in Houston on Tuesday morning as police tried to arrest Mamou at that apartment located in Houston. They missed Mamou, who was later dropped off at the bus stop by the witness in the other room at HPD. The HPD interviewer, Novak, also notarized the statement of the man in the next room who said he drove Mamou to the bus stop. Novak was also the one who spoke to the woman whose apartment Mamou slept at and where he was located on Tuesday morning.
If that wasn’t enough, the ‘star’ witness also clearly told police Mamou was planning on taking a bus from Louisiana to Houston on Tuesday and had asked the witness to pick him up at the bus station. Again – detectives knew Mamou was not in Louisaina on Tuesday morning and they also knew he actually took a bus from Houston to Louisiana on Tuesday – the exact opposite of what the witness was describing.
That witness’ testimony later changed at trial, and he described a confession that took place over days, over the phone and in person, even though Mamou never saw that man again after Monday morning. Mamou never saw the interview, and was unaware of the discrepancies until last year.
There is more.
Investigators, when they went to the apartment that Tuesday morning to talk to the resident there, Howard Scott, they wrote down every single one of the phone calls on his caller I.D. from the night of the crime. That information was never shared with Mamou, but would have discredited two of the state’s witnesses who testified they were in bed sleeping and not using their phones. Howard Scott said his phone simply stopped ringing between 11 and 12 when he went to bed. When asked on the stand if it was because it was unplugged, he said no. It was because it simply stopped ringing.
An HPD investigator faxed the phone records to the District Attorney during the trial and before that testimony. The District Attorney didn’t pull his witness to the side during his testimony or in any way indicate the witness was lying. There was also at least one phone call that went out of the apartment that night according to the caller I.D. of Yellow Cab.
Included in the fax HPD sent to the D.A. were the phone calls placed to the apartment by another suspect, Samuel Johnson. Samuel Johnson also testified he was in bed sleeping and had not contacted anyone or made any calls to Howard Scott – whose caller ID said he did. Again, the District Attorney did not ask his witness to tell the truth, or ask for an opportunity to speak to his witness on the side and explain to him that he needed to tell the truth on the stand.
What’s even more important about Samuel Johnson’s phone call – it was made from a cell phone. In 1998, it would be common for people to use their landline for phone calls from their residence and a cell phone if they were not at home. Unfortunately, those phone records were never shared with Mamou, and he didn’t know they existed until recently. The opportunity to trace that phone call is gone.
There is more about that Tuesday and the police talking to Howard and Robin Scott. Police drove them both to HPD to get their statements. Robin Scott’s statement from that day is in the file, Howard Scott’s is not – even though it is well documented that Howard Scott was taken to HPD on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, for a statement. In addition, Detective Novak testified he took a written statement from Scott when he went to HPD that day, and Howard himself has since told an investigator that HPD would not let him and his wife leave the police department that day until their statements matched.
As if that wasn’t enough. Detective Novak reopened an investigation into an unsolved murder in Houston from months earlier during the trial. What’s found in that file, isn’t much, but there is a witness statement in there that describes an individual in a bar, even describes how he was dressed, who left the bar with the victim. He also describes someone coming in a short time later saying the victim had been shot. That statement was never shared with the jury. Rather – the ‘man in the bar’, Joseph Melancon, testified at Mamou’s trial. His testimony did not match any of his earlier recorded accounts, but the jury didn’t know that, and Mamou got accused of the unsolved crime. The jury never heard the witness statement describing Melancon leaving with the victim, nor did they get to hear any defense from Mamou. Mamou was not charged with that crime, although he is listed as charged. The jury got to see the dead man’s autopsy photos and hear from his grieving family members though.
That is what took place in the hands of Harris County and the Houston Police Department. If you try to inquire with them regarding what took place, you may be told what you want to know is “irrelevant” and “the window of opportunity is closed”, but I would be happy to share with you what I have.
When Charles Mamou gets executed, his parents will most likely be offered the opportunity to watch, but it won’t be on camera for the world to see.
Chief Acevedo and the Harris County prosecutors always have the power to do the right thing and the window of opportunity is never closed. It is more open now than it has ever been.
“Compassion takes courage,” Mamou wrote me recently. Will the powers that be have the courage to do the right thing – or keep insisting some window is closed?
All posts and details of this case, including phone records that were not shared with the defense, a letter from the ‘key witness’ stating he didn’t know anything, and how Mamou was even accused of an unsolved murder during his trial can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. There is also a facebook page dedicated to sharing the truth. Share his story.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351 Mamou can also be contacted through JPay via email, but please include your mailing address if you contact him this way, as he can only respond through the mail.
A boundless void, daunting and ever present, a place where even the pleasure of a night’s dream is wrecked by the reality of the waking day – that’s where I live. It’s a domain that spans a mere 6×10 feet, made of menacing concrete and steel, and offers the barest resources within an atmosphere that effects only sorrow. That’s life on Death Row, rankled daily by restrictions… told what to do, how to dress and when and where to go with little choice but to comply, dutifully denied the simplest liberties many folks take for granted and yet the real punishment seldom comes by day, rearing its head most often at night.
IU240 are the numbers of my prison cell, a crypt of sorts, where memories are elicited and misery reserved. With twenty years of digital sequences like IU240 to mark my identity, I am a nameless statistic with nothing left in the world to call my own. The days here are but a tireless effort to distract from Death Row – tabletops, TV, books and gossip, anything to cope with the pain. Yet ‘Lock Down’ call begins an agony anew, one from which there are no delusions or escape.
IU24O, a paltry wasteland of fussy dust mites that gather in hard to reach places. Lonely, except for the crowd of tender thoughts that threaten to devour my complacency. “Stand clear!” the warning blares as the mechanical gears churn and the vaulted door slams shut while I struggle to regard IU240 as a sanctuary rather than something worse than death.
The nights number 7300 that I’ve spent in isolation. My voice yearns for companionship, but the solitude is stifling, the air bland and smells nothing of freedom, more of apathy. As the brightness in the room plummets, I cling to a reason to steady the light within. I am afraid in the dark I may lose my way. Trivial items that lie dormant by day are now crawling reminders of the oppression, making rest and peace of mind laborious and evasive.
There is a column of tissue rolls stacked in the corner that serves as a coffee table and a desk constructed from Maruchan soup boxes and shoddy adhesive. Bed sheets suspended from paper clips along the walls are all there is for privacy, yet in a world of trash where there is hardly treasure, one must improvise. There’s a stainless steel mirror that erredly reflects the stains of my past transgressions, a toilet that ticks tauntingly and faucet water that tastes like lead. The concrete and steel with an eerie affinity to that of the blood and spirit of the many who have perished already and those who await their fate.
It is likely I will die in prison, a truth that is written on the age lines of my face. Already twenty years of my life’s essence etched into the fabric of these walls, and yet, IU240 isn’t some infamous badland where hope doesn’t exist. It doesn’t stand in the way of accepting responsibility and the effort to amend wrongs.
On the contrary, it’s a place where accountability offers temperance and renewal… a place where I have emerged from chaos a better person than when I arrived.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
NOTE TO READER. Please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson at any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day. Thank you to those who have come forward already. It is not easy for someone falsely accused to ever leave death row – no detail is too small. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful. Details of this case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/
“The primary duty of a lawyer engaged in public prosecution is not to convict, but to see that justice is done.The suppression of facts or the secreting of witnesses capable of establishing the innocence of the accused is highly reprehensible.” – Canons of Professional Ethics of the American Bar Association
Harris County sent Charles Mamou to death row in 1999 in a case with no eye-witnesses or physical identifying evidence at the scene, a case built on the testimony of a witness who said Charles Mamou confessed to him. Other than that statement, which was recorded and contradicts facts and the witness’ own testimony, questions remain.
Why was Mamou never told a rape kit had been collected? Why was Mamou never given phone records revealing activities of other possible suspects that night? Why wasn’t Mamou told one of those phone calls was from a ‘cell phone’ and could have possibly been traced? Why is a key witness’ original statement not in the file? Why was there no documentation of another ‘possible suspect’s’ interviews in the file? Why was biological evidence in the case signed out of HPD’s Property Room last year, twenty years later?
Possibly the biggest question of all – was the case against Charles Mamou built to prosecute, rather than see justice done? There wasn’t ‘one’ issue, but many, and information Mamou could have used to defend himself wasn’t shared with him.
HPD Case File 157191298, Supplement 11, “D.A.’s Office is requesting that the rape kit obtained by the Harris County Morgue at time of the autopsy be processed through our crime lab.” No one told Mamou a rape kit had been collected. For two decades – he never knew. Mamou is out of appeals and waiting an execution date, and still, he has never had this information shared with him by Harris County. He has this information now because advocates who believe in his innocence located it.
The HPD case file went on to say, “Forward the findings of the rape kit examination to D.A. Investigator Al Rodriquez.” That was in 1999. In 2019 when I asked an HPD employee where the rape kit results were, I was told “they are irrelevant.”
During the trial the prosecutor assured the jury Mamou had sexually assaulted the victim. It was not mentioned that ‘no semen’ was found in the rape kit which included oral swabs. It was not mentioned in the autopsy report. It was not mentioned in the medical examiner’s testimony. There was not a word said to indicate a rape kit had been collected.
While asking the jury to sentence Mamou to death, the prosecution stated, “And he takes her to Lynchester. He marches her to the back, and he makes her commit oral sodomy, makes her suck his penis. Imagine that, ladies and gentleman.” Volume 24, Page 38
Mamou wasn’t charged with sexual assault, but the prosecution learned something when they received the results of the rape kit. Through the rape kit, ‘trace evidence’ was collected from the victim, including ‘hairs’ collected from her shirt and fingernail scrapings. This information, as well, was not shared with Mamou and was just discovered last year by advocates.
Regarding the night of the crime, Mamou has admitted to his role in the drug deal and the subsequent shooting – and even to fleeing in a car that held Mary Carmouche. He says he drove back to the location where he was staying and all the other parties involved in the drug deal were located there. That is the last place he says he saw Mary Carmouche. The things he describes seeing in the apartment complex parking lot have been supported by evidence as well as statements the jury never saw. The prosecutor claimed Mamou left the drug deal and drove Carmouche to a suburban neighborhood where he sexually assaulted and murdered her.
The Houston Police Department had in their possession something that would have helped Mamou support the events as he described them, but Mamou never saw this information. A fax cover sheet indicates HPD sent this information to Lyn McClellen, the prosecutor, while the trial was underway. HPD had their own handwritten phone records from the apartment Mamou said he drove to. All of the people he said were out and about that night – had been communicating with that apartment up until 3:43 a.m. that Sunday night. The phone records indicated they were not sleeping as they testified.
When the prosecution’s witness, the resident of the apartment, testified in court that he went to sleep at 11:00 or 12:00 and his phone stopped ringing – the prosecution didn’t stop the proceedings or ask to speak to their witness on the side or get clarification. The defense specifically asked –
Q. And at what time do you go to bed? A. I went right after that, I guess about 11:00 or 12:00. Q. I’m sorry? A. About 11:00 or 12:00, something like that.
Q. So are you awoken by telephone calls even after you go to bed? A. No, sir, no more phone calls. After awhile it wasn’t no more phone calls. (Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 149)
Q. Is that because you pulled a plug out of the phone or – A. No, it just stopped ringing. (Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 150)
Lyn Mclellan said nothing. At no time did he mention phone records. The phone was ringing at 11:19 p.m., 11:25 p.m., 11:46 p.m., 11:48 p.m., 12:14 a.m. 12:19 a.m., 1:54 a.m., 2:37 a.m., 3:12 a.m., and 3:43 a.m. That doesn’t include a known outgoing call for a Yellow Cab at 3:59 a.m.
The ‘driver’ related to the drug deal was also one of the prosecution’s witnesses. He, also, testified he was sleeping that night. According to Samuel Johnson, he went straight home after the shooting at 12:00 midnight:
Q. You go directly home? A. Yeah. Q. You tell your wife what happened? A. No, she was asleep at the time. Q. Pretty exciting events in your life, isn’t it? A. Very exciting. Q. You just get in bed and go to sleep? A. No, I took a shower. Q. Took a shower, and then got in bed and went to sleep? A. No, opened me a can of soda and went to bed. Q. Talk to anybody that night? A. No. Q. Talk to Robin or Howard Scott at any point after that? A. No. (Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 149)
Once again, the prosecution did not stop the trial or in any way indicate their witness was being deceptive.
“It is unprofessional and dishonorable to deal other than candidly with the facts in taking the statements of witnesses, in drawing affidavits and other documents, and in the presentation of causes.” –Canons of Professional Ethics of the American Bar Association
“No person shall…be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law,” – Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution.
Charles Mamou is out of appeals and awaiting a date for his execution after spending over two decades of his life on Death Row in Texas.
All posts and details of this case, including phone records that were not shared with the defense, a letter from the ‘key witness’ stating he didn’t know anything, and how Mamou was even accused of an unsolved murder during his trial can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. There is also a facebook page dedicated to sharing the truth.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351 Mamou can also be contacted through JPay via email, but please include your mailing address if you contact him this way, as he can only respond through the mail.
“Please keep fighting for my son.” That was a text received from Charles Mamou’s mother. Her son was sentenced to death over twenty years ago in Houston, while the Harris County District Attorney’s Office was under the rule of Johnny Holmes, a man known for and proud of pursuing the death penalty.
The amount of information manipulated or not shared with the jury in the Mamou case is disturbing, but one aspect that gets overlooked, is the theatrics and misinformation put into destroying Mamou’s character for the jury. What they lacked in evidence, was made up for in portraying the defendant as a monster. And then they instructed the jury they could consider things they would ‘hear about his character’ when deciding the case. – Volume 24 of the Reporters’ Record at page 6.
Charles Mamou, Jr., carrying his godson in Sunset, LA.
But what did the D.A. really know about Charles Mamou?
Mamou got into the business of dealing drugs early on in his life. He wasn’t born into the ‘haves’ and knew his fair share of struggle. He struggled with school. He struggled with his health. He absolutely could have chosen a different path, but he saw an opportunity dealing drugs and the well-travelled avenue to taking care of the people he cared most about – not to mention keeping the hot water on. Hot water wasn’t something he always had growing up.
Over time, Mamou earned a reputation, but it wasn’t one for violence. As one resident of Sunset described him,
“Chucky was a respectable boy and a fine young man. I worked as a cook at Sunset Elementary School where Chucky attended. He was a quiet little boy and mainly kept to himself. To my knowledge, he did not have any behavior problems in school and his grades were either average or above average.
“When Chucky was older, he would often talk to my son about his problems. My son was on drugs and Chucky would advise him to do better things with his life. I wanted my son to be more like Chucky.
“There were times when I went shopping and Chucky was in the grocery store. He would buy my groceries and never wanted any money back. There were many other people in town that Chucky would help buy groceries, pay rent or their electric bill. Chucky helped people.”
Don’t get me wrong. There was nothing glamorous about what Charles Mamou did for a living. He wasn’t a violent man though. Regardless of how the prosecution described him for the jury, the people who knew him day in and day out had a more accurate perspective.
Another man that knew Charles Mamou, Jr., stating they met in the ‘streets’ and clubs, also described his friend.
“Chucky does not have a ‘rough bone’ in his body. I have witnessed him paying bills for friend, family members and other people in the community. Charles, Jr., is a friend that everyone wishes to have once in their life.”
“If it was the dope that put Charles, Jr., behind bars, I pray that everyone in the world would burn the dope, and start praying.”
It was the ‘dope’ that put Mamou behind bars.
In 1998 three men knowingly brought a girl to a dark alley in Houston, with a plan. According to everyone involved, including the testimony of the two surviving men – they were there for one reason and one reason only. They were there to rob Charles Mamou at gunpoint. That’s it.
That was the plan, but it didn’t work out the way it was supposed to. Mamou started shooting when confronted with a gun pointed in his direction. His driver drove off and left him behind. He jumped in the car that belonged to the men who were attempting to rob him and drove back to the apartment complex on Fondren, in Houston, where he was staying and where the other individuals who helped organize the drug deal were located. All of the existing evidence supports that, including things Mamou said he observed when he got back to the apartments, which observations have been confirmed by statements the jury never heard, as well as evidence that existed.
The greatest injustice in this story – was the lack of effort to find out what really happened to the victim after she got to the apartment complex that night. There was no effort made to pursue possible answers, including tracking a cell phone call that one of the involved parties made that night – from who knows where. That individual said he was in bed sleeping – but the police knew his cell phone made a phone call at 2:37 a.m. on the night in question. One would think tracking a cell phone call from a suspect and the driver in the drug deal would be standard, especially in light of the fact that individual claimed to have been sleeping and not making or receiving phone calls at the time. He lied. His cell phone made a call from somewhere at 2:37 a.m. The police documented that information the week of the murder, although they never pursued it, and faxed the phone records to the District Attorney after the court proceedings began.
Charles Mamou only just became aware those phone records existed and were in the hands of the Houston Police Department and the District Attorney twenty years ago.
The prosecution didn’t pursue the information they had that might uncover what happened to the victim, but were more focused on convincing the jury that Charles Mamou was a monster.
And so, even though the medical examiner, Roger Milton, never mentioned a rape kit that was collected in his Autopsy Report, and even though the District Attorney requested the rape kit be processed and received the results of the rape kit prior to the trial – that information was also never shared with Charles Mamou. Mamou never knew a rape kit was gathered until last year.
Rather than share that information with the jury, Lyn McClellan, an Assistant District Attorney for Harris County did something else. He and his team chose to tell the jury that Charles Mamou sexually assaulted the victim. The entire time he was doing that, he knew full well a rape kit had been collected – and it revealed no semen found on any items.
“And he takes her to Lynchester. He marches her to the back, and he makes her commit oral sodomy, makes her suck his penis. Imagine that, ladies and gentleman.” – Volume 24 of the Reporter’s Record at page 38. That same attorney went on to describe Mamou’s character, “He’s vicious.” “He’s ruthless.” “He’s cold-blooded.” “He devastated and destroyed.”
The prosecution had no evidence that Charles Mamou did anything to Mary Carmouche. They had phone records Mamou didn’t know about. They had a rape kit Mamou didn’t know about. And something else they’ve had all these years – ‘trace evidence’, ‘hairs’ that were collected during the collection of the rape it. That evidence sat in the HPD Property Room for twenty years, and Charles Mamou nor the jury were ever informed they existed.
Of note, in 2019, two envelopes containing ‘biological evidence’ in this case were signed out of the Property Room, but it is unknown for what purpose or who authorized the removal, as HPD will not respond, other than to tell me the D.A. is the only one who can authorize removal of evidence. At the D.A.’s office I was told they didn’t know anything about the removal of the evidence.
Years ago, Chris Mamou described his brother in a statement.
‘Chucky’ and his brother, Christopher Mamou.
“Growing up, I can always remember my brother being there and looking out for me.”
“…he taught me how to walk with my head up high.”
“…he took me to the basketball court and tried to teach me how to play.”
“Charles, Jr., encouraged me to excel in school by rewarding me with praises and benefits, such as paying for my way to the neighbor dance if I had a good report.”
“…nothing would compare to the feeling of just making him proud which also encouraged me to do well.”
“All I knew was he had his own money and he shared with everyone – family, friends, or a stranger who needed help. I saw this and wanted to do the same thing. I approached him about making my own money and was denied, remembering his reasoning was that this was not for everybody. He did not want me to get involved.”
Charles Mamou has spent over twenty years on death row and awaits his execution for a drug deal gone wrong– not a murder. Investigators didn’t pursue what happened to Mary Carmouche after she arrived at that apartment complex. They were focused on ‘making’ Charles Mamou guilty – but none of the pieces fit. No matter which way you turn the puzzle, they won’t fit. Sticking to the ‘story’ isn’t going to make it any more true than it was twenty years ago. Mamou can be executed – it’s not going to make it true. He can die incarcerated during a pandemic – it still won’t make it true.
“He’s my firstborn. He has my name.” Charles Mamou, Sr., will never give up on his son. He recently told me, “If they want to kill an innocent man – take me. Don’t take him – take me.”
All posts and details of this case, including phone records that were not shared with the defense, a letter from the ‘key witness’ stating he didn’t know anything, and how Mamou was even accused of an unsolved murder during his trial can be found here. Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. There is also a facebook page dedicated to sharing the truth.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
In a couple months, I’ll have nineteen years, day for day, in this concrete jungle. ‘Jungles’ bring to mind wild animals and certain death around the next bend. In here, society views us as wild animals, and for us, the chow hall can become the location of death around the next bend.
A few years ago some guys and I were on the rec yard discussing who we thought had the best chance to go to and win the Super Bowl. A couple guys were going with the Patriots, others were going with teams no one even remembered making the play-offs in recent years. Being a Cowboys loyalist, I just knew my team was going to get up in there.
The Patriots won again.
When the discussion was losing steam, a guy we all knew approached our little circle, gesturing and speaking excitedly about a confrontation he heard going on between two cellmates.
To make a long story short, two guys were drinking hooch, got drunk, started arguing and calling one another names only two drunk people would come up with. When we asked Lil’ K what the argument had to do with us, he responded, telling us one of the guys was handicapped and being bullied.
Generally, in prison, people tend to mind their own business. Even considering the situation, I felt like – this is the ‘joint’, the jungle – and definitely none of my business. Being on closed custody and dealing with the constant threat of being placed in a cell with a psyche patient, we agreed to wait until we could get all the guys in question together before pursuing the subject further.
Before the meeting had a chance to happen, a riot jumped off behind the argument the next day at chow hall.
Turns out, upon investigating the situation thoroughly, the two cellmates were as cool as two men who live together and get drunk and high often can be. As the riot was taking place, I found the guy who was supposedly getting mistreated. I asked him if he and his cellmate were alright.
“Hell, yeah, that’s my boy!”
Go figure.
Instantly, I was reminded of the importance of minding my own business.
Everyone who went to chow that day had to start their closed custody time over, and we were put on lockdown. Fortunately, no one was seriously injured and no weapons were involved.
That night I explained to my cellmate what happened. He looked up from his Alex Cross novel, crumbs on his mouth from his peanut butter sandwich, and assured me, “This too shall pass.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: This is Mr. Edwards first submission here. He believes, as do we, in the importance of sharing the ‘mundane’ as well as the dramatic. Andre Edwards lives in a Texas prison and can be contacted at: Andre Edwards #1139465 3872 FM 350 S. Livingston, TX 77351
