For nine years, I have been confined to a single man cell. Days, often weeks, pass without leaving this space. I deserved to be placed here. I am here because I attempted escape and was punished. To be honest, it was probably the best thing for me – at the time. My peer group was violent and negative, and upon arrival I was disgusted with myself for having fallen so far. I resolved to fill the void of what I was forced to leave with positive change and growth. I began a journey to become the man I knew I was, rather than the man my poor decisions had built.
I quickly learned any progress I hoped to make would depend solely on my efforts. There is no education provided to inmates in solitary confinement in Texas. None. Anything I’ve learned through reading is the result of donors from the outside.
I also learned tenuous relationships with loved ones in the free world are easily stressed when a person is placed in isolation. General population contact visits allow hugs with family. In here I am led to visitors in chains to a booth with a glass partition that forces us to speak over a phone. What’s worse is, this is the only phone I can speak through. General population offenders have access to unlimited fifteen minute calls, seven days a week. Access to telephones is not allowed in solitary.
I have learned solitary confinement is an effective weight loss program. More often than not, I am hungry at bedtime. Despite menu descriptions like ‘fresh yellow corn’ and ‘deep rich gravy’, I can count on the unappetizing reality of at least one or more food items arriving spoiled, and the unclean fact that it has passed through no less than six pairs of hands before getting to my cell.
One of the harder lessons – ‘out of sight, out of mind’ is never more true than when locked away in solitary confinement. While prison administration might remove an inmate from population for legitimate reasons, once ‘out of sight’ it becomes easier to check the box that keeps the inmate in solitary than to mindfully dedicate the resources needed to rehabilitate the person and release them from solitary.
Perhaps the hardest lesson is discovering first hand what so much time in seclusion can do to a person. I have spent years tearing down my old faulty value system and building a better one, learning how to make strong healthy choices. I’ve made progress in so many ways, but so much isolation has begun to injure me. A few years ago, I began to feel very paranoid during the rare time out of my cell. For the ten hours per month allowed out, I felt as if I was being stared at, looked at from the corners of people’s eyes. It got so bad I didn’t want to leave my cell, prompting me to refuse medical and dental appointments.
I have never been a mental health patient. None of my family suffers from a mental disorder. I am rational and clear minded. I am literal and focused. Yet, these years in solitary have taken a serious mental toll. To get ‘help’ from mental health staff carries a stigmatized label as a psych patient. I was reluctant to contact them, although intellectually I understood what was happening. Despite the understanding, I could not shake the discomfort I felt when outside my cell.
When I did finally speak to someone in mental health, I worked through the discomfort for the most part. But recently the symptoms have returned, worse than before. When outside my cell, I struggle to hold eye contact and find myself trying to mumble at times. I berate myself. I know that isolation is the cause of the distress. I think this must be what it’s like to have a disorder – maybe like a man with Alzheimer’s who, in his clear moments, feels terrible because he recognizes he’s had bad moments, but he is unable to combat them.
I have no real treatment options. They do not do therapy here. They medicate… a slippery slope. I do not need medication. I feel anxious out of my cell. This is caused by my isolation. I am witnessing, in person, the deterioration of a human mind… mine.
After nine years, I no longer belong in solitary confinement. I am a new man, if not completely, then on my way to being one. I have had three minor disciplinary infractions during my 3,300 days here, all for covering the 24/7 light in my cell so as to sleep. But, alas, they keep checking the box that keeps me here.
The unregulated, unmonitored use of isolation damages as many people as it was meant to ‘improve’. Some of us will one day be neighbors to those in the free world – so shouldn’t those who wield the power to inflict these kind of lessons for years on end be held to a high standard…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeremy Robinson is author of The Monster Factory, which he is currently revising. Mr. Robinson lives in a Texas prison and can be contacted at: Jeremy Robinson #1313930 Polunsky Unit 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
I am innocent. I did not rob the Pizza Inn restaurant, nor did I shoot and kill its manager, John Rushton. Ronald Bullock and Jesse Hill testified I did – their testimony the nucleus of the returned guilty verdict. I didn’t spend the day planning the robbery with them, nor meet them after it was over – as they told the jury. I didn’t organize their plan. I didn’t participate in it. I wasn’t in the Pizza Inn that night.
None of that happened. But, what does my innocence matter? Where did it get me but a bus ride to prison while shackled both by ankles and spirit to a dread that becomes so unbearable – death is a welcome resolve. How relevant is innocence to time long gone and opportunities forever missed, when your dignity is in a shambles, you’ve been stripped of your identity and you have nothing left to call your own but an Opus number. With no pride left for which to hide behind, to admit wrongdoing would not be so difficult – the hardest thing to do is continue proclaiming my innocence.
For two decades, I have lived the same as those who are guilty. I’ve stomached the same foods, donned the same disgraceful attire and been governed by the same rules. I’ve looked into the eyes of men as they were moments away from being unrighteously done in, while inside my innocence has become a little less significant each day. Capital punishment is not meant to penalize the guilty, but rather to exterminate the worthless while attempting to restore solace to grieving hearts.
Aristotle once said, “We are what we repeatedly do,” and in just a few short years, I will have been a Death Row inmate for longer than I’ve been anything else. So, what then is my innocence but a conscientious self-declaration to get me through the day?
My innocence is a reminder of who I used to be – so that I am not lost to who I have become…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
NOTE TO READER. Please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson at any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day. Thank you to those who have come forward already. It is not easy for someone falsely accused to ever leave death row – no detail is too small. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful. Details of the trial will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/
I’ve been on Texas death row since November, 1999, and was first held with the others at the ‘old death row housing’, Ellis One Unit, that provided group recreation, church services, work programs – camaraderie. There was a different vibe then. Sure, men were still being led like sheep to the slaughter in record numbers, and sure, a few were innocent, some wrongly convicted and many guilty, but the deprivation of social and human interaction in all forms was not as glaring then because we were allowed to play four-on-four basketball games outdoors, able to share hugs with one another, able to lean on one another when one had some bad news and needed a shoulder to cry on, and we were able to pray in groups. Some sat around tables playing card games, chess, or just sat in silence watching a movie or sports on ESPN. In no way am I exulting that existence, because I can never be content as long as I am being held in chains. I’m innocent. But the reality of living at Ellis during that time was ‘doable’. Man was not alone.
March, 2000, everything changed, including death row’s location and current housing. From the moment we arrived on Polunsky Unit we were handcuffed and chained, from our ankles to our stomach to our hands by one long chain, and ordered off the heavily armed buses and stripped nude for the whole world to see. That became the moment I knew everything was different.
We were placed in single man cells on sections that held fourteen cells per each of the six sections that encased one of six pods. Gone were work programs, group recreation, church services and all forms of physical contact that we once enjoyed. Morale was so low, it could be sensed within the thickness of the silence. Suicides and suicide attempts spiked that first year. A black, middle-aged inmate from Dallas, Clark, started shouting madly, daily, as if he was Paul Revere, saying things like, “In five years this place will be a place of madness!” Many laughed, thinking him already mad.
Clark and three others would die within the first five-hundred days, from unknown natural causes. They simply dropped dead in their cells. Men as young as 26 and as old as 51 were now remembered as ‘how did they die’. Though many surmised their depressive stress became too much to bear.
As time passed, men started self-mutilating, one cutting his penis off and throwing it out of his cell. Another, so consumed with religious material, set himself on fire. One man stabbed himself in the jugular and made not a sound. Before he bled out, he wrote, ‘I’m innocent’, in his own blood on the wall. The following day, the Courts granted him a stay to look into his claims, to no avail. One man ate his own eye, then ate the other. He said it tasted like chicken. Many hung themselves. A few started eating their own feces. An overwhelming number sought help from the mental health department which provided them with experimental psychiatric drugs that kept them in a nebulous, zombie-like state, in which they slept all day and could not function in a coherent manner. Inmate-friends at Ellis became inmate-enemies on Polunsky. Staff and inmate assaults rose substantially. The ugly reality the aftermath, when loneliness became dictator.
Clark’s prophetic words soon became a beacon to the fact that man crumbles from the starvation of physical interaction.
I’m not exempt from suicidal thoughts, the cancer known as depression swallowing me whole from time-to-time, more often than I care to dwell on. At times I’m consumed with thoughts of dyeing, being murdered, never getting free again and never getting another chance to feel the warm lips of a lover. Will I ever again salivate over the seasonings and texture of a home cooked meal from my mother? Who says insanity is all that bad? My mind does play tricks on me.
I want to be free. My freedom was molested from me with false allegations, and I struggle every moment to exist within these solitary confines, my survival not based on my courage or strength, but on those who write me, encourage me and love me unconditionally. I survive for them.
I do not know what tomorrow will bring. I’m out of appeals and the only step left is to get an execution date. That notion weighs heavily on me, but I have given my friends a promise to continue to be me until my soul is liberated from the manacles of my flesh.
Know this – I love you. Doesn’t matter if you hate me or support me. None of it matters. For without love, we all cease to survive the day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas. He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence. For information on his case, and to support and share his story, follow on Facebook at – Charles Mamou – How Wrongful Convictions Are Made. You can also read all the information specific to his case at Charles Mamou on this site.
Mr. Mamou can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
April 17, 2019, ‘Items were signed for by Mary K. Childs-Henry – Item 001 Sealed envelope said to contain biological evidence.’
Then again, June 24, 2019, ‘Items were signed for by Mary K. Childs-Henry – Item 004 Sealed envelope said to contain biological evidence.’
The Mamou trial is riddled with information not shared with Charles Mamou or the jury – and in 2019 two notes were made in the case file noting – ‘Biological evidence’ signed for. Those two notes became two more things Harris County didn’t share with Charles Mamou.
* * * * *
In 1998, Charles Mamou was accused of fleeing a drug deal gone wrong and killing Mary Carmouche. He was then convicted and sentenced to death by a jury who wasn’t told all there was to know.
The victim was last seen late on a Sunday, early on Monday morning. On a Wednesday, Terrence Dodson, the prosecution’s key witness, stated Mamou confessed to him, making a video statement. In it, he claimed Mamou called him from Louisiana in the early morning hours of Tuesday – the day before. He also stated Mamou told him to pick him up from the bus station in Houston that same night, Tuesday night.
During that interview, investigators were aware Mamou was not in Louisiana on Tuesday morning nor on Tuesday mid-day, but actually in Houston. Mamou didn’t get on a bus from Houston, going to Louisiana, until 1:30 in the afternoon on that Tuesday. As a matter of fact, at the very time Dodson was making his statement in one room at HPD, another witness was making a statement as well. That witness actually drove Mamou to the bus station leaving Houston on Tuesday afternoon – not heading back to Houston as Dodson was telling police but away. The written statement of the other witness – is notarized by the same investigator that took Dodson’s video statement. Detective Novak had decades of experience at HPD.
The jury heard Dodson’s testimony and were never told the conflict. They also heard a different version of how the ‘confession’ took place than the recorded one. At trial, the confession was described as taking place over days, partially on the phone and partially in person. The jury never heard Dodson’s inconsistent details.
Letter written by witness who told police Mamou confessed to him; never seen by jury.
The jury was also never shown a letter Dodson wrote Mamou months later stating he was glad Mamou didn’t tell him shit.
* * * * *
Mamou always maintained he drove back to an apartment complex on Fondren after the drug deal gone wrong – that was the last place he saw Mary Carmouche. He’s described the people he saw and some details about the parking lot that night. In contrast, the prosecution argued Mamou fled the drug deal, sexually assaulted and killed Carmouche behind a home on Lynchester Avenue.
Mamou described seeing Shawn Eaglin leaving Howard Scott’s apartment and getting into a Yellow Cab that night. An employee for Yellow Cab testified that – yes, the company had a call from a ‘Shawn’ and a cab was requested for the address of Howard Scott who lived at the complex. The prosecution, in turn, pointed out that anybody could call a cab and use any name and any address – it doesn’t prove it was actually a legitimate call or that anyone was picked up.
Yellow Cab log, Exhibit used in Court – Phone number never pointed out as belonging to Howard Scott.
The jury also did not hear Shawn Eaglin lived approximately five minutes from the apartment complex. That is the amount of time the cab log indicated the customer’s drive was.
* * * * *
According to Detective Novak’s testimony, Shawn Eaglin was an individual they were looking at as a potential suspect. Eaglin’s name is handwritten throughout the case file. According to everyone’s testimony, Eaglin knew most of the individuals involved, as well as introduced most of them. A written statement by Robin Scott refers to police going to Shawn Eaglin’s home during their investigation.
Referred to as possible suspect, handwritten name throughout file, witness said police went to his house, and he introduced all parties – there are no documented interviews of Mr. Eaglin in HPD’s file.
Howard Scott was transported to HPD along with his wife, although driven separately, on Tuesday, December 8, 1998. He was transported from his home to be interviewed because what he was telling police was inconsistent with what they were hearing from his wife.
Detective Novak, in his testimony, referred to taking a written statement from Scott the day they initially went to his home and transported him to the police department.
In 2019, Scott told an investigator he saw Charles Mamou at the apartment complex parking lot that night. He also said he saw Mary Carmouche there.
* * * * *
Howard Scott testified he went to bed that night – getting ‘no more phone calls’. When specifically asked if that was because his phone was unplugged, “No, it just stopped ringing.”
His phone didn’t stop ringing and HPD was aware of that. An investigator in Scott’s apartment wrote down all the calls from his caller I.D., jotting names by some of the numbers. Phone calls were coming in to Howard Scott’s apartment through 3:43 A.M. that Sunday night. In HPD’s file there is a fax cover sheet, dated September 24, 1999, indicating they faxed the phone records to Lynn McClellan, the prosecutor, during jury selection.
Fax cover sheet in HPD file, noting on the cover sheet the caller ID records. Mamou never saw this, and did not have opportunity to dispute the testimony of two witnesses who said they didn’t use their phone.
Mamou never knew about the phone records HPD and apparently the prosecutor were aware of until 2019. The jury was never told Howard Scott’s testimony was not accurate and his phone was ringing into the early morning hours. Scott’s credibility was never questioned.
* * * * *
The phone records also indicated Shawn Eaglin, the man Mamou said took a cab from Scott’s apartment and the name the Yellow Cab company said called for a cab from Scott’s address at 3:59 A.M. – also called Howard Scott that night as late as 3:12 A.M.
There were several phone calls from various people in the early morning hours to Scott’s apartment that night. The jury was never made aware of any of them. Charles Mamou was also unaware they existed.
* * * * *
“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.” The prosecution asked the jury to imagine that, all the while having results of a rape kit that included oral swabs. The kit indicated no semen was detected. Mamou never knew a kit existed until 2019. The District Attorney had requested the kit be processed months before the trial and had already received the results. Mamou was never charged with sexual assault but the jury was told he assaulted the victim.
The kit also revealed the existence of ‘trace collection items’ and ‘hairs’.
Portion of rape kit D.A. requested processed which indicated no seman found, and Mamou never saw. Also indicated the existance of ‘trace collection’ items, including hairs.
Robin Scott gave a written statement to police on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, when she and her husband were transported to HPD for statements, as well as Wednesday, December 9, when police brought them both in again, although Howard Scott’s original statement is not in the police file. In one of Ms. Scott’s statements she told police Charles Mamou had arrived at her apartment at approximately 12:45 on the night of the incident. That time frame would have made it impossible for Mamou to have accomplished what he was accused of, as well as supported his version of events in which he drove directly back to the apartment complex after the drug deal gone wrong.
Samuel Johnson was a participant in the drug deal gone wrong, and Mamou described meeting him at the apartment complex after the original shooting. In contrast, Johnson testified he drove away from the drug deal, straight to his home and to bed, never speaking to anyone.
Phone records contradict that, indicating Samuel Johnson’s cell phone called Howard Scott’s apartment at 2:37 A.M. The previously mentioned phone records included that information. Samuel Johnson also had a landline at his apartment – but the phone call he made was from a cell phone. Twenty years ago, people would often use their landline if they were in their home, but if police investigated the location the ‘cell phone’ call was made from, that information is not in the case file. Mamou never had a chance to investigate where the call was made from, because he was unaware of the phone records HPD had.
At trial and without the phone records, Mamou did not have the opportunity to question Johnson’s credibility after he said he went straight to bed and spoke to no one.
Two witnesses have since told an investigator they saw Samuel Johnson in the complex parking lot that night, having driven in just prior to Mamou – which is consistent with what Mamou has always maintained.
* * * * *
Charles Mamou described a man on a bike in the complex parking lot when he arrived with Mary Carmouche. The prosecution dismissed the claims.
It turns out an individual has since told an investigator he was in the parking lot that night – on a bike – and he saw Mamou drive into the parking lot after Samuel Johnson.
Also supporting Mamou’s account, the phone records indicate a unique phone number called Howard Scott’s apartment on the evening of the incident, at 11:48 P.M. and 1:54 A.M. There is a handwritten note in the HPD investigators phone records, indicating a name next to the number. That name – happens to be an acquaintance of the ‘man on the bike’.
The jury never heard any of that.
* * * * *
The prosecution told the jury, “He tried to murder all four of those people out there, but that was beyond his control.” “That was his plan. It was all premeditated.” “He’s vicious. He’s ruthless. He’s cold-blooded.”
The jury was shown autopsy photos and heard victim impact statements concerning a victim of an unsolved murder that took place several months earlier. Mamou has never been charged with that crime, but HPD currently has him listed as ‘Arrested, Charged’.
A man named Joseph Melancon claimed Mamou shot and killed the man, Anthony Williams. The Williams case file includes a witness statement describing Joseph Melancon being dressed up and with Anthony Williams that night. The witness describes the two men leaving the club together. According to the witness, a short time after leaving with Melancon, a man ran in the club saying the victim had been shot.
That witness indicated they thought Joseph Melancon was involved in the murder, but the case was never pursued after Joseph Melancon testified Charles Mamou committed the crime. Melancon’s testimony did not match his original statement to police, but Mamou was never given an opportunity to defend himself of this crime, as he was never charged with the crime.
* * * * *
That’s what took place in Harris County two decades ago. So, in 2019 when it became known biological evidence was signed for, it was reasonable to want to know why. I flew to Houston.
One of two supplements indicating biological evidence was signed for in 2019.
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.
After I returned home, I was called by someone I had never spoken to, D. Wilker, from 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 was dismissive during this conversation, telling me the rape kit results I was looking for at that time were ‘irrelevant’. I was told the defense had every piece of evidence they needed to know. 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, in light of the circles I had been lead in to come to that conclusion.
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 for in 2019.
The employee who signed for the evidence, Mary K. Childs-Henry, also worked for the HPD lab in 1998, when the crime occurred. In the early 2000’s the Houston Chronicle ran several articles focused on HPDs troubled lab, to include mishandling of evidence. Ms. Childs-Henry was mentioned in some of those articles.
“Analyst Mary Childs-Henry never took statistics or genetics, and her failure to do a timely analysis of a DNA sample in 1996 was part of a chain of lab errors that allowed an innocent man to be held in jail for nine months, according to depositions and an internal memo. Two lawsuits were filed over that incident, which prompted the city to audit the lab.” – Houston Chronicle, ‘Report: File review shows Houston police DNA analysts lack education, training’ – September 6, 2003
“”This just goes to show that the bench workers were doing nothing more than following orders and that the problems in that lab were created by the poor management within the lab and above,” said Fred Keys, Childs-Henry’s lawyer.” – Houston Chronicle, ‘Panel Tosses Out Crime Analyst’s Lab Suspension’, By Todd Ackerman – February 28, 2004
“So far, two men have been released from prison after the discovery of flawed crime lab work in their cases. In a written statement, Houston Police Chief Harold Hurtt announced that three lab analysts criticized in the report have been relieved of duty pending the outcome of an internal investigation. Those three employees are Mary Childs-Henry, Joseph H. Chu, and Raynard Cockrell.” – Houston Chronicle, ‘More Problems Found At HPD Crime Lab’, By Steve McVicker and Roma Khanna – January 4, 2006
“Houston Police Department supervisors suspended Mary Childs-Henry, Joseph Chu and Raynard Cockrell after an independent team of experts found they had failed to report evidence that could have helped defendants and that they made errors in DNA and serology tests.” – Houston Chronicle, ‘Crime-lab Analysts Had Avoided Serious Penalties’, By Roma Khanna – January 8, 2006
“The three – Mary Childs-Henry, Joseph Chu and Raynard Cockrell – were suspended recently after Bromwich’s team found they had failed to report evidence that could have helped defendants and that they made errors in DNA and serology tests.” Houston Chronicle, ‘Crime Labe Investigator Wants Subpoena Power’, By Steve McVicker – January 10, 2006
“Three analysts suspended because of the latest findings by the Bromwich team — Mary Childs-Henry, Joseph Chu and Raynard Cockrell — have been targeted for discipline in the past but have escaped serious punishment.” Houston Chronicle, ‘Crime Lab Investigator To Target Specific Cases’, By Steve McVicker – January 11, 2006
Photos of Lexus at HPD in 1998
Among the Courtroom exhibits are photos of the Lexus involved in the drug deal with someone in the background who bears a striking resemblance to Mary K. Childs-Henry. Having worked in the lab in 1998, it is possible she also worked on Mamou’s case twenty years ago.
The climate at that time in history, in that place, wasn’t a secret. What remains to be seen is, will the Harris County of today execute Charles Mamou based on a 1999 decision jurors made without all the information available, at a time when the end game wasn’t always justice, but the conviction.
Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. Anything you share with me will be confidential.
All related posts detailing all I have learned over the last two years are available at Charles Mamou.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
She was four foot eleven, Italian, And the biggest liar I’ve ever known. She drank Burnett’s Pink Lemonade Vodka And liked to be choked during sex. At sixteen she’d slit her wrists When she found her mother’s body On the kitchen floor. It was blue And as cold as ice, she said. She was liar and a whore Who had no respect for herself, Or anyone else, and hadn’t a Single principle or moral to her name But I loved her, And I miss her A lot. She was only twenty-two When she died. I keep her picture on the wall Of my cell And tell her every morning That I love her. I know if I had been out there That I could have saved her. I also know that if I had been out there I wouldn’t have.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, with the ability to paint a picture and stir emotion with so few words. Although he doesn’t send in his work often, I always look forward to reading his mail. He recently mentioned trying his hand at songwriting, and I have no doubt he will succeed.
Robert can be reached at: Smart Communications/PADOC Robert McCracken LG8344 Sci-Greene P.O. Box 33028 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
Two men have formally admitted some form of involvement in the attempted robbery that led to the death of John Rushton, a man murdered in the Pizza Inn in Wilson, NC, over twenty years ago. One of those two men, Ronald Bullock, pled guilty to Attempted Armed Robbery and Aiding and Abetting Voluntary Manslaughter, acknowledging he was present at the Pizza Inn that night, although there were inconsistencies between his statement, testimony and later statement – not to mention contradictions of the other key witness . He is a free man today.
The other man, Jesse Hill, never told the jury he was involved at all, quite the opposite. He testified that Ronald Bullock and Terry Robinson stopped by his home earlier that day and then drove him to his grandmama’s house. He then went on to describe the accused, Terry Robinson, coming back to his home later, telling him, “I can’t – don’t say nothing about it, ‘cause there is a body involved.” Hill then testified he didn’t believe any of that, and he merely wanted to go back to sleep.
When Jesse Hill was questioned during Terry Robinson’s trial about his reaction to hearing someone had been shot, he expressed disbelief. “So, I was just like, well, you shot him. I went on to bed. It wasn’t nothing to me.”
Jesse Hill was questioned about a reward as well.
Q. Now, when you talked to Detective Bass, did you ask him about any reward that you might get?
A. No.
Q. Have you ever asked anybody about any reward you might get?
A. No.
Q. Have you ever applied for any reward?
A. No.
Q. For giving this information?
A. No.
After the trial was over, Jesse Hill told an investigator that he was given a check for $5,000 by a detective as a reward for his role in the case.
Also after the trial, in contrast to Hill’s testimony portraying himself as unaware of anything and going to visit his grandmama, Ronald Bullock made a statement claiming Jesse Hill was actually involved in the planning of the Pizza Inn robbery. Bullock claimed Hill was supposed to get a cut from the money.
After confronted with that information a few days after Bullock made that statement, Hill admitted to supplying Bullock with a disguise for the robbery.
All of this took place after the trial and unbeknownst to the jury.
Throughout his trial testimony, Jesse Hill portrayed himself as having no involvement or knowledge of the planned robbery.
Q. Okay. And then when they said what they said they were going to do, you didn’t believe them, did you?
A. Not really.
Q. You didn’t believe they were gonna (sic) do it?
A. No.
Jesse Hill went on to, again, testify regarding his disbelief after the fact about what happened.
Q. And you still didn’t believe that they had done it, did you?
A. Not – I was asleep, really, so —
Q. You woke up and they talked to you, didn’t they, Mr. Hill?
A. Yeah, they talked to me, but I still didn’t really believe it. ‘Cause a lot of people can tell you anything, and you don’t have to believe everything you hear.
The jury must have believed Jesse Hill, even though he later told an investigator he knew of the planned robbery and had supplied a disguise for Ronald Bullock. More than that, if Ronald Bullock’s statement is to be believed – Jesse Hill actually rode with him prior to the robbery and even went behind the Pizza Inn that day as they planned the crime.
Mr. Hill repeatedly voiced his disbelief in all that was going to take place before and after the attempted robbery and murder.
Q. Okay. Correct me if I’m wrong, but when they told you about it earlier in the day, you said: “I don’t believe they were gonna (sic) do it.”; “I didn’t believe them.”
A. No.
Q. After they came back, whatever time of day that was, the same day, May 16th, you still didn’t believe them, right?
A. No.
Mr. Hill repeatedly maintained no knowledge of the crime under oath.
Q. But, when he said that, you still didn’t believe he had had anything to do with the Pizza Inn robbery and murder, did you?
A. Naw, ‘cause I ain’t heard nothing about no Pizza Inn robbery at that time.
The testimony of Ronald Bullock and Jesse Hill was the basis of Terry Robinson’s murder conviction and death sentence. Robinson has been on death row for twenty years, and during that time he has steadfastly maintained his innocence. Of the three men – he is the only one who has always said he had no involvement. There was no physical evidence to tie Terry Robinson to the scene, and Jesse Hill and Ronald Bullock were the foundation of the prosecution’s case. Robinson’s death sentence was based on Bullock’s and Hill’s credibility – yet deception has been documented. There were also inconsistencies and contradictions in their earlier statements to police.
If anyone saw Terry Robinson or anyone who accused him of murder that day, please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net.
Mr. Robinson is also a writer, which is how he become involved with WITS. You can read his work here, and he can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
I would be lying if I didn’t say part of me fears this may be the end of the world as we know it. We are all in the grip of COVID-19.
I’m currently housed at Gus Harrison Correctional Facility in Adrian, Michigan, and at the time of this writing, there are no positive cases at this facility. However, there have been cases in almost every prison around this area. It’s inevitable for the virus to make its way here. Not only that, on April 7, 2020, the MDOC decided to bring fifty prisoners to this facility who had tested positive for COVID-19 and were supposedly recovering. While the prisoners are in an isolated part of the prison and administrators claim they no longer have the coronavirus, this decision only adds to the anxiety and uncertainty – adds to the fear that comes with this pandemic.
I fear for my life here. I fear our overseers contracting the disease and spreading it to those of us on the inside. Officers are angry the administration brought in once infected prisoners, and I’ve heard that some have said if they were to contract the virus, they were going to give it to us.
I fear losing a loved one.
I fear my underlying illness preventing me from fighting off the virus if I were to contract it.
I fear the impact the coronavirus is having on Black and Brown communities.
My worst fear, though, has always been dying in prison, and now that this disease is in such close proximity to me, I feel I am staring at death. Why would the MDOC bring prisoners who were infected to one of the only prisons that doesn’t have any cases? Since the COVID-19 outbreak there hasn’t been one single case reported in Lenawee County, which is where this facility is located. Yet – as I write these words, I was just informed two prisoners in Level 1 of this prison were put in segregation with temperatures of 104° and men in their cubes have fevers. The inevitable is happening. COVID-19 is closing in on me. I hope my fear of dying in prison doesn’t start closing in on me next.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quentin Jones is the founder of MYLIFEMATTERSTOO, and is serving Life Without The Possibility Of Parole in Michigan. After two decades in prison, he strives daily to be productive and make a positive impact. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”
Quentin can be contacted at: Quentin Jones #302373 Gus Harrison Correctional Facility 2727 East Beecher Street Adrian, MI 49221-3506
Sharing the name of the apartment complex around it, at perhaps a quarter mile long, Coleridge Road rammed straight through the projects. It was the crossbar between two semi-parallel streets that offered alternate routes to similar destinations, though their side roads led to completely different ends. The front one was the busy mainstream people took when speeding to Asheboro’s white or blue collar districts. People motoring on it clearly had somewhere to be, somewhere to go, something to do. It was also a geographical cordon and dangerous to cross – nobody wanted to slow or stop. That intersection saw a lot of accidents. One car attempting to cross it from Coleridge got chopped in half by an SUV.
The rear street was lazier, more meandering and accommodating, but presented dangers of its own. It veined into Asheboro’s darker areas where gunshots and crack pipes left blooming but distinctive scents in the air. Like many of its occupants, even the projects back there went only by a nickname, ‘Low Rent’, which spoke to a key feature of their character. Life itself got cheaper the deeper one went.
Like a giant middle finger flipping up from Coleridge Road into the heart of the complex, Kemp Boulevard looped about 100 yards uphill, past my apartment, where two friends and I stood sweating on a corner sidewalk. We shared a cigarette and peered downhill toward one of the other parking lots to pinpoint the tinny music that had pulled us outside to the curb – a rarely seen ice cream truck. From this distance, the kids resembled roaches as they scampered toward the sugar. Heatwaves shimmered above the asphalt, creating what appeared to be a mirage – an oasis or the birth of a metaphor for hope. Or both.
We wondered how many times it’d visit before somebody robbed it. Then we wondered whether we could trick the vendor into handing us one orange sherbet, one rainbow push-pop, and one Mickey Mouse as we pretended to dig in our pockets for money. It was 1993, hot as hell, and we were twelve and broke.
“They’d probably hand it to you… but not us,” J, the shortest but fastest of us said, meaning – ‘You’re not black’. Puff nodded his agreement, and they both grinned. I knew the look. It teased that I looked soft, innocent – untested.
“Oh, hell, nah! I’ve done more stuff than both of ya’ll!” I cited the fights, the stealing, the broken windows and sliced car tires. I was the most prolific.
“Well, you the one ain’t been to training school,” said Puff, the strongest fighter in our age bracket. He hit the dwindling cigarette.
“Only ‘cause I ain’t got caught like y’all.” The yet was implicit. I felt uneasy. We all knew prison was our inevitable destination. It was a fact of life in the projects, the only life we knew how to live. Around Coleridge, people didn’t dream of being doctors or lawyers or firemen… if they dreamed at all.
We all got quiet. I stubbed the cigarette butt. The ice cream truck turned onto Kemp, getting louder as it chugged up the hill and horseshoed around the bend. It became a big, boxy, yellowish riot of glittery stickers and calliopean music as it stopped in front of us. Suddenly we were jostled by a dozen excited children waving crumpled dollar bills or punching a fistful of loose change at the vendor.
My friends and I glanced at each other; they silently boosted me to attempt a free ice cream, but when I looked up, the vendor locked eyes with me and smiled. After a second he scowled and shook his head hard, as if to warn me, ‘Don’t you fuckin’ try it kid’. So I didn’t.
When he finally slammed and locked the serving window and pulled away from the curb, my friends and I gave chase and hopped onto the rear bumper. We clung to the panel-door seams and jumped up and down to bounce the truck, letting the driver know we were there, letting him feel our presence. Being seen and felt is its own sort of ice cream. It wasn’t slowing before turning back onto Coleridge, so rather than be slung off, we hopped off and hit the ground running. We scooped up rocks and thunked them off the truck’s back, laughing as it squealed its tires to gather speed toward the front street.
Though it soon disappeared, we still heard its discomfiting moon music a few moments more, until even that was gone, leaving a sticky residue in our hearts. Ice cream dreams never lasted long in Coleridge.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and it is a privilege to share his voice. Not only does Mr. Wilkerson share his writing here, he was also a contributor to 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
Felicia was a ‘round-the-way girl, someone everyone knew.
She was constantly on the go and always in the mix of making moves that were
typically illegitimate. The younger
sister of a local tough who was known for his street brawling during the 80’s,
Felecia did not command the ruggedness and knack for violence her brother had.
Instead, she was an enigmatic young woman, rather timid and reserved, with
striking natural beauty.
I first met her in September ’97 after my release from
prison, where I was introduced to radical concepts about Blacks and Whites,
many of which I refuted. Still, I was inspired by the talk of Black Empowerment. At that time, I needed to believe in
something, but having spent 31 months wrongfully convicted, I was too bitter
for decent living.
Felicia came through the block, headed toward the school
yard, her steps seasoned with haste. She was on her way to cop some dope. Felicia
was addicted to crack cocaine, still in the early stages from the looks of her.
Clean fingernails. Stylish hair. Yet her name had reached the lips of every
hoodlum with the lowdown as they wove her sordid reputation.
Rejection is a common occurrence ‘round-the-way. Everything from character flaws to unpopular choices may result in one being devalued and mistreated. Felicia was different. She was salvageable and brimming with potential. Why no one seemed to be trying to help her, I couldn’t figure. Surely she had a family somewhere with tear-soaked pillows and calloused knees who prayed for her sobriety. To the dealers and other addicts though, Felicia was a lost cause, good only for her prettiness to squelch their own insecurities and quench their broken desires. Well, not me. I resolved to make a difference in her life. The only problem was, I, too, was broken.
The more prominent I became in the dope game, the more I saw Felicia, zipping here and there while on a mission. Her taught lips in a forever smile were the mark of someone special. Here eyes sparkled with hope. I spoke to her often, expecting to be ignored, though I found that she reciprocated. I challenged her choices and she revealed to me the letdowns that had driven her to dark places. Erroneously, I gave her some crack cocaine because I wanted to help. I vowed never to accept her money. But was I really helping Felicia, or was I quieting my own conscience?
As the weeks and months wore on Felicia, she looked tawdry
and unclean. The sparkling hue in her eyes extinguished by an unrelenting pain.
She held up in abandoned corners too dark for shadows and took refuge in a
glass stem while the johns sought after her day and night, devouring what
dignity she had left.
After my joy of being out of prison ran its course, all that
remained for me was resentment. Consumed
by the feeling of self-worthlessnes, I mirrored how I felt. I woke up angry, dressed in vengefulness and
headed out in the world to detonate. I dismissed Felicia’s sickness and
potential for hope, and I accepted her money for drugs.
One night I was cooped up in my apartment alone, when someone rapped on the door. It was Felicia, glancing over her shoulders with her eyes weary and strained. She jabbed at her ponytail with one finger, scratching away at her scalp as she clutched onto a fistful of bills and said, “Lemme git a dime.”
I took a twenty-dollar piece of crack rock, split it in two and
dropped half in her hand.
I’ve got eight dollars,” she revealed after handing over the
money and eyeballing her purchase.
Expecting the funds to be short, I didn’t bother to fuss. I
put the money away and closed the screen door, but Felicia didn’t leave. She stood there and plopped the crack rock in
her moth, taste-testing the product. “You got something bigger?” she asked.
“What! Man, go on
somewhere, Felicia,” I chided, frustrated with her antics. “I’ve already given you more than what you paid.”
“I know, but that’s my last eight dollars. You can’t gimme
another piece?”
I refused. She persisted. Suddenly, we argued, the tension
growing with every second.
“Just gimme back my money,” she demanded. “If not, I’ll call
the police.”
I should’ve just given her the money and cut ties. What was
only eight dollars to me – was worth so much more to her. Yet, I was insulted and spurred by anger. I hocked saliva and spat in her face. “Bitch!
Git the fuck off my porch before I come out there and beat yo ass!”
Gone was her moment’s sense of defiance, replaced by hurt
and shame. She looked on me until I looked within myself, and all I saw was guilt. Unable to bear the sight of my depravity, I slammed
the door shut while peering out the window as she wiped away the froth and
vanished.
I sat at the kitchen table in the dark of night in the company of self-reproach, wondering how much Felicia suffered at the disdain of heartless men. Men like myself who objectified women and perpetuated machoism, men who willfully victimized the weak and defenseless. A man who would spit in a woman’s face and hide behind the door – though I couldn’t hide from my own disgrace, and I am still ashamed today.
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
Lie, after lie, after lie was heard by the jury in the trial
of Charles Mamou.
Q. When you talked to Sergeant Herman from Houston Homicide Department, did you tell him basically what you’ve told us here today?
A. Yes.
That was the testimony of Joseph Melancon – and it was a lie, one of a stream of lies. That lie, as most were, was documented in the HPD case file at the time it was said. The jury was not informed it was a lie.
Here is a portion of the testimony Melancon gave describing what took place on September 5, 1998, three months before the murder Charles Mamou was on trial for. The testimony will be followed by what Melancon actually told police. (Volume 22, of the Reporter’s Record at page 66)
Q . Did ya’ll make arrangements then to get together on Saturday? A. Yes. Q. Why were you going to get together on Saturday? A. It was the Prairie View and Texas Southern game, and we was going to go out. Q. Did you then meet up with the defendant, Charles Mamou, on that Saturday evening? A. Yes. Q. And where did – where did you meet him at? A. At my house. Q. What part of town did you live in? A. Southwest side. Q. When he came over to your house, how did he get to your house? Do you know? A. In like a brown Blazer. Q. Brown Blazer? A. Like a Durango, something like that. Q. I didn’t understand that. A. Chevrolet Durango, one of the little small Blazers. Q. And was he by himself or with someone? A. By himself. Q. And did ya’ll end up then going out that evening? A. Yes. Q. About what time, if you know, did you leave? A. 8:30, 9:00, 9:30, something. Maybe 9:30, 10:00. Q. All right. And where were you going to go when you left? A. We was going to Jamaica. It’s a club. Q. And where is that club located? Do you know what street? A. On the south side. I don’t know. I don’t remember. Q. Did you get to the Jamaica Club? A. No, we didn’t. Q. What happened on the way to Jamaica Club that prevented you from getting there? A. Chucky got a phone call on his cell phone. Q. And do you know who he was talking to? A. No, I don’t. Q. You just heard his end of the conversation? A. Yeah. Q. What was he saying in the cell phone? A. He said, You got that for me. Q. I’m sorry. I want you to back up a little bit from the microphone. A. Do you have that for me? Q. What did he say next, if you recall? A. He hung up. Q. All right. Where did you end up going? A. To the little store on Buffalo and West Fuqua. Q. Buffalo, meaning Buffalo Speedway? A. Yes. Q. Now, how many people were in the vehicle you were in? A. Just me and Chucky. Q. When you got to the store at Fuqua and Buffalo Speedway, what kind of store was it, do you know? A. It was like a convenience store. Q. And was there anything close by the convenience store? A. It was a club. It was called Shannon’s. Q. Not the club you were initially going to– A. No. Q. –but a different club. What happened when you arrived at the convenience store? A. They had three guys standing out at the convenience store. Q. Okay. Did y’all park, or what did you do? A. We pulled up. And one of the guys came to the car’s front passenger door, and I got out and they got in. Q. Did you know who that person was? A. Yes, I did. Q. And how did you know who – what did you know that person’s name to be? A. Bruiser. Q. Did you know him by any other name? A. No, I didn’t.
At this point, the defense objected, but the objection was overruled. The witness continued to describe that night:
Q. And what did you say the person you’ve identified as Bruiser did when he came to your side of the vehicle you were in? A. He opened my door. Q. Okay. And did you get out or did you stay in? A. I got out. Q. Where did you go? A. I went and talked to the two guys that was standing up with him. Q. And who were the two guys? A. A guy named Lonnie and Weinerman. Q. What did Bruiser do after you got out of the vehicle? A. Him and Chucky was in the vehicle talking. Q. All right. So did Bruiser get in the vehicle? A. Yes. Q. What did you see the defendant, Charles Mamou, do then, the next thing you saw him do? A. He got out the vehicle and went into the store. Q. Did you see him come out of the store with anything? A. Yes. Q. What did he come out of the store with? A. Two brown bags. Looked like something to drink was in them. Q. All right. What did he do after he came out of the store. Where did he go and what did he do? A. He got in the driver’s seat and drove off. Q. All right. Did he say anything to you before he drove off? A. No. Q. All right. Now the plan had been ya’ll were going to go to Jamaica Club, right? A. Correct. Q. Did the defendant say anything about why you weren’t immediately going to Jamaica Club? Did he say what he was going to do first? A. He said he needed to take care of something. Q. All right. When he drove off, did you expect him to come back? A. Yes. Q. What were you doing then after you saw the defendant and the person you identified as Bruiser drive off in a vehicle driven by the defendant? What were you doing? A. I was talking to Lonnie and another guy named Weinerman. Q. And while you were outside the store talking, did you hear anything unusual? A. Yes. Q. What did you hear? A. Sounded like a gunshot. Q. One or more? A. One. Q. After you heard what sounded like a gunshot, did someone come to the location where you were at? A. Yes. Q. Do you know who this person was? A. No. Q. Without telling me what they said, did they say something? A. Yes. Q . As a result of what they said, what did you do, if anything? A. I got in the car with Lonnie, and we rode over on West Fuqua by the entrance to the Almeda Manor neighborhood, the entrance to that subdivision. Q. What was there at that location? A. It was a lot of people around, and Bruiser was laying on the ground. Q. Now did you get out of the vehicle? A. Yes, I did. Q. Did you go to where Bruiser was? A. Yes, I did. Q. Did you hear anything Bruiser was saying? A. Yes, I did. Q. What was he saying? A. He said, My boys shot me, and he just kept saying it over and over. Q. Repeating that same phrase? You need to say yes or no. A. Yes. Q. After you saw Bruiser laying there, what did you do? A. I walked over about two houses down with another friend of mine from the neighborhood and used his phone. Q. Okay. And who did you call? A. I called my wife. Q. What did you ask her to do, if anything? A. I told her to come get me. Q. And did she? A. Yes, sir. Q. Before you left that scene, did any ambulance or people arrive to tend to Bruiser? A. Yes.
Joseph Melancon then went on to
describe how he was so fearful of Charles Mamou after that night that he fled
Houston and moved to Dallas.
When questioned by the defense, he
is asked to clarify a couple things.
Q. Now, when he comes over on that Saturday, you said he came over at either 8:30 to 900 or 9:30 to 10:00? A. Correct. Q. You don’t recall which. But do you recall at the time he came over your wife was not home? A. That’s correct. Q. Your wife was working until what time that night. A. I think she got off at 9:30 or 10:00. Q. At some point, do you guys leave? A. Right. Q. Does your wife come home? A. No, I had to bring her the car. We only had one car at the time. Q. Okay. So did you take the five-month-old with you over to where your wife was working? A. Right. Q. So you drive the car over, and you leave your child with your wife. And then you and Charles were going to probably go clubbing at that point? A. Right.
The attorney asks him again about what happened when he heard the gunshot.
Q. You went to the scene, how did you get from the convenience store to where Bruiser was? A. I rode with Lonnie. Q. Okay. So Lonnie had his vehicle there? A. Correct. Q. And did Weinerman get in the car with you? A. No.
And then Melancon was asked about when he originally spoke
to police.
Q. When you talked to Sergeant Herman from Houston Homicide Department, did you tell him basically what you’ve told us here today? A. Yes.
After this testimony, the prosecutor brought in the medical examiner to share graphic photos of Anthony Williams’ autopsy, followed by Anthony Williams’ older sister who described how her brother’s death impacted her family – and Mr. Williams’ seven year old son.
That was all done to convince the jury that Charles Mamou had killed Mary Carmouche, but he was not on trial for the murder of Anthony Williams. I challenge anyone to look at that testimony and what police and the D.A. knew at the time and not recognize the lengths that were gone to in an effort to secure a death sentence.
This is what police actually knew at that time.
Officers on duty that night received the call at 10:01 P.M. on September 5, 1998, from dispatch regarding the shooting.
After this incident took place, Joseph Malencon began telling people his childhood acquaintance, Charles Mamou, had murdered Anthony Williams.
Investigators looked into Malencon’s allegations early on and didn’t pursue them. Charles Mamou had been with two women in Louisiana that weekend, which also happened to be the weekend of a family wedding. Mamou didn’t attend the wedding itself, but he did see his family that weekend in addition to staying with the two women in a hotel in Louisiana.
The following is what Malencon originally told police – which doesn’t even closely resemble his testimony:
On the night of this incident he was at his residence. Melancon stated the possible suspect, Chucky Mamou, called him and came and picked him up and they went to the Shannon’s Club on Buffalo Speedway and Fuqua (he testified in detail about them going to a convenience store). Joseph Melancon stated that was around 11:00 PM (an hour after the shooting took place). Joseph Melancon then stated, just after he and Chucky Mamou arrived in the club, Chucky Mamou met Anthony Williams and they started talking. (in his testimony – they were never in a club) Joseph Melancon stated, in a short while Chucky Mamou came and told him he had to do some business, and at that time Chucky Mamou and the victim left the Shannon’s Club (again, in his tesimony, they were never in a club). Joseph Melancon stated he remained at the Shannons’s Club and he was visiting with a man called Weinerman and also a man named Lonnie. Joseph Melancon stated while they were talking someone came up and told Weinerman that the victim had been shot (in his testimony he was outside a convenience story and heard a gunshot). That statement is a completely different story then Melancon’s sworn testimony. The jury never heard this statement, and Mamou never saw it for over twenty years.
Sergeant Novak reopened this case on September 20, 1999, in an effort to help the District Attorney secure a guilty verdict in the case against Charles Mamou for the murder of Mary Carmouche. None of the information they were able to gather supported Melancon’s original statement, and no one could identify Charles Mamou as being involved – outside of various stories they had heard from Joseph Melancon. Sgt. Novak was an experienced detective, not fresh to the Houston Police Department. He saw exactly what I saw when he Iooked at the file.
The few witness accounts that support each other – were those shared by individuals first on the scene. One of those individuals told police he ran into Shannon’s Club to get help and located Weinerman inside, along with Lonnie – the man Joseph Melancon testified drove him to the scene of the shooting after they both heard a shot outside at the convenience store. Lonnie was not outside the convenience store – he was inside Shannon’s Club according to the witness.
One of the central witnesses to this case and a man everyone saw that night was interviewed by police. He stated that Bruiser was hungry and he went to Shannon’s and ordered a hamburger. He stated that he and Bruiser went into the club, and shortly thereafter Joey entered the club. He stated that Joey was dressed up in a crisp white shirt like he was clubbing. He stated that Joey went over to Bruiser and they spoke out of his hearing and that Joey left the club and Bruiser and Lonnie followed. The witness continues and stated – “A short time later Cedric came running in and told him that Bruiser had been shot.” That statement mirrors what the first witness on the scene told police.
The above witness, as well as witnesses on the scene all agree the only words Bruiser said were, “My homeboy did this.” Charles Mamou was not Anthony Williams’ ‘homeboy’. They didn’t know each other, and on the night in question, Mamou was with two women, and his family was celebrating a wedding in Louisiana. Joseph Melancon, on the other hand, was a friend of Bruiser’s. One of the witnesses that night told police, “Joey may have something to do with Bruiser’s death.”
Joe Malbrough, a cousin of Joseph Malencon, told police an even different version of what Joseph Melancon told him, telling police that Joey told him he was standing outside the convenience store when he heard gunshots and he took off running. That version of events contradicts Malencon’s own statement which had him inside the club, someone coming in to tell him about the shooting, and getting in a vehicle and driving to the victim… It also contradicts his original statement which had him outside a convenience store, hearing a gunshot and getting in a vehicle with a friend and driving towards the victim.
There was evidence Charles Mamou was with two women on the night in question – as well as seen in Lousiana that weekend.
What’s clear – a girl was murdered after a drug deal gone wrong in December, 1998, and it was decided Charles Mamou was going to be the one to pay the price. It didn’t matter what police knew.
This series of posts have covered a good part of this case. The picture the prosecution painted of Charles Mamou – “vicious”, “ruthless”, “cold-blooded”, “manipulative”, “liar”, “controlling”. The jury was told, “His comfort zones are guns and bloodshed and murder.” “It’s only a question of when the next victim will be.” “He devastated and destroyed. And that’s all he’s ever done, with his drugs, with his guns.”
The jury heard, “Premeditation to the max,” even though the
drug dealers present that night testified they were actually on that alley to
rob Mamou at gunpoint. The prosecutor at one point saying, “You could
examine every piece of evidence…”
Therein lies the problem. The jury didn’t have access to all that McClellan and HPD knew. Neither did Charles Mamou. I have no idea what Mamou’s court appointed defense attorney was doing, he’s never responded to any requests I’ve made to talk.
Previously shared on this site regarding this case:
-The prosecution repeatedly accused Mamou of sexually assaulting the victim, forcing her to perform oral sex – all the while knowing that a rape kit had been collected. The D.A. requested the rape kit be processed prior to the trial, and it indicated ‘no semen was found’ – but Charles Mamou never knew a rape kit even existed, so could not use this to defend himself.
Nobody has to believe Charles Mamou, who has maintained his innocence from day one. One only needs to look in the case file and see what HPD and the prosecution knew. Unfortunately, knowing what happened doesn’t ‘undo’ what was done. Charles Mamou has lived on Death Row in Texas for over two decades and awaits a date for his execution.
Anyone with information
regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net.
Anything you share with me will be confidential.
All related posts detailing all I have learned
over the last two years are available at Charles Mamou.
TO
CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
