I had come home late after a long weekend of drinking and wondering the streets. The house was dark. I looked in on you and you were in bed so I went to bed as well. Deep in a dream I could hear the phone ringing on the end table. I didn’t remember there being a phone on the end table. But there was, and it was ringing. With my eyes still shut, I felt around until I found the phone and put it to my ear: “Robby… Robby, is that you?” you asked, in a quick, hushed voice. You sounded far away. “Robby, help me,” you whispered into the phone. I could hear the fear and desperation in your voice. I was confused and scared, I asked you where you were and you said that you didn’t know. You started to cry. I told you to look around you and tell me what you saw. You said that it was dark and you couldn’t see anything. I didn’t understand. I thought to ask you whose phone you were using, but you cut me off, and, all of these years later, I can still hear you say, “I’m so cold…” as your voice fades away. When I awoke it was still dark outside and as I walked down the hall to check on you again, I knew. Your room was pitch black, and I was afraid to turn on the light because I knew that you were there, in the dark, and I didn’t want you to go. I walked over to your bedside and gently touched your face. It was cold. You’d been gone for hours, but were still there. Did you not know that you’d passed? Were you waiting for me to come home? Did you lose your way? Or, is that really all that awaits us? I’ve heard others talk of heaven, hell, bright lights and judgment; of warmth and weightlessness and hovering above your body as your entire life replays itself before you; of deceased loved ones, gathered around, telling you to go back, that there’s still work to be done amongst the living. I hope that these things prove true, for them, but for me, I know in my heart that when I die it’s going to be dark and it’s going to be cold.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and although we don’t hear from him often, I always look forward to posting his work.
Robert can be reached at: Smart Communications/PADOC Robert McCracken LG8344 Sci-Greene P.O. Box 33028 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
There’s a woman I know who plays Devil’s advocate for me. She’s a skeptic – and I am forever grateful for her perspective. She recently asked, “What would ‘they’ have done differently?” That led to a conversation about a previous post – A Letter To My Thirteen Year Old Self.
Walk In Those Shoes receives those types of letters a lot. Things happen in life, paths take us places and without the insight that comes with decades of living – choices are made that alter lives. I lived through those years and made my share of wrong choices. I got lucky – or blessed. I’ve watched the next generation play with fire. ‘Use’ a little. Carry ‘that’ for protection. Go to that ‘place’ – because they are invincible. Nothing can go wrong. But plans sometimes go awry.
That’s the theme of this writing contest: If you could drop a piece of paper, a message, a letter in the dresser drawer of your younger self – what would it say? I say it all the time – be vulnerable. That may mean writing about your own insecurities.
As always – only those who are incarcerated are
eligible to participate.
We can’t accept anything
that has been previously published.
Submission is free – BUT, even if an entry doesn’t win, we consider entry permission to publish and edit. Sometimes we get so many excellent entries, they can’t all win, but they need to be shared.
Entries
should be 1,000 words or less.
Submissions
can be handwritten.
As done in our previous contests, I will narrow down the entries to the top ten, and then hand them off to individuals to rate the writing with a point system to determine winners.
PRIZES:
First Place: $75 Second Place: $50 Third Place: $25
DEADLINE: May 31, 2020. Decisions will be posted on or before July 10, 2020.
MAILING ADDRESS:
Walk In Those Shoes Writing Contest Entry P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, Virginia 23255
The prosecution ‘won’ the case against Charles Mamou, but
what did winning look like?
In a nutshell, the District Attorney claimed:
Samuel Johnson drove Charles Mamou to a drug
deal in Houston.
Mamou attempted to murder all three ‘sellers’ at
the scene and fled in their vehicle, which had Mary Carmouche in the backseat,
leaving his driver behind.
Mamou did not go back to the apartments where he
was staying, but drove the victim to a house for sale in a suburban
neighborhood, sexually assaulted and then murdered her.
Mamou, on the other hand, claimed he drove back to the
apartment complex where he was staying and described what he saw there. Throughout the trial, the prosecution ridiculed
those claims. Mamou’s version of events:
Gunfire broke out when the planned robbery of Mamou
began.
Mamou fired a gun in fear for his life, and
jumped in the ‘would-be’ robbers’ car.
He drove back to the apartment complex where he
was staying, following his driver who had left without him, Samuel Johnson.
Mary Carmouche was in the backseat of the car he
fled in.
The last time he saw the victim was in the
apartment complex parking lot.
He recalled the people he saw in the parking lot
when he arrived – Howard Scott, Samuel Johnson, Shawn Eaglin, and a man on a
bike.
He said he went into Howard Scott’s apartment –
and when he went back outside Carmouche was gone.
*Samuel Johnson, the driver, testified Mamou left him and Johnson went home, showered, drank a coke, and went to bed, never talking to anyone and never calling anyone. What Mamou didn’t know for 20 years was that investigators knew, in addition to the witnesses’ at the scene contradicting Johnson, Johnson’s cell phone made a phone call to Howard Scott’s apartment at 2:37 a.m. According to their records, they faxed that information to the D.A.’s office during the trial. Charles Mamou was never informed about Johnson’s phone call, and could not use that information to defend himself, nor was he given an opportunity to pursue identifying where that cell phone call was made from. Howard Scott had a phone in his apartment – but this call was made from a cell phone.
That phone call would have also called into question Johnson’s
credibility.
It also supports Charles Mamou’s account that Samuel Johnson
was not sleeping that night.
In addition to what was known at the time of trial, in 2019 two
witnesses described seeing Samuel Johnson in the parking lot that night, along
with Charles Mamou.
*Howard Scott testified his phone stopped ringing that
night. In reality, his caller I.D.
records indicated he was receiving calls through 3:43 a.m. The Houston Police Department knew this, and according
to their records, faxed that information to the District Attorney. Charles Mamou was never informed and never
given an opportunity to point out how that information called into question Scott’s
credibility.
Howard Scott receiving phone calls from the parties Mamou
claimed to have seen in the parking lot that night also supports Mamou’s
version of events and contradicts the scenario described to the jury of all the
other parties having no involvement.
In addition to what was known at the time of the trial, in 2019 a witness described seeing Howard Scott in the parking lot, along with Charles Mamou.
*Mamou claimed he saw Shawn Eaglin in the parking lot. Eaglin’s name is hand-written throughout the Houston Police Department’s file, there are indications he was questioned, and he was also described as a ‘possible suspect’ in court – but any records of police interviews with him do not exist in the police file.
Twenty years ago, Mamou said he saw Shawn Eaglin take a
Yellow Cab out of the apartment complex. The prosecution attempted to discredit
that, arguing there could be multiple ‘Shawns’ in the complex. According to the cab report – and not pointed
out for the jury – the phone number listed on the cab call report came from
Howard Scott’s apartment.
Also, the Houston Police Department had phone records
indicating Eaglin called Howard Scott’s apartment, that Sunday night. The last
call he made to Scott’s apartment was at 3:12 a.m. That information was not shared with Mamou,
and he did not have an opportunity to use it in support of his version of
events.
Scott’s apartment telephone called for a Yellow Cab for ‘Shawn’
at 3:59 a.m.
*The ‘guy on the bike’ was an opportunity for the
prosecution to ridicule and be dismissive of Mamou’s claims. All the while, the prosecution knew Mamou
didn’t have much to support what he saw, but as it turns out – the Houston
Police Department had some information that could have possibly helped unravel that
mystery. In that fax that they sent to
the District Attorney – there were other phone calls made to Howard Scott’s
apartment that night. One of those phone
numbers had ties to none other than – the ‘guy on the bike’. The phone number belonged to a female, and an
HPD investigator jotted her name down.
It turns out that female knows ‘the guy on the bike’. Although investigators wrote her name down,
there is no record they ever spoke to her.
In 2019, a private investigator spoke to ‘the guy on the
bike’ who remembers being in the parking lot that night ‘after midnight’ and seeing
Charles Mamou, Samuel Johnson and Howard Scott.
As it turns out, everything Charles Mamou says he remembered that night – investigators had reason to believe was true. They shared what they knew with the District Attorney. Nobody shared that information with the jury or the defendant, but rather the focus seemed to be on destroying Mamou’s character and making his claims of seeing people in the parking lot look foolish.
So – what happened to Mary if Charles Mamou drove back to
that parking lot, and that was the last place he saw her? This is twenty years later. Is there any way to get a location on a cell
phone call from twenty years ago? I have
no idea, but one investigator told me no.
The District Attorney took it a step further to convince a jury Mamou was guilty. Accusations of sexual assault were made although there were no charges. The prosecution accused Mamou of sexually assaulting the victim, forcing her to perform oral sex before killing her. The entire time they were making those accusations, they were fully aware a rape kit had been collected, and it indicated no semen was found on any items submitted. There were ‘hairs’ and ‘trace evidence’ collected that could have possibly been tested, but that information was never shared with Charles Mamou.
So where did the prosecution’s story come from? The day Terrence Dodson learned police had a mug shot of him and were looking for him in connection to a murder, he called homicide detectives and told them Charles Mamou confessed to him. Investigators took a statement, knowing parts of that statement couldn’t be true. Regardless – that became the case. Dodson’s later testimony contradicted his original statement, but the jury never heard the original statement.
Race is a part of this I don’t like to bring up – because too many people lessen the message and call it a ‘card’. They will use the very mention of race to discard the entirety of what happened. To reduce what was done here to ‘race’ alone reduces all the other aspects of what took place. This method of sentencing someone to death is much bigger than race, but it is definitely a factor that can’t be ignored – especially in that time and in that location.
It’s likely that had Mamou been white, privileged, wealthy, represented by a private attorney and not in Harris County in 1998 – he wouldn’t be on death row. Had a motivated attorney been given all the above information twenty years ago, not only would Mamou probably not be where he is, the truth of whatever happened that night might have come out. Everything the detectives knew and later shared with the District Attorney – supported what Mamou claimed happened, all the way to the ‘guy on the bike’. A ‘guy on a bike’ isn’t something that could easily be made up and coincidentally be exactly right.
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
When the officer woke me
at 4:00 a.m. to get ready for the one hour ride to Duane L. Waters Health
Center, I had to mentally prepare myself for what I knew I would see. I’ve been there before, and I knew death would
be there, up close and personal. It’s
not unusual to see a dying prisoner being moved around the facility.
Duane L. Waters Health
Center is the MDOC’s prison hospital, located in Jackson, Michigan. Every prisoner dreads going there – partly because
of the ‘healthcare’ and partly because the building itself reeks of death. It’s also where they house the hospice prisoners. I had to go today for a hearing test for the
loss of hearing in my left ear. I’ve
been dealing with it for almost a year, and today was my day to go to DLW.
As I entered the
building in shackles, the foul smell of human suffering and deterioration immediately
filled my nostrils and the torment of death by incarceration filled my body. After being unshackled by the transporting
officer, I made my way to the crowded waiting area, where I saw a man I have
been serving time with for years walk by.
The sight of him shook me to my core.
All that was left was a shell.
The man I knew had deteriorated, and I could see death practically knocking
on his door. I hadn’t prepared myself to
see someone I knew in such bad shape.
The wait can be lengthy
at DLW, but the sight of the old head in such bad shape made the couple hours
feel like forever. He’s me. I’m serving life without the possibility of
parole. I’m sentenced to die by incarceration. I’m 39, and to most, that’s young. But I’m twenty-one years in on a sentence of
forever, and I can’t help but notice my health deteriorating. I think every prisoner’s worst fear is dying
in prison, but for those of us serving LWOP in Michigan – we will probably die
at DLW.
While I was waiting,
thinking about what I’d just seen, another guy I knew entered the waiting
area. He works in the hospice unit. He told me he recently sat with one of the
old heads I had a lot of love for – as he died.
So, here I am in the wee
hours, reflecting on a day in which I saw my reality – what the final days of
death by incarceration look like. Death
is promised to everyone, and for those of us whose worst fears come true and we
die in this place, it will be alone in a dark prison hospital like the one I
saw today. Over the last six months six
men I have been doing time with died after serving decades in prison.
Today’s trip replays and thoughts run rampant in my mind, preventing sleep as I stare at the concrete walls of my cage. My pain is real – and it gets realer by the second… by the minute… by the hour… by the day… by the week… by the month… by the year…
by the decade.
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
“…to remain tight in a bud was more painful than… to blossom.” – Anais Nin
To many, Kenny’s a nobody – which is why he wanted to shine, to prove them wrong.
Would that I could share my light with Kenny, give him another chance
To fit in, to be normal. Since I can’t, I will share Kenny’s light with you,
Break it into wafers.
Death Row, Death Throws…
We slam, we scream, we fling ourselves against prison’s cosmic ennui.
We remember life from before, our memories another spectrum of light.
The texture of some memories never change; these lights refuse to go
Quietly into that goodnight.
Sometimes a soul’s meat-vehicle remains behind long after the light
Has gone. Kenny remembers the moment his light divorced his body,
Remembers when it tore itself free – remembers it half as action sequence,
Half as background requiem for a dream. His bodily
Memory knit together with eye-witness testimony, here tells
You his story, sings you a history, a chorus of blood sung
With words twinkling in air like asterisks. It was preceded
By a blinding flash of light, an insight that had sounded green, As in the moment is ripe, as in… GO.
We all pass with varying degrees of light.
Blossom…
Perhaps the idea began as a flower – it felt like one
At the time. One of those pretty, yellow-faced ones
With white petals. Aster. Or perhaps it started as a small star-
Like flame, a sad blue torch of forked flower in the brain.
A risky idea one might symbolize in writing: *. An asterisk
Indicated omission ((of common sense?)), redaction, doubtful matters.
Portents…
–aster: a pejorative suffix denoting something that imperfectly mimics
The true thing – a bootlegged or knock-off version, for example.
–aster is also a combining form meaning ‘star’, which implies
Anyone can be a star – anyone can shine like the popular guys
Simply by stamping aster onto their chest, by declaring, “Let me
Be light!” like in Genesis.
“dis” is a prefix meaning asunder, part, away or having a negative Reversing force, as in disability. As in disaster, which is an unfavorable
Aspect of a star, emblazoned red, as in: Kenny, the stars do not fucking
Align. As in: Kenny, this will rip your asunder, break you apart, and
Your ‘you’ will go away… but Kenny refused to see this light.
Men were slamming bone-yellow dominoes into stainless steel 4-way tables,
Hollering multiples of five and clattering their bones into position. Like built-in
Bleachers, three blocky 18-inch deep steps cut into the rim of the day-
Room’s brownish-gray concrete floor, leading down to the lower cells.
Playing follow-the-leader exercises, acrobatic men would balance
On the top-step’s ledge, lean out with upsweeping arms – then leap
To grab the tier’s floor, to do pull-ups or show-off by monkeying
Up, once their bodies stopped wobbling. Kenny used to watch them,
Wishing upon those stars…
In Carnations, A
Cautionary Tale…
Slow, fleshy red haloes spread
And overlap like Venn diagrams laid on cement,
Petaling around Kenny’s blank comatose face
As a silken illustration of the relationship
Between grace and ground.
Soundgarden…
Light is such a fickle thing. Kenny had tried to swing for it with a tottering
Leap. There was a split-second grace period. *****:
In linguistics, asterisks mark an utterance that would be censored
By native speakers of the language. Generally a fall
From grace is blackhole – interesting, especially when it’s a superstar.
We anticipate a comeback… but
With us mundane asters, there is no coming back. There
Is just a discordant ** * ***
*** ** *
** ** burst of asterisks that flap in the air
Like Kenny’s arms, or a flood of cusswords at startled bus stop pigeons.
Then silence.
The very air becomes electric with prayer, or JESUS… the name
Itself a form of intercession. Then a meaty thud
And a terrible revelation
Of Kenny’s horror obscurus, his brain a pinkish-gray
Light leaking from Kenny, after aster in brain, after Kenny-aster
On air, after air on bone, after bone on stone. Thunk, crack,
The genesis of a ravaged lack of all it means to be human. A shadow
Grows from a length of gauze wrapped round and round
A star. That was in ’97.
My dawg, his dog…
Every few minutes Kenny’s dementia seems to chase down his recent
History and tear chunks from its ass. I call Kenny my ninja, since
I’m Asian. His cane we call the Cadillac to convert limpin’ to
Pimpin; his wheelchair the Escalade for which I made a cardboard
Vanity plate that dangles from its back – to infuse his disability
With style, luxury, richness. With privilege, with ease. Nowadays
He chuckles and calls himself stuntman stumbles (in his garbled drawl)
Or Stag Lee, a fitting confusion of Bruce Lee, “staggering,” and Stan
Lee the Marvel creator. Shit’s funny, but shit ain’t funny funny.
Dark Matter…
The brain is a self-contained universe made up mostly of star-shaped
Cells: astrocytes, billions and billions of them, crackle with magic energy.
Hidden in blackness, the brain explodes with asterisks of thought.
It is the seat of language, music, motion… personality. A lump
Of grace that will shine until we die, but… sometimes
Stars flicker and wink out, entire galaxies have power outages,
And the wrinkled surface of the deep becomes void: dementia
Steals the self. It would be simpler if one just vanished
The sun – not this gradual decay into the sightless realm where darkness is
awake upon the dark.
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 here. He has incredible insight and actually advised WITS in certain aspects of our organization, for which we are very grateful. Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
In 2012, at the recommendation of a chief psychologist
tasked with addressing the declining mental health and cognitive deficiency on
Death Row, prison administrators implemented a pilot program. The first of its
kind, the project proved to be a success, stanching the oozing misery of
decades of meaningless activities while igniting an air of motivation
throughout Death Row that would not be extinguished by tabletop turnabouts and
legal letdowns. Finally, there was a
glimmer of behavior both rehabilitative and restorative from men eager to not
only divest but defy the stereotypical personas indicative of our status. Further programs were in order, and over the
next few years several classes were offered that would challenge our decision
making while enhancing our social skills by affording us merit in the Death Row
community.
One such class was Drama, a weekly therapy group in which we
convened over play scripts and films while educing our various perspectives.
Though some viewed the course unfavorably in the prison setting, others were
undeterred as we embraced the colloquial demands of Drama, where we first met
Ms. Dee, a psychologist in the prison’s mental health department. Ms. Dee was passionate about helping others
and answered the call for volunteers. She was well-spoken and witty, often
engaging us in prison jargon and disarming our leeriness by showing off her
ability to adapt. It was through her willingness to surround herself with convicted
murderers without reservation, many of us were reminded what it felt like to be
trustworthy again.
Ms. Dee had come from an artistic background, and in college
she minored in Drama, therefore she signed on to teach two programs. The Art class was thought to be an hour long period
of doodling or guys making off with supplies to barter for other desirables.
However, Ms. Dee wasn’t having it – she expected more. She assigned us
projects, lent her assistance and held us to such high standards that we found
ourselves working diligently for her affirmation. Soon we were delving into
visual graphics, dimensions and the terminology of Art. Ms. Dee even invited
her mother, a working class artist, to join us and impart her wisdom on the
subject. What an honorable gesture and show of trust and respect. It made her
more to us than just some quirky prison staffer whose goodness was infectious,
Ms. Dee was like family.
The Drama program, however, didn’t start out as promising
because of the stigma of weakness in the penal system. Many were unwilling to
compromise their image, so instead they shunned the idea. But then there were those who leapt at the
opportunity to add another layer of refinement and reform, and although it
wasn’t the most popular choice, still we were committed to Ms. Dee.
We covered plays like Antigone, the Crucible and Shakespeare’s
Hamlet with elaborate group discussions to follow, sometimes peeling the words
off the very pages and attaching them to our own personal experiences. Then we watched televised renditions of each
play and absorbed the onscreen nuances, while all along Ms. Dee had a vision of
her own to host a Death Row play.
At the mention of performing a play, I thought not only was
this woman bold and overly optimistic but also a bit nutty. Who in their right mind would put their
reputation on the line for a bunch of condemned souls? Who had that amount of confidence
and trust in men so untrustworthy?
Apparently, Ms. Dee did, and as it turned out, her confidence would not
waiver.
We did what’s called a dry read. Then she assigned roles. Afterwards, we began rehearsals. We transitioned
from on-script reading to off-script memorization until our roles became as
much a part of our identity as the red jumpsuits we wore. Ms. Dee also gave us
pointers to hone our acting chops. “Do
not break the plane of the invisible wall,” she’d say, or, “Always… always face
the audience.”
Most days she could be seen seated atop a steel dayroom
table in casual clothes and slides with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and a
steady glare behind her fitted fames as she yelled, “Enunciate! Enunciate!!!” which was quite frustrating
since most of us didn’t know what the word meant. Yet Ms. Dee was relentless, tapping into our
potential and pushing us to the brink as she often stayed late after work and
scheduled rehearsals on her days off.
On the day of the performance, we actors were still experiencing miscues. I begged Ms. Dee to postpone the production.
“But whyyy?” she chimed, her accent flush with reassurance
as she added, “You guys are so ready. You just don’t know how good you all are.
Trust me. You’ll do great.”
And as the crowds rolled in and the seats filled, still she
was unfazed, believing so much in our capabilities that soon we believed in
ourselves.
For forty-five minutes we performed Reginald Rose’s Twelve Angry Men, a play about the woeful indifference and tangled injustice of jury deliberation. Audience members sat transfixed as they soaked in our exchange. Fellow inmates nodded with admiration. And when the play was over and the last actor exited the stage, the room erupted in applause. What a tremendous feeling of validation to have others acknowledge our worth. What a sense of accomplishment to face our fears and prevail. But the ultimate reward was seeing Ms. Dee teary-eyed with pride. She never stopped believing in us.
Unfortunately, Ms. Dee experienced some challenges in the work-place
and was later relieved of her position. Shortly after, all Death Row programs, including
Drama, were discontinued. It seems that
in the great scheme of things, Death Row inmates are undeserving of redemption
and any who should dare to restore in us dignity and value shall meet removal.
Ms. Dee was impacted by a disease that seeks to morally corrupt, a tainted
prison structure that rejects good will and blatantly lends itself to
recidivism. She was inadequately cared for by those who failed to nourish her efforts,
casting votes instead for candidates who offer nothing to effect policies on
prison reform.
Ms. Dee once said, ‘Everybody needs somebody to believe in them’. In believing in us, Ms. Dee did what most never have, making true reform a reality for a short time, and for that, we will forever believe in Ms. Dee.
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
What happened after the shooting on Lantern Point Drive? Witnesses testified Charles Mamou’s driver left without him. He then jumped in their blue Lexus with Mary Carmouche in the backseat and fled the scene. Mamou has always maintained he followed his driver, Samuel Johnson, back to an apartment complex where he was staying and where the Lexus was found by police with a flat tire. Witnesses have also put Samuel Johnson driving into the parking lot prior to Mamou, although the jury never heard that.
Samuel Johnson supported the D.A.’s version, testifying Mamou drove away from Lantern Point and Johnson simply went home to sleep after the shooting, never speaking to anyone. Contradicting that testimony and unknown to Mamou or the jury, an HPD investigator faxed phone records to the District Attorney’s office indicating Johnson used his cell phone at 2:37 a.m. to call Howard Scott’s apartment – another individual witnessed in the parking lot that night.
Early in the investigation detectives heard the name Shawn
Eaglin and were so interested in his involvement, they placed him in a
photospread. (HPD Incident Report
Supplement 9).
Eaglin’s name surfaced multiple times in witness statements. One witness described investigators going to Eaglin’s home, “Last night while we were at my father-in-law’s house, Shawn Eaglin came to the house. While Shawn was there, we discussed the homicide division coming to my job, my apartment, Ced’s job (Ced is Shawn’s little cousin) and Shawn’s house.”
The witness continued, “At this time, Shawn stated that he
needed to check on a friend of his by the name of Bug. I then asked Shawn why did he have to check
on Bug [Samuel Johnson]? He never answered
why. I asked them who did they know with
a red Intrepid car. Shawn started to answer
me, but then he said, ‘No, I better not.’”
Detective Novak, in his testimony, referred to Shawn Eaglin
as the third individual he was looking at as a ‘potential suspect’.
Q. At a later time
did you look for more than one individual other than Mr. Mamou?
A. Yes.
Q. What is that
person’s name?
A. We – there was an
individual that –
Q. Can you just give
me his name?
A. Terrence Dodson.
Q. Other than
Terrence Dodson and Mr. Mamou, was there a third individual you were looking at
as a potential suspect?
A. Shawn Eaglin.
(Volume 18 of the Reporter’s Record at page 189)
Detective Novak had a thirty year career with HPD at the time. He described Shawn Eaglin as a potential suspect, yet there are no records of any interviews with Eaglin. According to Samuel Johnson’s testimony, Eaglin was responsible for connecting him with Mamou.
Q. Where did you meet
him?
A. I met him at a
friend of mine’s.
Q. And this friend’s
name is what?
A. Shawn Eaglin.
Q. Shawn Eaglin?
A. Right.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 17)
Q. And where was it
that you first met Mr. Mamou?
A. Shawn Eaglin’s
home.
Q. And this is the
same home that you just referred to as off of West Airport?
A. Right.
Howard Scott, the man who’s apartment Charles Mamou stayed in, was transported to HPD for a statement on Tuesday, December 8, 1998. That statement is not in the Incident file so we may never know what Scott told investigators that day, but Scott also mentioned Eaglin in his testimony.
When asked about the first time he met Mamou,
A. Through a mutual
friend.
Q. And that being
who?
A. Shawn Eaglin.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 123)
Q. How long have you
known Bug (Samuel Johnson)?
A. Just a few years
through – like I said, I met him through the same person, Shawn Eaglin.
Q. Shawn Eaglin?
A. Yes, sir.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 126)
Q. From between that
first time and December 6th, how many other times do you meet him or
see him?
A. Just a few other
times. Like I said, at Shawn’s house we
met. You know, that’s it.
Q. So – and this is
before the time that he comes and stays at your house?
A. Yes, sir.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 132)
Q. So, we get through
Friday. Now Saturday, are there people
coming over to your apartment while he’s there?
A. Yes, sir, Shawn
and, you know, just mutual friends that come over from time to time.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 139)
Q. You ever meet a
fellow by the name of Samuel Johnson?
A. No, sir.
Q. That’s a person
they’re referring to as Bug?
A. No, I know Bug.
Q. Did you know Bug
before you met Mr. Mamou?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. How you been
knowing Bug?
A. Through Shawn, the
same person.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 140)
Specifically describing the night of December 6, 1998, and
the apartment complex, Howard Scott testified,
A. We are outside on
the front porch.
Q. You said,
‘we’re’. Who is the group?
A. It was me, Ken,
Shawn and that’s it.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 147)
Q. Any discussion
going on between you and Shawn?
A. No, sir.
Q. Are you making any
comments to any of the people that – your company there – that Chucky and Bug
been gone for a long time?
A. No, sir.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 148)
Scott is specifically asked about his phone.
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)
According to a fax sent to the District Attorney’s office from HPD while the court proceedings were underway, Howard Scott’s phone was ringing that night. That information was not shared with the jury or Charles Mamou.
Howard again refers to Shawn Eaglin being at the apartment
complex that night.
Q. Mr. Scott, you
talked about Shawn Eaglin being there at your house with his kids for a while,
and then he left. When Shawn came back around midnight or a little after, how
long did he stay before he left again?
A. I guess about
thirty to forty minutes.
Q. So, he left again
about 12:00, 12:45 or 1:00 o’clock?
A. Yes, sir.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 152)
Repeatedly, Shawn Eaglin is placed at the apartment complex
that night.
Q. Well, when Shawn
is there, I mean, is it right at midnight?
It is 1:00 o’clock? Do you know
what time it is?
A. I can’t recall the
time.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 153)
Q. So, it could have
been anywhere from about midnight to 2:30 in the morning?
A. Yes, sir, could
have been.
Q. And when you say
he then leaves, do you say good-bye to him at your front door and you close the
door and go back to bed?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. So you don’t
actually see where he goes to at that point?
He’s not inside your apartment?
A. No, sir.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 153)
Court testimony wasn’t all that indicated Shawn Eaglin was at the apartment complex that night. A Yellow Cab employee was called to the stand during the trial and questioned about a call the company received that night. As an exhibit, he brought with him a printout from December 6, 1998.
Q. Let me hand back
to you Defendant’s Exhibit No. 9. With
regard to the call that is reflected at the bottom of that sheet, again, the
location where the call was made to the cab driver that went out to a location,
what location did he go to?
A. He went to 10800
Fondren.
Q. Was there a
particular apartment unit number?
A He was given
Apartment Number 1402. (Howard Scott’s apartment number)
Q. And the name of
the caller?
A. The caller said
his name was Shawn.
(Volume 20 of the Reporter’s Record at page 134)
The prosecutor did his best to discount that testimony and exhibit. He questioned the Yellow Cab employee about
many things.
Q. And there is no
indication by that record that anybody went to Apartment 1402, is there?
A. No.
Q. In fact, they went
to a big box? Isn’t that what there is a
notation at the side and—
A. The directions
say, yes.
(Volume 20 of the Reporter’s Record at page 136)
Q. Okay. So when a person calls in you don’t know if
they’re giving you the apartment number they’re in or they’re just giving you
an apartment number?
A. That is true.
(Volume 20 of the Reporter’s Record at page 136)
Q. I understand you
assume. Now it says a name there, Shawn.
Do you know how many Shawns live over in the 10800 block of Fondren?
A. No, sir.
Q. Do you know who
that Shawn is?
A. No.
(Volume 20 of the Reporter’s Record at page 138)
Charles Mamou has maintained he drove the Lexus from the
drug deal to the apartment complex. He also
said he later saw Shawn Eaglin leave Howard Scott’s apartment and get in a
Yellow Cab vehicle. There is very little
evidence in this case, but the little there is, is consistent with Mamou’s
recollection of events.
The D.A. tried to call into question the reliability of the Yellow Cab report, and even asked about how the phone number was recorded – which turned out to be caller I.D. The prosecutor did notask the witness about the particular number itself or share what was known about the phone number on the report. The jury never knew, nor did Charles Mamou, that the phone number requesting the cab came from inside Howard and Robin Scott’s apartment, which is consistent with exactly what Charles Mamou said he saw twenty years ago.
The jury was also not told Shawn Eaglin lived five minutes
from Howard Scott’s apartment – the exact amount of time the taxi’s meter was
running, from 4:04 a.m. until 4:09 a.m.
Harris County dominated the field when it came to racking up death sentences, and Lyn McClellan was an MVP. The case he built against Mamou was built on one man’s statement – a statement investigators knew didn’t match up to actual events and described a confession in a phone call from Louisiana when Mamou was actually in Houston.
It appears anything that contradicted that statement either
didn’t make it into the file or was removed, and anything investigators or the
D.A. knew that contradicted that statement – was not shared with Mamou or the
jury.
The fax HPD sent to the D.A. didn’t just contain a record of
Samual Johnson’s calls, it also showed phone calls from Shawn Eaglin.
There is not one record of any interview with Shawn Eaglin in the case file. He was at one time considered a suspect. He was present on the night in question. He was described as talking about investigators going to his home in a witness statement. He had his name on a cab report for a cab ordered from inside Scott’s apartment. He was referred to by almost everyone involved as the party that introduced them all. His name, ‘Shawn’, is handwritten several times in the HPD file. And he was calling Howard Scott as late as 3:12 a.m. on a Sunday night – the jury never heard that.
There comes a point when sloppy record keeping turns a corner…
Like any record of an interview with Howard Scott at HPD on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, there are no records of any interviews with Shawn Eaglin.
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
Born a ghetto child, ‘9th Ward’. Why do I smile? I still have dreams, Owning a house on Miami Beach. I had two close homies back in ’94, But now both are deceased. Look in my eyes, See what I see. Trust me, It’s not pretty. This is raw, reality T.V. Up-close and personal. My sights set On the finish line, But I’m so far behind. I’m damn near outta time. What is life really? Do I have purpose here? I thought I did As a kid Until my first crack sale Down in New Orleans. Being the crack dealer And not the crack fiend Was my ‘Amerikkkan Dream’. Go ahead and laugh! I ain’t mad. But I am mad I grew up without a Dad. I’m sad because Dude ain’t never tried And I’m confused because Dude is still alive. Hell no, I ain’t gonna cry! I’ve been through worse Shot 3 times with a 9. Laid in the hospital bed 6 days Almost dead, IV’s and nose tubes. The first 4 days I didn’t have a clue Who was you. So come on Walk in my shoes for only 1 day. I wish you would. Nah, young Homie, I don’t think you could! Let me tell you Growin’ up in the hood Ain’t all good. Forget about dat shit Your favorite rapper say in his song. For this right here is a REAL LIFE POEM!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Mr. La Caze – A.K.A. PrimeTime – was moved off Death Row not long ago, and he continues to maintain his innocence. His writing feels deeply genuine to this reader, and I hope to see more. Rogers LaCaze can be contacted at: Rogers LaCaze, Sr. #356705 CBB L/L L.S.P. Angola, La. 70712
Charles Mamou, among 48 Texas inmates sent to the state’s Death Row in 1999, has always maintained his innocence. At first glance, forty-eight sounds like an impossible number, but a closer look brings into question the integrity of the system.
Investigators knew the evening of December 6, 1998, began with a drug deal gone bad, and they got the name of Charles Mamou from two men who later testified they planned to rob Mamou that night. That same week, on Wednesday, December 9, during the second interview of a woman named Robin Scott, police learned Samuel Johnson was Charles Mamou’s ‘driver’ for the drug deal gone wrong. According to Scott, her husband told her, ‘Bug (Samuel Johnson) drove off in his car, leaving Chuck behind.’(HPD Archived Incident Report 156416498, Supplement No. 11)
Later that same day homicide detectives picked up Samuel Johnson at his apartment and brought him to the homicide office where a written statement was taken. In his statement, Johnson described the evening as more of a social event, riding around and meeting up with people – not a drug transaction in the making. According to Johnson, and in contrast to the testimony of all surviving witnesses, Mamou drove away without him. He then went home, went to bed, and heard about the incident the next day on the news.
“When I saw this on the news, I couldn’t believe that Chucky would do something like this. I was scaredand I was shocked and this is the reason that I did not tell anyone.” – (HPD Archived Incident Report 156416498, Supplement No. 12)
Samuel Johnson’s shock at the news of what took place and his apparent mistaking a drug deal for a night of innocent socializing are all that is recorded in the police department’s Incident Report regarding his involvement. Much like the other individuals involved that night, it appears Johnson was not charged with anything in relation to the death of Mary Carmouche or the drug transaction, although his memory of what happened that night is in sharp contrast to what several other people recall.
According to the testimony of Dion Holley and Kevin Walter, Samuel Johnson drove away and left Mamou behind on the alley. According to the statement of Robin Scott, she was told ‘Bug drove off in his car, leaving Chuck behind’. According to Charles Mamou, Samuel Johnson pulled off in his car – and he jumped in the Lexus that held Mary Carmouche and fled the alley, returning to the apartment complex where all the involved individuals were located and where the Lexus was ultimately located by police with a flat tire – one of the few pieces of actual physical evidence.
Samuel Johnson also said in his statement to police that he
never again saw Mamou or the Lexus after driving away from the shooting.
Johnson’s statement doesn’t just contradict the recollection
of others, he also contradicts himself in his testimony, describing the
innocent night of socializing differently in the courtroom.
Q. And what did he
tell you he wanted to do?
A. He was going to
buy some dope.
Q. And wanted you to
take him to the location?
A. Right.
Q. And what were you going to get out of the deal?
A. I was going to get
something out of it. I don’t know how
much.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 24)
Q. Tell the members
of the jury exactly what it was that y’all were going to do.
A. Go buy some drugs.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 68)
Q. Did you have some
agreement with Mr. Mamou to engage in some type of illegal conduct?
A. Yes.
Q. You knew full well
when you left to go and, in fact, throughout the day when you’re with him, that
you were going to engage in some type of illegal conduct.
A. Yes.
Q. And you realized
that conduct was a felony, correct?
A. Right.
Samuel Johnson also testified regarding what he would do if
something actually ‘happened’.
Q. And do you keep
your eyes on them the entire time, or are you doing other things?
A. I’m keeping my eye
on them at all times.
Q. Making sure that
nothing happened?
A. Yeah.
Q. What were you going
to do if something happened?
A. Probably would
have left.
Q. So, if something
had happened right there, your response would have been to leave and leave
Charles and Terrence there?
A. Yeah.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 74)
Something did happen.
The deal ended in gunfire with one man dead.
Samuel Johnson also testified regarding his own credibility.
Q. And I just want to
make sure we understand something; because when you talked to the police, you
told them a bunch of lies, didn’t you?
A. Yeah.
Q. And yet, the lies
that you tell them, they’re being told after you’ve been arrested, correct?
A. Right.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 98)
Q. Yet when you
talked to the police, you lied about – or you say now that you lied about the
Lexus’ hood being up?
A. Right.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 100)
Samuel Johnson’s testimony did mirror his original statement
in one aspect. He clearly indicated in
both that he went ‘directly home’. The
shooting on Lantern Point took place at around 12:00 midnight, which would have
him back at his apartment on Fondren at around 12:30 a.m. on December 7.
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.
Two witnesses, in two separate interviews, have described Samuel
Johnson driving into the apartment complex where the Lexus was found, followed
shortly after by the Lexus with Charles Mamou – a little after midnight. Those witnesses appear to support Charles
Mamou, who has always maintained he fled the drug deal shooting and followed
Samuel Johnson back to the apartments.
It’s unclear what, if anything, the Houston Police Department may have pursued. There are references to interviews, which include references to a written statement made by Howard Scott on December 8 among others, but no actual record of vital interviews. After in-person, as well as telephone inquiries with the records department at HPD, I was told by one employee that not all the material gets put into the file. It’s unclear who decides what gets included.
In 2007 a private investigator, Carl Deal, who reviewed the
case files noted, “Further, Samuel Lee Johnson, Jr., who was present during the
shooting, who was the driver for Charles Mamou to the drug deal, provides a
substantially false statement to police regarding the facts of the shooting.”
He goes on to say, “Samuel Johnson was not prosecuted and
later became a witness on behalf of the state.
Statements, recordings of statements, kinesic interviewing assessments
of suspects and witnesses that depict the fine details of the original
transaction and exchange of violence, as well as the disposition of Mary
Carmouche in the two days that followed the shooting remain unresolved and
unannounced.
“In short, standard police protocol requires that when
police receive information, the motive for providing the information must be investigated
as well. And then the truthfulness of
the statements should be assessed through efforts at corroboration. All
statements should be recorded in writing, tape recorded or video-taped – and
police investigators should be making professional judgments in this process
based upon their experience in the signs and symptoms of deception, speaking as
to whether statements are credible.
“A series of witnesses – key among them being Samuel Johnson,
provided statements to police and then undoubtedly later to prosecutorial investigators
or attorneys which are not present in the investigative file.”
Samuel Johnson’s testimony seems to confirm Mr. Deal’s
opinion regarding follow-up interviews.
Q. The only persons you’ve spoken to about this case since December 6th of 1998 have been police officers and prosecutors, correct?
A. Right.
Q.
And how many times have you met with police or prosecutors since
December 6, 1998?
A. Numerous times.
(Volume 19 of the Reporter’s Record at page 50)
Moreover, the proceedings for Charles Mamou’s whirlwind capital murder trial began on September 7, 1999. Actual testimony began on October 4, 1999. Unbeknownst to Charles Mamou – or the jury – Officer Bob King at HPD faxed information to Lyn McClellan at the prosecutor’s office on September 24, 1999, after the trial was underway. Included in that fax were the detective’s handwritten notes documenting Samuel Johnson placing a call to Howard Scott’s apartment at 2:37 a.m. on the evening the events took place. The jury and Mamou only heard Johnson clearly testify that he went straight home and to sleep – talking to no one. The prosecutor heard the same thing, but failed to share with the jury or Charles Mamou the fax he received indicating Samuel Johnson wasn’t actually asleep – but dialing his cell phone and trying to contact Howard Scott at 2:37 in the morning. The phone call he made was from his cell phone – not his apartment’s landline. He could have been anywhere. Unfortunately, the jury was never able to hear Johnson be questioned regarding that phone call because Mamou never knew it happened. Legal? Maybe – I’m not an attorney. Moral and ethical – I’d have to say, no.
The prosecution wrapped up its case with a powerful attack on Mamou’s character, including accusing him of an unsolved murder months previous that he was never charged with, nor given an opportunity to defend himself in. That case is unresolved to this day but it was used as a tool to sentence Mamou to death.
According to his testimony, Samuel Johnson worked for Orkin,
treating homes throughout Houston. He
described the area he worked in as the west side, out towards Katy and the
southwest part of town.
I tried to contact Samuel Johnson in preparing this post. He did not respond to my request.
Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net. Anything you share with me will be confidential.
Most of my life I tried to rationalize my circumstances, believing things would be different if I had been given the ‘White Picket Fence’ dream. Instead – I’m a product of my environment. I grew up in a community plagued by gangs, violence, drugs, and HIV/AIDS. It wasn’t until I met my friend, Scott Moore, I was able to accept the path I carved out for myself.
Scott literally had a white picket fence around his home, a home fully paid for by his thirtieth birthday. He married a preacher’s daughter, and they have three beautiful children. His grandparents owned a farm, and his eyes light up when he shows me photos of riding horses with his big brother. He lived a life I wish I had, and yet he’s two cells away in this hellhole we call prison. I didn’t understand why.
It wasn’t until the day I sat listening to one of his stories about being a cable guy in East St. Louis that I found the courage to ask how he ended up in this place.
“Well, Alex,” he said, “Heroin is how I got here.”
It all started when he was just a kid, and his parents got divorced. His older brother processed the divorce with great difficulty. Scott was able to bury his feelings, but his brother turned to drugs, and it led to an opiate addiction. While his brother was entering in and out of prison, Scott was able to finish high school and found a high-paying job. He kept it together on the surface, believing he had overcome his parents’ divorce, and he couldn’t empathize with his brother. He would even go out of his way to put him down, hoping it would help him get his act together.
Things were fine in Scott’s life until one day when he went to visit his mom at her home. He found her severely wounded and his brother dead in the basement. It’s easy to see when Scott talks of this storm in his life, that it haunts him. After he dialed 911 he grabbed his brother’s pills, and his own addiction began.
He watched his mother have three surgeries on her brain and
steel plates inserted to support the damage to her skull. The pills had a
numbing effect, and he took them to keep his heart from continuing to ache. When
his mother came out of that first surgery, he was the one who had to explain to
her that her oldest child was no longer alive.
The pills led to abusing heroin because it was easier and cheaper to score, and his life spiraled out of control. He alienated himself from his family, and the relationship he had with his wife and kids suffered. He lost his job. Eventually, he was arrested for first degree murder in Madison County.
I’ve been around plenty of heroin addicts, but Scott is not
a person who fits the criteria of the average addict. Instead, I see someone who did not know how to
deal with a crisis and sought to remedy it the way his brother did, a brother
he could no longer turn to. I see
someone trying to sweep up the remaining pieces of his life by righting his
wrongs. I see someone who longs to be
with what’s left of his family. I see a
man truly sorry for the choices he made.
Scott is not only a brother to me and our close knit group of friends, he’s also a mentor in the beloved community we are building within these walls. When any of us are down, he’s able to lift us up with his light-hearted nature and wealth of pop culture knowledge. When any of us need consultation, he’s available and ready to offer his advice. He gets up every morning using his past as a driving force to make himself and others around him better.
If I had the power and resources to give someone a second chance – this person would receive it. Without knowing Scott, my own personal growth would be stagnant and incomplete. His story and how he’s endured and overcome his addiction is helping to transform the lives of those around him. No one knows the storms we’ve each been through until we take the time to get to know each other, and if you encounter someone suffering from addiction, I pray you remember Scott’s story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. I’m happy to say Alex Negron is the winner of our first writing contest of 2020. This prompt brought out the advocate in many, and it was heartwarming. If we could all take on the practice of looking out for and speaking up for each other – the world would be a better place. Mr. Negron can be contacted at: Alex Negron R17084 Stateville Correctional Center P.O. Box 112 Joliet, IL 60434
