Harris County’s Mamou Verdict – An Argument Against The Death Penalty

In 1999 Wayne Hill, Charles Mamou’s court appointed defense attorney, thanked Mamou’s mother, Angelice, when she handed him a letter he could use to defend his client.   Mamou was facing the death penalty, in a case centered on a ‘confession’ to murder.  A confession Mamou said never happened.  His defense attorney held in his hands a letter written by the man claiming to have heard the ‘confession’, Terrence Dodson.   In the letter written to Mamou, Dodson wrote, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me shit about that cause I don’t wanna know shit, I feel better off that way.”

In addition to the letter, Wayne Hill had access to Dodson’s video statement.  Police paid Terrence Dodson a visit early in the investigation when they were looking at him for his involvement in the murder.  At that time, he made a video statement claiming Mamou confessed to him.  Hill had access to that video, and if he watched it, he would have known all the contradictions between Dodson’s statement and his actual testimony in court. 

One of the most significant contradictions was how and when the alleged ‘confession’ took place.  According to Dodson’s video statement, Mamou called him on Tuesday morning from Louisiana – even though Mamou wasn’t even in Louisiana on Tuesday morning – and confessed in a single telephone conversation.  Yet on the stand, Dodson said Mamou began the confession in Texas, face to face, on Dodson’s sister’s porch.  He then went on to say that the confession continued over a ‘couple days’ in ‘several’ conversations.  That wasn’t the only contradiction Dodson made, there were several.

Wayne Hill, the defense attorney, never entered the letter Dodson wrote as an exhibit for his client’s trial. He never mentioned the letter, nor did he mention Terrence Dodson’s many contradictions of his own video statement. 

Terrence Dodson is Charles Mamou’s cousin.  The prosecution used that relationship to solidify their argument of guilt, pointing out that Mamou must be guilty if his own family would testify against him.

They wanted another cousin of Mamou’s to testify as well.  That would make the ‘relative’ argument stronger.  The only problem with the other cousin, Anthony Trail, was, he didn’t know anything about the night in question.  He wasn’t there, and no one had told him anything about what had happened to the victim.  He had no desire to get involved because he didn’t have any relevant information to add.  The prosecution wanted him involved though.  At one point, while being questioned, he had decided he would not testify.  Then a man came into the room.  According to Trail, he believed the man was the victim’s father, and that was the impression he was given.  The man proceeded to persuade Trail to get involved and eventually Trail agreed to testify.  We will probably never know if it was actually the victim’s father who persuaded him or someone that was just trying to give that impression.   Trail’s testimony added nothing material to the trial because Trail had no knowledge of what happened that night nor had anyone shared with him a ‘confession’.  The prosecution didn’t ask him those things on the stand, but rather used him as another ‘family member’ who testified against Mamou.  They asked Trail about some sunglasses Mamou and he had picked up the day after the murder, leaving the impression the glasses were some type of evidence, but it was never pointed out for the jury by the prosecution – or defense – that the glasses they picked up were nearly five miles from the crime scene. 

Throughout the Mamou trial a sexual assault was repeatedly referred to for the majority female jury.  Although it was presented as important in the courtroom, outside of the courtroom there was no urgency to find out if any sexual assault actually occurred that night.   Dr. Joyce Carter ordered a rape kit to be done when the body was found, to include oral swabs, fibers, clothing, fingernail scrapings, etc.  On December 11, 1998, those items were picked up by an HPD officer and placed in the HPD property room freezer.  There they sat.  The rape kit was not ordered to be processed until long after Charles Mamou was in custody.  Eight months after the crime, on July 8, 1999, and shortly before Mamou’s trial the D.A.’s office requested the rape kit be processed by the HPD crime lab.  The results – no semen was detected on any items analyzed. 

Although the District Attorney’s office ordered the test processed and was given the results, graphic references to sexual assault were repeatedly used throughout the trial, in what appeared to be an effort to inflame the jury – although Mamou was  never charged with sexual assault.  There was never any evidence a sexual assault took place by anyone, according to the incident report. 

Mamou’s defense team left the sexual assault accusations without argument, never telling the jury that a rape kit was processed months after the crime that turned up nothing.  

Also of note, ‘hairs were collected from the t-shirt’ of the victim.  The hairs were never mentioned by the prosecution or the defense.   It appears they are still in the HPD property room.

Charles Mamou always maintained his innocence, and the only witness statements available support his account of his whereabouts that night, although a couple statements appear to be currently missing as of an Open Records Request done this year.  What is known is – the victim and Charles Mamou were both on Lantern Point Drive at approximately 12:00 midnight on the night of December 6, 1998.  On that point, all accounts are in agreement.   After a drug deal gone wrong, Mamou and Samuel Johnson drove away in two separate cars, with the victim in the backseat of the car Mamou was driving. 

Charles Mamou says both men drove to an apartment complex on Fondren where he was staying while he was in Houston – about a ten mile drive.   That is also the location where Johnson lived.    

A witness statement taken from the woman who lived at the apartment where Mamou stayed that night indicates Mamou was back at her apartment at approximately 12:45.  In her statement she spoke of waking up at “about 12:15 AM.”  She then says, “It seem like was around thirty minutes later I heard a knock on the door.”  She goes on to say, “I asked my brother who was at the door.  He told me it was Chucky.”

That statement indicates that Mamou was exactly where he said he was forty-five minutes later.   Unfortunately – the jury never knew that statement existed and that information was never presented to them by Mamou’s defense team.

During the trial the woman’s husband, Howard Scott, testified and when questioned he was shown his own statement, “when you say Mr. Mamou got there, does reviewing that statement specifically refresh your memory that it was 12:15 and 12:45?” 

Scott’s answer, “Yes.”

Question, “Okay.  So you’re positive it couldn’t have been later than 12:45?”

And the answer, “No, sir.”

Two witnesses who had no reason to defend or support Charles Mamou both supported exactly what Mamou said happened.  The body of the victim was found on Lynchester Drive, a location that was about thirty minutes from the Lantern Point Drive location where the drug deal gone wrong took place.   The prosecution’s version of a sexual assault, murder, and dropping sunglasses at a location on Ashford Point Drive – couldn’t have been done in 45 minutes.  The time constraints were never outlined for the jury.

There is something else very troubling about Howard Scott’s testimony.  The statement he was shown while on the witness stand – is not in the case file as of the recent Records Request.   

Howard Scott made two statements to police – one on Tuesday, December 8, and one on Wednesday, December 9.   The incident report, received through an Open Records Request only includes one statement.  The Incident Report refers to the ‘missing’ statement on December 8, “It was then decided to bring Howard Scott to the homicide office to be interviewed there since there were some discrepancies between his story and Robin’s.  Officer Hollins then transported Howard Scott to the homicide office where he was interviewed by Sergeant Novak.”   This interview is not in the incident file that was received pursuant to the Open Records Request. 

The missing interview is mentioned more than once.   It is also referred to later in the incident report, stating that at 9:45 on Wednesday, December 9, Sergeants Yanchak and Ferguson went to pick up Robin and Howard Scott to be ‘re-interviewed’. 

It is referred to again, “On this date, Sergeant Yanchack and Sergeant Ferguson assisted Sergeant G.J. Novak and Officer H.F. Chisolm in the follow up investigation into this offense.  Earlier this date, we had ‘re-interviewed’ two witnesses named Robin Marie Scott and her husband, Howard Scott.”

Even on Page 3 of Howard Scott’s statement taken on Wednesday, December 9, 1998, he refers to the interview the day before, on Tuesday, December 8, 1998, “Around 11:30 AM two detectives showed up and began asking me about Chucky.  I told them that Chucky left earlier and gave them permission to search my house. I later came with them to the homicide division.”

But, Howard Scott’s first statement did at one time exist and was also referred to in the court transcripts when Wayne Hill asked Scott to look at it and refresh his memory.  The second statement of Howard Scott’s makes no reference to when Mamou arrived back at his apartment, so the statement referred to in court is the one that is now currently missing from the file.

There are other things that appear to be missing from the file, unless the detectives did not document their work.  According to a News Release put out by the Houston Police Department shortly after the crime, “A second suspect drove away in what was initially described as a red Dodge Intreped.  It has since been determined the vehicle was an orange Dodge Concorde that was recovered and inspected.”  The news release referred to the vehicle that Samuel Johnson was driving that night. 

During the trial Johnson was specifically asked about that car.  “Did the police then examine your car?”

Johnson, “They examined it a couple of days after I got out of jail.”

Although there are photographs of the vehicle in the file, there is no written report or documentation regarding what was found in the vehicle. 

According to Samuel Johnson, a resident of Houston as well as an employee of Orkin at the time, he went home after the drug deal, drank a soda, took a shower and went to bed, not even disturbing his wife to tell her of his involvement in a shoot out on a dark alley.   And there is no documentation other than photographs of anything that was discovered inside of the vehicle he was driving.

Other documentation not included in the file are any notes or statements made by other parties located at the apartment complex that night, including interviews of Shawn Eaglin.   Eaglin was an integral part of introducing several of the parties according to statements, and the police spoke to him.  But there are no statements or interview notes in the file regarding interviews of him.  As with the vehicle documentation, there is no way to know if the detectives chose not to document their work or if the documents have been removed from the file.  But, according to Robin Scott’s statement, she discussed with Eaglin the homicide division going to her home, Shawn’s home, and the employer of Shawn’s cousin, ‘Ced’.

According to Robin Scott’s and Howard Scott’s statements, Eaglin was at the apartment complex on the night in question and it would be expected that detectives spoke to him.   Unfortunately, there is no record of those conversations.

In addition to the impossibility of the 45 minute window of time – it is highly unlikely Mamou could have located the backyard of the house for sale on Lynchester Drive where the body was found.  He was from Louisiana, and not a resident of Houston.   In the Houston Police Department’s incident report, the location was described by a detectives as follows, “The 9200 block of Lynchester Street is located in the Keagan’s Woods sub-division located on the south side of the 14000 block of Bissonnet Street in Harris County.  The Keegan’s Woods subdivision is best accessed by turning south onto Bering Wood Street and continuing south to Plantation Valley and then turning west on Plantation Valley.  Lynchester Street intersects with Plantation Valley.  Lynchester Street does not intersect with Bissonnet and is a difficult street to locate.”  That is how a HPD detective described the location, and an investigator recently told me she had difficulty locating it, even with her GPS.   

The ability of Charles Mamou, a resident of Louisiana, to have found the location was never brought up by Mamou’s defense attorney for the jury. 

For whatever reason, Charles Mamou’s defense team did not present most of the above information.  The jury wasn’t left with a lot to consider regarding Mamou’s innocence.  As unusual as this may sound – they were given a lot more than in a typical trial.  The jury was shown autopsy photos and heard painful, heart wrenching testimony from family members of victims of crimes Mamou was never charged with.   As unbelievable as that may sound – it happened.   Mamou’s mother, Angelice, was on the elevator with some jurors when she heard them discussing how they were going to decide.  It was agreed by the jurors she overheard that they would, ‘vote with the majority’.   Ms. Mamou reported what she overheard at the time it happened, but nothing came of it.

They say truth is stranger than fiction.  Charles Mamou has been in prison for twenty years, most of it in solitary confinement on death row.  Blind faith in the courts is often misplaced.  According to the National Registry of Exonerations, the number of exonerations is currently at 2,488.  It would be a good bet that a state such as Texas, that executes numerous people a year – has executed innocent people.  If the witnesses are to be believed in the Mamou case, there will be one more when he is executed.  He couldn’t have done the things he will die for in the time allotted for him to do it.  There is not one shred of physical evidence putting him at the scene of the crime.  There is not a weapon to test.  There is not a footprint at the scene.  There is not a fingerprint at the scene.   The jury was shown photographs and heard testimony from crimes Mamou was never charged with.  Mamou was portrayed as having sexually assaulted someone without a shred of evidence and his attorney did not point that out.   There was substantial evidence to call into question the testimony of the key witness who said Mamou confessed, that was never presented by the defense.   There are ‘hairs’ that no one seems concerned to follow up on.   There was no independent lab testing ever done by the defense.    There is documentation that was either never filed or is no longer accounted for – in addition to a statement that at one time existed – but seems to have disappeared. 

It reminds me of something I heard recently – close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.  Can we add ‘or in a courtroom’ with a public defender, the wrong skin color, the wrong year, the wrong state…

Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net.  Anything you share with me will be confidential.

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

Loading

“Because People Are Supposed To Help Each Other”

From the time I was a tyke until my early teens, my family frequented a city park that sat on a hill overlooking the southeast region of the city.  The hill was  a year round source of entertainment – in winter months we would sled down it’s slopes, and in the summer we would glide down on large sheets of cardboard scavenged from the dumpsters behind Safeway.

I would tag along with my mom to the malls on Saturday mornings unless my dad had a fishing trip or other excursion planned.  It wasn’t that I enjoyed shopping so much, it was more about the perks that came along with shopping. 

For one, we were away from home the entire day, which meant eating out at the fast food joint of my choice.  In addition to lunch for being a ‘good boy’ while mom tried on what seemed like a million articles of clothing, I earned treats which could take many forms – anything from sweets at Dairy Queen to an after shopping activity like bowling, putt-putt, skating, a movie, or games at the arcade. 

On one such Saturday, I chose to go cardboarding at the park after lunch.  We went and got our boxes – the best ones were the toilet paper or paper towel boxes because they were quite large – and drove to the park.  On that particular day we couldn’t find a close parking space near our favorite sliding spot, so we parked on the opposite side and had to walk. 

We locked up the car and set off, lugging our cardboards.  About halfway to our destination sat a couple of wooden park benches.   At first I didn’t notice the lone woman sitting on one of them, but the closer we got, the harder it became not to notice her.  She had a hanky or some tissue which she was dabbing at her eyes and nose as her shoulders shook.  The closer we got, the louder her sobs became, and I began to feel awkwardly uncomfortable.  I’m not sure if my discomfort was at the thought of walking past her as she sat in distress, or if I was embarrassed for her because I was seeing her cry. 

The former didn’t matter because as soon as my mom realized the woman was crying, she quickened her pace and went to her aid.  I, on the other hand, slowed my pace and crept to the bench beside them.  I heard my mom ask her what was wrong.  The woman leaned into my mom and mumbled something I couldn’t understand and then the dam burst, as she began crying uncontrollably.  My mom wrapped an arm around her and commenced to consoling the woman in the motherly manner that mom’s do.  Over the lady’s shoulder, she looked at me and said, “Go play,” pointing with her free hand at a spot a few feet behind me.

All I wanted to do was get away, so I grabbed my cardboard and retreated, never contemplating how I was to ‘play’ with a piece of cardboard on flat land.  I just wanted to get away from the embarrassment. 

Some time later, mom came and said, “Let’s go.”  I was dejected.  I assumed she meant we were going home, but she turned and headed towards our sliding spot.  Enthused, I snatched up my cardboard and ran after her.  When I caught up, I asked, “What happened to that lady?”

“She went home.”

“No, I mean, why was she crying?”

“She was sad.”

“Did you know her?”

“No.”

“Then why did you help her?”

“Because people are supposed to help each other, that’s why.  It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know her,” then she stopped.  “What if I fell down right now and broke my leg and,” looking around, “that man, right there, came and lifted me and carried me to the hospital.  How would you feel?”

“I’d be… happy,” I said as we continued on.

“So, don’t you think that lady’s little boy would be happy that I helped his mom?”

“I think so,” I said, smiling up at her.

As we reached our spot she said, “Of course, he would.  Now, who is going first?!”

That wouldn’t be the last time I witnessed my mom help a complete stranger.  In fact, sometimes I found myself looking around for distressed individuals – because I saw what helping others did for my mom.  That’s when I realized something I don’t think she ever did – not because she wasn’t capable, but because nothing she ever did was about her – she was healing by helping others.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Reshi Yenot is the pen name for a writer who lives on Death Row in Florida. He can be contacted at:
Reshi Yenot
P.O. Box 70092
Henrico, VA 23255

©Reshi Yenot

Loading

PAROLE DENIED – Again…

When a person comes up for parole in Alabama, they don’t get a chance to speak for themselves and aren’t present when their fate is decided.  A lot is left out of the equation.  Some of the reasons for Louis Singleton’s most recent denial – ‘Release will depreciate seriousness of offense or promote disrespect for the law’, ‘Severity of present offense is high’, ‘ORAS level is moderate risk of reoffending’. 

What they probably didn’t discuss…

On January 11, 1994, Louis Singleton was seventeen years old and still attending high school when he shot three men in a McDonald’s parking lot, killing one, and paralyzing another.  He was sentenced to life – with the possibility of parole.  He has since been denied parole four times and has been incarcerated for a quarter century.  The Parole Board will revisit his case in January of 2023.

Prior to the shooting, Singleton had been the sort of kid most parents would be proud of.  Boys will be boys, but his life was on track and he had positive goals.  He had a speeding ticket once because he was driving too fast to get to summer school.  He also got in a fight when he was sixteen. 

The neighborhood knew Louis as a ‘good kid’ who dreamed of football superstardom.  He might not have been the most academically focused, but he had goals and maintaining some standard of education was required, so he towed the line.  After his arrest he was evaluated by the Strickland Youth Center, who determined he ‘did not appear to be a behavioral problem’.  In the transcripts, he was described as enjoying a ‘favorable reputation within his community’.  Louis Singleton wasn’t known as a threat to others then – and he hasn’t been known as a threat to others since his incarceration. He did have a problem at the time though – a threat was pursuing him. 

One of Singleton’s close friends, Derrick Conner, was dating another man’s ex-girl.  By association, Singleton became a target of that man’s anger.  Had it happened today, things would most likely not have gotten as far as they did twenty five years ago. 

Over the many months prior to the shooting, Louis Singleton was shot at on several occasions by the ‘ex-boyfriend’, Kendrick Martin, and his friend, Nelson Tucker.  On one occasion, Singleton was inside a car when Martin was beating the vehicle with a crow bar.  Louis recalls one time when Martin pulled a gun from a book bag and pointed it at his head.  

The violence and bullying were no secret.  Louis Singleton tried to get it to stop by talking to parents, school officials and even the police.  Nothing was resolved, and on that winter night in that parking lot when Louis ran into Kendrick Martin and his friends – no one will ever know exactly what happened, but the boy who had been shot at and pursued for months – shot at those who had been terrorizing him.  

But for the months leading up to that night – it never would have happened.  Louis Singleton would have continued living his normal, average life.  The entire incident is tragic.  It’s tragic for the man who died. It’s tragic for the man who will never walk again. And it’s tragic for the seventeen year old kid who didn’t know how to deal with something he should have never had to.  The adults who were aware of what was going on not only let Singleton down – but the victims as well.

Louis Singleton has spent a quarter of a century in the brutal Alabama prison system.  He lost all his dreams.  He lost his youth. He lost his mother and has lived with the regret and memory of having to tell her what he did that night.  

Some feel no amount of time will suffice.  Forgiveness will never come for those.  Remorse has though. 

Louis Singleton today.

Alabama prisons are barbaric.  A typical prison is an inhumane warehouse of people, many dangerous, bodies packed in on top of one another in a sea of bunks, sheets hanging to try and give a semblance of privacy, a random individual laying on the floor at any given moment, having taken whatever they can get their hands on to escape the reality of their nonexistence, and there is not a moment that goes by you aren’t aware you have no value.  Your life can be lost in the blink of an eye. 

In the southern heat, there is no air conditioning and very limited staff.  As someone once told me – the inmates police themselves.  In spite of the place he lives, Singleton has not had a disciplinary action that involved violence since 2010, when he got in trouble for ‘Fighting Without A Weapon’. 

Before the hearing this year, Singleton was hopeful.  The board doesn’t think he’s suffered enough yet though.  One look in his eyes would tell them different, but they will never see him.  He’s exists only on paper to them.  A couple years ago, Singleton shared what happened right after the shooting.

“My mind was racing with thoughts that I couldn’t even grasp mentally.  I just went home and sat in the house with all the lights out, scared to move, don’t know what to do nor to say.  My mom was gone to a choir convention in Mississippi during the time of the incident.  While I sat in our house quietly and somberly in the front room, my mother pulled up with no clue of what just happened.   When she came in the door, turned to lock the door, I was sitting there in the dark room.  I scared her out of her wits.  As a mother who knew her child, she instantly asked me, ‘Boy, what’s wrong with you sitting in here with all the lights out?’  I was so discombobulated I honestly couldn’t speak, it seemed like somebody had my soul…”

Those are the thoughts of a seventeen year old boy – who has suffered enough.  The wrong will never be made right, and that seventeen year old boy no longer exists.   He’s paid the price.  Those who let it get that far never did – but Louis Singleton did. My heart goes out to those who have been touched by this tragedy. More suffering won’t heal that pain.

Would I even be writing this if Louis Singleton had been a promising white high school athlete?  I doubt it.  The school and authorities would have resolved the issues long before they got to that point.  

Louis Singleton can be contacted at:
Louis Singleton #179665 0-24
Donaldson CF
100 Warrior Lane
Bessemer, AL 35023-7299

Loading

I Am!

They take my kindness for weakness,
My mean mug for a thug.
My silence for speechless,
Assuming I’m on drugs.
They consider my uniqueness strange,
While inflicting inhuman pain.
Years of blood, sweat and tears,
But still, I maintain.
They call my language slang,
My confidence conceited.
My mistakes defeated,
My anger parental mistreatment.
To voice my concern is discontentment,
When I stand up for myself, I’m defensive.
I’m defiant if I don’t cooperate,
I’m bombarded with modern day hate.
My character under constant attack,
They label me a maniac if I react or fight back.
Who am I?
A man, barefooted in black sand,
Trying hard to be the best man I can…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Jayvon Bass submitted this piece for our spring contest, and although he did not win, we were impressed with his work, and hope he submits more. Jayvon can be contacted at:
Jayvon Bass #1092697
Augusta Correctional Center
1821 Estaline Valley Road
Craigsville, Virginia 24430

Loading

Mental Illness And Prison

I’ve spent the last fifteen years in solitary confinement here in Texas.  The ‘correctional model’ here is the punishment model. The school of thought being – by inflicting maximum suffering, maximum poverty, maximum humiliation, deprivation and pain, they can make the prison experience so shockingly traumatic and painful that the incarcerated individual will never want to return to this place and so alter their life to become an upright pillar of the community.

Rather – this correctional model creates monsters.  Trust me – I know.  This correctional model severely damages the weak and vulnerable while exasperating mental illness. During my fifteen years in solitary, I’ve seen numerous men lose their minds.  People who, when I met them, seemed relatively normal.  A few years in the hole and they are ghosts – shells of their former selves. There are those with such profound addiction issues that they buy psych meds from prisoners who game the psych system and consume them in toxic quantities to get ‘high’.  After a few years of that, they are goners – never the same again even if they quit the pills.

Meanwhile, the truly mentally ill, the schizophrenics who are uncommunicative or simply talk to themselves, the manic depressives and others, suffer in silence. As I write this, there is a schizophrenic a couple cells away having an episode, shouting at apparitions, banging on the metal table in his cell.  It is 12:43 a.m.  He takes no meds.  The psych lady never visits him.  Texas prisons are a wasteland for the mentally ill.  We’ve had three suicides in less than three months in this building alone.

There exists a callous indifference to suffering here. Of course, if you asked an official from the administrative side of things, they’d lie to your face and tell you Texas doesn’t house mentally ill offenders in solitary confinement.  If you ask a guard they’ll say, “Hell, they’re all crazy.”

Even inmates dismiss clear signs of mental illness, saying, “He ain’t crazy.  If he’s got enough sense to get up for chow, he ain’t crazy.”  Being hungry is a clear sign of sanity…

I once had a neighbor who smeared feces all over his hair – and worse.  Trust me, you don’t want to know.  We asked numerous times to have a psyche interview to get him out of here and to the psych unit. A lieutenant said, “He’ll just do the same thing there. What’s the difference?”

That kind of cynicism and indifference sums up many prison systems. Over the years I have come to believe that a large number of people are here as a result of either undiagnosed mental illness or poorly managed and self medicated mental illness.  Some have behavioral, emotional or personality disorders that, while they don’t cross the threshold into mental illness, they nevertheless contribute to criminality.

The actual dynamic between mental illness and criminality is a complex issue that is often fought over along ideological lines.  It is made all the more complex by legal issues, budget battles, a lack of political will, socio-cultural issues and a general contempt for prisoners. 

Each side of the conflict has valid positions, but what gets lost in the back and forth, I believe, is people’s humanity. As a long time prisoner with lots of time on my hands, I’ve thought of many ways prisons could be made into places of rehabilitation and healing. But the reality is daunting.  People have to want to be rehabilitated and healed. They have to want to learn life skills, self reliance, and marketable job skills. They have to want to change for the better, while living in an environment that reinforces their belief that their life has no value.  So… what do we do?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dalton Collins lives in solitary confinement in a Texas prison. He only recently began submitting his work, and we are fortunate to be able to share his insight. Dalton can be contacted at:
Dalton Collins
#768733 Allred
2101 FM 369 N.
Iowa Park, TX 76367

All Writing by Dalton Collins.

Loading

Frenemy

Friendships are pleasurable relationships that often stand the test of time.  They are the sharing of ourselves and our innermost feelings with those whom we trust the most. Even cultivating them can be an everlasting treat, like a stroll down the candy aisle of life.  However, just as sweets can be tasty yet terrible for our health, sometimes friends can do more harm than good.

It was a chilly Saturday morning in 1979 – I was five years old. The trailer we lived in was quiet, my mother buried beneath the covers after working a late shift. I poured a bowl of cereal and took my place before the television set, anticipating my favorite cartoons. Suddenly, familiar voices trickled in from outside – it was my older brother Ray, cousin Sam, and Kenny, a neighborhood friend.  I dashed to the bedroom, slipped into some clothes and bolted out the door.  The three of them were bunched together, walking steadily.  Kenny spoke in a hushed tone while Sam and Ray listened. I eased into their group and kept quiet – they paid me little attention.

Their discussion was about the local tadpole pond, which wasn’t much of a pond at all, but rather an abandoned foundation with busted pipes that formed a humongous sinkhole.  We often passed by the vacant site on the way to the corner store, and each time I guessed at the mysterious ripples in the water.  Kenny let on that he and Sam were headed to the pond to see a dog that drowned.  Ray was eight and impressionable – he would follow those two anywhere.  After agreeing to join them, the trio set out while I was tightly wound in their shadow.

We walked a short way before a voice called out and collared me from behind, “Hey, ya’ll, wait up!”

It was Junior, a tubby, spirited kid from around the way who had an enduring appetite for mischief.  He and I were friends, yet often turned rivals whenever my brother was around to stir the competition.  Only then did our Big Wheel rides become fierce battles to the finish line or a game of marbles end in a fight. Our spats never lasted long – Junior and I were usually back to being pals before the turn of day.  His cheeks wobbled like cozy gelatin as he hustled to catch up to our party. 

“Where ya’ll going?” he inquired.

“To the tadpole pond,” I answered.

We arrived at an enclosure and paused to take in the sights, a quaint oasis of thriving vegetation at the edge of the trailer park.  Incredibly dark waters swayed passively with the morning breeze, glistening with the rising sun.  Kenny slipped through a breach in the fence, Sam and Ray soon followed.  I was content to observe from beyond the barrier until Junior squeezed through as well. I tucked my head and dipped past the opening in the fence, fearful yet eerily excited. 

We stood scattered around the water’s edge as the ever dreadful tadpole pond lay before us, polluted with trash and a sodden couch partially submerged at the center.  Kenny pointed out a floating object that was fuzzy and swollen round.   He then looked for something to fish out the carcass while Sam and Ray gathered rocks. Junior fixated on the water and began to inch forward – my curiosity willed me closer.

There were tadpole, tiny critters with long squirmy tails, that flowed along the shallow end.  I squatted low until my reflection bounced back off the face of the water.  It was the first time I’d ever seen a tadpole.

“We need a can,” Junior proposed and disappeared behind me to search for a container. Enthused by the idea of having a pet, I was toying around with names when suddenly I was thrust forward and pitched into the water.

Like a phantom cutpurse, the chilling temperature stole my breath away.  I opened my mouth to yell, but gurgled as the agony gushed in.  My head was a jumble of fear and confusion – frozen with the shocking reality that I was cast beneath the mystery of the rippling pond – and I didn’t know how to swim…

My jacket and denims became weighty with absorption, like linen anchors wrapped around my limbs. Algae and other slush minerals surged down my nostrils and set my lungs afire. I flailed about in a desperate fight against the sinking madness until my wild kicks propelled me above the surface.

Water erupted from my mouth in a vicious spray as the scum fell away from my eyes. I saw my brother racing toward me.

“Help me, Ray!” I pleaded, splashing about to stay afloat until the menacing hand of gravity pulled me under.  I drew in a quick breath and held it tight within as the world collapsed around me.

Slowly, I drifted down into the hazy unknown, kicking, screaming in my head for my mother.  Again, my flapping elevated me, and I burst free from beneath the murky water. Ray shouted words, but they were lost in the frenzy.  Kenny appeared and stretched out toward me.

“Ray!” I cried before my pleas were cut short by another cruel descent into the black.  Lashing out in one final attempt to thwart my tragic end, I somehow grabbed a hold of an object – it was a stick with Kenny holding the opposite end as he plucked me from the horror.

I was drenched, shivering, and felt utterly defeated as I considered the dire possibilities.  Sam peeled off my jacket and replaced it with his own while Kenny assured me that everything was okay. Ray held me tight, but said little as he busied himself with an explanation. And Junior – he was halfway up the block hightailing it for home. 

Today, I saw Junior for the first time in twenty years.  It was a thrilling moment to see how much he had changed, yet concerning for the troubles he faced.  His thick, woolly dreadlocks dangled like tassels over eyes that drooped with sadness, while casting aside his ill-predicament to sympathize for my own. Junior’s trouble was life in prison, mine was the death penalty.  It’s ironic how parallel our lives felt to that day at the tadpole pond.  Still, the quiet agony was short lived and our jaded smiles reciprocated as we stared at one another through a Plexiglas divider and worked to repress our misery.  I realized that Junior was my oldest of friends despite our childhood quarrels. It had been forty years since the tadpole pond, and even now we hurt for one another.  For all the rivaling we did as kids, our friendship survived the chaos – even though he almost killed me, we’re friends all the same. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a gifted and thoughtful writer who is currently working on two novels. He lives on Death Row but maintains his innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

Loading

He’s Free

Robert Booker isn’t just any author of seven urban fiction novels. He’s bigger than that. He’s a symbol what can happen if we acknowledge the justice system is flawed, and we can do better.

I wrote about Booker in February, 2016, because he once had a life sentence with no possibility of parole – for a nonviolent crime. I sent him a copy of what I posted. He wrote back. The next thing I knew, he was publishing novels – six in the short time I’ve known him, with countless others yet to be published. He accomplished what many writers dream about with only a pencil and paper. And he did it, not expecting to get out any time soon.

Robert Booker isn’t an incarcerated author anymore. He’s a free author. He once inspired me to write about his unjust sentence – he now inspires me to write about what can happen when wrongs are made right. There is only one Robert Booker, as he would tell you, but there are others like him who deserve this same kind of chance.

Robert Booker went to prison June 29, 1994, but this week – he’s the picture of righting wrongs. He’s the picture of a man who is free thanks in good part to a commutation from President Obama and also the First Step Act.

I can’t wait to see what he does next, and I know I will return to this page often – just to watch this and remember what we’re doing right.

Robert Booker’s books can be found HERE.

Loading

I Know Innocent People On Death Row

My Best Friends Are Behind Bars – that’s going to be the title of my book someday.  And some of them are innocent…  

I’m not naïve.  I work with a lot of people who have done a lot of bad things.  They live with regret.   Most of them did ‘something’.   People get exonerated all the time though, and statistically, it was bound to happen – I would find myself working with some innocent people.  What’s fascinating – my innocent friends didn’t tell me they were innocent.  Our writing relationships were the focus, but when my instincts tell me something doesn’t add up, I want to know more. 

This week I heard the federal government was going to resume executing people. That news hurt my heart.  An attorney once told me during a discussion about the flaws in the system, justice is like the highway.  People want to have highways even if they result in lives lost in auto accidents.  She explained it’s the same with justice.  People are willing to have our system of control, even if we lose some people to the ‘mistakes’.  Collateral damage.

I don’t see it that way – there’s no arguable need for the death penalty.  Every state, every country, that executes – executes the innocent as well as the guilty. That’s just a fact.  Is a ‘tough on crime’ stance worth the mistakes when the mistakes are human lives? 

One of my favorite writers, Terry Robinson, lives on Death Row.  He’s never written about being innocent.  After I came to realize he wasn’t capable of what he was there for, I asked him why he didn’t openly speak of it.  He told me he felt it would be disrespectful to the victim of the crime he was incarcerated for to write about that.  That’s the type of man he is.  He has such a quiet dignity and respect for others, I can think of no one who compares.   

It’s because of that character I asked to see his transcripts.  I got some clarity as I read.  He was no angel, and he has never claimed to be.  But the core of who he is was always there.  The night of the crime, Mr. Robinson was ‘in the area’.  He was black.  Another individual who was arrested in connection to the murder said Mr. Robinson did it.  That’s all it took.  That individual is now living a free life. 

When it came time for Mr. Robinson to present his defense, I was anxious to read that portion of the transcripts.  I had read everything the prosecution laid out, and I thought there was a lot left unknown – not to mention DNA that wasn’t tied to anyone.  I was anxious to hear what would be revealed during the next portion of the trial.  I pictured myself, facing a death sentence, and how I would present everything possible, how I could call into question so many things that had been shared.  He would surely tell of where he was and who he was with.  He would contradict the key witness.   After all – it was a trial that could result in a death sentence. 

What I read next, stunned me.  “Judge, we have consulted with the defendant, and it’s his choice not to present evidence at this time.”

I had to reread it…

What?

The next time I spoke to Mr. Robinson, I asked, “So…  You didn’t present any defense.  Am I to understand that correctly?  Why?”

He explained to me how his attorneys told him that if he defended himself it would make him look guilty – so the defense presented nothing.   

What has me scratching my head in confusion will have him executed.  

Terry Robinson was sentenced to death. 

The individuals who had a hand in restarting the federal death machine would obtain the best legal representation available in a criminal case – because they have the means to do that. But – what about those who are a minority?  What about those who are black and convicted in a southern state with all that we know goes hand in hand with that?  What about those whose attorneys are appointed by the Court?  There is an enormous difference between an attorney that is shopped for and one that is operating under a set fee by the courts while also carrying paying clients.  If an attorney has paying clients – the court appointed cases go to the bottom of the stack. That’s reality. 

Terry Robinson has so much character it can’t be covered up with a red Death Row jumpsuit. Mr. Robinson writes under the pen name Chanton.  His essay, ‘Being Better’, which he wrote earlier this year, speaks of accidentally stealing forty dollars nearly two decades ago – and how he was driven to confess that mistake.  ‘Duck’, Chanton, Terry, Mr. Robinson – is ‘collateral damage’. 

It’s okay to say it – you are innocent. You have every right to say it. You are not the first person to be incarcerated for something you didn’t do. You are not the first person on Death Row to know you don’t belong there. There are other people who know you don’t belong there. Your previous mistakes in life don’t make you deserving of this. The loss that is the reason for this discussion is not diminished by you speaking truth. Truth is never a mistake. And the truth is – some innocent people live on death row, and may very well die there.

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

Anybody with information related to his case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net.  Anything you share with me will be confidential.

Loading

The World Of The Forgotten

My house is one of heartache,
A place of steel and stone.
A barren cell, a home of Hell,
And here I stand alone.
When I rage,
I pace my cage
That no man
Wants to own.
Memories of free life
Chill me to the bone.
I hear them sling their giant keys
Which crank the iron locks.
Booted feet upon concrete,
Guards patrol the blocks.
Criminal’s knives take human lives,
No jungle holds more danger.
Each day that comes my way,
I meet a new stranger.
I watch my back, because there’s lack
Of those who can be trusted.
In this world of steel and stone,
Bars that are all rusted.
Home of men who are downtrodden,
The world I live in now,
The world of the forgotten…

ABOUT THE WRITER. Tom Landers sent this poem into our spring writing contest. Although it didn’t quite match the writing prompt for the contest – we still enjoyed his work and wanted to share it. Mr. Landers can be contacted at:
Thomas Landers #124529
Housing Unit E3-10A
Idaho St. Correctional Center
P.O. Box 70010
Boise, Idaho 83707

Loading

Was Mamou Jury Presented All Available Information?

In Harris County, Texas, 1999, Charles Mamou was sentenced to death in a trial primarily focused on the testimony of a handful of drug dealers involved in the same drug deal, the strongest testimony coming from Mamou’s own cousin who testified Mamou confessed to him.

There were several factors the jury never heard regarding the alleged ‘confession’. 

When Terrence Dodson first heard police had contacted one of his relatives looking for him in connection to a capital murder case, he quickly told police his cousin, Chucky, had confessed to murdering and sexually assaulting the victim.  Charles Mamou was arrested for kidnapping and murder. 

Nearly a year later at trial, what the case lacked in physical evidence, it made up for in the ‘confession’, at times focusing on the sexual assault Terrence Dodson had described to police.  The jury was never presented all the contradictions between Mr. Dodson’s original statement to police and his actual testimony at trial, including the location of Mamou when he supposedly confessed and also how he confessed.  Those contradictions would have brought into question Dodson’s credibility and can be seen HERE.    

The jury was also not shown the letter Dodson wrote to his cousin a month after he told police about the ‘confession’.  In the letter Dodson said, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me shit about that cause I don’t wanna know shit, I feel better off that way.”

There was one more thing the jury never heard.  Charles Mamou was never charged with rape, but it had a significant impact in his trial, so much so that several articles written about the crime indicate that Mamou raped or sexually assaulted the victim.  The sexual assault was one facet of Terrence Dodson’s hour long video statement.  Dodson described how Mamou confessed to a sexual assault several times and also testified to that during the trial.  During Dodson’s testimony, Charles Mamou’s court appointed attorney and the prosecution never informed the jury that a rape kit was completed on the victim, including oral swabs.

When the prosecution was presenting their closing arguments, hoping to convince the jury of Mamou’s guilt and secure an execution, the jury was told, “He marches her to the back, and he makes her commit oral sodomy, makes her suck his penis.  Imagine that, ladies and gentlemen.”  At the time they made this argument, they were aware of Terrence Dodson’s questionable credibility.  They also knew the results from the rape kit, which stated, “No semen was detected on any items analyzed.”

Mamou’s own attorney never mentioned the results of the rape kit to the jury that was to decide his client’s fate.

Harris County, Texas, has sentenced more people to death than anyplace else in the country.  Charles Mamou is one of those people.  He maintains his innocence and is out of appeals and awaiting an execution date. 

Anyone with information regarding this case can contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net.  Anything you share with me will be confidential.

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

Loading

Prison Writing and Expression