This morning I woke up from a dream of being free – to the nightmare of being incarcerated.
As I went to the
community bathroom to take care of my hygiene like every morning, I walked past
a man named Morris Martin who has been incarcerated over forty years – forty-four
to be exact. I first met him twenty years ago when I came to prison. At the time I was nineteen and didn’t really
understand the reality of what it meant to have life without the possibility of
parole.
Morris did, because he
had been living it for twenty four years already. He took a liking to me and
started working with me on appealing my case as well as teaching me about
surviving in prison. Morris and I have
been together at several different facilities over the course of my twenty
years, and he is one of the men who has borne witness to my transformation from
a savage boy to a righteous man. While
he has seen my transformation, I have witnessed his physical deterioration.
This morning when I walked past Morris I saw the look of a man who is being tortured in the name of so called justice. I see how incarceration is slowly eating away at his soul. A once strong and vibrant man is now a feeble senior citizen. The thing I love most about Morris is, he is always in good spirits and still fighting for freedom. Not just his, but also the freedom of others.
As I looked at him, tears formed in my eyes because I saw him losing the fight to father time. The worst fear of every prisoner is dying in prison, but in reality most of us with life or long indeterminate sentences will do just that – die in prison. The saddest part is, after decades in prison, one isn’t a threat to society like the ones who profit off our enslavement would like you to believe.
Often times I find myself
questioning the real motive of this injustice system. At what point does this become torture? The daily
dehumanization of incarceration takes a toll on the strongest person’s mind, so
imagine what it does to those who are not mentally strong. Yes, it breaks them.
I see it every day as I walk the yard filled with prisoners on psychotropic
medication because the torture of incarceration has robbed them of their
sanity.
I refuse to let it be
me. My body may be locked up, but my
mind will forever be free. The days of me being mentally enslaved are over.
TAKE THE CHAINS OFF!!! I just hope that one day we can take the chains off the
minds of those in society who see death by incarceration as justice. There is
no justice in torturing a person to death. To all my brothers and sisters who
are trapped on these modern day slave plantations, I feel your pain. Keep fighting – better days are coming!
The race is not given to the swift nor the strong – but the one who can endure to the end. Peace.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quentin Jones works with incarcerated writers. He strives to inspire minds and bring change to a flawed system – one designed to eat away at the heart and soul of society. “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
Death Row is a somberness that never quits and a psychological
dismay that never stales, offering fleeting hope in the distance, while an
unspeakable cruelty lurks from behind. It
is the veil of vengeance over the face of forgiveness and the dark that seldom
brightens. And it is a system designed to diminish one’s
spirit by decades of prolonged executions.
Enter Joe – a highly spirited, gentle soul and a bonafide hillbilly
(his words, not mine). Joe was amongst
several death row inmates whom I met upon arrival. Although he and I didn’t quite vibe at first,
eventually we became good friends. Our
divide was mainly due to our backgrounds which were astronomically worlds
apart. However, proximity and shared affliction pieced us together and our
friendship was a perfect fit.
Joe was an avid watcher of daytime soaps, bounding around the
pod enthusiastically while awaiting his favorite shows. I’d listen to him
zestfully recount weekly episodes until he finally piqued my interest. Before long I was bouncing alongside Joe; the
soaps were our escape.
Joe was a tinker also, an essential figure in every inner prison’s
workings. Tinkers improvise using commonplace items to effectively service
their inmate community. In need of a
coffee brewer? See Joe. Stogie roller? That was Joe too. From radio repairs to holiday greeting cards,
Joe lent a little of himself to everyone.
And when matters were somewhat trivial, still he was eager to help.
I became most endeared to Joe the day he tattooed my
forearm. We sat and chatted up one another as he tagged me with his
artistry. Joe opened up to me about his
spiritual ambitions and the difficulties in his past. It made me realize,
though our differences were superficial our adversities were much the same. I
watched as Joe embraced his vulnerability as a means to mend his spirit. It
taught me that my own woes were much deeper than death row; I suffered a
darkness within.
Afterwards, Joe became the bright spot to every waking
day. A stickler for cleanliness, he
swept and mopped the pod each morning before dawn. Joe then turned to cigarettes and coffee to
crank out his lively mood and for hours on end he would laugh and joke – and death
row never felt so good.
Joe was a jack-of-all trades, though hardly a master at
all. He was a joyful klutz at
basketball, yet the first to laugh at himself. At poker, he was a heavy better
and lost with his heart carefree. He was
deeply committed to the happiness of others – happiness gave Joe peace.
It was three years past when the news came down and Joe
faced a darkness of his own. The courts rejected the last of his appeals and
issued him an execution date. Suddenly there was aridness in the air that ached
with sympathy and despair. Well-wishers barely spoke above whispers as they internalized
with ‘what ifs’. Joe put troubled minds
at ease by insisting that he was fine – but on the day that his
executioners came, he said to me, “Man,
I don’t wanna die.”
In that moment, I was stumped for words. I had nothing to offer but sadness. I wanted so much to give Joe absolution and
shoo his killers away. I felt helpless and betrayed for the coming demise by an
evil which met no resistance. The terrible
truth was – my fears were also selfish. I
didn’t know how to be on Death Row without Joe.
Joe and I embraced for the last time, his cheeks slicked with
tears while his eyes held out hope for the governor’s stay.
He then bid goodbye to others as the party of white shirts escorted
him to Deathwatch where he faced his final adversity alone. Joe was executed by lethal injection. It was a harsh reality that pitched Death Row
into darkness.
Death Row is an immoral chasm filled with broken spirits. It is insubstantial highs and demoralizing lows in the fight to stay alive. However, having Joe around was like a break in the action. His kindness lit up the dark – and I’m grateful to have had his light shone on me, if only for a short while.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and is the winner of Walk In Those Shoes’ first spring writing contest. He rose to the occasion, as did many. The goal of the contest was to share light people saw and experienced behind bars, and I think what has become apparent is that often times – it was the light in the writers’ themselves that was shared. Terry writes for us often, and he can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
I always tell people if they’re capable of being the ‘glass
half full’ type, I would advise them to do so for as long as possible in here. It’s not so bad until you realize the
fullness of where you are and what has happened. But sooner or later, the bitter reality of
prison settles in and changes who you are fundamentally. You witness something so inhumane that when
the shock wears off you realize you aren’t the same and may never be. There is nothing more dreadful than to see a human’s
capacity for hate.
About a week ago a very young and impressionable young man
was almost beat to death by another impressionable young man at the direction
of a bunch of cowards. The last I knew
for sure was the victim of the savage beating was in the ICU on life support. I
have since heard that the young man died from his injuries, but that is only a
rumor, and I pray it remains so. The man
who committed this horrible act will be held accountable, of that I am sure. The cowards who directed the violence will
probably not be held accountable at all, but that’s the way the cookie
crumbles.
Since I was very young, I was told to take heart when I
witness this kind of injustice, for there is a God above who is just and will
visit His vengeance upon those who are due it. I find myself hoping that this
is true until I think about the fact that I too deserve God’s vengeance for my actions. Then I’m a little more inclined to advocate
for divine mercy.
Light in a dark place?
Maybe.
This is my eighteenth year in prison. I took an innocent life when I was young and impressionable.
There were no cowards to direct me to do
it. I was the coward to blame. I did the best I could to deal with the hurt I
caused. Ever hopeful, I have never
stopped looking for the silver lining in the black cloud I cultivated and actively
pull around with me, but I grow tired. I’ve
carried guilt and shame I never knew possible to carry and pray you never have
to. The lies, deflection and denial that I created out of desperation to
protect myself, ultimately infected me. They crawled under my skin and made a bed down
deep in my bones. When I ask them to
leave, they reason with me, “You can’t do this on your own. You wouldn’t throw out old friends would ya?”
“I would if I could,” I whisper.
“We can hear you… Be
careful, or we’ll expose you, coward!” they
cackle.
What are my choices?
I have to keep moving on. The
human spirit can be indomitable, and maybe that’s the light in a dark
place. If there is a God – and I really
pray there is because even if that means judgment at least I know it will be
righteous judgment – there’s a possibility for forgiveness… Someday.
Light in a dark place?
Why not?
Anything is possible, and maybe that’s what life is about. I’ve seen love in here. It’s fleeting, but I have seen it. Maybe all the love I can count on is the love
I show, and that’s both sad and hopeful at the same time. It’s like the Gandhi quote everyone rips off,
“Be the change you want to see in the
world.” Sometimes quotes help, like
at graduations and in presidential speeches, but they aren’t very inspirational
when you feel like you’re dying. That’s
kind of a quote, I guess.
What’s truly beautiful is the human capacity to love, and
there is nothing greater than that except the love of God, I guess. So, if I am looking for the light in a dark
place… why can’t it be me?
Light in a dark place? I hope
so.
I just heard the young man who was beaten mercilessly the other day may still be alive. I hope with all hope and pray with all my heart to a God whom I really need to hear me that he is alive and that he makes a full recovery. If he does make it, things will be a lot brighter for all of us.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Joshua King’s was the very last entry to arrive for the spring essay contest. Although he wasn’t the winner, he was one judge’s first choice, and everyone who read his entry was moved by it. I hope we hear from him again. Joshua can be contacted at: Joshua King #69192 ISCC-F1-44A P.O. Box 70010 Boise, Idaho 83707
Plucked from my comfort zone for the second time in two years, the state of Idaho once again practiced its ruthless punching power. Wrist-cuffed and ankle-shackled, the medium custody transporters drove me to my new home, I.M.S.I. – Idaho Maximum Security Institution. No forewarning – no explanation. I knew I’d done nothing to warrant the move – nevertheless, I was moved.
I’m an ‘old school lifer’ who has survived over three
decades in an ever changing institutional gambit. Old school lifer meaning – my mindset is that
of the traditional ‘convict code’ method of doing time with a life sentence.
The ‘convict code’ is holding oneself and others accountable without the assistance
of prison guard intervention.
I later learned my transfer was not based on any infraction. Rather, I was moved because of my exceptional behavior and work ethic and had been vetted by a certain Lieutenant. The Lieutenant found me a worthy bargaining chip for their modest worker program, and there were incentives in place to keep manageable inmates interested in staying in the high security environment. The inmate labor population was pretty small compared to the approximate five hundred captives held in the Maximum Security Facility.
My first work assignment at I.M.S.I. was in the kitchen as a
food tray server and emptier. We did the dishes after every meal, and for me,
it was my five hour Jane Fonda workout – six days out of the week. Our hours began
t 4:00 a.m. and ended when the job was complete, usually a six hour shift. I would have never done it if it weren’t for the
exercise, the money being a deterrent at thirty cents an hour.
I learned of ‘C’ Block, by way of our prison barber. Tucked away in the North end of ‘Max’ is what
they call the ‘Acute Mental Health Unit’.
The barber was also a ‘mentor’, and he expressed an interest in me
working and living with him on that unit. I fell for his recruiting spiel and became
one of his two enlistees. There was a pilot program in place that the prison
administration had designed for interested inmates to be hired as ‘mentors’ and
trained to work with the mental health inmates.
I was interviewed by the Mental Health Ward Committee which
was comprised of the warden, the unit case manager and a sergeant. The meeting reminded me of an interview one
undergoes in society. I was not at all nervous, nor did I expect not to be
hired. My intentions, faith, and
willingness to serve and learn were genuine.
Although I had never aspired to work in such a volatile environment,
there was something very intriguing about the mental health inmates I was about
to encounter. The challenge would be
worth every second I spent with them. I was hired that same day and moved that
evening.
The first thirty days of training was mostly cleaning detail. The extreme security was something I had never imagined. Cameras were scattered throughout the facility. There were so many radio strapped officers, staff members, and social workers to deal with, I felt like they may consider giving me one too! I soon learned, I was ill-prepared for the duties, responsibilities, and experiences I would endure while working with ‘cops’ and serving these particular prisoners. While every facet of the job was demanding, the adversities and challenges turned out to be a great honor and introduced me to who I managed to become.
While working in C Block, I met Melvin, a man in his early
seventies. He was a Vietnam vet who had
done much of the last two decades there.
Daily, Melvin would excrete on the cement floor under the sink in his
cell. I chose to clean it up, as he
refused to do so. In some strange way, it felt like it was a privilege as his
condition unraveled. He was highly unpredictable
with a multitude of behavior swings – angry, shaky, intimidating, and at times
somewhat evil, but we eventually saw eye to eye.
There were many mentally distraught prisoners there. The
most intriguing man I encountered was Mohamed, an immigrant gaining political asylum
from the middle-east. When I arrived, no
one could reason with him. He was exceedingly
disruptive in every way imaginable, and eventually he helped me find an inner-patience
I never thought I had. Mohamed was a
highly strung ex-military soldier, driven to the edge of insanity, while also intelligent
and manipulative. He continually
harassed guards and people he didn’t trust.
The stories Mohamed shared with me in his heavy middle-eastern
accent were of some of the most shocking atrocities I could have imagined – war
stories from Iraq and his family’s slaughter by Saddam Hussein. Not only did I believe him, but I witnessed firsthand
the cause and effect of human misery. He displayed constant irritation by ‘corrupt
authority’, and spoke often about being mentally and physically tortured. Fortunately, after many days of necessary
communication, we became friends.
Mentoring and serving the men on C Block brought my soul to
a place of genuine conformity. From their
experiences, I began to realize how fortunate I was to still have a sane mind
after thirty years in prison. I also felt
the immense capacity for compassion in my soul for those who struggle deeply
with emotional and mental difficulties. I began to feel pure benevolence toward others for the first time
in my life.
My experience in the Acute Mental Health Unit was the most rewarding and eye opening undertaking I’ve ever encountered. It gave me an opportunity to experience both hell and also my purpose on earth. Something very profound transformed inside of me, ending my search for a pearl of great price.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Samuel Pacheco submitted this entry for the spring writing contest. The winner of the contest was chosen based on a point system from two judges, but each of the two judges was also given an opportunity to award a ‘Judge’s Choice’ writer, and Mr. Pacheco was one of those two writers. I hope we hear from him again in the future. He can be contacted at:
SAMUEL M. PACHECO 56645 E3-36A Idaho St. Correctional Center P.O. Box 70010 Boise, Idaho 83707
Man, I’m tired! I want to know better. Do better. Eventually be better. It’s hard when you’re paying for inflicted pain.
Today, my Father’s Day visit was great. I heard my son describe his joys and pains, his eyes lowered as he spoke in whispers, his hands becoming fidgety at times. He looked at me when he was done talking, but his eyes continued to speak. Unknowingly, his words stung me, as he described things I wished to shelter him from.
Have you ever had a child ask you a question you really didn’t
have the answer to? You don’t want to
lie because you know it would eat you up inside, and eventually they’ll see
that you lied to them. So, you decide to
toughen up and tell them you don’t know.
Then you hear them go into their own thoughts, as they help you know the
answer, like you are the child.
Today I felt like I could never be ready for
fatherhood. That’s something you have to
do and be physically. I wanted to swipe
away his surroundings, work with him, clean his room with him, have conversations
with him and help him with his strength.
I wanted to wipe the tears from his eyes, but thought I had better not –
let him search.
All these wishes and wants.
I’ve got to stop this shit, and find a way to stay on top of it. That’s my seed and Father’s Day will be over
shortly. He’ll be home sleeping, maybe
wondering, and me here – hoping. I
wonder how he felt when he left today. I
gave him a lot for his little mind to process.
He told me he understood, but I know that was his heart talking with his
pride. It’s me that doesn’t
understand. My lil’ homie is a champ,
and he’s indifferent to the difference.
He’ll make it better.
I just hope he never gets tired of reading my letters…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tedderick Batiste writes from his cell on Texas’ Death Row. He can be contacted at: Tedderick Batiste #999568 Polunsky Unit 3872 FM 350 South Livingston, TX 77351
Each solitary confinement pod here is made up of 84 cells – six
sections of fourteen, single man cells. Think of a pizza cut into six slices, a
pepper shaker placed dead center to represent the security picket. Each section of fourteen cells is divided,
seven cells along two-row and seven on one-row.
Fourteen men, for the most part, divided evenly amongst three races. Two ‘Bloods’,
one ‘Crip’ who is also a Muslim, two non affiliated, three ‘Mexican Mafia’, an ‘Aryan
Brotherhood’, three ‘Aryan Circle’ and two ‘Tango Blast’. There are guys that sleep at night and guys
that stay up all night and sleep all day. There are guys that have support and resources
and guys that have nothing.
There’s also a lot of tension, a lot of conflict, and the
almost constant presence of cell to cell yelling, arguing that we call ‘cell
warrioring’. So, I was not surprised to
be awakened in the very early morning hours… again. I rolled over, pointing my ears away from my
cell door and the noise. As I tried to
get back to sleep, I heard one guy on one-row yell to another, “It’s true! I just heard it!”
I tuned in without moving.
More yell-talking… and then an angry voice demanding respect for the late
hour. Someone else yell-talking over the
run, two or three guys, having been awakened by the noise, yelling expletives at
the few that had awakened them with the loud, middle of the night, discussion.
I don’t recall all the exact words used, but I do remember that the yell talkers spoke more, and the angry voices began to ask questions. I rolled toward my cell door and removed an earplug, several voices were now all trying to communicate. Though I may not remember the exact words, I will never forget the tone – a mixture of excitement and doubt, men yell-talking over the run and several talking through the ventilation system.
I got up and turned on my light.
Some kind of news was spreading from cell to cell, yet doubtfully. In the vent I heard one guy tell another, “I’m
telling you! That’s AM radio ‘koo-koo’ news.”
Protestations by another voice, “I heard it myself!”
“AM conspiracy news!” loud talking was evolving into
argument.
Then a guy downstairs, “HOLD UP!” It was not yell-talking but a demand for
silence. Knowing the silence would not
last long, he followed it up quickly. “I’m
getting it! I’m putting my speaker to the door!”
Silence. Then AM
radio over the run, monotone and loud. Again,
exact words escape me, but I do remember the following words being broadcast.
“State department”
“Special forces”
“Confirmed”
“Osama Bin Laden has been captured or killed”
One voice, “Holy Shit!”
An eruption of noise. Chaos.
Men roaring, kicking their cell doors, pounding on walls. The vibration of the cement floor under my
bare feet. The volume was such that an officer
rushed from the security picket to investigate.
Joy. Happiness. UNITY.
I clapped and clapped and clapped, standing at my cell door,
tears leaking from my eyes.
At the time I attributed the depth of my feeling to the news
that we had caught the terrorist that had bloodied my country, OUR country… Later, I understood that while that was true,
I had also been deeply affected by the unexpected sense of brotherhood that had
smashed onto the section like a comet, that
my own happiness and hand clapping and tears were also for these men around
me that were revealed as patriots, as brothers.
Nothing in their circumstance had changed. They were still ‘criminals’, ‘gang
members’, ‘prisoners’. The change came from
within. Something that had been buried
deep inside had burst to the surface… almost
as if by accident. In that moment we stumbled
into an unexpected kinship. It was not
artifice. It was not motivated by
jealousy or selfishness. It was
beautiful, and it’s spontaneity demanded recognition of its purity. It was authentic decency in human beings that
had only ever been known and judged by their failures.
I think about this event from time to time. I’ve come to believe that each of those men surprised themselves that night. They discovered something within themselves they did not know they had, something of value, or maybe… a secret. Had they all been in a group rather than confined to a solitary cell, they would have danced around and high fived and hugged. This realization made me smile, still does to this day. I’m smiling right now…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeremy Robinson lives in a Texas prison. He has written for this blog once before, and is currently working on a revised version of his book, The Monster Factory. Jeremy was an entrant in our spring writing contest and received an Honorable Mention for the above essay. Jeremy can be contacted at: Jeremy Robinson #1313930 Polunsky Unit 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
There is no shortage of horror stories from individuals
whose lives have been destroyed by wrongful conviction, or who are serving outrageous
sentences because of incompetent or indifferent representation, or who were
slammed by fanatical, win at all costs, prosecutors who are often little better
than criminals themselves.
My story isn’t one of those. I could list why’s and tell the back story – but none of it justifies taking a man’s life. My story is one of a million sad tragedies that fill the annals of newsrooms.
Sentenced to life, I’ve been incarcerated since 1994 and in
solitary confinement since 2004 after an escape attempt went very badly. Like my original crime, I could list the why’s
– the violence, the conditions, the prison sexual predators… but none of it
justifies hurting others. I don’t ask
for or expect sympathy. I did wrong and however painful it is, I have
to accept the consequences.
There are no policies against indefinite or permanent
solitary confinement in the State of Texas.
Chances are I will die in solitary, and I only say this to illustrate that
I know a thing or two about darkness. After
fifteen years in solitary, I’ve seen a lot of it… Indeed, I’m currently housed
on the James V. Allred Unit – a unit known for having the highest suicide rate
in the state and one of the highest numbers of uses of force against inmates. There’s nothing I haven’t seen in solitary.
However, even in a place such as this there is light to be
found. Simple acts of kindness – sometimes
from guards, sometimes from inmates… hardened gang leaders, violent men, extending
kind gestures to strangers and acquaintances alike. I have been both the recipient and the one
offering, but the light I want to speak on is the light that shines from the outside
in…
The efforts – often in the face of scorn, ridicule and
personal sacrifice – by advocates, activists and family members who rally for change,
who visit the lonely and forgotten and work tirelessly to shine a light on
America’s Gulag Archipelago.
These people give the condemned hope – the activists fighting for criminal justice and sentencing reform, demanding improvements in mental health treatment, improvements in conditions, treatment and transparency. Those willing to simply share a little of their time by writing a letter or offering some small gesture for the woman or man who has no family, no hope for release, or terminal illness.
These people are rays of light that illuminate dark places. They make a difference and inspire change and
give hope to those of us in seemingly hopeless situations. I know this to be true because I’ve seen and
experienced it. Were it not for the kindness
of strangers, my world would be a much darker place. Were it not for the hope that activists may
one day force change in the solitary confinement policies across the country,
my outlook would be very bleak.
So, while there’s no shortage of horror stories about prison
conditions and treatment of prisoners, there is also no shortage of light, no
shortage of individuals willing to try and make a difference and be a voice for
the voiceless.
To all of you who care, I think I speak for every prisoner in saying a heartfelt – Thank You!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dalton Collins lives in solitary confinement in a Texas prison. He was an entrant in our recent writing contest that was only supposed to have one prize winner, but there were three writers that caught our eye and are deserving of an Honorable Mention. Dalton is one of those three, and I hope we hear from him again. Dalton can be contacted at: Dalton Collins #768733 Allred 2101 FM 369 N. Iowa Park, TX 76367
I was almost eleven years old and had lived in Lake Tahoe for under a year, a beautiful place and my personal favorite city. My mother brought the three of us there after fleeing the big pink house in Oak Park, a house full of anger and physical abuse. The abuse had risen to a new high. My stepfather, her husband, had previously restricted the physical violence to just my mother and I, leaving both of his ‘real’ children alone. When, for the first time, he beat my little brother and broke his arm, it seemed to be the final straw for my mother and she fled.
For years, my mom and I had been the focus of anger and frustration, and I had several trips to the E.R. under my belt by the time I was ten. There was the time I was pushed from the top of the house for ‘playing on the roof’, dislocating my hip and cracking my tailbone. When my face was shoved through a dresser, I’d broken the bone in the orbit of my eye and had some facial lacerations. One time, after being punched and force fed jalapenos, I received a concussion and damage to my lips and throat – it was punishment for lying.
While I had not escaped my mother’s beatings with the move, I had escaped the worst of the violence, and for two months stayed with her ‘friend’, a man named Steve Jones. He was kind and generous, and my life improved.
I was out one afternoon, running through the trees and collecting tree seeds. I had discovered them one day when one landed on my face. Looking up, I saw that every couple of minutes, they would fall from the trees, spiraling down slowly and landing on the ground. They reminded me of the little toy army men with parachutes on four thin strings, the ones meant to be thrown into the air so the parachute would deploy, and the little man would float to the ground. They never seemed to work well, not like the seeds that floated in their super thin leaf like covering. These would spin and spin, floating safely to the ground. I took to throwing rocks into the trees to shake the limbs and dislodge them in hopes of seeing them fall. The seeds themselves were encased in a bean like shell that, once cracked open, offered up the meat much like a sunflower seed. I loved to collect and eat them.
Steve’s apartment was on the end of the building, and when I got back to his apartment that day I was not visible to him and my mother when I approached. As I got close to turning the corner, I heard what sounded like an argument and slowed. It was always wise to measure my mother’s mood before entering a room, and I could hear that she was angry.
“I have enough to move, but you said ten! You still owe me seven!”
“I know, and I will pay you, Sue. It’s just
taking longer than I thought.”
“You keep saying that, but if you don’t have
it before I move, I’m taking him with me!”
“I’ll have it.”
They were still talking loudly when I walked away. They both smoked, and it was as gross to me then as it is now. He smoked Camels, no filter, and she the Salem ultra light something or other. When they finished talking, they went back inside the apartment, and I came in a few minutes later. They seemed happy to see me.
My mother moved about a month later. She took my brother and sister to wherever she went and left me with Steve. It wasn’t until much later and after much pain that I understood that my mother had sold me to her ‘friend’ – a pedophile.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: The above is an excerpt from Jeremy Robinson’s, The Monster Factory, which he is currently revising. Jeremy can be contacted at: Jeremy Robinson #1313930 Polunsky Unit 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
The key piece of evidence in a capital murder case leaves one wondering how much of a trial is built on the talent of a prosecution to ‘paint a picture’ – and how much is based on reality.
Charles Mamou was sentenced to die twenty years ago in Harris County, Texas, for the death of Mary Carmouche. He was black, tried in a county that sentenced people to death at an unrivaled rate, and couldn’t afford an attorney of his choosing. When the courts determined his fate, people went on with their lives, assuming justice had been done.
But had it?
The victim had been present at a drug deal that went
terribly wrong, her body later found by a utility worker.
There were several people involved in the drug deal that took place that night, including one man who died at the scene. Those who survived were evasive when questioned by police – all but one. One of the drug dealers was very cooperative and investigators interviewed him at length. The young man was Charles Mamou’s very own cousin – a man the prosecution referred to repeatedly, arguing that the accused’s own family testified against him. Why would his own family lie?
What’s more bizarre than why a twenty-one year old drug dealer being looked at in a capital murder case would lie – is why someone will be executed on the weight of his testimony. Dodson had a lot to say – not a lot of it matched facts. But without a weapon, an eye witness, DNA, any physical evidence connecting Mamou to the crime scene – they wanted a ‘confession’. Watching the video today, twenty years later, it’s clear the ‘confession’ used to convict Charles Mamou was riddled with inconsistency.
Terrence Dodson started out by assuring investigators he would never be involved in a drug transaction.
Terrence Dodson said he just wanted to go home and not be involved with any type of illegal activity.
Those original statements directly contradicted what he later said at trial.
Q: And how did you come to meet him or be with him that morning? A: Well, he gave me a call and told me that he had a lick for a key. So I said, come get me.
Q: What did you think was actually going to happen? A: That they was going to bring the kilo, we were going to bring newspaper, and we was going to rob them. Q: What was your part going to be? A: My part in the robbery? Q: Right. A: To rob them. Q: With what? A: With a gun. Q: You had a gun? A: Yeah, I had it on me.
Q. What if there is more than one or two people there? Is that going to be a problem for you? A. No, not really. Q. You’re comfortable going in a situation like that with a gun, and if somebody shows you the dope, you just going to take the dope? A. Pretty much.
Over and over, Terrence Dodson testified to his involvement in the drug deal, contradicting his original statement to police.
When Terrence Dodson first spoke to police on Wednesday, December 9, 1998, it took over an hour. He was asked several times what day Charles Mamou had left Houston for his home in Louisiana. Dodson told investigators Mamou left on Monday, December 7.
Although Dodson said Mamou left on Monday, according to the Houston Police Department’s own incident report – Charles Mamou left Houston on Tuesday, December 8, 1998.
Then, Dodson told investigators about the ‘confession’ – which he said took place in a phone call from Charles Mamou on Tuesday morning – from Louisiana. It would have been hard for Mamou to call Dodson from Louisiana on Tuesday morning – because the investigation’s own witnesses stated Mamou was actually in Houston on Tuesday morning, but that didn’t concern investigators, the prosecution or his defense attorney. Mamou had actually spent Monday night in the apartment of one of the prosecution’s own witnesses, Howard Scott.
Terrence Dodson then proceeded to share what he says was a confession to murder.
In his statement to police, Terrence Dodson shares a story of Mamou calling him on Tuesday morning from Louisiana, when in reality Charles Mamou wasn’t even in Louisiana, and confessing to him in one phone call. Months later, at trial, he told a different story.
Q. Now, when you are having this conversation with the defendant later on – says, ‘Later on I spoke with Charles’ – are you face to face? A. Yes. Q. Where are you? A. On the porch. Q. Whose porch? A. Stephanie’s porch, my sister. Q. Now you gave a whole lot of information in response to the prosecutor’s questions about conversations you had with Charles and go into detail about the jack on jack and these guys with a Bible. There was a shoot-out and goes into detail about where the people were shooting and everything. And then, also talking about the girl had been shot, that they had been outside. And he asked you about talking with Detective Novak, and she supposedly had performed oral sex on him. When do you get that information? What time is that? A. I don’t really recall. I got, like I said, bits and pieces in person.
Q. Is it one conversation or several? A. It was several. Q. Over what period of time? A. I don’t really recall, a couple of days. Q. So, it’s not just Monday, it’s Monday and Tuesday? A. To the best of my knowledge, yeah.
Yet – in his taped statement – Dodson claimed Charles confessed to him in one phone call on Tuesday morning from Louisiana, a time when Charles Mamou wasn’t in Louisiana.
Friends and relatives of Mamou’s have told me Mamou would never have shared his business with his cousin, Terrence. But, Terrence was willing to testify to a confession, so he was very valuable in the investigation – even with an odd version of events that didn’t match any of the available information or witness accounts. He even said the drug deal shooting began inside the car. As everyone knows – including the witnesses, police, prosecution and defense – it didn’t happen inside the car.
The drug deal and shooting actually took place outside the car. And none of the people there described a bag of money being thrown back and forth. That version is far from believable, even without any of the witnesses. But Terrence Dodson was giving investigators a confession, no matter how far-fetched it might sound. Not only was it a ‘confession’ it was one by a cousin – why would a cousin lie?
With regard to the victim – Dodson had an even more bizarre story to tell. One moment he described the girl as ‘scared’ and his cousin was trying to calm her down – and in the next moment he actually told investigators that she said, “I ain’t fixin to suck your dick for under $300.”
The victim’s body was later found in a neighborhood Charles Mamou, who was from Louisiana, would not have been familiar with, in the backyard of a house that was for sale. That is not how Terrence described the location though. He said in his statement that it was behind some abandoned houses, some for sale houses.
At one point it seemed the investigators were trying to help him include something they wanted him to add to his statement.
Again – the detective appeared to want this detail in the statement and again asked the leading question.
There wasn’t much about Dodson’s statement that lined up with what the other parties involved had to say. Even Dodson’s description of Mamou’s sunglasses that the prosecution presented as being connected to Mary. The glasses were nearly five miles from the body – but that was never told to the jury. In Dodson’s version of the story – the glasses were broken, ‘lenses gone and everything’. Anthony Trail and Charles Mamou, who had no reason to lie about the condition of glasses, both described the glasses as not being broken, and they were the ones who picked them up.
Terrence Dodson spoke to police for over an hour. A month after this statement to police was made, he wrote a letter to his cousin, Charles Mamou, who was in prison. In the letter he 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.”
Charles Mamou was repeatedly accused of sexual assault during the trial and has repeatedly asked for any DNA testing that should have taken place if there was a sexual assault, as he knows it wouldn’t match him.
During the punishment phase of Mamou’s trail, autopsy photos of individuals other than Mary were shared, as well as testimony from family members of other murder victims. Charles Mamou has never been tried for any other murder.
I have tried to contact Terrence Dodson on several occasions, but he has not responded.
Charles Mamou is out of appeals and currently awaits 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
Forgiveness was something I had to learn in order to move forward. It took me a while to realize, I also had to forgive myself. For too long, I kept punishing myself for my failure, for my loss, and for not being a better man. Unfortunately, the more I punished myself the more I messed up my life. I was stuck in a self-destructive cycle that kept me from being a better person.
I’ve forgiven myself, and I’m working to become a better
person – someone deserving of the forgiveness and trust of my loved ones and
the people I’ve hurt. There’s no way I
can change my past, nor erase my misdeeds, but I can work towards a better
future and keep my lessons in mind so I don’t fall back into that
self-destructive mentality. I know it
won’t be easy and it has not been easy, but I can only take it a day at a time
and pray I’m strong enough to not stumble.
If I do, I hope to have the fortitude to stand back up. This journey has not been easy, but I have
learned and have been blessed to have many good people on the way that have
shown me that I can earn the trust and respect of people by my actions without
being judged solely for my past.
Though I have many regrets, my faith and hope in a better future help me stay strong and not give up. There’s a long road ahead of me, and I can only keep going and learning. Forgiving myself and forgiving the people who have wronged me has prepared me to start on this road to redemption.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jorge Garcia is a poet and currently working on his first book. He can be contacted at: Jorge Garcia #1372972 McConnell Unit 3001 S. Emily Drive Beeville, TX 78102
