Prison is not only tough on a man physically, it also damages him emotionally and mentally. Being all packed in together the way we are, it’s hard to miss anything happening in your assigned living area, and in my time here, I’ve seen three men commit suicide.
I once watched as a man leaned out his door and slit his wrists. He died before medical arrived.
Another time, I was in a dayroom watching TV when a man
jumped head first off three row. That’s about forty feet onto cement. He survived the initial jump, but later
died.
The most haunting suicide was a hanging… I’ve actually been near for two hangings, but
in one I prevented a death, and in the other I was just a bystander. In 2006 my celly hung himself on the Ellis
unit. I happened to arrive back at the
cell while he was suffocating, lifted him up and called for help. He was
hospitalized and then placed into mental health care. I have to laugh when I write the word ‘care’ –
that’s a misnomer for sure.
The man that hung himself and died did so with a day room
full of people. He walked out of his
cell on two row, walked onto three row, tied a sheet around the rail and
climbed up to perch on it. He was
making demands. There was something wrong
at his family’s place, and he wanted access to a phone. At that time, there were no phones in TDCJ. They have since installed some phones for some
of the inmates. The officer on the pod responded and tried to tell him that he would
help. They argued, and the officer got angry before saying, “You aren’t going to
jump anyway.”
…and the inmate jumped.
He dropped about fifteen feet and began choking. The staff panicked and ran to three row to
untie the sheet, which would have dropped him twenty-five more feet to the
cement, but they couldn’t untie the knot.
His weight had tightened it. Inmates on two row were trying to hold the
hanging inmate but they couldn’t. He
suffocated and died while hanging. Officers cleared the living area.
My last look at the inmate was seeing him still hanging from
the rail twenty minutes after he had jumped.
TDCJ sanitizes a scene like that by shipping most of the inmates off the
unit immediately, a few here and a few there, so no reporters or investigators
can chase down the facts.
I’ve seen two life ending heart attacks. I watched a man choke to death in the chow hall. I’ve been housed near, but not actually witnessed, several other suicides and attempts. I’ve seen so many stabbings I’ve lost count. An inmate that gets stabbed finds himself in real trouble. Medical care here is slow to respond and poorly trained. There are two doctors on staff that work 8 am to 4 pm, and the fact that these doctors are employed by the system allows them to be considered for medical licensing. All the rest of the medical staff are nurse’s or physician’s assistants. They are able to take vitals and talk to you about chronic pain, but when a man has been stabbed fourteen times in the chest and stomach, they are ill trained to treat him. These injuries tend to end in death. Usually, medical tries to stabilize the victim while an ambulance is called, and by the time it arrives the inmate is beyond care. I’ve seen officers stabbed and inmates assaulted by officers.
Simply put – violence is a way of life in here in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeremy Robinson is author of The Monster Factory and is currently working on several projects. He can be contacted at: Jeremy Robinson #1313930 Polunsky Unit 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
You might want to sit down for this. Being as you’re so young, my intention is to be delicate, but there are some troubling things that need to be disclosed about the path down which you are headed.
Who am I, you ask? Oh, I’m nobody in particular, though I could’ve been. It’s just that I’ve made some really poor choices in life – kinda like what you’re doing. Should you continue, well… eventually you may become nobody in particular too.
The things you’re going through that you think no one else understands – I do. However, I’ve come to learn that other people’s shortcomings are not my excuses, and there’s self-accountability in most blame. We are all responsible for creating the lives we want for ourselves. None of us are exempt from that obligation, Duck. No one else determines how you live.
I know that you’re experiencing some household issues that compel you to find acceptance outside your home. Your older brother, Ray, whom you idolize, doesn’t want you tagging along with him anymore. And while you wait enthusiastically around the house for his return, still, he doesn’t notice you. I know between your mother’s day job and night school, quality time has given way to fatigue. And while everyone dotes on your cute kid sister, your presence feels passed over. It makes you envious, and you question your worth. You feel invisible, as though you don’t matter. You prioritize making friends for the sake of their opinions to validate your importance. You assume a person’s reputation is the measure of their worth; that fear is ascribed to weakness. So you smoke, deal drugs, and have unprotected sex simply to gain approval. But real friends needn’t prove themselves to one another, and fearfulness touches us all. Even the stony looks on the faces of those you so desperately hope to impress, they too have known fear. We’ve all been afraid, though not everyone has the courage to admit it. Owning up to our fears is not weak but strong.
Open your eyes, Duck. You could have a rich, joyous life, if only you would seize it and realize that nothing worth having comes free, it takes dedication and hard work. And yes – having to take ownership over your life at thirteen can be scary, but being a better person is a decision that can only be made by you. Should you continue to travel down such a callous road of indignities, well… you’ll find yourself one night staring down the barrel of a shotgun while fumbling in your socks for what you hope is enough money to trade for your life. You’ll have kids who will grow to adults and have no idea who you are. You’ll suffer scorching lead bore through your flesh as you are left in the street for dead. You will become a slave to your addictions, contract STDs, and erroneously learn to settle domestic disputes with your fist. You will hold a man’s life in your hands while wielding a powerful sense of judgment at the price of your humanity. You’ll spend 20 years in a prison cell crying yourself to sleep at night with shame. Your life will be plagued with regrets, and you’ll find that behind closed eyelids, your demons await.
There’s lots of hurt coming your way, Duck. Trust me – I know. But there’s also the chance for you to make things different. The life you want – your dreams and aspirations – they begin and end with you. Don’t let the pain of your poor choices diminish your goodness and exact its toll on your family. Don’t let the expectations of others determine who you will become. You’re a wonderfully smart and gifted young man with unworldly potential for greatness, so be someone to be proud of… don’t be another me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a thought provoking, inspirational writer and a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work.
He can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Charles Mamou has never wavered in declaring his innocence, but the key witness at his trial testified that Mamou ‘confessed’ to him. In a case without a weapon, or a fingerprint at the scene, or a hair, or a fiber, or DNA, or an eyewitness, or a violent history – the testimony of Terrence Dodson was a key factor in Mamou’s death sentence. But, in matters of life and death, should claims of ‘confessions’ be held to a reasonable standard of reliability?
Dodson wasn’t just an uninvolved witness. According to his own testimony, he clearly had
reason to be concerned about his well-being.
When asked, “Were you a little
concerned about the fact that you might be charged with a crime?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t have
that concern now, do you?”
“No.”
Over and over, Dodson maintained his understanding that he had
a lot at stake.
“And at that point in
time, what exactly are you thinking at the time that you were picked up by the
police? Is it clear to you that they are
looking at you as a suspect for capital murder?”
“Yeah, it was clear to
me.”
“So, at that point, is
it a fair statement to say you’re very concerned about your future and what
might happen to you?”
“Yeah, it’s a fair
statement.”
Dodson knew the gravity of the situation and the possible consequences to himself. That would be enough to make one wonder if his testimony regarding Mamou’s ‘confession’ could be relied upon, but self-preservation wasn’t the only issue that would bring into question everything that Dodson shared in the courtroom. There were also contrasts between his original statement to police and what he testified to during the trial.
During the police interview, Dodson repeatedly said he had
nothing to do with the drug deal that took place that night. He simply wanted to go home.
“He told me that he
was going to buy a kilo – coke, and I was like, man, take me home because I don’t
want to be around the transaction or whatever.”
“So, him and Bud
started looking at me saying just chill out man, chill out, man, you are
tripping, I was like, man, no, just take me back to the house, that’s all I am
asking.”
“And he kept saying, just
chill, we got out there. I’m like, oh
man, just take me back.”
“And I am like, just
take me back, man, I am not with all that.”
Yet, during the trial, when asked about his involvement in
the drug deal, Dodson describes it differently.
“What was your part
going to be?”
“My part in the
robbery?”
“Right.”
“To rob them.”
“With what?”
“With a gun.”
“You had a gun?”
“Yeah, I had it on me.”
“So, what is it that
you’re supposed to do, you, personally?
What is your role on this jack on jack?
Of course, you’re not knowing
that it’s a jack on jack at that point, are you?”
“Exactly.”
“So, what is your
role? What are you supposed to do?”
“Once I see the dope,
I pull out my pistol and take the dope.”
“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?”
“Pretty much.”
The star witness consistently contradicted himself and his
prior recorded statement. While being
questioned by detectives, Dodson described Mamou’s ‘confession’ as taking place
in one phone call.
“Ok, and where was he
calling you from?”
“He said, Louisiana,
but we don’t have a caller I.D., so he said, what’s up? I said, what’s up? He said, what’s going on? I said, there is nothing going on, what’s
up? He said, have been watching the
news? I say, yeah. He said, man, he just started telling what
went down, that he, in so many words, did it, and I like, man, and he told me
step by step how it went down.”
Dodson lived in Houston, and Mamou lived in Louisiana. Dodson told police that after Mamou returned to his home in Louisiana, he called Dodson and confessed. Yet – at trial, Dodson changed his story, describing how the confession took place differently.
“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
had a bible. There was a shoot-out and
goes into detail about where the people were shot 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 Novack, and she supposedly
had performed oral sex on him. When did
you get that information? What time is that?”
“I don’t really
recall, I got, like I said, bits and pieces in person.”
“Everything that you
said here in court today, you’re attributing to him?”
“Yeah, everything I
said that was told to me was told to me by him.”
“It is one conversation
or several?”
“It was several.”
“Over what period of
time?”
“I don’t really
recall, a couple days.”
Terrence Dodson didn’t just contradict himself throughout his statement and testimony. He also told a version of the drug deal during his statement to police that no one else did. According to him, Mamou confessed to getting into the Lexus before the shooting. He clearly describes the violence taking place inside the car. He also paints a picture of two drug dealers throwing a bag of ‘money’ back and forth between them.
“So the dude that drove the Lexus approached Chuckie or whatever, so this is how we are going to do it, you gonna ride with my boy in my Lexus, and you all do the business and we gonna stay here with Bud or Buk whatever. So, Chuckie was like, no, no, I don’t even like the way that sounds. So, if I am going to do the business, is going to be with you, because you are the one I talked to. So the dude must have said, they all loaded up in other words, and the dude told Chuckie we are fixin to do the business down the dark street, so Chuckie said you want to do it in front of Bennigans, but the dude said, it is too hot over here. So they went down the dark street. Dude asked Chuckie where is the money? So, Chuckie said, I got the money, and threw him the paper bag, whatever. The dude threw it back, so Chuckie said, what’s up? The dude said, take the money out, I want to see it. Chuckie said the money is right here, threw back at him. Chuckie said, by that time, he see the dude flinch – like moving into his seat. Chuckie said, he came out with his pistol and was like, man, what’s going on, and the dude was pulling for his. He said, he just thought something, and shot him up on whatever and burnt off with the girl in the Lexus.”
“His exact words were,
shit, I threw him the money, and he threw it back. I threw him the money again,
and he threw it back, know what I’m sayin’, and that’s when I threw down to see
what’s goin’ on.”
The two witnesses and participants in the drug deal, Charles
Mamou, and the police have established that the drug deal and shooting took
place outside of the vehicle. None of
the other individuals described a bag being thrown back and forth.
Not long after Terrence Dodson told the police that Charles
Mamou ‘confessed’ to him, he wrote a letter to Mamou. In it, Dodson once again contradicts himself,
writing, “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 is currently on death row in Texas and waiting
for his 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
Whether a prisoner of concrete walls, iron bars and razor wire fences, or economic woes, or mental insecurities – everyone is hungry for a ‘why’ to get through one more day.
My name is Charles “Chucky” Mamou, Jr., and I have been a prisoner on Texas Death Row since 1999. It is here that I found myself a student of my own self, a man whose mental incarceration has been pardoned. I now see things with clarity, without bias. I am not the same man I was a decade or so ago. Now, don’t get it twisted – my imprisonment and death sentence did not bring about such change. For any person to fully attempt to start the process of change, it has to start with the changing or reforming of one’s own mind. I took a liking to the cliché, ‘You are what you think yourself to be’.
A robber doesn’t walk around thinking what sermon he’s going to preach on Sunday, nor is he singing Amazing Grace to express the joys of his heart. He’s thinking about his next heist. But, I’ve come to accept what many deem unthinkable – humans do change! Some from good to bad. Many from bad to good. It all begins with a thought toward a different approach that hasn’t been tried before.
Life finds meaning through ‘why’ and cautious hindsight that allows us to decipher what is important to each one of us. For me, such sanity comes from my devotion to my mother, children, family and sincere friends. More importantly, the devotion they have for me that sustains me. It keeps me smiling when my face should be caked with frowns. They help levee my eyes so that my tears do not cause my heart to flood in misery. They are my ‘whys’ and continue to give me hope for a brighter future.
My family has allowed me to see the other victims that don’t
get much attention in a death penalty system.
The victims who go unnoticed, uncounted, unheard and not spoken enough
about. As much as I understand that it
is because of me that the ones I love have become victims, I see an incredible resiliency
in them, a beacon that no longer allows my own ignorance to be the master of my
mental chaos.
I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring. I can only concern myself in the now. What I learn in the now will allow me to be a
better person in the tomorrows that lay ahead – should any tomorrows come to
pass. And, I can smile in this moment,
because I am mentally alive. Indeed, I
am stronger and wiser in mind, if nothing else.
Stronger today than I in my yesteryears.
Life isn’t how you see it, it’s how you make it. We’re here for a reason. To learn from lessons that are unseen. We are here for more than McDonalds and the
mall. We are here to love those who
adopt hate. We are here to understand
each other without the divide that ignorantly sees some as lesser beings due to
the color of their skin, when it’s the content of their character that should
be sought. We are here to rehabilitate the
rehabilitatable. We are here to forgive,
even if redemption isn’t feasible. We
are here to seek our meanings, our whys, and make a difference.
This is what I have observed. If we completely understand self first – then we can understand others. We are all designed in the same likeness, with the same capacity for peace, love, and respect of ourselves and our fellow brothers and sisters. This is my understanding.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas. He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.
He can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
I got outta solitary confinement – Yay! They weren’t through with me though. I expected nothing less…
On the 9th of May I was placed in a modified
general population housing unit. This
means more privileges – limited, but a tad bit better than the barbaric
isolation I endured for over 700 days. I
pray that my comrades back there are keeping the fight alive and manufacturing
hope in a hopeless situation.
On Saturday, June 3rd, I received a fifteen
minute phone call. This was my second in
less than thirty days, and I was ecstatic.
As you can imagine, we cherish this time no matter how short or long. It’s a lifeline, a buoy that keeps us afloat
in a sea of endless blue. Without it, we
feel hopeless and fall into despair because of the loneliness. At least, I do.
The person on the other end of the line and I had some
catching up to do. I’m nearly deaf in my
right ear, so I was holding the receiver to my left ear to hear over all the
yelling in the wing. I was on the phone
no longer than ten minutes. I know it wasn’t near the end because after fourteen
minutes we’re prompted by the operator to hurry up, “You have sixty seconds remaining.”
Mid-convo, I looked over my left shoulder because I felt as
if my personal space was being invaded or I was being watched. I stared into a face that was sun burnt,
weathered and covered with liver spots.
“Wrap it up,” the face demanded, filling the small area between us with
the acrid smell of a wet ashtray.
I complied and hung up. Mind you, well short of my fifteen minutes. Yet, who cares? I was elated to have heard my comrade’s voice and learn of his accomplishments.
“You!”
‘I have a name,’ I
thought.
“Give me your I.D.”
I handed him my
identification card and went to my cell.
I was oblivious to why he needed my I.D.
The young guy that was walking back to our cages with me stated matter-of-factly,
“He’s goin’ to write you up.”
‘For what?’ I thought.
‘I didn’t do anything.’
A few hours later, my cellmate and I were in an intense battle for position. I flanked, he thwarted. He sacrificed, I capitalized. I attacked, he parried. Pop! We nearly knocked the chess board over.
I peeked my head out of my door, and the loud speaker
garbled something unintelligible. I was confused, so I looked to my cellmate
for help, but he was still studying the board in confusion.
I struggled into my state issued orange jumpsuit that we
have to wear in the unit. When I went to the bubble, I was told to go back and
see the housing unit Sergeant. The
general population wings were open and in full swing. I was bombarded with
questions, handshakes and hugs. After
nearly thirty days out of isolation, I was still catching up with people every
day. It felt good to still be celebrated
and relevant after over two years in a box.
After forty-five minutes of waiting, I grew restless. I
walked into the back and saw a conduct violation on the desk. I snuck a peek, ‘Refused to get off of the phone’.
‘What?’ I had to catch myself from saying or doing
something uncalled for. One thing I’ve
learned is self-control. I know
impulsive decisions can have grave consequences, so I did the best thing
possible. I exercised my right not to participate and walked back to my
cell.
But, my heart was beating rapidly, so hard that I felt it in
my mouth and heard it in my ears. In short,
I was enraged. Why did he lie on
me? Maybe it was a mistake. He must have something against me or he’s
making some type of weekly conduct violation quota. And, YES, some do this more often than you would
think. You can never be too hard on ‘us
here pris’ners’.
After I calmed and accepted that I would be found guilty and
stripped of all phone privileges for two to three weeks, I made a cup of
steaming hot java – John Wayne style. I
had no sugar, creamer, or butterscotch candies, so I enjoyed every sip of the
bitter fluid just the way it was. It distracted me for the time being.
My cellmate knew what occurred. We’ve all experienced the same bull. We resumed our game. Of course, I took out my anger on the board. I probably shouldn’t have because I – ahem – caught bloody murder in the middle of my cell floor. On the board, of course! Checkmate!!! Come on, you know me better than that, doncha?
On the 17th of June I knew I might get out on the general population yard on the 3rd day of July. I began safeguarding myself by complaining to medical to obtain a ‘lay-in’. If they aided me, it would stop them from giving me a conduct violation for something I couldn’t control – I was sleeping through institution counts. We should be standing, but again, I cannot hear. Sorry, watchu say??? If I got a ‘lay-in’, they’d knock on my door or open it if they needed me.
If medical knows that I suffer from hearing loss, why is it they don’t tell administration that I need to be prompted, and I’m not just being purposely defiant? My apologies for rambling. This had to be expressed. I live in a place that sees me only as a number. Property. Free labor. Not human.
They have a ‘dog program’ now. I love puppies and kittens, no doubt about it. But, the animals sent to be trained by incarcerated persons have more freedom and rights than the very men that nurture them and are advocates for their care. Is this not odd?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dr. Tracy Edgar Greer, Jr., D.D. is a writer, poet, spoken word artist and qualified religious and spiritual counselor. He can be contacted at:
Tracy E. Greer #1153032 SCCC-255 W. Hwy. 32 Licking, MO 65542 Email: Jpay.com
From 1983 to 1988, the year my dad passed away, I lived on a
farm of sorts. My dad’s property – forty
acres in the middle of East Texas. He
called it The Pine Curtain. He raised
pigs, goats, chickens, pheasant and quail.
Geese and ducks lived on the pond.
I accused him of having a petting zoo, because it seemed like the
animals considered themselves tenants – not a possible food source.
My dad would let them out, and they’d follow him around,
like interns following the lead doctor in a hospital. Most people would think it was an illusion or
trick, but the animals just knew my dad loved them, even though some of them did
eventually end up on the menu.
The goats didn’t think of themselves as goats. They were guests. They were Nubian goats. The female, Gracie, was black and white, and the male, Homer, was brown and orange. When dad first brought them home, they were just kids. They’d follow him and eat the grass, meandering around like foreign tourists, “No, thank you, we’re just visiting.”
When they matured, they mated and had little goats. Two at a time. The little ones would follow
my son around when he was four or five, and if anything got near Mike, they’d
chase them off. It wasn’t unusual to
see my son digging in the backyard, playing like little boys will, with two
small goats standing guard like unpaid babysitters.
When my dad passed away, my mom had me sell the larger
animals, the pigs and goats, because she couldn’t handle the workload. An older man down the road had goats on his
farm and agreed to buy Homer and Gracie.
I warned him Homer was better suited to be penned in or tied so he didn’t
cause any damage. Even though Homer was
a goat, he was like a bull in a china shop.
The man assured me that he’d been raising goats all his life
and could handle anything Homer had up his sleeve (or hoof).
After about a week, I ran into the man at the local feed
store. He told me he was sorry he didn’t
believe me. He had let Homer roam the
house grounds, unsupervised. The goat had
apparently climbed on top of his wife’s car and beat the hood up, kicking in
the windshield and eating the vinyl roof.
I asked if he’d done anything to the goat, and he told me he
tied Homer up. He thought about shooting
him but admitted that I had warned him, so he didn’t have the heart.
I made Homer’s bail!
Goats are pretty smart if you raise them from babies, but once in a awhile you get one who is just plain ornery. But much like people, even goats deserve a chance…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration. He is a frequent contributor as well as author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir recognized by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.” John can be contacted at: John Green #671771 C.T. Terrell Unit A150 1300 FM655 Rosharon, TX 77583
My attorneys told me we didn’t need to call any witnesses. Those intelligent white jury members understand what happened.
I’m no killer, and I was and never will be a rapist. I never physically hurt anyone who was
innocent in my life. When I refused a
plea deal to help them convict the ones they felt were responsible, I became
the Kunta – that would never be their Toby.
So they did what they needed to ‘teach me a lesson’.
A few days before my trial began, I sat in the courtroom before the Assistant D.A., Lyn McClellan, and my state-appointed trial attorney, Wayne Hill. Lyn McClellan was good at sending people to death row and was friends with my attorney – I’ve heard rumor McClellan was the godfather of my attorney’s son. I guess if it’s true, that makes them practically family. It wouldn’t surprise me – that’s Harris County, Texas. On that day McClellan turned to me and said, “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t prosecute this case. It’s clear what happened here. But it’s not up to me. My boss wants this case to go through. I may even lose.” McClellan’s boss was the legendary Johnny Holmes.
I was arrogantly naïve, thinking the truth would set me free
– justice.
There were subliminal messages being sent before the trial
even started. Referring to the famous
O.J. Simpson case, the judge assured jurors that was, “not going to happen
here. This is the real world. It is not California.” He compared the job of a juror to, “being a
pallbearer at a funeral.” “And when a
child acts out we must discipline that child.
We may not like it, but we have to do it.” My trial hadn’t even started, and he was
telling the jury I was already guilty. There
was no need to over think it.
The finality came during Dodson’s testimony though. The moment he told the jury I ‘confessed to
him’ that I sexually assaulted Mary – women on the jury began to cry and look
at me with vengeance. I had to turn away
from one woman’s glare after she took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. My character was castrated for an act that
never happened.
Before the trial when they questioned me, trying to get me to take a deal – they told me they had DNA. So, why didn’t they use it? If they had it, they didn’t use it because it wasn’t mine. They said I sexually assaulted her – but there was no DNA presented at my trial. Why?
I had two defense lawyers.
One was hired a month before the trial began and knew nothing about the
strategy or defense in my case. The
people representing me had a letter written by the ‘key’ witness – Dodson – and
his initial interrogation video. They
had in their possession evidence to dispute the key witness’s testimony, but
they never presented it. They allegedly
‘misplaced’ that evidence during my trial.
They miraculously found it after I was found guilty. Dodson said I confessed to him – the letter
he wrote said he didn’t know shit. The
jury never saw it.
I didn’t kill Mary. They had someone testify about me finding my sunglasses after Mary disappeared. They presented the glasses testimony like a smoking gun. If the glasses were near the body – I had to be the killer. What the jury never heard was that the glasses were found nearly five miles away from the body. I’d dropped them in the grass two days before I ever met Mary and nowhere near where she was found. My attorneys didn’t tell the jury that either. Nor were they told how many miles I would have had to have driven that night in a car with a flat tire in order to do what they said I did. They just listened to the prosecution paint their picture.
So, why did I testify? I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t, but after having the media portray me as a drug dealing rapist and murderer, just short of a serial killer, I was tormented so much that I knew if I ever had the chance to set things straight, I would. If I was going out on lies– I wanted the record to show my mother I didn’t lie.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas. He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence.
He can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
A caged bird sings, And a condemned man writes. The only freedom to be had In a tomb, sealed tight. But no, not airtight, Just enough to breathe. See the mugginess that looms In the dank lonely room? Shall it bring you constant misery For the wrong you have done. Murderer! You worthless monster! The same grief you have caused Should be exacted on your mama. O’ but it has, Just not enough. Heathenish villain Who deserves no forgiveness, And for that we’re going to bring Out the lethal stuff. Undo what God has done, Rid fathers of their sons, As your souls erode in darkness Till the day of judgment comes. And when that day comes, No tears, nor fears, Nor uprising peers Will hinder the injustice Inflicted on you for years, From way, way back On the slave man’s back. We are all black, And the distinction of skin color Is fallacy designed by the elitist As a means to stay in power. Watching the seconds tick As it nears the twelfth hour, Where preparations are made And sympathy forbade; Ain’t nothing Going on here But the necessary removal Of a threat to society. Placaters Turned player haters, Never losing an ounce Of sleep at night From knowing that death Is just a business. Torture chambers need hosts, Tax payers foot the cost, With endless sights of vigil lights As advocates brave the cold, Chanting, “No more deaths!” “No more deaths!” But there will always be deaths Till by death there’s no one left, But the supreme man And him who understands That classism Is about one clan. Not black, or white Nor those with the will to fight. And neither the caged bird that sings Nor the condemned man that writes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a thought provoking, inspirational writer and a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work. He can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
It’s been said a life is priceless, But freedom is not. You can purchase my life, But my freedom I can not?
Is a life that is tarnished, Still worth as much? If freedom is taken, Can a bunch be bought back?
Years of slavery, The Constitution says facts. We call them Amendments, The fourteenth is exact.
Modern day slavery, Combined with a life. Means no more time, For kids and a wife.
If my tarnished life Were no longer priceless, How much would it cost me, When to you nearly worthless?
How can I pay you, And still have mine? Still have life And still have time.
Could I be a soldier, And pay my debt overseas? Risk my life for my country, And buy back the deed?
Bathe in the glory, With sacrifice and pride. Live through the nightmares Of others who have died.
Wash off the tarnish, And come back anew. Knowing I paid with my life, It’s what I want to do.
There is no honor In dying a prisoner’s death. No parades or salutes, Praises in depth.
Only tears from a mother, Or whomever may be left. A cardboard box, a hole, and a number. Maybe some rain, but hardly the thunder.
Let me die with some honor, To further a cause. I’m still one of the Nation, And that’s under God.
I can’t sleep at night, Because I see a way, For me to wager my life At a price you can pay.
With nothing to lose And all to gain. You still will win, Even if I get slain.
You say a life is priceless, But freedom is not. Then you purchase my life, But my freedom I can not?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terome Porter found inspiration for this poem in his proposal, “Project Reform” – a prisoner’s push for redemption. He can be contacted at: Terome Porter #680067 Davis Correctional Facility DCF-CCA 6888 East 133rd Road Holdenville, OK 74848-9033
Charles Mamou had a fifteen to forty-five minute window to do what the prosecution said he did, according to their witness, Howard Scott. By everyone’s account, Mamou was on Lantern Point Drive at approximately midnight on December 6, 1998. Scott testified he was back at his apartment on Fondren between 12:15 and 12:45. Could he have murdered the victim in forty-five minutes or less?
At midnight that evening, there was a drug deal on Lantern
Point Drive in Houston that ended in gunfire.
The majority of the witnesses testified that Mamou’s driver, Samuel
Johnson, pulled away when the shooting began, leaving Mamou behind. Mamou then jumped in the running vehicle left
behind by the individuals he’d just had a shoot out with.
After that – the stories differ. Mamou testified he realized Mary Carmouche was in the car after he fled the scene. He also says he saw her for the last time after they both exited the car at the apartment on Fondren, where the vehicle was later found by police. Mamou also said there were several other people at that location who had contact with Miss Carmouche.
The drug deal took place at approximately midnight. The drive from Lantern Point Drive to Fondren
is 9.3 miles and 18 minutes. When the
police later recovered the Lexis at the apartments, one of the tires was completely
flat and partially off the rim. Howard
Scott testified that Mamou arrived at his apartment between 12:15 and 12:45
that evening.
The state presented a different version of events. The prosecution claimed Mamou, who lived in Louisiana,
left Lantern Point Drive after the shooting and drove to a deserted home on
Lynchester Drive, located 17.9 miles away.
They say he then took Mary into the backyard, forced her to perform oral
sex and shot her. No explanation was
offered as to how Mamou may have been able to locate an abandoned home on
Lynchester.
There was no evidence introduced in the courtroom regarding a sexual assault – not a hair, not a semen sample, no DNA. After the shooting, Mamou would have had to drive from the house on Lynchester to the apartments on Fondren and park the car where it was found. The drive from Lynchester to Fondren takes thirty minutes.
That scenario would have taken an hour and five minutes in
driving time, not taking into account the condition of the tire, locating a deserted
home, a sexual assault and murder. The
travel time to get to the crime scene was never addressed during the trial.
The Mamou case is riddled with questions. For many, it calls into question the concept of ‘innocent until proven guilty’. Among the areas of concern:
Although the jury was told Mamou sexually assaulted the
victim, he was never charged with sexual
assault and there was no physical evidence to support that claim.
Each of the parties involved in the drug transaction
testified against Mamou, and it appears none
were charged.
The only witness who came close to putting Mamou near the
crime scene testified that Mamou confessed to him. That same witness later wrote a letter to
Mamou while he was incarcerated stating, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me shit
about that cause I don’t wanna know shit, I feel better off that way.” The
jury never saw that letter.
The state’s witnesses all
contradicted themselves and each other throughout the trial, as well as all
testifying to lying at various points of the investigation.
Mamou, who had no prior charges of violence, was described as
‘vicious’, ‘ruthless’ and ‘cold-blooded’ during closing statements. He was also accused of murdering other individuals during the prosecution’s closing
statements.
Autopsy photos and testimony were presented to the jury, as
well as victim impact statements from victims
of crimes Charles Mamou was never charged with.
Charles Mamou was never
charged with any crime connected to Anthony Williams who died months before. The prosecution told the jury more than
once, “And he murders Anthony Williams.”
Charles Mamou has maintained his innocence for over twenty years.
TO CONTACT CHARLES MAMOU: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
