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
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
