“This nigger’s slow as molasses,” the driver chuckles, followed by a chorus of giggles from the prisoners – some of them black – gathered at the top of the ramp as I finally reach the incline.

Now the real task – a Herculean one – figuring out how to walk up the incline while leaning back and carrying the heavy box, which now feels like its weight has doubled.

I cannot see the edge of the ramp, so I raise one foot slightly and feel for it with the toe of my shoe. The last thing I want is to clip the edge and tumble face first. With each movement, aided by the pressure I am forced to apply by pushing my hands upward from the bottom and chin downward from the top, the box burrows the handcuffs deeper into my wrists. I can feel the blood begin to trickle.

Please God, what did I do to deserve this? Please, help me.

I manage to get both feet on the ramp and begin the slow, arduous assent. The higher I climb, the more I must strain to maintain my equilibrium and steady the box, every muscle on fire. My mouth feels like it’s coated with sawdust, and I’m starting to feel faint, but I press on.

“Almost home, ain’t cha, boy?”

The misery I feel is what I would presume gave life to the phrase ‘Hell on Earth’.  It is not just the physical agony, though it’s all I can focus on, the mental pain is lying beneath the inferno, awaiting its return to the surface.

By the grace of God, I make it to the top, only to peer into what appears to be a black hole – a corridor so long I can not see the end. This can’t be real. God, tell me it’s not real.

“Stay in the middle of the hallway,” commands Bob.

The prisoners who had climbed the ramp ahead of me stood in the back of the line for the chow hall, eyeing me as I try to adjust the box.

No longer can I conceal the pain wracking my body. Grimacing, I hobble down the hallway, handcuffed and defenseless, only a couple feet away from some of the most violent and dangerous men in the world. It would be like any other day if one of them produces a shank and stabs me.  The guards won’t protect me, they’ll be first to run.

About a quarter of the way down the hallway, I lose my grip, and the box slips out of my hands, hitting the floor with a tremendous thud. Everything instantly halts, as if we’re suspended in time. I feel every eye on me as I stare down at the box and my pride that lay crushed beneath it, not daring to look up.  Please! Somebody just stab me now. Let’s get it over with. Death, I welcome you. Right now!

Neither of the guards escorting me make a move to pick it up, but in my peripheral vision I see movement. Now I’m looking down at a prisoner as he picks up the box. Moving quickly, afraid the guards might chastise him or even worse, he places the box in my arms and returns to the line.

“Thank you.”

He nods acknowledgment.

“Come on, sweetheart. We ain’t got all day.”

I start forward, and I can already feel the box begin to slip. Because he had rushed to put it in my arms, I’m unable to get a better grip, and still have quite a ways to go.  I know I won’t make it without losing hold.

Again, I drop it, but this time it was not so dramatic. Seeing that the other prisoner suffered no repercussions, someone immediately steps out of line and retrieves the box, taking his time to make sure I have a good grip.

“Got it?”

I adjust my hands, “Yeah. Thank you.”

He nods and steps back in line.

The kind acts of two prisoners assuages my trepidation, and with renewed vigor, I lug the box without further incident to ‘Times Square’, four intersecting hallways that serve as the prison’s main arteries.

When the escort guards approach the main control room, the driver says, “I heard ya’ll had a vacancy.”

The female guard looks up from her paperwork, then at me. Realizing I have on a death row uniform and that the guard was referring to the execution that had taken place the day before while I was being sentenced to die, she looks back at him and bursts into laughter.  “Yeah, I guess we do,” then over her shoulder, “Vinny, we gotta gain.”

A guard enters the control room and unlocks the door of a tiny holding cage that sits directly across the hallway.  “Come on. Step inside and have a seat.” He takes my box and drops it to the floor.

As instructed, I step inside and sit on a narrow bench. The guard bends down, raising my pant leg, and inserting a key in the shackle, causing me to tense up and wince in pain, before removing the manacle stained with my blood.  Now the other one.  Again, I tense and wince as he frees my ankle from the bloody contraption. He stands and backs out, slamming the door closed.  “Stand up,” he orders, handing the leg irons to the transport guard.  “Turn to the side.”

I comply. He reaches through a hole cut into the mesh and removes the lock that is holding the chain around my waist. Once that is done, I slowly turn back towards him so he can unhook the chain from the black box, a torturous device designed by an ex-prisoner, placed over the handcuffs to lock the wrists and hands in one position, preventing any movement.

He unhooks the chain and removes the black box. The transport guard takes them from him. “Stick your hands out the hole.”

I do so, tentatively, anticipating the agonizing pain that never comes – my wrists and hands are still quite numb. I watch as he peels the cuffs from the gashes in my wrists, slivers of my skin and blood cling to the metal.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

I turn, and he clamps another pair of handcuffs over the bloodied gashes. Grimacing, I throw my head back towards the heavens as the pain flashes red behind my eyelids.  Argh!!  Fuck! Man, are you serious?

“Have a seat,” he says.

As I open my eyes and turn to sit, the driver says, “Have fun,” laughing as he walks away.

I sit with my hands behind my back, wrists searing hot with pain, for almost three hours before the property room Sergeant rolls a dolly to the cage and throws my box on it.  Opening the cage door he says, “Follow me.”

I follow him for about a half a football field to the property room. Thank God! I’m not carrying that box.

We enter and he dumps the box’s contents on a large table. Combing through my belongings, he documents the items I’m allowed to keep and places them back into the box.  He throws the items I’m not allowed to keep into a large trashcan that sits next to the table.

After about twenty minutes, he places the box and a bedroll on the dolly. “Let’s go,” he demands, leading the way.

Back in the hallway we continue until we reach the end. There is a door in front of us that leads to the electric chair and a door to the left that leads to the death row housing unit.  The Sergeant taps it with his keys, and a guard who looks like he should be just entering high school opens the door.

“A death row gain,” the Sergeant tells him, retrieving the box and sliding it inside the door. Before turning to leave, he hands the bedroll and paperwork to the guard.

Standing, frozen, outside of death’s door, I try to sort my emotions – fear, anger, confusion, doubt. I no longer feel the burning, ephemeral pain in my ankles and wrists. The hurt girding me now eclipses the physical. There is no lotion or ointment to soothe it.

“I think you’re goin’ to cell 7,” the young guard says, snapping me out of a daze. Then he steps aside, beckoning me to enter.

I turn and peer down the long corridor, swallow hard, and hesitantly cross the threshold. Once I enter, he closes and locks the door.

Another uniform appears, “Sarg, we got a gain. I believe he’s goin’ in 7.”

“You got his things?”

“Yes. Over there.”

“Okay. Grab ‘em and let’s go.”  Then to me, “Follow me.”

I follow him to a door made of steel bars. He unlocks and opens it, and we step into a long, narrow hallway that has bars on the left and cells on the right.  When we reach the seventh cell, the young guard steps into the darkness and deposits the box and bed roll.  He exits, however, I don’t enter immediately.

“Well, wacha waitin’ for?  Go on in.”

Reluctantly, I step inside. When the door slams behind me, it startles me, causing me to flinch.

“Back up a bit, so I can take them cuffs off.”

My wrists are raw and tender.  At least this part of the agony will be over. Thank God.

After they leave, I look around for a light and spot a string in the corner dangling from the ceiling. I pull it, and a dim, 40-watt bulb comes to life.  Roaches scurry everywhere.

I look around the filthy cage. Paint is peeling off the walls which are so close that I can stand in the middle of the floor, extend my arms, and touch both of them – and the ceiling.  Dirt and dust bunnies cover the floor, mold and brown crud occupy the sink and toilet.

I flop down on the narrow steel bunk and look around at my new surroundings, trying to process everything – my innocence, conviction, sentence.  How the hell did this happen, and where do I go from here?

Then I hear a voice.  “Hi, neighbor. How’s it goin’?”  I didn’t even consider that there were others – I didn’t look into any cells while walking down the hallway.  “Name’s Locke. I’m over here, next to you, in six.”

“How’s it going, Locke?  Just trying to get settled in.”

“Well, if you need anything, just give me a holler. You want some smokes?”

“Yeah, I would appreciate it,” I reply, even though I don’t smoke.

I don’t have the strength to clean, so I sit smoking until it turns dark outside. Tired of sitting, I turn off the light and lay in the dark, smoking and listening to critters scurry about, until I doze off to sleep.

I have a dream… unfettered, head held high, retracing my steps down the long corridors – I walk to freedom.

Epilogue

Still – 26 years later – sleep is my only freedom.

©Reshi Yenot

“Fuck your religion!” yelled an irate Polo, attempting to defend his stance in a one-sided debate with another inmate, Bob Cook, a professed Christian, though he never read the Bible.  Not once.  He never attempted to read it either. He possessed an NIV version that sat quietly on top of his rusted cell’s table, collecting dust.  “All He was, was the original MGM magician – no better than David Copperfield!”

Polo was a celebrated and outspoken atheist and verbally strong-armed the one-sided debate about religion. Of course, Bob wouldn’t have anyone disrespecting his faith, his Jesus, whom he felt was God’s son, although he never totally understood the ‘how’ aspects within his beliefs.  Bob was a typical, middle-aged, white Southerner with traditional Texan pride. He was short and round in stature, built in the mold of Barney Rubble from the Flintstones with hair as white as cotton and alopecia taking over the center of his head.  He was a goodhearted guy and my neighbor for about three years.  When you are held within the close quarters of Texas Death Row, in solitary cells 24 hours a day, you learn a lot about your neighbors. You get a better understanding of who they are.

I knew Bob well, perhaps better than anyone on the planet. He had a genuinely cuddly personality, always attentive to the needs of others more than his own.  He was not one to argue and would often display dumbness when others were attempting to explain something asinine, just so the talker could get whatever it was they wanted to say off their chest.

He didn’t have much and lived on about 20 bucks a month.  To put things in perspective, he didn’t have shit, but what he had – anyone who wanted it, could have.  That was one of his flaws – he was too kind and an easy target to be taken advantage of.  He was guilty of the crime that landed him on death row, though it could be contested that his crime did not fit the criteria for a death sentence. Nonetheless, he was riddled with remorse, often saying, “I’m going to hell.”

When I asked him why, he said the chaplain told him that the Bible said, “Thou shall not kill.”  Texas death row chaplains carry no sway with me ever since one told me that my being executed was God’s will.  I calmly told him, “Bullshit.”

I then took out my Bible and read several scriptures to Bob, leaning on my studies from when I was enrolled in theology classes. One reason why he never read the Bible was because he couldn’t. He was illiterate. I read to him about forgiveness, faith and salvation, which he appreciated, and in time he gained hope that he might have a chance to get to heaven.

Of course, ‘perfection’ has never been a Christian strong suit, Rome wasn’t built in a day and some dogs refuse to let go of old tricks. So when Bob had enough of Polo’s Christian diatribes, he declared “May Jesus Christ forgive me now for what I’m about to say.  Fuck you, Polo!” and with that, he walked away from his cell’s door, steaming mad, and went to sit on his bunk.

Polo began to laugh at Bob’s parting cussing. His handsome and smooth caramel colored facial skin was shining like polished armor due to his overuse of commissary bought baby oil that he used daily.  He liked the smell that reminded him of when he was a baby and being smothered with the loving hugs of his mother as he was held between her tender arms and her comfy bosom.  He was thirty-two, and had been incarcerated more than he had been in the free world.  He was arrested at the age of 15, held in the county jail until he was 17, and then sent to death row. He would be executed/murdered before the USSC’s decision to ban all executions of juvenile offenders.  Like most youngsters who grew up around environmental dogma, he was rough around the edges, not cordial and trusted no one. He spoke in waves which often confused the listener as well as himself to some degree, because his ideologies were a perplexing mixed bag of black power, black militant-ism, Malcolm X-ism, Islamic beliefs that he adopted from others, and the scratch your head in utter disbelief performances he often acted out as he mimicked Bill Cosby’s Fat Albert show character with the line, “Hey, hey, hey, it’s Fat Albert!”

I often psychoanalyze people, trying to understand why they do the things they do.  Polo, perhaps, still felt as if he was fifteen-years-old and living in a thirty-two-year-old body.  Maturity never found an outlet within his mind in which to become liberated.  His actions and attitude were a reflection of the way he thought – childlike.  What else could you expect?

Polo stood alone in the middle of the section’s day room.  No one stood at their cell’s door that he could argue with.  Since arriving in the Polunsky Unit in 2000, group recreation, work programs, televisions, and any form of physical contact have been banned from the all-male branch of Texas Death Row.  So he began the redundant activity that we all do when we find ourselves alone in the day room with no one to talk to – walking in circles.  Consciously or unconsciously we lower our heads as if in shame and count in our minds the steps we take to make a full circle.  One… two… three… four… five…  It actually takes seventeen strides to complete a full circle in the dayroom.  I watched Polo from a distance as I sat in my cell, counting along with him. It would be the last time I was to see Polo in the flesh – alive.

Texas death row inmates are housed in a building called Twelve Building. It’s encased inside electrical razor wired fencing. On some mornings you can see the dead carcass of a stray cat or dog that didn’t get the memo about not touching the fence. Did these creatures not see one of the several bright yellow postings that warn, ‘Electrical Shocking Fence.  DO NOT TOUCH’?  Mayhap the animals were illiterate too.

There are six pods within Twelve Building, each lettered either A, B, C, D, E or F.  Within each pod are six sections, also lettered A, B, C, D, E or F.  Each of the six sections can hold fourteen cells for fourteen inmates.  Each man is alone, twenty four hours a day.

Inmates communicate by yelling loudly at the guy they are trying to have a civil conversation with. Though in a normal setting, yelling to obtain a civil conversation is indeed madness in nature. Ninety percent of the cells leak when it rains, some more than others. Black mold has run amuck within every cell on death row. The building was cheaply designed and constructed, and the infrastructure is weak and crumbling. Fighting spiders, mosquitoes and other critters is a daily chore.

The failures of the infrastructure are so timely and repetitive that one can’t help but assume there is a conspiracy going on, because nothing works as it should here. Every year during the summer, the water is going to get cut off for a day or two straight. There won’t be fresh water to drink, no water to shower with and no water to flush the accumulated shit and piss that will idly stew. And let me tell you, once the sun’s rays bake this concrete building’s back wall, the structure becomes an oven, causing any religion you thought you had to get temporarily thrown out the window due to the foul odor.  If anyone asks us if we are comfortable or okay at that point – they are often greeted with the same aggravated, “Muther fucker, what do you think?”

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas.  His last appeal has been denied and he maintains his innocence.

He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351