Innocent, Sentenced to Death

What Does It Take To Get On Texas’ Death Row?

Leave a comment

Some might say – not much.

No eyewitness to the crime. 

No weapon. 

No DNA. 

No record of violence.   

No confession.   On the contrary – Charles Mamou has never wavered regarding his innocence.  That’s why he didn’t take a deal when he was offered one.  He put his faith in the truth and Texas justice nearly two decades ago.   That turned out to be a deadly mistake.  His fate was left in the hands of Harris County, Texas – a community with a long and well documented history of condemning people to death.

And so Mamou’s trial began.  The O.J. Simpson trial was still fairly fresh on peoples’ minds – and Charles was a black man in Texas.  The words of the Judge set the tone from the beginning, as he referred to O.J.’s trial that ended in an acquittal, stating that was, “not going to happen here.   This is the real world.  It is not California.”  The Judge also compared being a juror to, “being a pallbearer at a funeral.”  This was followed up with, “the State is going to seek the appropriate punishment in this case; that is, their claim that it will be the appropriate punishment, punishment of death.”

The case against Charles Mamou revolved around the hearsay testimony of individuals who were all involved in criminal activity, and some very questionable ballistics testimony regarding a never recovered gun.

But, everyone agreed on where everything began.  Five men met on Lantern Point Drive, near the Astrodome, for a drug deal that went terribly wrong.  Charles Mamou and Sam Johnson arrived in one car.  They were met by Deion Holly, Terrance Gibson, and Kevin Walter, who arrived in another vehicle.  Unbeknownst to Mamou and Johnson – Mary Carmouche was in the backseat of the second car.   Deion, Terrance and Kevin brought a seventeen year old girl to a drug deal they approached with loaded guns.

Things went wrong quickly, and the shooting began in both directions.  Terrance Gibson was killed holding a loaded gun – a clear indication his death was the result of self-defense, in which no one was ever charged.   The other two men with Gibson, Deion Holly and Kevin Walter were also shot, but survived.

At some point during the shooting, it appears Sam Johnson hopped in the car that he and Mamou arrived in, and drove down the street.  Mamou thought his friend had left, although Sam was actually turning around and coming back for him.  In that moment, Mamou made a life changing decision.  Alone in that alley, he got in the other men’s car and drove away – with Mary in the backseat.

According to Mamou’s testimony, when he realized Mary was in the car – he stopped and asked her to get out, but she refused.  He then met up with Sam Johnson and they drove to Howard Scott’s apartment.

There, Mamou got out of the car, asking Mary to get out as well.  He was then met by Sam Johnson and Shawn England, another acquaintance.  Mamou was crying and upset, and Shawn pulled him aside to say, “those guys got what they deserved.”  Shawn and Mamou then went inside, leaving Sam Johnson and Mary outside.

Once inside, Mamou was provided with clean clothes, and Shawn England and Howard Scott went outside to search the car that Mamou had arrived in and wipe it down.   Mary was still outside and talking to Sam.  Eventually, another friend arrived on a bike – Kevin.  They all talked for a little while longer before Sam Johnson, Kevin, and Mary left together.

Mamou left the apartment complex to make a call, and when he returned, he saw Kevin and Sam Johnson come back.  Johnson went inside briefly before leaving again with Kevin.

Later that night, Sam Johnson and Kevin returned, and Kevin got on his bike and left.  A cab came for Shawn England, who also left.  Mamou spent the night in Howard Scott’s apartment.

According to Mamou, Shawn England had taken the gun from Mamou while at the apartment.

Mary Carmouch was later found dead with a gunshot wound to her chest.

The prosecution disagreed with Mamou’s version of events and centered a good portion of its case on an unfired cartridge that was found near Mary’s body.  They claimed the unfired cartridge matched the fired casings at the scene of the drug deal gone bad.  It was their theory that those casings had travelled through the same gun barrel.  The science used to support such a theory is arguable even in the best of circumstances, but in this case – there was no weapon to test the theory out on.  The weapon used in the drug deal shooting has never been recovered.  So, there was ballistics evidence that is not a certainty in the best of circumstances, but in this situation there was even less certainty, as it was comparing used and unused casings from a weapon that couldn’t even be tested.

The prosecutor falsely argued the match was a certainty.  He actually used the word ‘identical’ when comparing casings, and also stated as fact, “this was placed in the same magazine that the fired bullets were placed in, thus, fired through the same firearm.”  He lied.  The prosecutor simply lied to the jury.

The other ‘evidence’ the prosecutor had was the testimony of five men who were all involved in criminal activity and willing to testify and point their fingers at Charles Mamou.  It was never investigated or made clear just how those men might have benefited from their testimony, although it is reasonable to assume they did benefit as they were incriminating themselves with their testimony. In addition to the very real possibility that they received personal benefit for their testimony, three of them were inconsistent and admitted lying and being untruthful with police.  None of the men ever claimed they saw Charles murder Mary.

A good deal of the prosecution’s time was spent trying to paint a picture of Charles Mamou as a killer who had killed before, but the reality is – Charles Mamou was never tried for any other killing.

Charles Mamou’s defense attorney didn’t strongly defend his client, but rather seemed to flounder.  At one point during the crucial ballistics testimony he stated, “not sure if I understand what that means.”  In reference to magazine marks he said, “what is the word I’m looking for to describe what a magazine mark is?”

The total amount of time the defense spent ‘investigating’ Charles Mamou’s death penalty case was under ten hours.  The total amount of time Mamou’s counsel spent meeting with ‘the investigator’ was 2.5 hours.

Although all of the testimony available to the defense during the sentencing phase of the trial wasn’t used, the words of those people who could have spoken describe Charles Mamou as kind, generous and respectful.

The thoughts of Claudia Milton, who knew Charles Mamou and his family, were never shared with the jury.  “When Chucky was older he would often talk to my son about his problems.  My son was on drugs and Chucky would try advise him to do better things with his life.  I wanted my son to be more like Chucky.  There was times when I went shopping and Chucky was in the grocery store, he would buy my groceries and never wanted any money back.   There were many other people in town that Chucky would help buy groceries, pay rent or their electric bill.  Chucky helped people.”

The defense also did not share the thoughts of Mark Benolt, who has said in an Affidavit, “To me, Chucky does not have a ‘rough bone’ in his body.  I have witnessed him paying bills for friends, family members and other people in the community.  Charles Jr. is a friend that everyone wishes to have once in their life.”

Oddly enough, even though all of the testimony that could have portrayed Charles Mamou in a positive light was not pursued by defense counsel, the prosecution was permitted to bring in victims of crimes Mamou was never even tried for, along with referencing these other deaths throughout the trial with misleading references to, “evidence that Mamou had killed two other people.”  And in describing those deaths that Mamou has never been tried for, it was stated, “Terrence Gibson.  Anthony Williams.  They were brothers.  They were sons.  They were dads.”

Charles Mamou was never on trial for any other murders, yet victim impact statements were allowed from relatives of Terrence Gibson and Anthony Williams.  Emotion filled testimony was given detailing how the loss of those men impacted their families.  This was followed up by the prosecution, “And when he pulled the gun and he fired and killed Terrence and Anthony, he ripped those families apart.  He devastated and destroyed.  And that’s all he’s ever done, with his drugs, with his guns.”

During the penalty phase of the trial, the Judge also stated, “it’s no more different than it is when we’re raising kids.  It’s just no more different.  If we ever told a child not to do something once and the child does it again, we’re going to react one way.  If we have told a child ten times in the last thirty minutes not to do something and they have done it for the tenth time, we’re going to react a different way.”

The U.S. Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals has denied Charles Mamou’s last appeal, and he is currently awaiting an execution date.

Regarding the denial of his final appeal and the knowledge that he will soon  be executed by the state of Texas, Mamou recently expressed his frustration, “Nobody believes in me!  I love me.  America isn’t the land of equality.  Never has been.  Let’s not pretend.  Let’s admit what it is.  And before I take my last breath, the whole world will know they fucked me over.  That will be the symbol of why I lived.”

If only we didn’t need a dead body to know that the trial of Charles Mamou wasn’t just.

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

Related Articles:  Texas Death Sentence Clouded By Irrefutable Doubt;
Awaiting Execution – “Have You Ever Felt Like You Can Taste The Future?”;
Because They Can – Execution In Texas;
Letter From Key Mamou Witness Contradicting Testimony;
Testimony Worthy Of An Execution?  The Mamou Transcripts Part I;
The Mamou Transcripts – Part II;
The Mamou Transcripts Part III – Death Sentence Built On The Testimony Of Dealers

Writing By Charles Mamou

Loading

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Texas Death Row’s Mixed-Bag Psychology

Leave a comment

“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

Loading

Juvenile Justice, Why We Advocate

High School Students Working With People On The Inside

3 Comments

People sometimes look at you funny when they hear you are an advocate for the incarcerated.  Less often, some begin a debate about the need for fire and brimstone.

Advocates don’t have time to get caught up in a debate.  Nobody will ever convince us caring about people is a mistake.  Those who stick with it – use the debates, the occasional ugly comments, the injustice we see – as inspiration.

Marianne Teresa Ruud is an English teacher in Norway and someone who cares.   This is why she does what she does…

A week before Christmas, 2013, one of my female students lost her fifteen year old brother to suicide. He had been bullied through elementary and middle school and decided he didn’t want to live anymore. My student, along with her family, found him dead in his bed – no note, no explanation.  Just gone.

She was devastated and didn’t know how she was going to get through the rest of the school year. Other teachers kept telling me not to bring up her loss, not to talk about it.  On the contrary, I knew this was what we had to do. It had to be addressed, not quietly hidden away.

That’s when we came across the documentary, Young Kids Hard Time, by Calamari Productions.  The students expressed a great desire to write to the two individuals in the movie, Colt Lundy and Miles Folsom.  The letters the students received in return not only contained the prisoners’ stories, but also poems they had composed, reflections on books they had read and some very beautiful artwork. The letter writing developed on its own over time, giving us knowledge and insight.

We are now in touch with many intelligent and talented young people on the inside. It has motivated students to reflect and ponder on their own lives, as the people on the inside have helped them put into words the emotions and burdens they carry. The project has been most successful with at risk students, those with special needs and our advanced students who seek more knowledge and opportunities to obtain it.

For the past five years my students at Nannestad videregående skole (upper secondary school) in Norway, have continued to write and receive letters from incarcerated individuals, all juveniles sentenced to life and life without the possibility of parole from all over the United States of America.  Their ages differ as some of them who were sentenced as thirteen and fourteen years old are now in their thirties. The youngest individual we worked with was sentenced when he was twelve. Others have only been in prison for seven to ten years. A few of them are intellectually disabled and others were sentenced not knowing how to read or write. Their crimes vary from parricide, to robbery and felony murder. Most of them are victims of abuse, poverty, neglect, social violence and drug use. For the moment we are only writing to males, however, we will be expanding our project to include females.

Over the years we produced a full album of music, composed to selected poems we received. This was done by our media and communication students. There is also an extensive project looking at food waste and food corruption that was carried out in cooperation with some of the individuals, as prison food is of a very low standard and private companies supplying food to prisons are not serving proper portions and nourishing diets. We have also researched various topics together, especially with those individuals getting their high school diplomas and those pursuing a higher education.

Greetings from Norway,
Marianne Ruud, English Teacher

In October of 2017, Part I and Part II of a report were aired in South Bend, Indiana, sharing how Marianne Ruud and her students began their interaction with Colt Lundy.

Marianne said something in that report that I liked.  She expressed that Colt Lundy needed to have people in his life with his best interests at heart.

If we all had each other’s best interests at heart the world be a much different place.

Loading

Views From The Inside

Butterflies, Cats And A Turtle

Leave a comment

It was noon when she arrived.  I hadn’t seen her for weeks – a single, female cat, just seeking a little companionship.

The prison recently sealed all the screens, so she must have found a way to circumvent security, and she made her way to my casa.  Animals somehow know to seek me out.  I fixed her some mackerel and warm milk, and eventually, she left the way she came, whatever way that was.  Her name is Rae, if you see her.  She’s a ginger colored tabby, with low mileage and good tires.

It wasn’t thirty minutes later before Rae’s adopted son strolled in – a black as coal Tom with paws I hope he never grows into because he may be mistaken for a panther.  I was out of mackerel, so we shared a package of vienna sausages and the rest of the milk.  He thanked me for the meal and was on his way.

I was feeling content at that point and decided to take a nap.  It had just stopped sprinkling, and the weather had cooled to about 85 degrees, a lot better that the 95 it had been.  I fell asleep easily, listening to Jonny Lang, and slept the sleep of someone with a clear conscience.  It was around 1:30, and I had a little time before dinner and the next insulin shot.

When I woke, what I saw on my window took me by surprise.   There were about five or six blue and black butterflies, not swallowtails, but with rounded wings and light blue markings on the edges.  Like monarchs, but not.  They were looking in at me.  The visiting butterflies wouldn’t be so unusual, but I had just dreamed about those same butterflies.  They were an omen.

And, then it was Saturday.  At around 2:30 p.m., I look out the window and saw my next visitor.  It was in the alley between the buildings, crawling through the little bit of water left behind by the showers – a turtle.  It was about the size of my hand and making his way to an important turtle meeting.  Or maybe he was in a race against a rabbit that can’t possibly win – turtles never lose a race.

I’m grateful I’m alive. I wish I were home with all my heart, but in the meantime, I’ll wait faithfully for my Father to deliver me there. I am loved, wanted and entertained, all in the same breath.  No one could ask for more.  But I will…

 

ABOUT THE  AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He is a frequent contributor as well as the author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir.  John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

Loading

Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

A Dreamer’s Story

1 Comment

I’ve never done anything like this, but I can’t sleep.  Maybe these words will remain my secret, and I will try to make sense of things on my own, for better or worse.  But whichever way the wind that makes up my life blows, this is me and this is my story.

Whomever you may be, rest assured of one thing, I’ve never shared or trusted anyone with these thoughts.  Maybe I am now because you’re far removed from anything and everything I know, maybe because you’re a complete stranger, or maybe because I know there’s a likely probability I don’t send this out, and it’s nothing more than an entry of words on paper that I can look at, dissect, and try to assign a tangible solution to. Even though I know it’s unrealistic to think the reality of my situation can be fixed by reading it over and over on a piece paper.

But, here goes the reality of my life –  what it is the grown man behind this ink has made it to be.

The possibility of my release is accompanied by a very real possibility. It’s probable that my life will come to its end.  I’ve thought about this enough to know that I’m not afraid. That, in and of itself, saddens me.  Has it really gotten to the point that my own death is a concept that I welcome with open arms?  No, not welcome, but rather ‘accept’.  I guess everything I’ve been through and done has conditioned me to accept the reality of a violent death. I guess what saddens me is that I know by ‘accepting’ what’s to come, I failed her. I failed my hero…

Mine is the typical ‘Hispanic kid from the other side of the track’ story.  As a boy, Spiderman was my superhero. I refused to wear any underwear that didn’t have Spiderman emblazoned on them, and I refused to go to school if I didn’t have my Spiderman backpack and Spiderman lunchbox safely packed inside.

It wasn’t until one person after another started giving up on me for my poor life choices, that I realized my real ‘hero’ had actually always been a beautiful woman who lived in my home. My hero was my grandmother. My beautiful grandma, my mother, and she was stronger than Spiderman.

I was 13 years old when I learned my ‘mom’ was actually my grandmother and to what extent she had gone to make sure I was a part of her life. You see, I was born in El Salvador, and a mother’s loving embrace was not meant for me.  My real mother was rejected by my father, so I was, in turn, rejected by my mother.  After she delivered me, she gave me away in El Salvador before returning to the U.S.

My hero would not be denied her grandson though.  When her daughter came back home without her expected child and eventually confessed to what she’d done with me, my hero made a very costly and dangerous trip to a very poor and violent country to retreat the little guy who turned out to be me. If you were to ask her though, she’d say she only did it because she was told I had pretty green eyes – and I do.

So yes, I’m a ‘Dreamer’, or more accurately – I was. With the immigration issues dominating the political spectrum, I prefer not to mention it because there are men and women who have made far better choices and accomplished so much more than myself.  It would be unfair to them, in my opinion, to include myself in a conversation that would better serve them if those such as myself were far removed from it. From the depth of my heart I admire and am deeply proud of the men and women who were able to accomplish things that would otherwise not have been possible in our country. They made our people more, our lives relevant, and lifted us high. I’m truly sorry for every way I failed in my part and gave the Trump administration ammunition to use against us.

So while my hero did everything she could to protect me, there was one person she couldn’t save me from.  Me.  She couldn’t save me from myself.  I became a part of the street life that surrounded me. I’m not sure what hurt the most, the tears running down my hero’s face with every dollar discovered in my jeans while doing laundry (jeans she could not have afforded), knowing it was drug money she was looking at, or the way she would promise in a soft voice, with tired eyes, that things would get better and we would move to a nicer place. Then I’d watch her work harder and longer hours at a chicken plant that had a history of discriminating against immigrant workers, paying them below the minimum wage.  It was a common practice all the way through the 90’s.

What I now know, as a grown man who has been in prison for the last 13 ½ years, is that it was her love and the memory of her soft voice that got through to me eventually in a way nothing else could. You see, I was never supposed to know a mother’s love, but God sent me an angel when I was nothing more than a tiny little guy.  That angel will always and forever be my hero.

I had always viewed evil as a universal principle, and not so much as a malignant driven entity. It was just another way of doing things, the opposite of doing things the ‘right’ way, as defined by the law. And in my world, ‘evil’ was stronger and much more effective than ‘good’. I became fully absorbed in a lifestyle that brought me face-to-face with the government’s war on drugs, not to mention the reality of the wars behind drugs – attempted kidnappings of my person and the tragic loss of close friends to murder, suicide and kidnapping when the money or drug ransom could not be met.

My education throughout my teenage years and until I came to prison consisted of stratagems that minimized competition. A favored approach was one that required patience and time, something not found in abundance in a teenager’s life, but something taught by the older and more learned individuals on the corner. The stratagem was to force a drastic fluctuation in prices. This required preparing in advance and aligning yourself with a very deep well to pull from. Selling dope is a poor man’s hustle, regardless what rappers preach.  And poor men are seldom trusted with money or financial instruments. As a rule, only those who save more than they spend financially survive this tactic.

I learned that most followed the creed promoted by rappers, spending in abundance, completely confident the drug game would be there tomorrow.   And it will be, but only for those who are not in debt and understand the stratagems.

The end result, however, often led to the ghetto version of unemployment. Violent confrontations, home invasions, kidnappings, to name a few, took place to supplement the lack of income. That led to a deeper understanding of working and moving within a decentralized unit or group, often of only three, waiting and watching for other units to stabilize and establish their identity and then re-negotiating everything into an effective network again, weeding out the weak, unnecessary, and problematic players. Until you have to do it all over again.

Thus was my education, and the engine that brought me here.   I didn’t fully grasp the English language until sometime around middle school, and my first comprehendible sentence was something along the lines of, “Don’t play with me, Bitch.”

I was 21 years old when I came to prison, with my reputation flawlessly intact. Four years into my sentence, the state of Texas confirmed me as an active member of Mexikanemi, otherwise known as the Mexican Mafia, and placed me in administrative segregation, where I have been ever since – nine years and counting.

Why am I writing this?  I’m, honestly, not sure. All I know is that I can’t sleep. I lost my hero, and I’m just trying to make sense of what’s in front of me. I’m being deported to a country I haven’t visited since I was first abandoned there. Sometimes, I whisper words into the wind, hoping they find my hero and let her know I’m going back to where it all started, alone and among strangers.  Maybe I had always been destined to die there.  There’s no family awaiting me there and nowhere to go. Yet, I can honestly say I’m not afraid and not sure why.  I know I’m going to die there.

Maybe I’m writing this to reach out and seek the only thing I can arm and defend myself with – knowledge, wisdom, and an understanding of what I can expect once I reached El Salvador.  I suppose what I am looking for is someone of my nationality who could guide me and explain what I can expect once I reach El Salvador.

So, this is me, and this is my story, and if this reaches the House of God and the doorway to heaven, please send word to my hero.   Tell her I love her, and I’m going home…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.   Wilmer Portillo has an amazing ability to express himself through writing, and I hope he hears from someone in El Salvador.  He can be contacted at:
Wilmer Portillo #01356973
McConnell
3001 South Emily Drive
Beeville, TX 78102

Loading

Views From The Inside

Attention

Leave a comment

I live my life like a ghost. The less notice that’s paid me, the better I feel – especially when it comes to this place.  I’ve actually had correctional officers ask me, “When did you come back?”

I tell them I’ve never left, and they sadly shake their head, telling me they haven’t seen me in a couple years.

That’s why I’m still here…

I made a horrible, reactionary decision, and I take responsibility for it.  I did it, and I’ve made changes in my life.  I’ve learned that no matter the situation – I will seek guidance and help, turn the other cheek, and walk in the other direction.  My horrible decision cost me 25 years of my life, my family, my friends, my possessions, and most importantly, someone’s life.

I can’t change what happened.  If I could, I would – NOT because I would have avoided this pain, but because no one else would’ve suffered.

I’m not a bad person. I’m a good person, and I made a horrible mistake.  The system is full of people like me.  I’ve met them, I’ve talked with them, I’ve eaten meals with them and cried with them.

I support law enforcement and the justice system.  I support victims’ rights and advocacy groups.  But an eye for an eye approach doesn’t remedy the hurt.  For the ‘over incarcerated’ it only adds to the heartbreak.  It doesn’t make anyone safer. It breeds despair, racial tension and frustration.  It overburdens an already overpopulated prison system and makes rehabilitation next to impossible.

Instead of letting go harmless, old convicts whose criminal careers ended decades ago, the parole system releases and tracks younger, criminals, who have yet to learn the lessons of life.  They let these offenders go only to have them return three or four times.

It’s been proven time and again that older convicted felons are less likely to reoffend, especially when they’ve done long stretches of time and have shown repentance for their crimes and have maintained a disciplinary free life while incarcerated.

I’ll show you it’s true…  Let me go.  I’ll show you what a good person who has made a terrible mistake can accomplish.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Shipwrecked and found.  John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration.  He is a frequent contributor as well as the author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir.  John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

Loading

Views From The Inside

A New Beginning

Leave a comment

I was somewhat relieved when I got locked up – I needed some rest.

As I lay in my bunk, I resigned myself to the pain as heroin withdrawal made its appearance.  The powerful pull of addiction would have made me pull the door off the hinges if I’d had the strength, but I didn’t.  I gave in because I was tired of fighting.

Then came the crippling sensation that a huge hole was being punched through my chest, excising my vital organs and leaving ragged, unhealed gashes around the edges that continued to throb and bleed despite the passage of time.  Rationally, I knew my lungs must still be intact, yet I gasped for air, my head spinning from the effort that felt as if it was yielding me nothing.  My heart must have been beating, but I couldn’t hear the sound of my pulse in my ears.  My hands felt blue with cold.  I curled inward, hugging my ribs to hold myself together.  I scrambled for numbness and denial, but it evaded me.

Yet, I found I could survive.  I was alert.  I felt the pain – the aching loss that radiated from my body, sending wracking waves of hurt through my limbs and head – but it was manageable somehow.   I could live through it.  It didn’t feel like the pain weakened over time, but rather that I grew strong enough to bear it.

Whatever it was that happened that day – whether it was past memories of withdrawal or the situation I found myself in – I came to an understanding of what I wanted for my future.  It woke me up.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t know what to expect in the morning.  It was a new beginning…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  John Saenz is a talented writer with a smooth, honest style, and I hope to share a lot more of his work.  He is serving a Life Sentence in Texas and can be contacted at:
John A. Saenz #1113101
Ramsey Unit
1100 FM 655
Rosharon, TX  77583

Loading

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

The Arrival

Leave a comment

The van stops near a long concrete ramp.  Peering through wire mesh covered windows, I marvel at a group of general population prisoners trudging – like herding animals – towards the dilapidated, century old state prison, the sole surviving beast of an extinct species.  The bodies merge into a single line as they approach the stone incline.  They all have the same mechanized movements – listless gaits that suggest they are subjects of an indoctrination designed to discourage hope, promote subjugation, and dissuade betterment of self.  Scowling at the spectacle, I shake my head in disgust, loathing those heartless enough to support such dehumanization.  My mind wanders back to yesterday…

I was standing in the same courtroom where, just a month earlier a jury of my ‘peers’ – if, by any stretch of the imagination, one could find even a modicum of socio-economical or cultural parallels between a group of middle to upper class white suburbanites and a poor, black urbanite – had convicted me of murder and recommended that I be executed.

More than happy to oblige my ‘peers’, the Judge took all of sixty seconds to pronounce my fate.  I already knew the sentence would be death, just as I had known the verdict would be guilty.  “May God have mercy on your soul,” he concluded, before banging his gavel in an authoritatively dismissive manner, almost god-like himself.

Thus, my ill-fated journey began.

Arriving at my final destination on earth, carrying a box filled with my sole possessions, I am now to enter the belly of the beast, a condemned soul, to someday exit its bowels a lifeless configuration of justice, solace and closure.

The passenger side guard, a plump, red-faced ‘good ole boy’ spits a stream of brown tobacco juice as he exits the van, removes a padlock from the door, and slides it open.

“Get out,” he says – no, maybe he yells.  I have difficulty gauging the volume because my heart is pounding so hard, my pulse thumping thunderously in my ears, drowning out external sounds.  It is the kind of tumult only fear can produce.

Although I’ve never been to prison, I have lived vicariously through quite a few prison tales – gory, vile stories of rapes, maimings and murders – crimes perpetrated by both prisoners and guards.  I know what to expect; still, it does nothing to assuage the amount of trepidation sweeping over me.

I am certain that the ominous orifice gobbling up GP prisoners as they reach the top of the ramp, serves a duplicitous and gluttonous beast, an unrelenting savage that devours individuals, strips them of any remaining dignity and replaces it with hatred, wickedness, and rapacity, while dragging them – some kicking and screaming, others, willingly – deeper into the viscera of nothingness.

“Let’s go,” the driver says impatiently, turning to stare me down, his gaze malicious.  Then he exits the van and walks to the rear to fetch my box, which he drops next to his partner.  Both now wait for me to exit.

I try to move.  Nothing.  What the – something is wrong. I feel numb – paralyzed.  I close my eyes and swallow hard.  Shit!  Come on. This can’t be happening.  And to make matters worse, the intemperate July heat and humidity – thick, fiery, brazen – envelopes me, white hot against my skin and unapologetic for their suffocating affects.

I’m immobilized by the reality of the situation that awaits me – from which the sweltering van provides my only refuge – and by the shackles and handcuffs that have been deliberately clasped to cut off my circulation.  I take a deep breath.  I wiggle my toes.  Ohhhh…  Shit!  A million tiny needles poke my feet.  I move my right foot and the shackles dig further into my ankles, shooting a bolt of pain up my leg.  Ugh.  Come on, please. 

“Bob, ya may have to gittin ‘er an yank ‘is black ass out,” the driver twangs.

On cue I slowly inch sideways, sliding along the bench seat, moving closer to the door, the tiny needles poking me everywhere.  This pain is nothing compared to what I’ll feel if they decide to drag me out.   I use it as motivation to reach the edge of the seat and the open door.  There I struggle to get to my feet.  My body is waking up.  The pain.  Stooping, I slide one foot forward, then the other, until I’m at the edge of the floorboard.  I twist my left hip, turning my right hip outward and extending my right leg towards the ground, but the chain that connects the manacles is too short for me to reach the ground.  I retract my leg, returning to my original stooped position, and look up at the guards.  They watch with foreknowledge – they’ve seen this dilemma play out repeatedly – but make no attempt to help me.

“Don’t look at us,” expelling another stream of brown goo toward the ground.

With limited exit strategies, I steady my nerves and prepare for what I believe is my best option. I put my feet together, take a deep breath and a leap of faith. Thank God, I stick the landing, a small but pleasing victory.

“Grab yo shit, and let’s go, asshole,” spews the driver pointing a finger at the box, visibly disappointed that I didn’t fall flat on my face, never mind that my hands are cuffed, tethered to a chain, wrapped and padlocked around my waist, preventing me from reaching to grab anything.

Dammit! This heat!  Sweat pours. The prison uniform I’m in is soaked. Sweat drops into my eyes, stinging me further. I squint and try to collect myself, so I can focus on the task at hand.

“You goin’ pick up yo’ shit,” bitterly stated, rather than asked.

I looked down at my hands, separate them, turn my palms up, and gaze with one eye at the guards.

“Well, would ya look there, Bob. We got us a smart ass,” turning to look at his partner, before taking a step towards me.

“It’s too hot for this cockamamie bullshit,” Bob retorts, snatching up the box, stepping in front of the driver and nudging him aside.  “Here,” he growls, shoving the box into my chest.

The restraints make it impossible to grab in a normal manner, with a hand underneath each end.  All I can do is lean back as far as possible, center both hands beneath and press my chin against the top.  That’s when I notice a vulgar, rank glob of tobacco spit splattered on top  and slowly oozing towards my face.

Just as my eyes are clearing, more sweat. This time, both eyes.  I squeeze them shut as the brown blob creeps towards me. This can’t be real.  Fluttering my eyes, I attempt to clear them.

Everything hurts – ankles, legs, arms, back, and pride not far behind.

“We ain’t got all day, boy.”

Through fluttering eyes, I see both guards turn and head for the ramp. I take a tentative step.  Aargh! The shackle bites into my ankle, the pain red-hot. Trying not to grimace, I inch my rear foot forward, and the same searing pain attacks that ankle. I try to ignore it by focusing on a positive.  The sweat has cleared from my eyes. And not a moment too soon as I see the driver turn his head back towards me and spit his venom. I feel it splat on my shoe. Because I know he’s trying to bait me into giving him an excuse to pounce, I concentrate on holding the box.

Besides, I won the first contest when I successfully exited the van. Giving them the pleasure of seeing me drop the box ties the series and reverts home court advantage – even though I’m a one-man team with no home or real advantage – back in their favor. Neither of us would have much interest in this little ‘game’ I’m being forced to play if not for the predators – masters at detecting mental and physical weaknesses they will exploit without hesitation – lurking amongst the nearby prisoners. While the guards’ interests are purely sadistic, my interest is quite vested – my manhood could be at stake.

TO BE CONTINUED…

©Reshi Yenot

Loading

Prison Conditions

Virginia Prison Bans Tampon Use By Visitors

Leave a comment

I saw a letter from a Warden at a Virginia prison today…

“As a result of recent inquiries in regards to feminine hygiene products being an ideal way to conceal contraband, effective October 6, 2018, the use of tampons and or menstrual cup are no longer to be worn during visitation.  The use of tampons and or menstrual cup hygiene products during visitation are prohibited.”

“Offender visitors who have been recognized by the body scanner machine having a foreign object that could possibly be a tampon and has failed to remove such item prior to being screened, will have their visitation terminated for the day, and will have their visitation privileges reviewed.”

I don’t like to get upset over nonsense – I don’t have time for it.   This – isn’t nonsense.

Unfortunately, a good number of us who have been on prison visits know most prisons don’t encourage and welcome visitors.  To be fair – I know that is not all facilities.

But, my visits have too often been degrading.  A visitor is made to feel as if staff REALLY doesn’t want you coming back, sometimes going out of their way to express their control of the situation and making a visitor feel as unwelcome as possible.  In the visitor waiting area, we would share horror stories about our visits gone wrong due to staff, but most people would recommend not reporting it as it would be taken out on our loved ones.  So – the ugly behavior goes unchecked.

The visitors I got to know learned to approach staff meekly.  You were at their mercy, and we all knew it.

Now this – a tampon ban.

Every woman and their body chemistry is unique.  Some are blessed with 48 hour light flows and panty liners.  Some – not so lucky.  For anyone unaware – some require a ‘nighttime’ pad as well as a ‘super plus’ tampon, replaced every two to three hours to get discreetly through a couple days a month.  Not to mention discomfort – we won’t even discuss that.

To tell one of those ‘unlucky’ souls that they can’t go somewhere armed with their arsenal of sanitary supplies in place as well as having stand bys on deck – is to tell them to stay home.  Period.

Do I wish there were a way to sustain life on earth without females experiencing menstrual cycles?  Yes.  We don’t choose this. Do I wish there was no need for tampons?  Yes.

So – with Nottoway’s new rule – should an ‘unlucky’ one be able to schedule a visit with a loved on the first day of their period, it will now be a brief and uncomfortable visit.

With that said – if female visitors smuggling contraband disguised as tampons through their vaginas into prison has become such an issue, I would assume that all females with access to the facilities will be banned from tampon and cup use?   It’s no secret that staff bring in items from the outside, so a rule of this nature would have to include female officers, lieutenants, majors, wardens, counselors, clergy, vendors, etc, in order to be effective.

Furthermore – pads.  Are they next?  Certainly, if a tampon or cup could carry something into the facility that could outsmart the scanning machine, a pad could as well.  What about an adult diaper?  Or child’s for that matter?  What ‘personal’ hygiene items are more capable of hiding contraband through the scanning process than others?   Or is it only when something is physically inserted into an orifice that it is of concern?  And – if that is the case – couldn’t someone just stick their contraband into an oraface without using a tampon or cup?  Or – into a different orifice?  Does a tampon not look like a tampon on the scan?  Does a pad not look like a pad?  If a smuggler is going to smuggle items in through their body parts disguised as sanitary items – aren’t they the type of individual that will find another way?  Just sayin’…

Interesting policy – one that will make visitors feel welcome, encouraged to come back and possibly – umm… controlled.

Visiting a prison isn’t something anyone wants to do.  Nobody wants their friend or loved one to be in such a place, no matter what the reason.  Ideally, for all of us – inmates will maintain relationships during their incarceration.  Ideally, they will have the support of loved ones, recognize what they have done to be there and reevaluate how they are going to move on with their lives after prison.

Success for a prisoner – isn’t that in everybody’s best interests?

There is one thing we know.  People – visitors and staff – are going to continue to smuggle things into prison.  We are doing something seriously wrong if we can’t figure out how female visitors can be allowed to wear tampons on visits.  Way too much energy is being spent determining how to control and degrade a female visitor and not enough energy being spent on trying to find ways to encourage positive relationships that help people succeed and grow past their mistakes.

Loading

Sentenced to Death, Solitary Confinement

The Comforts Of Solitude

Leave a comment

I’ve spent the past 6,945 days and counting in solitary confinement. I keep track of days the way one has a hobby in the free world. It’s only real significance is giving me a reason to mark another ‘X’ on the calendar.

I’ve filed grievances and signed on to be a plaintiff in a lawsuit about the inhumane and draconian practices of solitary confinement and how it’s the epitome of cruel and unusual (unnecessary) punishment. Lawmakers have eased up on its use for non-death row inmates and even publicly admitted that solitary confinement causes lasting harm to anyone locked away for 10 years or longer.  Such sympathy was shocking for ‘conservative’ lawmakers to admit. However, apathy is not given to male Texas death row inmates, who were excluded from the leniency.  We remain in solitary.

On July 19, 2018, my last appeal was denied. Not on the merits of actual guilt, for my case on appeal has never been argued orally. In fact, a recent study by the Houston Law Review cited my case and others for the opprobrious “rubber stamping” policy that Harris County and the southern appellate courts use.

Legally, they use a loophole, declaring a case ‘Procedurally Barred’ – giving the appeal judges room to not entertain a death row inmate’s case by adopting the previous court’s opinion, word for word. I believe it’s morally and ethically wrong, unfair, and racially biased and at times motivated. But what can we do? These practices aren’t ‘new’, and a lot of men and women have been judiciously murdered using the same practices, to which I often react the only way I can, with an inhale, exhale and languorously voiced, “Fuck it!”

On Texas death row we are allowed two hours of recreational time Monday through Friday, with no movement on the weekends. If you choose to go to this ‘recreation’, you are ordered to strip nude and do the nude-dance.   Then you are taken to another cell that is bigger in space than the cells we sleep in.  If it’s indoor recreation, you are placed in a cage in front of the other 14 cells in that section.  You can walk around like a lab rat, in circles, or some guys invent a workout routine that may be part yoga, part push-ups and sit-ups, and part creativity. As long as one can sweat, for the most part, one is relatively happy. Some guys don’t work out, and instead engage in shouting conversations about legal work, or which Kardashian is the most desirable or they engage in religious debates that start off with platonic, brotherly order and become heated when there are disagreements regarding trivial interpretations of Scripture – which leads to a cussing match and the overly-used, proverbial Texas row insult, “You dick-sucker!”

Pure madness!

Outdoor recreation isn’t that much larger in size than indoor rec. There’s a netless basketball goal and an orange, rubberless basketball that one can use to play run-and-shoot alone, to see how many shots you can make. You’re surrounded by four 25-foot off-white concrete walls so you can’t see anything diagonally, only an upward view of the sky. Sometimes you’ll see a plane fly high above leaving its wasted fuel’s trail within the cerulean sky’s sea.  With two major airports close by, these sights are common. This prison is close to a small highway and every now and then when it’s really quiet, you can hear the thunderous rage that screams from the pipes of a motorcycle that just opened up on the highway.

Most guys don’t like going outside in the summer because of the Texas heat and the sun’s rays that beat down on you without mercy. One can’t help but feel like a rotisserie chicken. I love it. The heat helps me sweat, and the more I sweat, the more I release stress. Plus, I like the solitude. It gives me a chance to think.

After I was denied, it took me nearly two weeks to pick myself up mentally. It is not the outcome I nor my family and supporters wanted or expected. When you’re disappointed like that, logic and one’s perspective gets thrown out the window. Desperation sets in. Your mind wonders about life after death, if it exists. You think about your family. You think about regrets. You fornicate with the idea of what you’ll miss within the carnal world. You think and think… until you need some aspirin to sooth the headache. You find yourself having so much to do, but lack the will to do it. You want to be left alone, although you are aware that loneliness isn’t what you desire.  So when it’s time for me to go to recreation I always ask to go outside in the heat – alone.

I’ll run a few games, reliving my high school basketball days. Crowds cheer my jersey number, “It’s on you twenty-two!  It’s on you!”  After an hour of this workout, I begin to relax and think. I’m haunted by time and dates, logic, philosophy, reasoning, fantasy and reality, failure and injustice. But, not just any injustice – the injustice that was rendered upon me.

Some people are visited by the ghosts of the past, present and future – I’m visited by dates. I’m not in denial, but I can’t believe I’m here on Texas death row, for something that can be argued was never an intentional crime on anyone’s part. For something the police initially told me they knew I didn’t do.

June 29, 1999. I was brought to Harris County from Louisiana to face capital murder charges after I refused the 20 year plea deal offered by Detective Bob King, an acting agent of the DA.   Why would I accept a plea deal when I wasn’t guilty and the police had suspects in custody they wanted me to testify against for the plea deal?  Above all, I wasn’t a lying ass snitch, testifying to ‘whatever’ to avoid getting charged – unlike others.

I wrote the DA, who admitted at trial he received my letter, and I offered up my DNA or any forensic evidence they could collect from me. I offered to take a lie detector test. I offered whatever I could, but I refused to testify against the others.

No DNA or forensic evidence was taken from me.

July 20, 1999 was the first time I saw a state appointed lawyer, Wayne Hill, who offered me a plea deal, with no concern as to who I was or what actually happened. I refused his deal.

July 21, 1999.  My first court appearance.

August 11, 1999.  I was officially read the charges against me. I pleaded not guilty. I was then arraigned and had a million-dollar bond set.

September 1, 1999.  I went to court, though my journal does not say why, nor do I recall.

September 7, 1999.  Jury selection began, and the judge told the potential jury members, “I’m not Judge Ito (from the O.J. Simpson trial of the century case), and we will get this right. Being a jury member is like being a pallbearer. No one wants to do it, but it must be done. Think of a child.  When that child acts out, we have to discipline that child.”

I was supposed to be ‘innocent until proven guilty’. The judge was making it clear to the jury, subliminally, that guilt wasn’t the issue. Those words implied I was guilty and they needn’t waste time and effort trying to assume I wasn’t.

September 29, 1999.   Eleven white jurors and one Spanish lady, who was questioned relentlessly about her status as a documented US citizen, completed the picks.

October 4, 1999.  My trial began.  It was also the first time I met my investigator, who asked me if there was anything I wanted him to investigate. Really? He didn’t bother asking this question two weeks – or months – ago?

October 5, 1999.  Two of the alleged state witnesses/victims admitted in court that they had been lying since day one. They lied to the police. They lied to the Grand Jury that had indicted me.  Think about that for a second…

Had that same Grand Jury known they were being told lies, they never would have indicted me on capital murder charges, or indicted me at all.

They lied to their family, the media, and everyone who asked them what happened.  They lied, thinking a lie would prevent them from getting into trouble. In fact, they now admitted the truth, “We were trying to rob and kill Mamou, if need be, for his $20,000.”

You would think that would be enough to set me free, right? Wrong. This is Texas. The Lone Star State. The only state in America that truly believes it can thrive as its own quasi-nation, and once did with Sam Houston as its proxy president. It’s the state that sneezes snow up North, and shits Hell’s fire down South. The state that believes it’s okay to execute an innocent person as long as they can document a fair trial.

WTF?!

In my trial there was no DNA evidence, no eyewitnesses, no gun, no physical evidence that was used or attempted to be used against me – the DA knew that beforehand. What they did was assassinate my character, saying I was a drug lord, which I wasn’t. They put witnesses on the stand who were nothing more than lying jailhouse snitches, trying to get out of the criminal situations they were in. They took deals and testified that I confessed to them.

One guy wrote me a letter which my lawyer had, but ‘allegedly’ lost during my trial and found after my conviction, saying he knew nothing about what happened and that the police and DA threatened to charge him with conspiracy if he didn’t tell them what they wanted to hear about me.

The DA also told the jury that I was ‘guilty’ of two other unsolved murders that I was never a suspect in and never charged for. The only commonality between the cases was that they were ‘drug-related’.  They may as well blame me for killing JFK.

One of the state prevaricators claimed that during my ‘confession’, I said I made Mary suck my dick before killing her. He also admitted that he spent days going over his testimony with the DA, and how he’d been told what to say and how to look directly at the jury when saying it.

Remember, there were nine women in the jury. When he said the lie, each of the female jurors began to cry, which was the result the DA was looking for.  Never mind the examiner testified that Mary’s body was not sexually assaulted, nor otherwise harmed. I wasn’t even charged with rape.  The allegation was made by a hearsay witness and left up to the jury to decide if it was credible. My incompetent lawyers assured me that the false claims were harmless because there was no evidence to support them.

Here we are nineteen years later, and after I was denied the newspaper and TV media outlets claimed I’m on death row for the rape and murder of Mary Carmouche.  That’s not what I am on death row for.  That wouldn’t matter in normal circumstances, but it does because I now have to explain to my grown daughters why the newspaper is saying I raped a woman.

It’s frustrating, especially when you know fake news is damaging any chance you have at justice.

October 12, 1999.  After thirty minutes of deliberation, I was found guilty.

October 15, 1999.  I received the death penalty.

November 17, 1999.  I was sent to Texas death row a mere three and a half months after I arrived in Texas to face false charges. I never had a chance. My second chair lawyer was hired one month before my trial began, and he had no clue what was going on. Call it railroading. Judicial lynching. Rubber stamping. Call it whatever you want, just don’t call it Justice. In this case the bitch, Justice, truly was blind.

…August 17, 2018.  I have walked and counted eighty-eight full circles while contemplating my situation, which seems so surreal.  Sometimes I wish it was as easy as John McClane made it seem as he stood bare foot, bleeding, bruised and scarred on top of Nakatomi Plaza screaming, “Yippee ki-yay, muther fuckers!”  The good guys stood triumphantly for justice and made sure it rang loud and true.

But this isn’t a scripted movie. It’s real life. In the world you know everything isn’t going to be all right. Even Belshazzar knew what time it was when he saw the writings on the wall with all that, ‘Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin,’ mess.

So, too, I see the writings. But I do not see symbols of mysterious hieroglyphics. I see names that indicate that justice is really ‘just-us’ and not for all. Names like Willie McGee, Todd Willingham, Emmett Till, Aiyanna Jones, Tamir Rice, Treyvon Martin, Michael Brown, and I could go on naming at least 100 more from the top of my head who never got justice, even though the whole world knew they were getting fucked over.  They were not part of the ‘just-us’ crowd.  Men, women and children who are more worthy of a second chance than I could ever be, but no one came to their aid. No one in power spoke out and said this was wrong before the wrongs became so final.

It’s with these thoughts that I appreciate the point of view that solitude has given me.  It comforts me to know I’m not alone, that American justice within the judicial system is only a reality if you have the money to pay the fees the system demands for its servants who have sold their souls and burned every ounce of civility, equality, righteousness and fairness that they once understood.

I may just become another footnote in a fact finding article years down the road, the story of an innocent who was murdered by the state, but I will use my platform anywhere I can to tell my story, a story America keeps on writing.

The comforts of solitude…

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

Loading

Prison Writing and Expression