I will never forget August 30, 2006. I was on A-pod, occupying B-dayroom’s recreational section, nexus to Death Watch on Texas Death Row. It was after 5:30 p.m. and visitation was over, so I headed toward the front of the dayroom, hoping to catch a guy I affectionately called RoadDawg. His real name was Derrick Frazier, but many knew him as Hasan. Before that, he was Castro – like Fidel, Cuba’s former dictator.
Hasan never knew his father. His mother left when he was fifteen, weeks later to be found dead of a drug overdose. He had an abusive stepfather. Eventually, Hasan grew tired of the abuse and ran away. He began living in the streets and soon after was adopted by Crip gang members. Becoming a new member meant he had to get a new name, and that’s how Castro was born.
I didn’t meet Castro until after he arrived on Texas Death Row. It was then that he denounced his gang, took up religion and became a Muslim. He studied the religion relentlessly, renaming himself Hasan and following the ways of Islam. He founded two newsletters – Operation L.I.F.E. and the Texas Chapter of the Human Rights Coalition, and that is how I came to know him. Hasan took his money from that and practiced ‘zakat’ towards his fellow death row inmates, no matter what race or religion. If you didn’t have, he gave clandestinely.
When he told me he had received an execution date, he said it as if he was telling me the score to a football game that I had missed, there was no emotion – at least, none on the outside. He told me he was going to unroll his mat and pray… and he did.
Hasan had a friend from Canada that was seeing him through visits. He even had her visit me. He was visiting with her on August 30, 2006, as I stood in the dayroom waiting to get a glimpse of him, to somehow communicate my solidarity through a look I planned on giving him. Shortly after 5:30 that evening he came walking through the door, looking like a king who stared down adversaries without an ounce of fear. He hadn’t noticed me, so I called out to him. Robotically, he turned my way, and seeing me, broke free from the escorting officers’ grips and started my way. He was handcuffed, and the guards didn’t stop him. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I stuck my hands out of the bars and gave him a hug. He began to cry, tears that fell rapidly, knowing time was running out.
Then he kissed my left cheek, whispering into my ear, “RoadDawg, do me a favor. You have the best chance of any of us here. Get free. Go home. Don’t let these folks win. Promise me!”
I told him nothing. Not that I didn’t want to. I was still shocked he kissed me, and at the same time the guards started calling his name and came to retrieve him to bring him into the ‘death watch’ cell. It all happened so fast, words eluded me, and I watched my friend walk off.
That night I was standing in the door of my cell, all the lights off on the pod, when I became aware of something I was seeing. If I looked at the pod’s control picket that is made of glass, I could see the reflection of all the cells on death watch, and I turned my attention to #8 cell, which held Hasan. There he was, standing in the door with his light on. His light was on. Mine was off. I watched him for a few hours. He didn’t move once. Through the years I wondered what he was looking at. Was he soaking in his last hours of life as he looked out in the dark jungle of iron bars and steel gates? Trying to understand how he came to his final moments? Was he waiting and hoping for a miracle? Or was he wondering what was I doing standing in my cell’s door in the dark? Did he see me? Eventually, I went to lay down. I said a prayer for my friend and would get up to come to the door every so often only to see him still standing there.
Hasan left at 7:40 a.m. for his last few hours of visitation with his friend from Canada. I also was told that an aunt came to see him. He never came back.
When they pronounced him dead a little after 6:30 that evening, I cried, unconsciously holding the cheek he’d kissed. My friend was the epitome of change, strength, and courage. I will never forget that about him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is the first place winner of our most recent writing contest. Although a long-time writer for WITS, he rarely enters our contests. I’m glad he did.
Mr. Mamou has always maintained his innocence, and after extensive research into his case, WITS actively advocates for him. If you would like to know more about his case and sign a letter requesting an investigation, please add your name to his petition.
Charles Mamou can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
