Carl Edward Chambers 1-10-1987
Aggravated Sexual Assault w/a Deadly Weapon
Re: SID Number: 02618963 TDCJ Number: 00453210
I’m the woman Numbnuts brutalized on Jan 10, 1987. After a lousy night, I really don’t give a flip what you do with Chambers. Let him out to destroy more people in his lifelong career of doing nothing but violate others while on parole. Nothing in his life has been decent, unless being a sociopathic prick was his life goal. I regret ever living in Texas. I regret giving 17 years of my life being an RN in Texas, doing what I could to show compassion, often to people that others shunned. I was there for the early years of AIDS. They all died. Most of their families bailed out, but nurses stuck with every one of them, until they left with the funeral home people, feet first. I’ve never been arrested, and except for a couple of speeding tickets (last one was in 1986- forgot that school had started), I’ve never had any ‘run ins’ with law enforcement. I’m in a life sentence of my own, just surviving what Numbnuts did to me. And I’m so incredibly angry that I even know what it’s like to survive in a prison of memories.
So let the white piss ant out who tore me up from top to bottom. The justice system is racially based- no secret there. I still feel the scar in my mouth where my bottom teeth went through my bottom lip, and my right jaw has never been right. I miscarried his spawn (thank God) and flushed it as fast as I could after hours of cramping at about 12 weeks. NOBODY has touched me since that day. The idea of a booze stenched face near me, or the physical pain of both of his fists rammed over and over and over into my vagina at the same time -blood half way up his forearms- or the wine cooler bottle and his penis shoved into me anally with the force of the palm of his hand repeatedly pounding the wine cooler bottle like a stubborn 3/4 empty ketchup bottle, has made every dream I had as a young woman evaporate as if they’d never existed. There is no way to describe the physical pain. I focused all of it into holding on to the coffee table leg.
I will die alone one day. The constant stress of living with what he did can’t be fixed. I’ll never know if my body would have held together longer if he hadn’t beaten/raped/ sodomized/ tortured me for 6 hours that Saturday morning. I focused everything I had on gripping the coffee table while he tortured me, just so I wouldn’t make noise (he told me he’d kill me if I made noise, or the phone rang, or if someone came to the door- knowing his nephew that I babysat was supposed to be with me that day… he was BAITING me for murder). The knife had about a 12″ long blade. Thirty-four years, and I remember every minute of that 6 hours. Being on my hands and knees when he had to pee, as he traced the knife blade along my spine. Having my legs flung over his shoulders while he poured fruit nectar on my body and licked it off. I was a 23 year old virgin who believed in saving oneself for marriage. The phone cord and tape used to tie me up… and finally escaping, thinking he was behind me as I ran down the stairs in a towel in January after going to the bathroom because I was still bleeding, to get help at a neighbor’s who I met the day before. I’d lived in that apartment for 10 days before the attack, after 10 days in traction for a back injury that was work related. I was asked to resign about 2 weeks before the trial. Lost my friends and coworkers because they felt I was too preoccupied. Go figure, eh?
He beat me enough to cause a head injury, along with the teeth going through my bottom lip and right jaw being ‘off’. Uterine ligaments actually tore- imagine a partially torn ACL in your pelvis. He killed who I was. He stole my dreams of a family of my own. He was so absolutely disgusting that human contact is almost painful. I can’t be hurt if nobody is near me. Most of the friends I knew in Texas are dead. People who mattered when I was there. I have sporadic contact with humans here, with a high school friend going above and beyond to be more of a friend to me than I’m capable of returning, and I feel guilt about that- I should be a better friend TO others. Others have reached out. I know they care, but it’s still hard for me to need help. A busted body (from various causes) and memories of hell have destroyed anything resembling ‘normal’. For well over half of my life, that day has altered more than I like to think about. And yet every 3 years, I get to be reminded more intensely.
I’m getting tired of fighting. I helped with a group on Facebook for victims of Genene Jones. I think about Genene Jones getting out (but transferred to San Antonio before she tasted freedom), and she’s only back ‘in’ because of the work of Petti McClelland (RIP) to get other babies some justice with the then DA in San Antonio. I think about Darlie Routier, on death row, who had a trial that was so jacked up in Kerrville, where Genene Jones made anybody associated with a dead child guilty without seeing all of the evidence, and so many mistakes in court transcripts that it isn’t coherent, by a stenographer who had other cases messed up. I became an RN in 1985… Routier’s defensive wounds are not what I’d expect to see in self-inflicted wounds (I worked with adolescent psych patients and more than one unhinged coworker). What happened to me in 1987 has made my ‘crime radar’ much more intense than I can stand sometimes. I cry for others. The serial killer gets close to release, not expecting an army of warriors supporting the families of the babies she killed to be cheering her return to prison… and then Darlie Routier gets sentenced to die over silly string. The jury never saw the first part of that video. She got railroaded by a community police department not accustomed to looking at ALL of the evidence. They didn’t see her injury photos. They just wanted someone in prison. And they tried her in Kerrville. I saw that circus w/media trucks for what seemed to go on forever at the time. Crime everywhere. Heinous people destroying lives.
SO, do what you know is right. If you let him out for the daughters, mamas, cousins, aunties, and sisters of your friends and neighbors to deal with, warn them that he’s a monster who lies and manipulates to get what he wants. Be sure THEY don’t have any plans for a life after he’s done with them. They’ll never be the same. I know that a chunk of me was killed that day. That part of me who can really trust is gone. I want so badly to trust decent people, and yet I have very few that I can really feel safe around. Fortunately, I haven’t viewed all men as terrorists. The part of me that dreamed of finding a sweet, kind man to share my life, and hopefully kids, with was eroded to the point of obliteration. All because I thought I was helping someone who needed me to take the baby, for a fictitious accident after he stole my address and phone number. I was targeted. Help your neighbor… end up dismantled.
Remember, the last time he was out, he was supposed to be on an ankle monitor of the highest security, and MOVED HIS RESIDENCE without permission from his parole officer- and nobody noticed. How am I supposed to trust that he’ll be supervised? If he would ever find me (unlikely, I know), I’ve got a buddy named Hollow Point Ruger that will take care of him once and for all. I live in a state where he’d practically have to be on top of me to justify ‘self-defense’, but I’d aim well. I survived him once- and have no intentions of anybody ever doing anything so heinous to me ever again. I hate that I have to know about what I’d do if the decision was between me living or someone who is threatening my survival. But the choice would be clear.
Previous blog posts about why I want Numbnuts kept in prison.
I am angry (maybe a little late with that), but I also respect that you have a job to do. I guess the big question is deciding the cost that is palatable for the good of the people he’d be around. The only thing he hasn’t done, that is known, is murder- and that was supposed to happen via dismemberment before he was done with me.