Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars (31 page)

The letter ended with the ladies asking me to assure Charlie they still had their girlish figures. “Please tell Charlie that Blue and I are doing and being okay, in good shape, 106—110, not fat, and thoughts of him keep us going.”

With their auras reunited, the joined light of Squeaky and Sandra blazed brighter than two separate beams—at least when it came to adoring Charlie. His Christmas package from them that year was a whopper. There were colorful handkerchiefs, bandannas, an embroidered red headband, a blue scarf, a black silk scarf, cloth shoes, slippers, two flannel long-sleeved plaid shirts, a blue sweatshirt with an owl embroidered on the pocket, two black short-sleeved T-shirts with intricate embroidery patches on the front, four colored T-shirts (red, gold, and two shades of blue), three black knit caps, a pair of flared Levi’s with embroidered pockets and fly, a rainbow-colored yarn belt, a harmonica, a booklet on Martin guitars, and some maps. Charlie was easily the hippest, most well-dressed inmate at CMF!

Actually, most of the goods weren’t allowed, but I bent the rules and let him have the bulk of it. A colorful Charlie was a content Charlie, and that made life easier for everyone. Of course, that meant a new wave of extra-special voodoo dolls would soon be dotting his cell, but that was too dark a thought for Christmas.

It had been a strange year, all the way around. The previous August, a theology student preparing for the priesthood spent some time at the CMF to get hands-on experience in starting prison ministries. Tim was a young man aspiring to the priesthood who really threw himself into his work. When he asked to be locked up overnight in Willis—home of our most dangerous felons—I didn’t hesitate. Not only didn’t I hesitate, I plunked the guy into the cell next to Manson! From 8:30
A.M.
Friday until 10:30
A.M.
Saturday, Tim was locked down in a maximum-security cell a few feet from the world’s most feared criminal.

Charlie reacted to having a budding young priest next to him the same way the girl in
The Exorcist
reacts to sharing her space with Father Karras. The crazed cult leader spent practically the whole time ranting, raving, cursing, threatening, blaspheming God, foaming at the mouth, and jumping around his cell like the floor was on fire. He did everything but vomit torrents of pea soup into Tim’s cage. A black inmate on the opposite side of Charlie spent the evening repeating over and over in a monotonous tone, “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” trying to keep the little maniac from busting a vein.

In the early-morning hours, Charlie finally wore himself down and began to speak in a more civilized manner. He told Tim his life story and offered his disturbing personal philosophy in a typically charismatic manner. It was, not surprisingly, an evening the clerical student would never forget.

“How’d it go?” I asked the suddenly haggard-looking young man the next morning.

“The night brought no rest,” he sighed.

Tim made it all the way to the priesthood, then switched to a more unorthodox strain so he could marry and have a family. He moved to New Orleans to work with the poor and underprivileged. For all his devotion, he never asked to be housed next to Manson again.

Failing to take a cue from the priest, three FBI agents marched into CMF one afternoon in 1978 demanding an audience with Manson. They wanted to interrogate him regarding some unspecified case they were working. I winked at one of my officers and welcomed them inside the unit classification office. The stern, clean-cut agents hardly got their first question out before Manson leaped from his chair and stood on the table. Ruffled by the agents’ elitist attitudes, we let Manson do his thing, lecturing the increasingly nervous feds as only he could. He held them personally responsible for the woes of society and the environment, and warned that the kids—their kids—would rise up against them. “Look down on me and you’ll see your own fool. Look up at me and you’ll see your master. Look into my eyes face-to-face and you’ll see yourself. I grew up like all Americans with the gift of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I was free in the desert, pursuing happiness; then you FBI men came along and stole my liberty and gave me life! Now, I demand that you give it back! I command you to give it back!”

To emphasize his request, he angled his fingers into a gun and drew down on the G-men, shooting them one by one, giving each his classic evil eye. They tried to laugh it off, but I could tell their knees were jelly. I never determined what their agenda was, only that they were more than happy to get the hell out of there.

“Nice performance,” I complimented, escorting Charlie back to his cell.

“You guys just use me like a freak show,” he groused. “I’m your rabid dog.”

“That’s because we can always count on you to foam on cue. And you really came through this time. I don’t think they’ll be coming back for an encore.”

“If they do, maybe I’ll just answer their questions.”

“What questions?”

Charlie looked at me and smiled, twisting his goatee with his fingers. “Now that you mention it, what the hell were they here for anyway?”

We both laughed hard as the door clanged shut.

*   *   *

On November 5, 1978, I pulled Charlie from his cell for a rare official meeting. I needed to interview him regarding his upcoming parole hearing, the first of Charlie’s storied life. Ever the realist when it came to things like this, Charlie could hardly keep his mind on the subject. He rejected his right to an attorney, then changed the subject to something considerably more important to him than a pie-in-the-sky shot at freedom. Squeaky and Sandra had sent a nifty combination radio, television, and cassette player that was now wallowing in the property room. Such luxuries weren’t allowed, and he was incensed. He was so worked up over it that I suspected the girls might have slipped a gun or file inside. A thorough check revealed nothing more than some ingenious Japanese technology.

Charlie coveted this gift and bitched about it constantly. ‘You’ve dangled a carrot in front of me for eight years, and every time I reach for it, you pull it away!” he accused, ripping me for my previous attempts to make his life easier. “You always jack me off, but you never let me come!” He was so upset, he threatened to commit suicide over it. “Next time you see me, Ed, I’ll be hanging from a sheet!”

To be safe, we transferred him to the psychiatric ward and kept him under a tight suicide watch. Not long afterward, I successfully pushed to have the property rules changed, and Charlie was given his precious combo set. He received it like it was a present from the gods, cradling it in his arms like an infant. For the next month or so, he was in heaven. He could alternately watch television, listen to rock music, or play tapes. Then boom! He threw another stupid tantrum over something totally insignificant and smashed the combo set to smithereens. He was promptly yanked from his cell and tossed into isolation. An hour later, I walked to that dismal ward and peered into his tiny enclosed cell. He was sitting there half nude in the cold darkness staring blankly at a bare wall. He didn’t have any property at all anymore, and had left himself with absolutely nothing to occupy his mind. He just sat motionless like he was in a trance, dead and aloof, empty of spirit and devoid of feeling.

What was it with this guy? I wondered. Why did he do such stupid, self-destructive things? Why was he torturing himself so much? It couldn’t be because he was suddenly feeling guilt over the horrible murders. I knew him far too well to believe in that “he’s punishing himself” psychobabble. In eight years, through all sorts of physical and emotional hell, I’d never seen him cry. Not a single tear ever dropped from his demonic eyes. Even his brief moments of sincerity appeared contrived for effect. Every move he made was calculated to gain a specific return. He studied other people’s character and emotions to find their strengths and weaknesses, yet kept his locked within some internal shell. He often struck me as a brilliant actor playing the part of Charles Manson, one who was never out of character. Hard as I tried, I failed to detect the real man behind the act—if, indeed, there was one.

The closest he ever came was, ironically, earlier that week. Charlie, odd as it might sound, was lamenting the price of his fame. “How can I win?” he asked rhetorically. “Look at my cards. Cult leader. Mass murderer. Dope dealer. Con man. The Antichrist. You know, I’m like a snake in prison. I got no arms, no legs, just a mouth and a tail. I don’t bite anyone, but I wag my tail and show my fangs, and everybody freaks out!”

As always, it never occurred to him that if he stopped wagging his tail and showing his fangs, everybody might stop freaking out. And if everybody stopped freaking out, he might get his arms and legs back. In fact, he had a chance, an admittedly slim one, but a chance to accomplish his appendage regeneration that very same week. If Charlie could only harness his charisma and oratory skills and pour them into something positive, he might be able to dazzle the parole board and convince them to at least consider the possibility of one day setting him free. Sure, the headlines would be brutal, but this wasn’t about headlines. This was about Charlie performing in a room before a captive audience that wanted to hear what he had to say, and wanted to believe that even someone like him was capable of change. To rehabilitate Charles Manson would have been a giant feather in the cap of the California Corrections Department. From that standpoint, his parole hearing might not have been the waste-of-time slam dunk that everyone believed. And if anybody could wow an audience, it was Charlie. If he could swallow his fierce, destructive pride and funnel his power and energy into an uplifting “I’ve been healed, Praise God!” speech, he might have a shot.

The problem was, that was asking too much. Faced with a sympathetic audience backed by an international press corps, did he have the brains to try and save a thread of his future, or would he use the soapbox to spread more fear and loathing by spewing the same tired stories of hate, defiance, and bloody revolution?

My money, sadly, was on the latter.

Manson’s parole hearing was set for November 16, 1978. The gatherings are required by law, even when the con has no possible chance of parole and the whole thing is a charade. Most murderers do at least fifteen years. Famous felons like Manson usually do more, and may never be released. With Charlie having been caged on the Tate-LaBianca convictions for a mere eight—one year for every person his Family had killed—his prospects were indeed slim.

After rejecting his first attorney, Charlie reluctantly accepted another. He hated lawyers as a rule, deeming them part of the “injustice system.” This was no exception. Every time I passed the visiting room while he was conferring with his taxpayer-provided mouthpiece, he’d shout the same thing, “He’s not my attorney, he’s yours!”

In order for the television cameramen and news photographers to fully capture the upcoming event, Charlie was required to sign a release. I walked in while he was jerking his lawyer around and interrupted the fun. “Do you want to sign this or not?” I asked.

“What if I don’t?”

“Then nobody gets to take your picture.”

Charlie turned to his attorney. “What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t sign it. Better keep a low profile.”

“What do you think, Ed?” he asked, turning to me.

“I don’t give a damn what you do,” I snapped, weary of his power trip. Charlie mulled it over, taking his sweet time.

“Sign it or not. I don’t have all day,” I demanded, attempting to snatch it away from him. Charlie pinned it to the table with his fist, paused dramatically, then signed with a flourish.

“Can’t have a show without an audience,” he quipped, inviting the world to capture his latest performance.

The world came—in force. The media were so thick I could hardly walk through the halls of the administration building. Only a few lucky pool reporters were allowed inside the hearing itself, forcing the rest of the mob to cool their camcorders outside. Restless and bored, they clamored for news. A representative group scurried to the warden’s office to request an interview with an officer who had worked closely with the imprisoned cult leader. “Get up here, Ed,” Dr. Clanon ordered, sounding exasperated. “Some of the reporters want to ask questions about Manson. They’ve been waiting around here for hours and the hearing is still going on.”

It was my first experience with a mob-scene interview, and it turned out to be disconcerting. The reporters and cameramen crowded around, pushing and shoving for position, practically knocking one another down. They peppered me with a machine-gun volley of questions all asked at the same time. “What does he do in his cell? Who does he talk with? What does he talk about? What does his cell look like? Does he make voodoo dolls? Why did he break his guitar?” On and on they went. I answered in short, crisp bursts, trying hard not to say anything I’d be sorry for later. The constant flashes and bright television lights began to disorient me. Huge spots danced before my eyes, giving me a splitting headache.

“Do you think he’ll get a [parole] date?” someone asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Too soon.”

“When do you think he’ll get out?”

“Probably never.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t think the public would stand for it. That’s my opinion,” I offered, totally blind and physically reeling.

While I fended off the press, Charlie was inside putting on one of his shows. Unfortunately, it wasn’t anything close to the inspirational mea culpa that would have moved his audience. True to form, he offered his standard accusatory “You’re destroying the forests, rivers of blood will flow” speech that guaranteed that he wouldn’t be released anytime this century. The freshly inked swastika tattooed on his forehead didn’t help much either.

When the hearing broke, the media mob abandoned me like yesterday’s news and rushed to capture Charlie’s historical exit. They pressed against a closed gate as Manson was whisked down the hall.

“Well, it’s back in the hole,” Charlie quipped, playing to the crowd.