“You bet,” Leslie said.
I sensed my bluff might be working.
Pointing over her shoulder at the Ducatis lined up inside the showroom, I pleaded, “Come on, darlin’. Let’s straddle that beast and go for a skate on the highway. Now it’s your turn to trust me for a change,” I said. “Shall we go?”
They had only one Ducati Desmo Super Sport on the floor, but it was priced way out of our league. However, there were at least ten new and used Guzzis all spiffed up and polished. Three were brand-spanking new 850 Le Mans nearer our price range.
Leslie asked the salesman if she could use the telephone. Meanwhile, I climbed on a fire-engine red V2 Moto Guzzi. It was a tad exotic—with a five-speed shaft drive and some relatively new appliance they called “integral braking.” I couldn’t wait to turn her on and twist open the throttle.
“Get off the phone Leslie, will ya?” I said impatiently.
It was routine during deliberations, for Leslie to check in every couple of hours. She’d usually call either Max or Dante, her bondsman. Since she was still out of reach on the phone, I guessed she was talking to Max or her mother. The salesman kept smiling and helped me push the bike out to the curb where I could start her. I was just about to switch on the engine when, looking all ashen and pale, Leslie came walking towards us.
“We gotta go,” was all she needed to say.
I knew what this meant. The verdict was finally decided.
It meant one of three basic outcomes: win, lose or draw. Naturally, a manslaughter conviction would be great, and first-degree would be a disaster. But, at this point, another hung jury or even a second-degree murder conviction would represent a victory of sorts. Van de Kamp wouldn’t dare try her again for a fourth time! Would he? Could this be the moment for more justice than politics? A trend toward espoused rehabilitation more than practiced revenge? Or just more propaganda and hypocrisy—same as before—as if it never ends?
The jury informed the judge they had reached a unanimous decision. Now, the court was waiting on Leslie and Max to show up. Max was en route back from his ranch in Paso Robles, which is two hundred miles north of Los Angeles. Depending on traffic, it could still take him hours to get there. Leslie and I arrived at Max’s Security Pacific office before him. When he arrived, we walked the six blocks from the plaza to the hall of justice together. I kept quiet the whole way and let Leslie and Max talk. I would say they looked worried, but that only seemed normal. Nothing to panic about.
We made our way past the swarm of reporters beginning to buzz around the building and corridor in front of Judge Ringer’s superior court. Max ushered Les and me into a private conference room off to one side of the court. For almost an hour, or so it seemed to me, Les and I held hands while bailiffs set the stage next door with appropriate props. When the time came for Leslie to be led into the courtroom, I gave her one last kiss for good luck. Then, I walked back to a spot among the gallery of friends and reporters.
I was certain there were people I knew all around me, but Les was the only point on which I affixed any awareness. After all the preliminary rituals had been dispensed with, the jury foreman read out the verdict: “We the jury, in the above entitled action, find the defendant, Leslie Van Houten, guilty of murder. And we further find it to be murder in the first-degree.”
Leslie flinched a split second and gripped the arms of her chair. There were some gasps in the courtroom. Someone somewhere was crying. There may even have been some shouting like you see in the movies. Seconds later, Leslie turned around quickly, then straight ahead once again—stoic as ever. During that glimpse, I thought I could see a startled look in her eyes. Her lips were parted and her cheeks were pale. My first response to something as abysmal as this was to feel nothing at all. Feeling? That would have to come later. First, I had to get over the shock.
After hearing the verdict, the judge announced he was revoking Leslie’s bond. According to protocol, he remanded her into the custody of the sheriff until formal sentencing, which he immediately scheduled for July 21st. Sheriff’s deputies led Leslie away and put her in handcuffs. The door closed. The courtroom emptied. I was the last person to leave, except for the bailiff who hurriedly led me out.
I passed goodfellas Stephen Kay and Dino Fulgoni in the corridor outside the courtroom. I heard Kay tell his colleague, “The battle is over. We won.”
All I could muster was a pathetic taunt of no consequence. Admitting how easy it is to be brave from a distance, I said, “It’s just a game to you Mr. Kay, isn’t it?”
“Huh?” was his startled response.
On second thought, he stopped walking away, turned around and bravely restated his formula, “No,” he said to me, “it’s the law.”
“You know what Edmund Burke said about laws, don’t you? He said improper rulings are the worst sort of tyranny. Any comment?”
“Whatever,” Stephen Kay shrugged.
Then, he and Dino Fulgoni continued congratulating each other. So much for the philosophical wisdom of modern conservatism.
District Attorney John Van de Kamp told the press he felt this verdict vindicated him for the decision to prosecute Leslie a third time on three counts of first-degree murder. One each for Leno and Rosemary LaBianca, plus an additional count of conspiracy to commit murder—which included the five victims at 10050 Cielo Drive. Even though that carnage was something Leslie didn’t know about until after it happened, the DA needed the conspiracy charge to justify his claims about premeditation. Personally, I suspected the fix was in somewhere, but I couldn’t begin to prove this, of course. Call it “intuition.” That’s what I do.
Prosecutors Stephen Kay and Dino Fulgoni upheld that Leslie’s involvement in these terrible crimes was the result of malice aforethought on her part. Even though she didn’t actually kill anyone herself, she was found guilty of aiding and abetting a crime where co-conspirators murdered their victims.
After the verdict was read, jury foreman John L. Crigler told the press that he and his fellow jurors “felt Ms. Van Houten had suffered some diminished capacity. But we just couldn’t determine that it was diminished to the extent that was required to relieve her of responsibility for what she had done.” I couldn’t help wondering why no one bothered to ask Mr. Crigler for his understanding of the phrase “beyond a reasonable doubt?”
I spent the next days and weeks camped out at Jane Van Houten’s house. David and Betsy were also there with me off and on much of the time. Linda Grippi stopped by the most. Max Keith was looking the worst for wear I would say. Thankfully, Judy Frutig was there to look after him. To me, the overall mood was one of shock, numb disbelief and a feeling of absolute emptiness. As always, the person who held it together best was Leslie’s mom—with the likely exception of Leslie herself.
First thing in the morning the day after the verdict, Jane and I went to see Leslie at Sybil Brand. We wished we’d seen the last of that place already. This was the worst visit that I can remember. I acted a coward—pacing the visitors’ room, glaring at Leslie—I wasn’t the compassionate man I hoped I would be at this moment. When the time came to stand tall, I only got ugly. I was childish, frustrated, senseless, crazy and mad. Leslie was crying. I could hear devils inside my head chattering hidden behind every wall. At some point, right in front of her mother, I said something terribly hurtful, stupid and small.
“You know, Leslie. Maybe if you hadn’t had Max parade your dates as ‘character witnesses’ on the stand during the trial, you may not have turned off the jury.”
I knew only too well how to stab at the heart and pierce her emotions. If words of comfort skillfully chosen were summoned for, I did far worse than miss the call to chivalry. Shame has mercifully scoured the surface of those recollections. All I know is that I was a miserable lout.
After drying her tears with a tissue, Leslie said, “You w
ere teaching in Canada. It wasn’t my idea, you know.”
It was all I could do to keep from growling.
“Max is going to get Paul Fitzgerald, another lawyer, to help him with further motions from now on.”
“Max looks exhausted,” I said.
“We may still have some options. The first step will be to ask the judge for a delay in the sentencing.”
“What reason will they give?”
“To reach a deal for being given the date of my expected release,” Leslie said. “What? You don’t think there’s a chance? I know it still sounds like a long shot.”
Before I could say what I’d thought about long shots, Jane tapped my shoulder to signal it was time to wrap up and move on. I told Leslie I’d be back the next day alone. Now I know why so many depressed people go shopping after a huge let down or some other heartbreak. It’s shock. My fight, flight or freeze mechanism all kicked in together. There was no blood flow to my brain. All distractions are equal as distractions. I’d lost the girl, but there was always a mechanical bride somewhere on the horizon. No use just moping around. After all, I tried assuring myself—this was still California.
The Moto Guzzi Le Mans was now out of the question. But Leslie’s MG still had to go on the block. It was burning a quart of oil with every fill up. So David Van Houten and I prowled around several car auctions that week, hoping to trade the B in for something better. With the help of a dealer named Paul, I swapped the MGB plus some cash for a mocha-brown Fiat 124 Spider—disc brakes on all fours. What she lacked in appearance and horsepower, she made up for in lightweight control. My kind of go-cart. If I’d gotten the bike as planned, this car would have been Leslie’s. This was to be our new family car.
David was helping me wax the Fiat in the laneway in back of his mom’s house. I was just starting to fasten my new blue and gold California license plates (#442-VGC) to the bumper, when I spotted Judy Frutig’s 240-Z parked at the end of the alley. It looked to me like she had somebody with her, but I couldn’t make out who it was.
“She here for you?” I asked David, loud enough so that Judy could hear me.
“No,” Judy said, “It’s you I wanted to talk to, Peter. If you don’t mind?”
Davy pondered his cue, dried his hands off on his jeans and asked if anyone wanted a glass of iced tea. Then, he went through the garage and inside the house.
“I’m not sure you fully appreciate what a private person Jane is,” Judy announced. “As a friend of the family, Glen asked me to remind you of this in case you missed it. We feel that it’s time for you to please leave her alone. She’s been through plenty and needs this time to herself. And given the change in circumstances with Leslie, there’s no need for you to be here any longer.”
“This is a message from who exactly, Judy? You or Glen?” I asked. “No matter really,” I quickly reflected. “What you say about Jane is true enough. She’s asked me to stay as long as I want or feel I need to. But who do you think you are telling me what I already know? In case I missed it. What gall!”
“It’s not always about you, Peter. It’s what’s best for Jane and Leslie that we should be talking about. Don’t you have somewhere else to go?”
Right about then, I wanted to start screaming, instantly dreaming of punching the lights out of her next twenty boyfriends.
“What’s it to you where I’m going? And why are you and Glen always so concerned with my whereabouts?” I said, swelling with anger.
But Jude wasn’t the least intimidated by me anymore.
“Let me finish.” Judy held up her hand like a traffic cop. “I’ve spoken to Leslie. I know what you said about me...about Glen...and about our involvement. It’s none of your business. None! None of what happens here should concern you.”
“Now, you’re telling me what my concerns are or should be? Talk about ‘none of your business’.”
I tossed my wrench on the ground.
“See? That’s what I mean.” Judy said.
Just then, David came back outside. I was sure he overheard the last part of what Judy was saying. She stiffened up. At this point, I chose to ignore her.
Davy said, “Peter, someone named Martin just called. I told him you were busy. He left a number for you to call.”
I looked back at Judy and told her, “I’m sorry, Judy. This is all fascinating, but I’m afraid I have to take this.”
Only I didn’t. I simply went back to what I was doing before and ignored her. Screwing California plates on to the bumpers of my new car. Judy huffed, turned around and marched away down the alley unchallenged.
The next day I drove to Laguna Nigel to visit with Michael and Jane Malone. I needed a friend to talk to, preferably an older man who was wise about what to do when one’s lost the object of love. Sometimes it’s best not to try and talk at all, provided you do it with the right people. And I wanted them to see my new car. We left the Spider parked in the driveway and took their white Mercedes saloon-class sedan to Tijuana for lunch. After another quick stop on the Baja for something or other, we continued as far south as the Rosarito Beach Hotel—just like we’d planned once before as a foursome. Once a playground for those who could afford to get away during Prohibition, this place once boasted the largest barroom on the coast from San Francisco to Mazatlán. Inscribed over the entranceway were painted these words: Poresta Puerta Pasan Las Majeres Mas Hermosas Del Mundo, which Michael translated as Through These Doors Have Passed the Most Beautiful Women of the World. We talked about Leslie the whole way and back. Rosarito didn’t know all they were missing, but I did. And thinking about Leslie might be going through was really breaking my heart.
Back to LA a couple of days later, Martin Bijaux called again checking in. I can’t honestly say that I’d missed him. Sometimes, he rubbed me the wrong way. I’m sure he felt the same way about me, but we remained friends all the same. And he was a good companion to take on my next trip to Santa Barbara. First on the “to do” list was to cancel the interim rental Leslie and I had left for the apartment on Camino Del Sur. What I needed now was a dark cabin in a thorn brush somewhere to match my ragged disposition.
Looking for the student housing office on campus, we passed by Phelps Hall. I decided to stop in to see who was around. As luck would have it, we ran into Mark Phillips straight away. His office door was wide open and I said, “Dr. Phillips, I presume,” leaning my body inside without knocking.
“Peter Chiaramonte! Good to see you,” Mark said.
“It’s good to see you too, professor. Mark, I’d like to introduce my friend Martin.”
“Please come in. Come in and sit down. I must say I was sorry to hear the news about Leslie. Tell me, how is she holding up?”
I answered quickly, hoping we might change the subject. “We only stopped by for a moment. I’m still looking for somewhere to live. We were just looking for the housing office—”
Mark said, “There’s not much time left. Most places are already taken.” Then he sat up straight from his casual slump and added, “As a matter of fact, it just so happens my current housemate is moving to Germany next month. End of August. I’ve been looking for someone to take over his end of the house. I’ll be home in an hour if you’d care to see it? It’s a pretty big ranch house built on a cliff overlooking the ocean.” Listening to this, I giggled nervously, thinking he might be making the part about the ocean view up. Then I could see he was serious.
“The whole place is surrounded with shuttered windows and sliding glass doors,” he said smiling. “Plenty of wood beams holding the roof up.”
When I asked what the rent was, Mark suggested I see the place first to see if I’d like it. The lease he said was “negotiable.” I thought at first he was teasing, but felt compelled to check the place out for myself. Mark drew us a map when we asked for directions.
Martin and I left straight away. We drove south on Las Palmas Drive through one of the wealthiest suburbs in all of southern California, the incorporated exurbia of Santa Barbara known as Hope Ranch. Even in those days, there wasn’t a home priced below millions of dollars. We passed out of the eastern gates into the more bourgeois neighborhoods on either side of Cliff Drive and shared a joint with the top down. Mark’s house was just off of Yankee Farm Road near the cul-de-sac off Braemar Drive. The shelf of land on which it stood was hundreds of feet above Hendry’s Beach and had a clear view of the ocean—true enough.
I thought to myself, “Leslie should see this.”
In front of the house was a half-acre orchard of oranges and avocados. There was an overgrown vegetable garden beside the garage that needed attention. Facing north, you could see the mountains climbing up above Rattlesnake Canyon. Looking the other way around about an eighth of a mile from the shoreline, there appeared to be four or five surfers in wet suits. Only one was riding a wave while the others were paddling out or was floating in blue-green swells and waiting their turn for the big one.
“What do you think?” I turned to Martin and asked, assuming he was in the same state of awe that I was.
“What do I think?” Martin repeated. “I think it’s ironic. In some bloody strange way, you’ve stumbled into a Xanadu...you lucky sod.”
“Do you think Leslie would like it?” I asked, ever hopeful.
Martin shrugged and said nothing.
Just then, Mark turned in the long narrow driveway. Before he had time to come to a complete stop and turn off the engine, I asked him, “When can I move in all of my stuff?”
* * *
On Friday, July 21st, Leslie appeared in court with her lawyers. Judge Ringer granted her lawyers’ request for a three-week delay in the sentencing. That way, the defense would have time to prepare the new series of motions that Leslie had spoken about. The first motion would ask the judge to grant Leslie a new trial and/or grant a reduction in charges. To our way of thinking, this only seemed fair given the incessant levels of reasonable doubt. And if Judge Ringer were to agree to such a reduction, a further motion would ask that Leslie be granted immediate release on probation. That didn’t just seem like wishful thinking, black magic either. It was fair to say we still believed in the possibility.
No Journey's End: My Tragic Romance with Ex-Manson Girl, Leslie Van Houten Page 30