I glanced at the photo and then looked at Manson. “Yes, I do. That is my daughter, Sharon Tate.” . . .
“And how old was Sharon Tate when you last saw her?” Stovitz asked.
“She would have been twenty-six.” . . .
“And when was it that you last saw her in life, sir?
“It was in July, actually, the day of the moon landing in 1969.” . . .
“And how did you know it was the day of the moon landing?”
“Well, all of us watched the landing on television as everyone else was doing.”
“And when you say ‘everyone else,’ who else was there, sir?”
“Well, at the time there was Abby [Gibby] Folger and Woytek Frykowski. Later Jay Sebring came in from San Francisco and came directly from the airport and joined us . . .”
“And where was this taking place, sir?”
“At Sharon’s house.” . . .
“Now, directing your attention to Exhibit 2 for identification. You mentioned a person by the name of Jay Sebring. Is that the person shown in Exhibit 2 for identification?”
“Yes, it is. That is Jay Sebring.” . . .
“And . . . the persons depicted in Exhibit 3 for identification . . . ?
“That is Woytek Frykowski . . . and Miss Abigail Folger.” . . .
“Now, on this day in July . . . did you just visit for a few hours or what?” . . .
“My wife and my other two daughters and myself spent the entire day . . . and left there at 11 or 12 o’clock that night.”
“When was the next time you either spoke to your daughter or saw her again after that?”
“Of course I never did see her again after that.” . . .
“Your Honor, that’s all we have for this witness,” Stovitz told the court.
I started to leave. “Hold on, Mr. Tate,” the judge said, and then asked the defense if they wanted to cross-examine me.
Atkins’ lawyer, Daye Shinn, stood. “I have a few questions, Your Honor.”
The Asian attorney spoke as smoothly as the used car salesman he once was; overly friendly as he trapped the unsuspecting into a raw deal. “Mr. Tate, you stated that you knew Mr. Sebring since 1964?”
“Yes, I did, approximately 1964.”
“Did you know him socially?”
“Socially? I had been to the opening of his shop. I suppose you could call that socially.”
“And did you have any business contacts with Mr. Sebring?”
“No. I don’t know exactly what you mean by business contacts. In what respect?”
“Well,” Shinn said dramatically, “in your association—”
“I was in the military during this period, not the hair business.”
“You did see him from time to time?”
I looked quizzically toward the prosecutors. “Yes, from time to time.” . . .
“Did you visit his house?” Shinn questioned.
“Yes, yes I have been to his house.”
The volume of the lawyer’s voice pitched a decibel higher. “And you met him at your daughter’s house, too, at times?”
“Yes, of course.”
Shinn turned toward the jury and roared, “And did you attend any parties at your daughter’s house or Mr. Sebring’s house?”
Shinn’s destination was clear, victim defamation. I’d had no choice but to sit back and watch it happen in the press, but I wasn’t about to let it happen again in a court of justice. Two could play this distraction game. “Your Honor, do you suppose he’s asking me or the jury?”
Shinn wheeled. “What? I—” he stammered. “I’m asking you, of course.”
“Oh. In that case, no, I did not,” I lied. . . .
Caught off guard, Shinn floundered with less steam. “As to Mr. Frykowski, . . . how long had you known him?”
“I would say roughly about four months . . . I had not known Mr. Frykowski long.” . . .
“And how about Miss Folger?”
“The same, the same,” I snapped . . .
“During your association with these various people I just mentioned, . . . did you at any time observe them under the influence of either drugs or alcohol?”
I folded my arms in defiance. “Never . . . You got any snake oil to sell with this load of manure?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Shinn whined at the same time that Stovitz objected to the question being immaterial.
“Sustained. The answer will be stricken. The jury is admonished to disregard it. . . . Continue.”
I was confused on which objection had been sustained so I asked, “Well, is his question about drugs or about alcohol?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Stovitz intervened, “immaterial.”
“Sustained. The answer will be stricken . . . I have to agree. Mr. Shinn.” . . .
Shin asked to approach the bench. When he did, Bugliosi, Stovitz, and the rest of the defense lawyers huddled around the judge. I caught just bits and pieces of the argument, but I believe Shinn wanted to continue on his alternate drug motive quest and introduce evidence that tied Jay not only to the drug dealer Billy Doyle, but also to the whipping Doyle supposedly received by Jay and Woytek. Thankfully, the judge refused to allow that line of questioning and told Shinn he would be on a very tight leash for the remainder of my cross-examination.
When court resumed, Older said, “Let’s proceed, Mr. Shinn.”
“Mr. Tate, did you ever see Jay Sebring use a whip on someone in a sexual—”
Judge Older’s hand cracked down on the bench. “That question is stricken . . . Your examination is over, Mr. Shinn. . . . You are excused, Mr. Tate, subject to being recalled . . . Please let the court know if you plan to leave town.”
“That will be fine, Judge. Starting tomorrow, you can find me right there,” I pointed to the gallery, “in one of those butt-numbing seats.”
On my way out, I passed the seasoned court reporters, such as Theo Wilson and Linda Deutsch. In the corridor, I found the less professional version. Their cameras flashed, their questions stung.
“Is it true that Sharon and the others used Manson as their drug connection?”
“Did Manson really attend orgies with Sharon at Cielo Drive?”
I pushed passed them. “Kiss my ass.”
The following Monday morning, I sat in a seat with the best vantage point, closest to the wall, behind the prosecution, and to the side of the defense table; all of which provided an unobstructed view of the jury—not for my benefit, but for theirs. Whether the jury would admit it or not, seeing my face, front and center, day in and day out would weigh on their mind for a conviction.
Theo Wilson laughed behind me. “Oh, God, what next?”
Atkins, Krenwinkel, and Van Houten entered, wearing blue satin capes and mopping blood that still dripped from the X they’d carved into their foreheads.
Manson saved his theatrics for the jury. The instant they were seated, he held up a copy of the Constitution, then dramatically dumped it into the waste can.
Vince Bugliosi, grown so accustomed to the defendant’s antics, barely noticed what the columnists jotted down for their afternoon report. He looked up from his notes. “The People call Linda Kasabian.”
A wilted blossom of flower power, Kasabian entered the court with her head tilted as if her mind weighed heavily. Near the defense table, her dispirited eyes remained downcast, avoiding her co-defendants, who rapidly ran their fingers over their lips, signaling “blabbermouth.”
For the moment, Kasabian remained a defendant, held without bail, and charged with seven counts of murder. However, upon completion of her testimony, the state of California planned to grant her immunity.
“Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” the clerk said.
Kasabian tucked back her blond locks, revealing a pale, gaunt face. Before she had a chance to raise her hand, Irving Kanarek gave a jolt. “Objection! On the grounds that this witness is not competent and is insane!”
Bugliosi sh
ot up. “Wait a minute! Your Honor, I move to strike that, and I ask the court to find him in contempt for gross misconduct. This is unbelievable on his part.”
The lawyers’ exchange set the tone for Kasabian’s eighteen days on the witness stand. Kanarek maniacally objected to almost every question the prosecutor asked, often finding numerous, irrelevant objections for the same question. Coinciding with Kanarek’s misbehavior was a flow of outbursts from the defendants, that is, until Bugliosi led everyone back to August 9, 1969.
Kasabian’s testimony of murder dropped a blanket that overlay the spectators’ rustling of papers, clearing of throats, and bodies shifting uncomfortably on the benches. Closer to the witness stand, Atkins, Krenwinkel, and Van Houten stopped giggling. Manson concentrated on doodling. The defense attorneys halted their objections. The jury edged forward in their seats.
“What happened after you, Katie, Tex, and Sadie walked up the hill to the Cielo gate?” Bugliosi asked.
“We climbed over a fence, and then a light started coming toward us. Tex told us to hide in the bushes. A car pulled up in front of us, and Tex leaped forward with a gun in his hand and stuck his hand with the gun at the man’s head. And the man in the car said, ‘Please don’t hurt me, I won’t say anything.’ And Tex shot him four times.”
“After Tex shot the driver, what happened?”
“The man slumped over, and then Tex put his head in the car and turned the ignition off. . . . We all proceeded toward the house, and Tex told me to go in back to see if there were open windows or doors, which I did.”
“Did you find any doors or windows open?
“No. . . . When I came around from the back, Tex was standing at a window, cutting the screen, and he told me to go back to the car and wait. I waited for a few minutes at the car, and then all of the sudden I heard people screaming, ‘No, please, no.’ It was just horrible. Even my emotions cannot tell you how terrible it was. I heard a man scream out, ‘No, no.’ After that, I just heard screams. I don’t have any words to describe those screams. It was just unbelievably horribly, terrible.”
“Were the screams loud screams or soft screams, or what?” Bugliosi asked.
“Loud. Loud,” Kasabian said, as if yelling over voices in her head.
“Did the people appear to be pleading for their lives?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do when you heard these screams?”
“I started to run toward the house.”
“Linda, what happened after you ran toward the house?”
“There was a man just coming out of the door, and he had blood all over his face, and then he leaned against a post. We looked into each other’s eyes for a minute. Then he just fell into the bushes. Then Sadie came running out of the house, and I said, ‘Sadie, please make it stop.’ And she said, ‘It’s too late.’ And then she told me that she couldn’t find her knife. And while this was going on, the man had gotten up and I saw Tex on top of him, hitting him on the head and stabbing him, and the man was struggling. Then I saw Katie in the background with the girl, chasing after her with an upraised knife.”
“Katie was chasing someone?”
“Yes. A woman in a white gown.”
“When Tex was stabbing this man, was the man screaming and struggling?”
“Yes.”
“How many times did Tex stab this man?”
“I don’t know. He just kept doing it and doing it and doing it.”
“Do you know what he was screaming?”
“It was beyond words, it was just screams.”
“What did you do next?”
“I just turned and ran to the car down at the bottom of the hill.”
“Did Tex, Sadie, and Katie eventually come to the car?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“I had started the car, and Tex came over and told me to turn the car off and to push over, and he seemed really uptight, because I had run to the car.”
“Did Tex then drive off?”
“Yes.”
“Did Katie and Sadie say anything as you were driving off from the residence?”
“Yes. They complained about their heads, that the people were pulling their hair, and that their heads hurt. Sadie said that when she was struggling with a big man, that he hit her in the head. Also, Katie complained that her hand hurt.”
“Did she say why her hand hurt?”
“She said when she stabbed that there were bones in the way and she couldn’t get the knife through all the way, and that it took too much energy. I don’t know her exact words, but it hurt her hand.”
“Did Katie say anything about one of the girls inside the residence?”
“Yes, she did. She said that one of the girls was crying for her mother and for God.”
“Would this be a good breaking point, Mr. Bugliosi?” Judge Older asked.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Then we’ll adjourn until nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
DORIS AND PATTI were finishing dessert when I got home.
“We gave up on you,” Doris said. “I wish you’d call if you’re going to be this late.”
“Sorry,” I halfheartedly told her.
“Sorry? The prosecutor and the judge have full-time bodyguards because of these maniacs. You waltz around without protection, and I don’t know if you’re dead or alive.”
“I said I was sorry. It was a long day in court. Today was Linda Kasabian’s testimony of the murders. That girl’s a double-edged sword; she could have saved them.”
“Not in front of Patti.”
“Why the hell not?” My temper flipped. “Patti, you know what’s going on in your sister’s trial, don’t you?” I wasn’t looking for an answer, nor did I wait for one. “Everyone knows what’s happening in the goddamned trial except for you!”
“What would you have me do? Sit there every day, tortured with the details of how my daughter took her last breaths? Would that make you feel better, P.J.?” she cried.
“At least everyone would know she had a mother!” I stormed out of the room.
“You bastard,” she chased after me. “I don’t need to be there to prove I love Sharon. It’s in God’s hands to take care of those monsters.”
“What God?” I bellowed. “The same God that watches over our children? If it is, you better keep your eye on that little one in the kitchen, because there is no God!”
“That’s a cop-out.” Her voice calmed. “Evil’s alluring, isn’t it? It’s an easy way out, the exact same escape that lured Manson’s followers. Some days I may hide my head in the sand, but at least I’m not hiding behind hatred.”
Later, I eavesdropped at the bedroom door I was locked out of. “Are you and Dad going to get a divorce?” Patti asked Doris.
“No, honey.”
“Then how come you have separate bedrooms?”
“Your daddy and I are just on different paths right now. We’ll find our way back sooner or later.”
I went to my new sleeping quarters, unsure if she was right.
THE REMAINDER OF the Manson trial was an outlandish experience with something for everyone. Hippies, movie stars, and tourists piled into the courtroom to witness the spectacle. Tattooed bikers, cowboy stuntmen, hookers, Hollywood agents, music producers, and the prosecution’s star witness Yana the Witch, testified about “Elmer” the pot plant, acid trips, karma, the Bible, the Beatles, sex orgies, bisexuality, war, love, and murder. It was a trial presided over by a judge who carried a .38 revolver under his robe. And a trial where oddities of exceptional circumstances became the norm.
A woman claiming to be the Whore of Babylon stopped the proceedings when she screamed, “I have proof that key prosecution witnesses were coerced, bribed, and threatened!”
As if to provide corroborating evidence to the prosecution’s theory that Manson was the puppet master of his co-defendants, the female defendants followed his every lead. If he turned his chair back
to the judge, they followed suit. When he stood with his arms outstretched in the form of the crucifixion, they stood to do the same. One day, he simply nodded at them and they all rose, lifted their skirts, and then bent over the table to moon the audience—thankfully, they wore underwear.
Disguised, Manson Family member Squeaky Fromme slipped into court one day only to be ejected after she jumped on my back. Smacking the top of my head, she yelled, “You should know better than anyone that we were just at war! Who are you judging? Follow your own reflection, the guilt you find is yours!”
Deputies dragged her out to the corridor, where her scream was heard all the way to the elevator. “It’s not our fault, they brought it on themselves! You’ve all brought judgment down on yourselves! Prepare for the end!”
No one bothered to ask if I wanted to file charges against Fromme—it was just another day in this out-of-control trial.
That interaction with Fromme wasn’t my only personal encounter with the Manson Family. On another day, I entered the courthouse men’s room still thinking about Virginia Graham’s testimony. She recounted Susan Atkins’s confession in which Atkins provided details of how she’d killed Sharon. I’d always believed that my genetic disposition made it impossible for me to ever raise a hand to a woman. But Atkins was doing a great job challenging that belief. Given the opportunity, I wouldn’t have hesitated to make her suffer tenfold for what she did to my baby.
I zipped up with that thought and then noticed for the first time that the men on either side of me were focused more on me than the urinal. A third man exited a stall and left without washing. Although the dark-haired one to my left fingered a sheathed knife, I was fairly confident that both men were there for intimidation purposes only. Nevertheless, I squatted as if to tie my shoe and then I charged him. By the time we slammed into the far wall, three deputies were on us; one yanked my arm behind me and jerked it upward to restrain me. When he spun me around, I saw that the second man had left. As with the Fromme incident, the deputies weren’t interested in the details of the latest sideshow of the circus. Within the hour, I was ejected from the courthouse for the day.
Weeks later, I saw the two men on the evening news. LAPD had issued warrants for the arrests of Bruce Davis and Steve Grogan, under suspicion for the murder of Donald O’Shea, a ranch hand at Spahn’s Movie Ranch.
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