Twelve hours earlier, my friends and I lay next to the surf under the spell of the drug in unrestrained euphoria, hoping to reach beyond the stars, into the perimeters, and on to the mystical part of the universe where Jim Morrison promised we’d find freedom.
The bathroom radio played Tommy James’s Draggin’ the Line as I rhythmically kneaded the shampoo into a playful lather. I was in love, and though my prince didn’t know of my existence yet, I plotted how I’d win his heart later that day at the beach. Jeans or skirt? Hair loose or tied back? I leaned in to kiss the warm water, daydreaming of how his lips would feel when they fluttered against my skin for the first time.
A newscaster punched through the airwaves, his voice echoing off the tiles, disrupting my romantic trance. “Welcome to the ten o’clock news. Today, prisoners on California’s death row breathed a sigh of relief when they learned of the state’s decision to abolish the death penalty.
“The Supreme Court’s ruling cites the reason for the abolishment as a practice that degrades and dehumanizes all who participate in the process. The high court also noted that the lengthy time in the cells prior to execution is cruel, unusual, and incompatible with civilized society.
“The ruling commutes the sentences of five women and one hundred and two men, including Robert Kennedy killer Sirhan Sirhan, as well as Charles Manson and his followers, who killed Sharon Tate and six others.
“A startling note for our listeners: with their new sentences, these killers will have a chance at parole as early as 1978.”
I leaned against the porcelain, my eyes stinging from the trickling suds. The warmth of the shower turned to icy needles while the broadcast news festered in my mind and became a full-blown study of vengeance. “Fuck!” I lashed out.
A wet trail sprinkled below my robe as I stomped through the house searching for my mother. I found her in the family room, calmly sipping coffee, cradling Sharon’s teddy bear in her lap.
On the table in front of her was the newspaper headline of the Supreme Court’s vote, and next to that, an open Bible. I pointed at the paper. “Eight years for Sharon’s life? If it’s that fucking simple, I’ll go and kill them all myself. I can’t take another day of this crap!”
“Patti, don’t talk like that,” she warned.
“What is it you don’t like, Mother, the word fuck or the fact that I want to kill them?”
“Darlin’, your father just left here in a huff—with his gun, I might add. I really don’t need two more killers in my life,” she said, with quiet composure and a touch of sarcasm.
“How can you just sit there like nothing’s wrong?”
“Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy,” she said, pointing toward the Bible. “Come sit down for a minute.”
When Mom felt vulnerable and indecisive, she liked to open the Bible and let the pages fall randomly to a passage that would guide her. I looked to the scripture, opened to Proverbs 24:17. “REVENGE: When thy enemy shall fall, be not glad and in his ruin let not thy heart rejoice, lest the Lord see, and it displease Him and He turn away His wrath from him.”
She placed the teddy bear in my arms. “Early this morning, I was in such a rage that I could have sold my soul in exchange for those creatures’ deaths. My hatred was so strong that I’m positive it would have happened,” she said, matter-of-factly. “But that choice would make me as dead inside as they are. Honey, let it go to God. Like the Bible says, He will take care of this.”
“He didn’t take care of Sharon, what makes you think He’ll take care of this?”
“That’s a question you’ll have to answer yourself. I will tell you this, if you lose your faith in God, you’ve lost everything.”
Doris
Right on schedule, the parole board granted Manson et al. a hearing before the end of 1978.
Between Manson, Atkins, Watson, and Krenwinkel’s annual hearings, one of them surfaced in the news just about every three months. Each time, the press called our house asking for commentary, and each time we remained silent, assuming that if we ignored the possibility of the killers’ freedom, the situation would melt away.
Twelve years after the murders, the prospect of parole for the Manson Family not only endured, it made the headlines as a probability.
Before 1977, the state of California convicted prisoners with indeterminate sentences, or punishments that were largely subject to judicial discretion. Under that ruling, an inmate’s sole prospect for re-entering society was in the hands of the Board of Prison Terms and Paroles. This sentence structure was based on the belief that a favorable parole review for release was persuasive incentive for prisoners to work aggressively toward rehabilitation.
During that time the California Board of Prison Terms ran as a seemingly unsupervised, governor-appointed group that used two indicators to decide an inmate’s suitability for parole: prison modification and overpopulation. Those guidelines pressured the board into granting release dates to an average of three out of every ten eligible prisoners.
With the transition to determinate or fixed sentences, the crowded prisons threatened to burst. The California Department of Corrections, the CDC, viewed parole as their only release valve and pushed more prisoners with indeterminate sentences toward the parole board.
Attempting to alleviate their increasingly congested calendar, the board started granting an unusually large number of releases.
Deputy District Attorney Stephen Kay, who assisted Vince Bugliosi during the Manson trial, sensed the splintered freedom gates expanding. In an effort to repair the damage to truth and sentencing, Steve pioneered a program that encouraged prosecutors to oversee their convicts serving indeterminate life sentences by attending their parole hearings.
The initial prosecutors attending the lifer hearings found a common thread: the panel members did little, if any, research into the cases over which they presided. Disenchanted by that blasé attitude, the district attorneys persisted as public guardians and surrogates for the victims at the hearings to argue for continued incarceration of potentially violent inmates.
J u l y 1 7, 1 9 7 8
Steve made his debut appearance in the lifer program at Patricia Krenwinkel’s hearing.
Prosaic to everyone involved except the prisoners wistfully musing what they’ll do on their first day of liberty, parole considerations chronicle the offender’s activities from their entry date into the CDC.
Cutting through the stale atmosphere, Kay’s delayed entrance sparked everyone’s curiosity, and in Krenwinkel’s case, it provoked spiteful glances toward her past opponent. “Stephen Kay,” he announced. “Deputy District Attorney, Los Angeles County. Sorry if I’ve held anyone up.”
Commissioner Aquino nodded. “That’s okay, we’re just getting started.” Then to Krenwinkel, “Prisoner will raise your hand and swear that the testimony you are about to give will be the truth and the whole truth?”
Krenwinkel’s arm rose slightly. “I do,” she said, then she pointed at Kay. “Is he allowed to be here?”
“The Community Release Board allows for his attendance,” Aquino said.
Krenwinkel glowered. “He’s just come to harass me.”
“No, he’s here to observe and then at the end of the hearing he has the option of making a short argument to contest or support your release.”
“But he’s—”
“Ms. Krenwinkel, the subject is closed.” Aquino opened a two-inch file. “As I understand the statement of facts, on August 8, 1969, the prisoner, in the company of three crime partners, drove to Cielo Drive in Los Angeles and thereafter, as a result of their actions, five individuals were murdered.” He removed his reading glasses. “Which of the victims did you participate in killing?”
“None. I never entered the house.”
Aquino turned toward the sound of a guffaw. “Mr. Kay, you will not exercise those types of outbursts again.”
Kay pursed his lips, and then nodded curtly. “Sorry.”
The commissioner lo
osened his tie. “Ms. Krenwinkel, if you didn’t enter the house, what were you doing during the period the victims were being murdered?”
“I was on lookout, near the gate.”
Thoughtful for a moment, then Aquino asked, “The second night, August 10, did you stab Mr. LaBianca?”
“No,” Krenwinkel said.
“What about Mrs. LaBianca?”
“I attempted to, but the knife I had, it really wouldn’t stab her.”
“How did Mrs. LaBianca end up getting stabbed?”
Krenwinkel shrugged. “Well, I know Tex went in. He was the only one that had a strong enough knife.”
“Would you agree that Mr. Watson did a majority of the killing?” Aquino questioned.
“I couldn’t tell you. By that time, I had taken over 350 LSD trips, so it’s very difficult for me to remember the events surrounding that period.”
“Did you know that you were going to murder these people?”
“No. I thought we were going to do a burglary.”
Aquino leaned forward. “What about the second night? You knew that you were going to murder the LaBiancas, didn’t you?”
“At the time I was frightened and did as I was told. Manson told me to go to the LaBiancas, so I did.”
Forced to silence for the remainder of Krenwinkel’s unchallenged adaptation of Linda Kasabian’s role, the prosecutor’s voice thundered in the cramped space when the board finally unleashed him. Kay had arrived at the California Institute for Women expecting to make a short statement. Instead, he took an hour to enumerate Krenwinkel’s participation in the murders while the board members, with slackened jaws, listened to his unmitigated narration of the mayhem she’d enacted.
The parking lot was an inferno by the time Kay found his car beyond the prison’s chain-link fence. He’d presented an assertive summation, influencing the system to keep Krenwinkel for at least another year. Nevertheless, he considered it a tenuous defeat within the Department of Corrections, where they incarcerate the average first-degree murderer for ten to twelve years. Time was running out.
He leaned against his car, waiting for the air conditioner to cool the interior. Perspiration beaded across his forehead. A breeze kicked up putrid air from the vast lands surrounding the prison. Out there, killing was a reasonable chain of events; however, when human beings traversed the line into the preying fields, could they ever be trusted again? He didn’t have the answer, nor was it his objective to judge. His obligation as a prosecutor was to seek justice.
As he considered his options of keeping that integrity active, the same eerie feeling he had throughout the trials overcame him with the feathery hairs stirring on the back of his neck. He turned, sure that he’d find prying eyes upon him. Even so, Krenwinkel startled him. “Stay the fuck away from me,” she snarled through the chain-link fence.
“And miss all this fun? That was quite a performance in there, Pat. Just like old times.”
“You’re the same as Bugliosi, looking to make a buck off this case. Well guess what, Mr. DA? I don’t have to take your shit anymore.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Pat. I’m going to be here to make sure the only way you leave this dump is in a pine box.”
She laughed. “Too bad it wasn’t your house Manson picked. It’s never too late for the little man.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Why don’t you go back to your seaside home in Palos Verdes,” she spurred. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s right down the street from the Tate family, isn’t it?”
He successfully hid the unease of her accuracy by moving confrontationally toward her. “Where I live shouldn’t be a concern of yours.”
She blew him a kiss. “Toodle-oo, Mr. Magoo.”
Doris
I opened the front door. “Well?”
Steve gave a thumbs-up. “Krenwinkel was denied for a year.”
“You don’t seem too victorious.”
“I’ve got to be honest,” he said wearily, “I don’t know how much longer the state will keep them in prison.”
P.J. came up behind us. “I keep telling you, let them walk. I guarantee you they won’t make it to the freeway alive.”
I rolled my eyes. “My husband, the hit man.”
“Mark my words,” P.J. said, drifting away, “they’ll never know what hit them.”
“You want to come in for a drink?” I asked.
“No, my wife’s probably holding dinner for me.”
“All right. Thank you for going today.” Then, as an afterthought, “Listen, if you ever need help, you know where to find me.”
EARLY 1982 WAS the eve of the victims’ rights movement in California. Crime hit an all-time peak and the trend began to shift with the public urging the legislature to implement rigid laws and tougher sentencing. Victims’ organizations multiplied and gained strength in their united appeal for the same equal rights that the state afforded to the criminals.
The entire campaign wasn’t even an inkling in my thoughts when Steve Kay walked into my hair salon. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. Come on in, honey. I’ve been waiting almost five years to get at that head of yours.”
Steve allowed me to pull him into a chair. “I didn’t even know you’d started the business.”
“We just opened our third shop. I needed something to keep me busy, you know?” A curious thought hit me. “But you didn’t come here for a haircut, did you?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Not really.”
I felt the blood drain from my head. “Oh shit. Don’t tell me they decided to release one of those guys.”
“It’s not that bad, but I do have a problem. Did you read the paper yesterday?”
“Darlin’, I stopped reading the headlines years ago. Now quit beating around the bush.”
“Leslie Van Houten has a parole hearing coming up, and she plans to present nine hundred signatures supporting her release. If I don’t counter that support they might give her a parole date.”
I got up and nervously cleaned the workstation. “There’s nothing I can do about her; she wasn’t convicted of Sharon’s murder. Why don’t you call the LaBianca family?”
“They’re scared and don’t want anything to do with it.”
“We’re all scared, Steve. Leslie Van Houten isn’t my problem.”
“Not on the surface,” he said, “but if they let her out it will set a precedent for the rest of them to follow her through the door.”
I dropped into the chair opposite him and looked around the sanctuary I’d built to buffer the troubles, as I called the curveballs God had seen fit to throw my way. On August 7, 1969, I was on top of the world—it was a long haul, but I was inches from having my family back together. Sharon had permanently moved to Los Angeles, I had a grandbaby on her way, and P.J. was weeks from retiring. I spent hours daydreaming plans for our first holiday season together in years.
On August 7, there were new beginnings just around the corner. P.J. was going to work on Roman’s next film as a technical advisor. Jay had taught me his hair-cutting technique, and I was going to help with the distribution and promotion of Sebring grooming products.
Now, this place was all I had left to keep August 7 alive; and Steve had invaded it with the troubles. “I know I told you I’d help, but most days I can’t even bring myself to believe that Sharon’s gone, much less fight to keep those guys in jail.”
“Leave the fighting to me. All I need from you is as many signatures as possible on a blanket petition against the entire Manson Family’s release. It’ll cover all of them so you won’t have to do it again for the other hearings.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “I made this petition for you, but it doesn’t have to be this formal, you can even hand-write them.”
I reluctantly took the form. “I’m not very good at this kind of thing.”
Cheryl, the stylist working next to us, reached over my shoulder. “Oh hell, give me that thing. I’d love to be
the first one to give them a piece of my mind.” After signing it, she pinched my cheek. “Cheer up. This is going to be a piece of cake. Everyone that walks through that door will want to sign this.”
“KEEP YOUR NOSE out of it,” P.J. said, before taking a swig of beer. “Let them go and I’ll put an end to this whole goddamned farce.”
“I’ve been thinking about it all day and I can’t. They should have to sit in a four-by-four cell where they can think about what they did for eternity.” I grabbed the beer from his hand and poured it down the drain. “And, if you stopped numbing your mind, you’d see that.”
He reached in the fridge for another. “You’re dead wrong if you think this will stop after you put those petitions in the shops. Sure as I’m opening this beer, the newspapers will catch wind of this and blow the whole thing sky-high. Goddamned reporters. I don’t want anything to do with those sons of bitches.”
“P.J., you’re becoming a spiteful drunk, and I don’t like it. All you do is pace around and grumble about life. You don’t even see your friends anymore.”
“I don’t need friends. People are no damned good, and if you don’t want to see this my way, I don’t need you either,” he grumbled.
“That’s the beer talking, and if you keep it up, I’m going to let you die a lonely old man.” On my way out, I flipped off the light. “There, that suits you much better.”
“Oh, Mother,” he laughed bitterly, “I’m already a lonely old man.”
10
REVENGE OR JUSTICE?
Susan Atkins and Tex Watson have married, they have conjugal visits, they’ve each co-authored a book and say that they’re very happy. When you stop to think of what they did, it says something about justice in America. If we define justice as giving a person his or her due, be it praise for a good deed or punishment for a crime, justice has been frustrated in this case. These killers have beaten the rap.
—VINCENT BUGLIOSI
Patti 1982
Restless Souls Page 16