I slammed the guide shut. With a red marker I scribbled across the title, This must change or else Sharon will have died in vain.
Sleep didn’t come easily. I tossed and turned with the ruined lives I encountered that day still on my mind. Doubt crept through the strength I’d felt earlier until I eased away from the flowing thought traffic with the Serenity Prayer: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. Let me live one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship as a pathway to peace . . . I drifted off, thinking, then I just might make it through tomorrow.
LIGHT BLASTED THROUGH the back door of the limousine. “Mrs. Tate, I’m Carla, the stage manager for Talk of the Town.”
“Hello.” I reached out to the girl, who must have still been in college. “Honey, give me a hand, these things are hell to get out of; I don’t know why they sent such a big car for one person.”
“We send them for all our guests.”
I shielded my eyes from the cutting glare of the San Francisco Bay that spread beyond the gray cinder-block building that housed the CBS affiliate.
San Quentin was a stone’s throw away, and I wondered what Manson was up to behind those walls. I’d read in the tabloids that he said Sharon’s ghost haunted him. The thought brought on a smile. Give him hell, darlin’.
The halls inside were equally drab-gray, save the posters of the local news personalities placed haphazardly along the walls. I trailed the quick-paced young woman, who seemed to be talking to no one in particular. “Pardon?” I asked.
She pointed to the headset of her walkie-talkie. “I was talking to the producer. You’ve got quite a following in there. Who are they?”
“Well, some are from Parents of Murdered Children and some from Citizens for Truth. How many showed up?”
“About twenty.” Carla pushed at a thickly padded door that opened to a soundstage. “They’re going to try to get in two shows this morning, so I’m taking you right to the set.”
At the threshold, we bumped into a man lighting a cigarette on his way out. In defiance of the blue suit he wore, his ponytailed hair fell below his shoulders, forming an arrow that guided the eye to his biker boots. “Morning, Mrs. Tate,” he said in passing.
I looked over my shoulder. “Who was that?”
Carla shrugged. “Beats me. Let me get this mic on you and we’ll be all set.”
“Mrs. Tate?”
I looked around, trying to follow the echo. The makeup woman powdering down the shine on my face paused her stroke to point up.
“I’m up here in the booth,” the voice called out. “We’re going to get started in a minute. Can you give me a quick sound check?”
“Hello. Can you hear me?”
“That’s great. Listen for the music cue in sixty seconds, and then Catherine will come on the stage for the introductions. Try not to be nervous.”
“You all are moving so fast I don’t have time to get scared.”
The tinny theme music played, “Welcome to Talk of the Town!” The host stepped onto the stage. “Our guest today is Doris Tate, who’s here to speak out against the parole of the Charles Manson Family, serving life sentences for the murder of her daughter, Sharon Tate. Mrs. Tate, why are you against parole?”
“For a couple of reasons. First, public safety. Second, it’s not a deterrent. In other words, which would make you think twice about murdering someone, the consequence of a seven-year sentence or a life sentence without the possibility of parole?”
The host stepped into the spectator’s arena. “Before I turn the microphone over to our audience, tell us why you’ve started this campaign.”
“Because I cannot depend on our elected officials to see that justice is served and society is protected. Our state paroles killers all the time; leaving these guys free to kill again, and our recidivism rate proves that they do just that.”
A woman who didn’t share my opinion took the microphone. “Don’t you believe that people can change and be rehabilitated?”
“Perhaps there is room for rehabilitation in a sudden or impulsive crime of passion or anger, but not for the savage way Sharon and the others died. Susan Atkins and Charles Watson stood over my pregnant daughter and stabbed her sixteen times while she begged for her baby’s life. I don’t believe there’s any hope of rehabilitation in creatures like that.”
Some agreed and some didn’t. Microphone or not, both sides squabbled their opinion in the free-for-all schemed show. An assertive baritone settled above the others; so much so, that it hushed the soundstage. “Mrs. Tate, maybe if you were better informed and knew all the facts you might have more compassion and understanding in the need to parole at least one of the Manson Family members.”
I scanned the crowd until I found the antagonist. My heart fluttered a warning. Released from its confining ponytail, his hair draped over his shoulders. His hands clasped neatly over the blue suit jacket across his lap. He sat rigidly erect with a stare that seemed calm, yet his sweat stains said otherwise. He’d unwittingly chosen a seat next to my support group and three chairs from John Mancino. “How dare you speak to Mrs. Tate like that,” John said, and then with a curious undertone, “You’re one of them.”
“Yes, I was associated with them.”
The flutter from my heart turned into an all-out pounding that sent crashing waves through my veins; yet I was chilled as if the blood had entirely stopped pumping.
The frozen disquiet held for only a second before melting into hostility that rocked the bleachers. The two women sitting on either side of the man whose nametag identified him as Doc, shied away on his rise from the bench. “I have no anger toward you, Mrs. Tate,” he managed above the protestors. “And I have no objection to your crusade; you’re one of the few that has a right to speak out. The Manson Family only wanted to live in an isolated, peaceful environment, but the police were constantly harassing us, and beating us for no good reason.”
Encouraged by my allies, I moved to the edge of the seat. “Peaceful or not, they will have to pay for their crime.”
“But Leslie Van Houten didn’t kill anyone. Rosemary LaBianca was already dead when she stabbed her.”
“Now how do you know that?” I retorted. “Was the coroner standing there, counting whether she died on stab wound number twelve or forty-one?”
Doc took an aggressive step toward the stage, expressing himself in an equally set manner. “Well, I don’t feel that justice is being served in her case. You need to let her out so she can put her life back together.”
Fifty-eight-year-old grandmother or not, given the chance, I would have walloped this man a good one. “When will Sharon be able to put her life back together? When will I be able to put my life back together?”
Two security guards watched closely, ready to divert any physicality. When Doc took another step toward the stage, they grabbed his arms and hauled him back. “Keeping these people in jail won’t bring her back,” Doc ranted over his shoulder.
“Yeah, but as long as they’re in jail they won’t kill another who can’t be brought back!” I said, watching the guards escort Doc off the stage.
Outwardly, I kept up the rock-steady bluff. Inside, the adrenaline subsided, and I trembled at my naïve oversight that Manson followers had been tracking my actions.
Carla stepped onstage. “Mrs. Tate, are you okay? Can I get you anything?”
“Not unless you’ve got a cigarette and a Tom Collins.”
THE LIMO COASTED across the Oakland Bridge, headed for the airport. I smashed an umpteenth cigarette into the ashtray. “Dammit, John, Patti was right. I’m leading these assholes right to us. It’s over. I’m not doing another show. It’s not worth it.”
Mancino was getting to know me pretty well and let me stew a few minutes longer. He toyed with the pack of cigarettes between us. “Want another?”
“Please.” I took the lit Tareyton from him, bu
t studied it instead of smoking it. “I had my first one of these at Jay’s house. We went there after Sharon did this local interview. I was so mad at her that night because she’d worn this netted getup, without a stitch of undergarments. Mind you, there was little left to the imagination when she went on the television. So, anyway, there I was at Jay’s, lecturing her about how her fame made her a representative of the entire family—and that outfit was not how I wanted people to think we acted.” I twirled the cigarette. “She hands me one of these things, except it was the small European kind, and says, ‘Here, this will calm you down.’ And you know what? She was right—usually was when I gave her half a chance.
“Dammit, I shouldn’t have been so hard on her. I’d give anything to take those words back.” An exhaling cloud trickled out the cracked window as I wrestled with guilt. “What I really wanted to do at the time was wring Roman’s neck. I blamed that man for everything because once they were together, she seemed distant from the rest of us—didn’t even get invited to the damned wedding—and it all started with that God-awful Playboy spread Roman had her do. Oh, if you could have seen P.J.’s face,” I laughed. “But I’ve lived and learned in my old age, and the thing is, we’re all responsible for our actions; good, bad, or indifferent, we own them. Now, take Watson and Atkins. They love to blame Manson, you know. But they did it. They did it.”
Mancino perfectly timed his pitch. “So, are you still going to walk away and let them win?”
“Hell, no.”
“Good. The National Enquirer called.”
“Why? Did they find Sharon’s baby alive and well in the Everglades?”
“Laugh it up, but they’re offering to help with your petition drive.”
“I’m not doing that trash.”
“It may be trash, but they’ve got more than one million subscribers and millions of readers; if only five percent signed a petition coupon, we’d get over a hundred thousand.”
“Well that certainly makes it interesting.”
“Watson’s hearing is only a month away. Imagine going for your impact statement with a truckload of petitions.”
“I’ll deliver them, but I’m not going to the hearing. Nope. It’d be torture to look at any one of those killers, and believe me, I can be more effective if I keep my sanity.”
ON THE ADVICE of the “Death Penalty Manual,” just after Christmas, on December 28, 1982, National Enquirer fans read the petition drive and their response was overwhelming.
A full moon reigned in the silky blue sky when Mancino and I arrived at the California Men’s Colony, not in a truck, but a van filled with 249,000 petitions opposing Tex Watson’s release. We pulled into a space close to where the press pool set up near the entrance to the prison’s administration building.
I wiped a frayed tissue across my raw nose. “For two hundred miles I’ve been asking why? Why did Sharon have to die the way she did? Why didn’t I watch over her more carefully? Why couldn’t I be one of the lucky parents?”
John scarcely broke a whisper. “I don’t know.”
“I thought this was going to be a great day, but I feel like shit.”
“Listen, you’ll get through this, just like you’ve gotten through everything else. Besides,” he motioned toward the reporters nearing the van, “it’s showtime.”
Before my feet hit the pavement, a journalist reached me with an outstretched tape recorder. “Mrs. Tate, why are you doing this?”
Buying time to work up the pleasant conviction I had learned to display for the media, I smoothed my skirt, and then looked in the van for my purse, which was easier found than I’d admit.
I could have stalled another week. It wouldn’t have made a difference; subdued was the best I had to offer. “I think it’s horrible that I have to solicit names to keep Tex Watson in jail. Let me ask you a question. Why is it that a man who was sentenced to die is waiting right inside that building for his chance at freedom? Can you tell me that?”
“Will you attend the hearing?” a different reporter asked.
“No. I would feel like I was doing this for revenge and that’s not what this is about.”
“Mrs. Tate, I’ve heard you say that thirteen years isn’t enough prison time for Watson. When will it be enough time?”
I pulled a picture of Sharon from my purse; holding it high enough for everyone to see. A knot swelled in my throat. “This is all I have left of Sharon; this and a headstone that I can talk to a couple of times a year. It will never be enough time.”
THE PRISON GUARD closed the lid on the last of the thirty boxes he’d searched. “Sorry for the delay, Mrs. Tate, but it’s policy; nothing comes through those doors without being searched.”
“That’s okay. Tell me, is this the room where they’ll conduct the hearing?”
“Yes, Ma’am. See the camera there? That’s connected to the press pool outside. I’m going to get Mr. Carter; be back in a jiff.”
John waited for the door to completely close behind the guard. “How are you holding up?”
“Like you said, I’ll get through it. Luckily, I won’t be in this shoebox with that bastard.”
“We should at least stay and watch the hearing from the press pool.”
“The thought of Watson roaming around these halls has me jumpy as a frog. Nope. This is a little too close for comfort.”
“Doris, how can you expect to effectively help others or lobby against parole if you don’t know what happens during the process?”
A key clanged into the door lock. A handsome man who looked like he’d be more at home on the golf course than the prison stepped inside. “Mrs. Tate? Board Superintendent Bob Carter. This is for you. It’s a receipt of sorts that says the petitions are now registered and a part of inmate Watson’s permanent file. Will you be staying for the hearing or shall we notify you of our decision by mail?”
“I guess we’ll watch from outside at the press pool,” I said, leering in John’s direction.
“Good enough. I’m sure our paths will cross again,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Mr. Carter? Don’t forget, after your decision today you’re going to have to look in the mirror and know you did the right thing.”
“Mrs. Tate, I assure you, I do that every time.”
SUSPICIOUS AS I was that Tex Watson peered at me from behind one of the barred windows, my eyes shifted from the television monitor to the surrounding prison buildings, unsure which frame his face would first appear in. I pulled my chilled arms in tighter and stretched my neck, trying to quiet the ache thriving between my shoulders.
The cocktail party atmosphere of the others, mostly reporters, who waited for the hearing to begin, gave me cause for envy. In a couple of hours, they’d all be racing toward their next story, their time here forgotten, while I remained perpetually imprisoned to await the next hearing.
Of course, I held all the killers responsible for Sharon’s murder, but over the years, I’d built a particular loathing for Watson. Where I come from, which happens to be the same place Watson is from, men protect women at all costs. It was beyond comprehension that a man could kill a pregnant woman, let alone with the zeal Watson practiced on his victims.
Movement within the monitor screen caught my attention. Two men, besides Carter, spread their folding chairs against one side of the table. Stephen Kay took a seat at the short end. Aside from the two spots reserved for Watson and his attorney, three media representatives, a cameraman, and two guards packed the windowless room. The six microphones spread out on the table were obviously not for amplification purposes. Carter tapped his, and then slipped an audiotape into a decrepit machine. “Today is Thursday, January 13, 1983. We are at the CMC East, San Luis Obispo, to conduct a subsequent parole consideration hearing for life prisoner Charles Watson. CDC number is B-37999, case number A-253156.”
The door opened again, and Watson sauntered in behind defense lawyer Olpin with a gait just shy of cocky. The former Texan kept his hair modishly coif
fed right at the point where his pale blue shirt collar met with the like-colored sweater. A bushy though immaculately trimmed mustache covered his thin upper lip. The camera zoomed in to capture his steel-blue eyes. Before Watson stabbed Sharon he’d said, “I’m the devil, here to do the devil’s business.” I gauged his icy eyes, sure that he was correct.
“Mr. Watson, we usually break down the discussion into four parts,” Carter began the hearing. “I will lead the discussion concerning the commitment offense and your prior social and criminal history. Mr. Tong, on my left, will lead the discussion in post-conviction factors. And Mr. Lopez, on my right, will lead the discussion for your parole plans. Although we will take turns leading the discussion, all of us can ask you a question in each of these areas, including Mr. Kay, representing the people of Los Angeles County.
“In prior hearings, we’ve developed a statement of fact that describes, in a very succinct way, what is a very complicated description of the occurrences that led to the deaths of seven victims. I am recommending that we incorporate that reference instead of rehashing through it. Are there any objections?”
“No objection,” came Mr. Olpin’s response.
“I’m agreeable to that,” Kay said; “however, I would like to make some corrections. On page five, talking about Mr. LaBianca, it says, ‘A long cord was wrapped around his neck and a carving knife was in his abdomen.’ That isn’t correct. A carving fork was in his abdomen, and then we should add that he had a carving knife that traversed through his neck.
“Then, in the last sentence, it says, ‘Mrs. LaBianca suffered forty-one puncture wounds.’ They were actually stab wounds. Mr. LaBianca was the only one that suffered any puncture wounds from the carving fork in his abdomen.”
“Well, is there really a difference between puncture and stab?” Carter asked.
“I believe the victims would argue that the eight-inch blades used to murder them would constitute a stab wound as opposed to a puncture wound,” Steve said. “Finally, on page four, where it says, ‘Miss Tate was hung,’ we need to add, ‘while she was still alive.’”
Restless Souls Page 18