Restless Souls

by Alisa Statman

  “No, Charlie, I don’t. There are nine people dead and you’ve yet to cop to it.”

  “Son, there’s a lot more than nine dead people out there.”

  “You want to make a confession today?”

  “On what? I’m innocent, man.”. . .

  “Let’s assume everybody misinterpreted what you’re saying out at that ranch. And these kids took it upon themselves to do this deed. I’ll play Tex Watson. . . . I come to you and say, ‘I wanna go kill all those people.’”

  “It wasn’t like that. Tex come to me after a drug deal and says, ‘The guy beat me for my money. What should I do?’ I says, ‘Whatever’s in your heart.’ So he goes and beats up this broad who helped steal his money and then takes off with the cash. Then he ran off and left me to face his responsibility. You dig? So, I go see this guy that Tex owes . . . and I end up shooting that dude. You dig?”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No. So then, Tex come back around; now he owed me one.”. . .

  “So, you did one for Tex?”

  Manson nodded. “And you got to pay the brother back.”. . .

  “So what happened? . . . What did Tex do?”. . .

  “Tex went crazy, man; he went out of his mind,” Manson said, in a defeated voice. “Dumb shit brought us all down.”

  “Now what about Susan Atkins? She comes home to you with bloody hands.”

  “Yeah. She says, ‘Charlie, look what I did for you. I just killed myself and I give you the world.’ I said, ‘You dumb fucking cunt; I had the world. You just put me back in jail again.’”. . .

  “How did she react to what you told her?”

  Manson waved him off. “People don’t hear each other. They talk to each other, but very seldom do we communicate.”

  The stage lights came up again. Rivera moved to the center of the audience. “Doris, how do you feel about what Manson said?”

  “I agree with him on one point. Those that killed Sharon are the only ones responsible for what they did. Oh, they’ll say they take responsibility, only it’s followed by ‘but.’ ‘I take full responsibility, but I was on drugs.’ Or ‘I take full responsibility, but I was under Manson’s control.’ So it’s a façade, you know. And, I might add, they have yet to say they’re sorry for their actions. It’s all me, me, me when they talk about the repercussions.”

  “What was Manson’s responsibility?” Rivera asked.

  “He sent them to both houses, and he tied up the LaBiancas. Now you tell me, what’s the difference in tying them up and plunging the knife? None.”

  “Do you think the others would have killed if it hadn’t been for Manson?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Would you like to talk to Manson?”

  “Oh, I’d love to.”

  “What would you ask him?”

  “I’d ask him why he sent them to the house because he knew Sharon was there. He can deny it, but he knew, and I want to know why.”

  “During my interview with him,” Rivera said, “Manson told me that you don’t go to his parole hearings. Is that true?”

  “I’ve never felt the need to attend one of his hearings. I mean, you’ve seen how he jumps around, waving his arms and babbling; he does enough to keep himself in prison. If the day comes that I have to, I’ll be there. Right now, I only attend the hearings of Watson and Atkins, the ones that actually killed Sharon.”

  Rivera put his hand on my shoulder. “You’ve told me how difficult it is to go to their parole hearings. How long will you continue to put yourself through that ordeal?”

  “For as long as I live—and then some.” I laughed.

  “What’s next for you?”

  “Watson’s got another parole hearing next month, that’s as far in the future as I can look.”

  Patti

  I sat with my parents in their family room, watching the Geraldo Show. The credits rolled at the end, and so did their home address as a contact for POMC.

  I looked at Mom. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “There are grieving parents out there who need my help. How else are they going to find me?”

  “The post office box that you used for the petition drive!”

  “You worry too much, you always have.”

  “And you don’t worry enough.”

  “I am not going to get into an argument with you every time I do something public. Let’s change the subject—not that the next one will be any better. They’ve delayed Watson’s parole hearing to the week I’m in Washington. I’m scheduled to testify at Congress—”

  “You have lost your mind, haven’t you?”

  “Patti, someone has to make an impact statement at Watson’s hearing.”

  “Not me,” I said.

  “How can you turn your back—”

  “I’ll go.” Dad’s comment stunned us both to silence. We turned toward him, as if another being had invaded his body. He tapped his pipe free of the burned tobacco and repacked more. “You heard me, I’ll go.”

  Mom’s wits came to her. “P.J., you won’t get a gun into that prison.”

  “I’m serious now,” he insisted. “I’m tired of seeing that asshole preach the gospel like it means anything. I watched him eight hours a day during that trial with a Bible in front of him the whole time. His religion didn’t make any difference then, and it means nothing now. I’d like to give him and the board a bit of advice—the Holy Ghost himself could show up to ask for Watson’s parole, but the only release he should get is a ticket straight to hell.”

  Mom looked at him, waiting for the punch line. He put his right hand up for oath. “You have my word,” he said, “I won’t make a ruckus.”

  P.J.

  I refused to sit through Watson’s entire hearing. Instead, I waited in an airless chamber adjacent to the boardroom until it was time for my statement. I rubbed my temples. Damned parole hearings; I still didn’t know what to say in there—oh, I had lots of things that I wanted to say, but they’d throw me out on my ass.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say because I wasn’t here to give anyone a piece of my mind. I was here to save Patti the experience, and because I loved my wife enough to support her efforts.

  Doris and I never did cross paths on our grieving trails. She’d crawled her way out of hell and left me behind, where I wallow in the gloom and bathe in the heat of hatred. I’d never admit it, but I was damn proud of her work, and damn jealous that she’d found residence above the licking flames of revenge.

  Oh, I wasn’t any happier about all the press, but I’d taken Doris’s suggestion to heart and kept quiet. When journalists came to the house for an interview, I’d stay long enough to leer at the interloper who’d ventured over the threshold, then disappear into my study until they left. Though I’d never forgive the press for the lies about Sharon, I’d moved on to a fresh resentment. With the cameras rolling, they probed my wife until they got the tearful response that would boost their ratings. Each one of those interviews ripped another piece of her soul away, and I feared that in time, there’d be nothing left.

  I toyed with the idea of Watson’s demise. An anonymous phone call came each year on the anniversary of the murders. The first year the caller explained in detail his plan to assassinate each one of the killers; in subsequent years I’d pick up the phone to hear the voice, “Paul, it’s that time of year. Just checking in.”

  The unknown man had instructed me to answer only with a yes or no. So far my answer was no. Right now, I wished I’d said yes. I paced a mile’s worth of resentment, yet each step backtracked me eighteen years into the past when I’d waited much like this to testify at the trials to ensure the killers a gas-chambered vacation. With their deaths signed, sealed, and delivered by the judge, I’d expected only to encounter the killers again in that stainless-steel green room where the state dropped the pill, and I’d have the pleasure of watching the life drain from their eyes. The news that the supreme court overturned those sentences had sucker pu
nched me a good one that I’d yet to straighten out of.

  I stretched near the barred window and looked at my watch. An hour had passed, and I still didn’t know what to say to the parole officers. The door swung open. “Come on, Mr. Tate, they’re ready.”

  In a cramped room, I sat rigidly in the chair catty-corner to Watson’s position at the table. I stared at him with suppressed though fermenting memories.

  During Watson’s trial, I spent hours watching him perform to complement his insanity plea. All college-boyed out, with a dazed expression and a mouth gaping with the threat of drooling, he parodied an innocent, victimized by drugs and Manson. But then the day of reckoning arrived. Bugliosi cross-examined Watson, compounding pressure on him with each question until the killer’s alter ego appeared. If I had sneezed, I would have missed it, but there it was; Watson’s eyes narrowed into pure evil—a skin this snake would never shed.

  I looked Watson over. Nothing much had changed, save a few wrinkles around his eyes. I took a beat to study the faces of the three men deciding his fate. Could they comprehend the grief that Watson’s actions had caused? Did they understand the hell of these hearings year after year? Somehow, I had to influence them.

  When I finally started, it surprised me how easily the words slipped from my heart. “I don’t believe that there is anyone in this room who saw the crime scene as I did. I personally saw what Watson did to my child. I saw it as the bodies were taken out, and I saw it caked with blood. And, gentlemen, let me tell you something, there are no words to describe it, and no photos that do it justice, but it’s right here,” I tapped at my temple, “vividly etched in my memory, because I had to clean up what Mr. Watson left behind. So I am totally aware of everything as it was, and that man should never, never, never be turned loose on society to re-create such a scene. I’ve been watching him for eighteen years; he hasn’t changed one iota.

  “At past hearings, Watson has relayed to you what it’s like for him to have a family, and family visits. I’ve got Sharon’s bloodstained trunks in my home, and I see my daughter’s blood on those trunks—those are my family visits.

  “My wife told me at the last hearing he asked to be released so that he could see his mom and dad before they died. But you’ve already given them [the] greatest gift any parent could receive; they can still visit their child. I have to live with the fact that I will never, never see my child again because of what Tex Watson has done.

  “Now, one last thought. Mr. Kay informed me that Watson has the magic number of one hundred letters that say we should turn him loose. If that has any bearing on the board, I’ll get you a million letters. My wife can go out and speak and the letters will come pouring in—the letters are still coming in from the last time. And they all agree, that man sitting there should not be turned loose on society. I have nothing more to add. Thank you.”

  The guard escorted me back to the same room to await the decision. I’d once seen Watson on a news report from a past hearing. He commented, “I have to live with it daily just as the families do. There’s much bitterness on my part.”

  Watson had not a damned idea of what me or mine have had to live with, because if he had even an inkling, he’d have put a pistol to his head years ago instead of asking to be released.

  Lap after lap my mind reeled. I clipped circles trying to keep up with my adrenaline. Had I’d made a positive impact? Had I said the right things? Did I sound too angry? What if the one time I attended a parole hearing, they decided to release one of Sharon’s killers? The rattling doorknob pulled me from the thoughts. I looked, but didn’t believe. I closed my eyes, thinking the apparition would fade away. When they opened again, Charles Watson stepped into the room. The ever-present smile on his face vanished midstride of his second step.

  Time stopped.

  Each damning fantasy I had pent up over the years danced in a kaleidoscope of nightmarish violence no sane man would imagine. The countless hours I’d sidled next to the devil, knocking around strategies, even deals to unleash unspeakable torture on Watson was at hand.

  Just five seconds had passed and already a battle of wills ricocheted in my mind, one side repeating the promise to Doris, the other urging retribution. Promises or not, I had rehearsed, defined, and then refined the details of just such a moment ad nauseam. Like a famished tiger, I salivated over Watson’s neck, feeling it snap. With a will of their own, my legs took a step that pulled him closer to my grasp. My heart pumped, thumped, and then pounded in my ears as I took another step. Watson recoiled, his eyes glued to mine. Before the third step, a voice stopped me. “Daddy, don’t do this.”

  Like brakes pounded at the last second, I skidded, swerved, and deflected a head-on collision with a nasty bit of fate. I may have found a cozy home perched on that fiery lounger, a happy disciple of the devil, but I wouldn’t bring my family down with me.

  My hands clenched into tight fists while my body shuddered from unreleased anger. I took another step, close enough to smell the widening stains under Watson’s arms. “Boy, you had better hope that you never walk out of this prison a free man, because I promise you, there will be hell to pay on the other side. You won’t know where or when, but one day, you’ll look over your shoulder and I will be there.

  “You probably don’t know this about me, but I’m an equal-opportunity kind of guy, and I believe you should die the same way you killed my baby—if I tack on some interest for this long overdue debt, you’ll wish the gas chamber had gotten you after all.”

  Watson didn’t twinge a muscle for fear that even the slightest movement might be provoking.

  The spell of tension broke with a prison guard’s entrance. My eyes simmered on Watson. “Guard, I believe you’ve brought this boy to the wrong room.”

  Watson backed into the hallway without losing eye contact until the door closed to a safety barrier.

  Sinking into the chair, I thought about the voice. Had it been Sharon’s, or my subconscious reminding me that she wouldn’t have wanted an outbreak of violence? In either case, she saved both our asses.

  I pulled a cigar from my pocket before my arms folded in satisfaction. As surely as I’d never forget hearing Sharon’s voice that day, I would never forget the fear I’d created in Watson’s eyes. It was a look I’d waited many years to see, and one to savor for many to come. Like a drug addict, I already wanted more.

  The army trained me on the importance of control for winning any battle; the next time there might not be a voice to stop me. My fury still ran too deep and that made me unpredictable. I watched Watson through the door window, knowing it would be the last time I’d be able to see him face-to-face, unless he was released.

  12

  A WOLF IN

  SHEEP’S CLOTHING

  I’m not going to judge whether Watson is born again; that’s between him and his god. But I will tell you this, there is no relationship between faith and release.

  —DORIS TATE

  Doris 1988

  Along the California coast, midway between the metropolises of Los Angeles and San Francisco, sits the city of San Luis Obispo.

  Sculpted hills, interrupted by ancient volcano remains jutting from the valley floor, surround the ten-square-mile community where the citizens live the SLO life.

  Within miles of the settlement’s heart, one can find the Hearst Castle, Cuesta College, and the California Men’s Colony Prison. Downtown, along with the locals, a creek meanders through the tree-lined streets of historical buildings, including twenty-eight churches.

  At one of the churches, a group of day-care children romped around the playground. Under the shade of an elm, Karla watched over the children, and in particular, two boys—one towhead, one strawberry—as they bounced on the teeter-totter next to her. Their conversation caused her to set her sandwich aside.

  “What does your dad do?” asked the redhead.

  “He works at the prison. He’s a minister.”

  “You mean he’s in prison. My mom told
me he’s a monster.”

  “He is not.”

  “Is too!”

  “Na-huh.”

  “Is too, is too, is too!” The boy jumped off the high point of the board. “I’m not even supposed to play with you,” he said, and ran off to join the kids on the swings.

  That truth could be stranger than fiction certainly ran through Karla’s mind as she went to the lonely Alex Watson, whose familiar name had never crossed her mind until this moment. “Alex, what’s your daddy’s name?”

  “Charles Denton—and he’s not a monster! He’s just my dad,” he said, and then sprinted away, surely to hide his tears. Her heart went out to his innocence, but. . . .

  Karla leaned into the family van. “Mrs. Watson?”

  “Call me Kristin,” said the driver.

  “I won’t be able to take care of Alex anymore.”

  The woman looked defeated. “I know what you’re thinking, but Charles has devoted his life to Christ now. He walks with the Lord, not with Manson.”

  Karla held up a hand to stop her speech. “I’m a relative of Sharon Tate’s.”

  “I’m really sorry about Sharon, but all of Charles’s victims need to follow the Lord’s example of forgiveness.”

  Karla considered her point for a moment, and then said, “It’s hard to forgive someone who’s never apologized nor asked for forgiveness. It seems to me that if he were truly walking with the Lord, he would have made that his priority.”

  “If Charles tried that, he’d only have the door slammed in his face because your family has fallen off the path with your anger and revenge.”

  Their conversation turned into a heated debate, calling attention from those around them. Karla moved away from the van, then turned with a last thought. “If he doesn’t try to open the door, he’ll never know the outcome.”

  Karla didn’t tell me about the incident, so the letter I received from Watson a few weeks later came as a surprise.