We’d come a long way, he and I. Sure, there were days when I wanted to wring his neck. Days when respect for one another drifted to the wayside and the love we had went right along with it. But days like this one, when we paused long enough to take note of the vows we’d made almost fifty years earlier, were the days that helped us make it through the thick and thin of it all.
14
THE INFORMANT
Mr. Watson is very strong-willed. He’s determined to do it his own way. He’s been recommended by the parole board to do certain things; participate with mental health counseling and programming in that area. And he has steadfastly refused and he has substituted his own program; which mainly is working in the chapel, a religion that he has more or less developed himself.
—ROBERT CARTER, SUPERINTENDENT, BOARD OF PRISON TERMS
Doris
I reserved Sundays for enlightenment, not only from the sun in the backyard, but also from government policies, enactments and amendments to laws, and newsletters from victim and law enforcement organizations.
Early in 1989 I founded COVER—Coalition for Victims’ Equal Rights. The logo on COVER’s letterhead is an umbrella, symbolizing my goal to unite all victims’ groups in order to have a greater legislative impact. Run as an informational clearinghouse, COVER provided support and information to elevate public awareness to the plight of crime victims. The alliance had barely gotten off the ground before an influx of mail started arriving from all over the country.
On the day of rest, I scanned the letters, then grouped them from crucial to junk. I was about to toss one into the CDC pile, when I noticed the front label, MRS. TATE, URGENTLY CONFIDENTIAL. I emptied the contents of the package to discover an inmate’s personal prison file with a picture affixed to the top.
The photo showed a man of his late forties with Brylcreem-encrusted hair that could be any color beneath the oil. Additionally, the package contained the California Men’s Colony chapel brochures, an interoffice memo to the associate warden of CMC, a San Luis Obispo newspaper clipping, and a letter.
Dear Mrs. Tate:
Please don’t throw this letter aside. You are my only hope. My name is Steven Trouse. I’m serving a thirty-year sentence for murder. While incarcerated here at CMC, I became a born-again Christian. Although I was hesitant to become involved with anyone from the Manson Family, I found that the only way to be a part of the Protestant chapel here was to befriend Charles Watson and Manson murderer Bruce Davis because they run the show. . . . What I didn’t realize until later, was how much power the two of them had here. . . .
I have been in this institution for six years, and I’ve never had a disciplinary action brought against me until the day I decided to stand up to Charles Watson. . . .
As you will see by the information I have sent you, Watson is listed as a minister on all of the chapel literature. The Reverend Stanley McGuire, who is supposed to be the supervising chaplain here has actually turned all reins of power over to Watson. In violation of the rules, Watson and Davis preach, teach, and counsel other inmates without supervision. I guess that wouldn’t be so bad if that was the end of the story. What they are really doing while unsupervised is instilling fear and guilt in the other prisoners, and forming a new Manson cult right in front of the staff members. . . .
In prison, Watson has refined himself, his methods, and his understanding of cults through his religious studies. Here, he has limitless opportunities to experiment on the inmate population. He is proficient at motivation and directing human behavior in this setting. He has learned to manipulate people with Christ, and he intends to capitalize on this all the way to freedom. Make no mistake, that is his only goal, and it’s working. . . . He has more privileges than you could ever imagine, with extra conjugal visits, holiday dinners in the chapel, and no work assignments. . . .
Watson looks at the chapel not as a house of God, but a place of power. He uses his sermons as personal attacks against inmates who criticize his control of the chapel, often taking Bible Scripture out of context and using it to support his fire-and-brimstone messages. . . .
During the Sunday morning service on February 15, Watson’s sermon was all about television being a tool of Satan. The Scripture he quoted to support his theory didn’t even remotely correlate. I stood up during the service and in a polite manner told him I thought he was mistaken in his thoughts.
Watson said to me, “Sit down and shut up or I will have you removed.” When I wouldn’t sit down, he instructed the visiting clergyman to “Haul that man out of here.” And they did just that. . . .
By the next day, on Watson’s recommendation, I had a disciplinary paper signed against me for the incident. This is against the law. No prisoner has authority over another inmate. . . .
The following week, I wrote my appeal, including everything on Watson’s power in this prison. Because of that revealing information, they put me in solitary confinement to shut me up. . . .
I don’t deserve this, and I want it off my record. It’s all because of some powerful hold that Watson seems to have over the authorities in this place. Even though I went to the press with this, nothing has changed here. I believe that you are the only one they will listen to. Help me.
Respectfully, Steven Trouse
I read the letter then read it again, the entire time, my face beamed along with the sun. For almost eight years, I’d gone astray from my vow to change Watson’s prison life, and this letter was the catalyst that could help realize that intent.
Within Trouse’s package, I discovered all the documentation that substantiated his accusations. Chapel literature featured Watson’s picture along with his title of minister. Beside Watson, Bruce Davis was listed as associate pastor. Trouse also included Rev. McGuire’s response to the allegations, as well as all the filed appeals on the incident.
Tantamount to a smoking gun, Trouse’s assortment of goodies included an interoffice memo to the associate warden at CMC from the chairman reviewing Trouse’s allegations: “Due to our conversation about Charles Watson and his role in the operation of the Protestant Chapel, we feel that a full investigation is in order.
“The Executive Committee has talked to approximately 250 inmates and some of the workers and ex-workers of the chapel. The following is the feedback that we have received: Charles Watson uses state supplies to print his Abounding Love Ministries newsletter. Funds that inmates have donated through the tithes and trust withdrawals are used to purchase personal coffee, sugar and cream, a popcorn machine, a video player, and holiday dinners, just to name a few, for the ‘in group,’ within the chapel. Inmate Watson spends a minimum of eight hours per day working in the chapel. This is in direct violation within the CDC: ‘No inmate or parolee will be assigned as a minister or religious counselor on a full-time basis in lieu of regular work and program assignment.’
“The inmate population expressed concern about the influence and control that Watson has, and that he can have inmates, at his will, written up for an adverse action. Many inmates either have quit or have been fired from the chapel due to Watson’s desire at the time.
“Due to the seriousness of the problem, this issue should be put on the agenda for the warden’s meeting next week.”
Elated as I was, I put on my indignant hat usually worn for adversaries and called CDC director Jim Rowland. “Jim, it’s Doris Tate. Sorry to bother you at home, but this couldn’t wait.”
“That’s all right. What’s on your mind?”
“What in the hell is going on up at the Men’s Colony?”
“Now, Doris, calm down,” Jim said. “Are you talking about all this hubbub with Charles Watson?”
“Of course I am. I’ve been telling you guys for years now that something isn’t sitting right up there. You’ve got the Manson Family running the prison chapel for God’s sake—no pun intended. How can they let Davis and Watson be together? If they were on parole, you and I both know they’d be in violation.”
“D
oris, we’re looking into it right now. They apparently made an effort at keeping the Manson people separated, but they only have limited ability to do that. As to what’s going on in the chapel? It’s a gray area. We don’t like to get in the way of religious freedom.”
“We’re talking about the opposite of religious freedom here, okay. I have documentation that proves that Watson is running the show up there, actually taking the inmate’s religious freedom away from them. And let me tell you, that’s not the end of the story.”
“What type of documentation are we talking about?”
“Let’s just say it’s from a reliable source on the inside.”
He chuckled, “I hope you’re not talking about Steven Trouse? Come on, Doris, you can’t believe him. The guy’s a convicted killer.”
“Don’t patronize me on this. I’ve sat on the sidelines for too long now when it comes to Watson. This guy’s got someone up there wrapped around his finger. He’s running a business from his cell—which I might add is illegal. He gets extra conjugal visits, five recommendations for him to move to another prison—yet he stays, and now this business with the prison chapel. I’m not letting it go this time.”
For added effect, I played one of my trump cards. “It’s not just Trouse. I have an interprison memo recommending that this problem with Watson be put on the agenda for the warden’s meeting. Now, I want your guarantee that this is going to happen or so help me, I’ll call a press conference and the next time you hear my voice it’ll be on the evening news.”
“All right, all right, I’ll get into it. But I’m telling you this is all being blown out of proportion.”
“Maybe, but you owe it to me to check it out.”
For weeks, the correspondence between Trouse and I flowed with tidbits of information from him followed by more questions from me. “Who’s protecting Watson?”
“I don’t know his name, but it’s someone in the governor’s camp. . . . One time Watson got a package that smuggled in videos of his wife and kids. I asked him how he did it, and he said, ‘I’ve got a friend on the Governor’s Task Force.’ . . . There’s also a millionaire that owns a . . . corporation—he’s made it so that Watson is ‘hands off’ from the guards.”
“Is Watson into Satanism?”
“I don’t know enough about it to say one way or another. . . . P.S. We need to talk about an affair Watson’s wife had with one of the prison guards. I think that knowledge may be the main reason they put me in solitary.”
Trouse’s next letter came certified.
Dear Mrs. Tate:
At approximately 12:15 P.M. today, I was paged to report to the Control Security Squad. The officer handed me a stack of mail I had sent to you; they were all marked “insufficient postage.” Mark my words, they removed the stamps to keep my letters from you. . . . I have to tell you I’m more than a little scared of my situation here. . . . From this point forward, I am no longer able to indulge any information to you via mail or phone. Anything we need to discuss must now be done in person. . . . I sent you the visiting forms. Please fill them out and allow a week to get them cleared.
Respectfully yours, Steve
It was time to pay a visit to the prison, but I wasn’t going alone.
Sandy, a friend and press correspondent, answered my call on the first ring. “Hey, baby doll. What’s shaking? And please tell me it’s a good lead because I’ve been dry for weeks now.”
“I want you to come with me to CMC to monitor an interview with one of the inmates. I’ll give you the exclusive.”
“Let’s see, CMC equals Watson, and that must equal Steven Trouse?”
“Shit, does everyone know about this guy?”
“Well, speaking of shit, he was making a pretty big stink up there for a while. The only thing everyone doesn’t know is that he must be your snitch.”
I laughed. “I love that—the old bitch has got a snitch. So, will you go?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Listen, I’ve got to run. If I fax you my info will you put in my application for me?”
“Yep.”
In an effort to conceal my rendezvous with Trouse, I filled out the traditional visiting forms for both me and Sandy and sent them off to the California Men’s Colony.
Nine days later, Sandy received her letter of approval from the prison. Nothing came for me. Nor did anything come the next week. Phone calls to the prison were futile. I wanted to trust that it was an innocent mistake, yet it suspiciously rung of a counterplot to curtain my link to Trouse.
With nothing to lose but time, I made the scheduled trip with Sandy to the prison. Sandy pulled her Honda to the curb outside the administration building. With the third cigarette of the hour dangling from her lips, she swept back her long hair, turned down the Elvis Costello tape—the songs of which I now knew by heart—and pushed in the lighter. “I’m going to hang here, smoke, and read all the bylines I didn’t write. Come get me when they approve your shady ass, Miss Ma Barker.”
“Funny,” I said, closing the door on the smoke cloud.
THE PRISON OFFICER handed me my license. “Ma’am, you need prior approval for visitation.”
Graciousness was not on the tip of my tongue, still, I managed to cajole him. “Well, honey, I know that. I sent my application in over three weeks ago. They seemed to have lost it, so I thought I would come on up and try to get this all straightened out.”
Slightly warming to me, he took my license back. “You can wait in reception.”
The guard found me an hour later. “Mrs. Tate, they are having some time up there finding your application. I think it would be best if you came back another day instead of waiting here. This could take hours.”
My smile remained, but my voice crisped, “Darlin’, I’m on the Advisory Board of the California Department of Corrections. They shouldn’t be having any problem approving me. Now you go back and tell Warden Estelle that I’m not leaving his facility until I’ve seen the inmate I came to see.”
He let out an exasperated breath. “Yes, ma’am.”
A diverse collection of visitors jammed the lobby. I surveyed them face by face, personality by personality, until I got the distinct feeling that I was the one being inspected. My motive for people-watching altered. Turning, I caught sight of the observer on the opposite side of the bulletproof glass that dissected the prisoners from the public. He stood fifteen feet beyond the front desk with his arms folded across his chest, his feet slightly apart, his posture unmistakable. He’d stopped with the intent of surveillance.
My training with the CDC taught me to avoid eye contact with the prisoners in passing, and never let them smell fear. I ignored the first installment and fixedly stared back. He’s decidedly familiar. I searched my memory and the hint turned to recognition. His features had changed little since his last published pictures in 1969. Bobby Beausoleil is his name. Another Manson Family member in prison for murder, and he worked in the chapel. He was so brazen. Had he come to intimidate me?
Verbal communication was unnecessary since our body language served as an adequate solution. I squared off my shoulders toward him, and with just my left eyebrow arched, I scolded him with my index finger. He held his stance for a moment longer before smiling with a decisive shake of his head. His actions were as strong as if he’d actually said, “Old lady, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.” His grin expanded to laughter. He tipped an imaginary hat, gracefully bowed, and then sauntered away. In one of my less amicable moods, I flipped him off.
Considering the confrontation, Watson must have found out I was on the prison grounds and sent one of his emissaries. Remembering Trouse’s last letter, I decided to take his safety, as well as my own, a bit more seriously.
The next three hours passed without incident until the guard returned. “Mrs. Tate, you’ve been granted visitation. Follow me please.”
The officer chaperoned Sandy and me to an empty cafeteria of bolted-down aluminum tables and benches. Before I c
ould question the odd setting, Steve Trouse arrived in the company of another guard. Shifting ahead of them, a suited man overstepped the introductions. “Mrs. Tate, I’m Larry Kamien, program director and public information officer for CMC. I’ll be monitoring your visit with Mr. Trouse.”
I appraised the afternoon’s next stone wall. If he’d entered my hair salon, Kamien’s weaseled features would have inclined me to gel his cowlick and shave off the rest of his unevenly trimmed mustache. I pointed at Sandy. “She’s a press member. Under Title fifteen of the CMC regulations, this man is entitled to a private conversation with any media person or legal representative.”
“Yes,” Kamien sniffed, “but you are here without prior approval. Now, would you like to have this visit or not?”
“Don’t worry about him,” Steve interjected. “They’re all calling me a snitch already for talking to you. I’ve got nothing to hide. They know I’m telling the truth.”
I looked back and forth between the two men. “Okay. This is Sandy. She tagged along to record everything we discuss here and as a witness in case we ever need one later.”
Trouse nodded eagerly. “Good, I want everything documented. They’re trying to get to my wife now. Both Watson and Davis’s wives are bombarding her with visits and phone calls trying to get me to drop my appeal.” He continued, hardly taking a breath. “They’re running scared now. All the literature found within the chapel that carried Watson’s or Davis’s name has been confiscated and destroyed by prison staff. They went through all our cells and took everything. Do you still have the copies I sent to you?”
“Yeah. I’ll keep them in a safe place.” I looked at Kamien. “As long as you’re here, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
He smiled tightly. “That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Tate.”
I pulled out the prison codebook. “It says in here, that no prisoner shall counsel another without a supervisor in attendance. Is this correct?”
“Yes, it is,” Kamien said.
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