“So why is Watson allowed to break that code?”
“Mrs. Tate, you have to understand that our regulations allow inmates to preach here.”
I tapped the codebook. “Okay, but not in an unsupervised environment.”
Kamien referenced the book, too. “Those are our regulations. If this is happening, and I’m not saying it is, the worst we would be doing is breaking our own rules. We’re not apologizing for this situation, but the warden is looking into it. He’s looking at everybody, not just Watson.”
Trouse angrily rose. “Why don’t you tell Mrs. Tate how Charles gets away with having authority over another inmate, where he can preach, teach, and discipline somebody?”
Kamien sidestepped the issue. “If you will look in General Order thirty-six, it says participation in any of the chapel or religious programs is strictly voluntary. If you don’t want to listen to Charles, you don’t have to stay. There are also outside people holding services over there. Go to another service.”
“You’re not answering my question, so I’ll ask another one,” Trouse affronted. “Why isn’t Rev. McGuire there supervising the chapel when he’s supposed to be?”
“We don’t have timecards around here. To the best of my knowledge he puts in about forty hours a week,” Kamien responded.
“That’s a lie and you know it!”
I shortstopped the argument with a calmer approach. “What if they want to go at the time when Watson is holding the service. What if that’s their only free time? I mean, these men are in need of real counseling, okay, not some jailhouse religion that’s potentially feeding them a bunch of trash.”
“He’s not in the chapel every day,” Kamien defended. “With Watson’s personality, there are just a lot of people that don’t like him. You don’t have to like Watson. I really don’t care one way or the other.”
Kamien was a useless endeavor, moreover, if I didn’t take him off the defensive he was liable to call an end to our meeting. I eyed Steve. “Honey, let’s talk about what I really need to know; tell me about Watson and Manson.”
“Okay, shoot. What do you want to know?”
“Tell me how Watson’s able to manipulate people so well. How is he able to win people over?”
Trouse leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out. “It’s like this. He’ll come up to you and say, ‘How you doing, buddy? My name is Charles Watson.’ He hates to be called Tex. Then he’ll ask questions to open you up, like, ‘How long you been here? How much time you got?’ Then he tries to be your friend and builds you up. Telling you what a great job you’re doing and so forth. He keeps building you up because there is something else he really wants off you. Then, once he has you, he starts using his influential power against you. Like when he catches you doing something wrong, or disagreeing in what he has to say. Then he attacks you by using Scriptures from the Bible to support what he’s saying. I mean sure the Scriptures say that, but not in the way he uses it. Understand?”
“Only too well. I guess Manson taught him something after all. Did Watson talk to you about the murder of my daughter?”
“No. See, Charles—around me at least—would never bring that up. The only thing he ever said about the Family, and I’ve heard him say it many times, Charles Manson was not the brains of the organization. It was all Charles Watson; he was really the brains.”
One question had been on my mind for a long time. I’d heard speculation that either Watson lied about how the murders took place or someone had gone to the house after the killers had left and changed the crime scene. “Did Watson ever tell you that Manson went back up to the house with Bruce Davis after the murders?”
For the first time since the meeting began, Trouse’s confidence dropped. His leg jiggled with nervous energy. “I have no comment on that. Let’s move on. Something was said, but I don’t remember.” His eyes scampered around, and then he whispered, “I can’t give you nothing on Manson. His reach is too far.”
“That little bugger? Come on Trouse, what’s he going to do, put some voodoo curse on you? Don’t you think if he had any of those powers I’d have pinholes all over me by now?”
“You don’t understand, okay? That case is closed. Now, on Bruce Davis’s part, I only remember one thing that he told me. We was out walking in the yard. He stated something like, if he ever got the chance to go back in court, he would tell the truth. And I says, ‘What do you mean? I thought you did that already.’ And he says, ‘Specifically, I would tell the truth about where the bodies and stuff like that are.’ I told him I thought all the bodies had been found, and he says, ‘No, they weren’t, and if I ever got a chance to get back on the stand I’m gonna tell the truth.’”
“If he’s such a true Christian, why wait to go to court? Why doesn’t he just call in the authorities and spill his guts?” I asked.
Trouse laughed. “Well, you and I both know that they ain’t really Christians. They both got their own strategy. Like Watson, he says when he gets out he’s gonna be rich and famous.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Because of the notoriety of his case. He said to me and many others, ‘I won’t have to work except a little at my mom and dad’s business. Then I’ll be going around preaching to everybody, because all they want to hear about is Manson. So why would I have to work?’ See, he’s an expert manipulator of the whole system, the board, prison staff, free staff, and the inmates. I believe he collects damaging information on them all and uses it against them for his needs. All I know is he’s got someone up high by the balls because his wife had an affair with one of the guards and he knows they don’t want the word spread on that.”
“We probably don’t need to talk about that right now.” I tried to squelch the story in front of Kamien.
Trouse was on his feet again. “I’m gonna open up. I could care less what they say or do. I’ve already been written up and thrown in the hole for ‘Unlawful influence against the staff.’ Funny, isn’t it? Watson’s the one holding this over their heads. I just bring it up in my appeal and I’m punished! I want to address the problem with you two right now while Kamien’s here. Everyone knew Charles was having marital problems. So one day I saw him all upset and I asked him what was wrong. He told me, ‘My wife is no longer in love with me. She wants a divorce.’ When I asked him why, he says, ‘She’s been having an affair with one of the correctional officers and he’s spending the night with her. I told him he’d better stay away, but they’re still carrying on.’” Trouse snickered. “What do you think about that, Kamien? Now everybody knows. There’s no more sweeping it under the rug.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Trouse,” Kamien condescended.
“Mr. Kamien, has anyone investigated this?” I asked, provoked by his nonchalance.
“Of course.” Kamien folded his arms across his chest. “We interviewed inmate Watson about it. He denied the allegations and felt that Mr. Trouse had a personal vendetta against him.”
I leaned forward. “It seems to me that since this has become a disciplinary action against Trouse you must have spoken with others in the course of your investigation?”
“I’m not going to answer any more questions on this issue.”
“Why not?” Trouse asked.
“I will not sit here and be grilled by you in front of these people, Mr. Trouse.”
“Fine, I’ll just tell them. Kristin just woke up to it one morning. I think she figured out Tex was using her, too, and that’s what drove her off.”
“Has she been away from Watson?” I asked Kamien.
“I have not noticed her absence from the institution.”
“That’s not true,” Trouse said. “Just recently she’s been gone a whole month, but she always comes back around board time because Charles is under such pressure to get out. She’s back now ’cause he’s due to see the board soon. Right?”
“Next month,” I answered.
“Yeah, well, they put on a pretty good show for you all.
That’s all I can say. I’m telling you the truth, Mrs. Tate. She had the affair. You saw Kamien’s response. He’s scared because it’s the truth.”
“I’m going to call an end to this visit,” Kamien said.
I gathered my belongings. “Okay. Trouse, I think the main thing here is that Watson should be pulled out of that ministry. Right?”
“I agree with you one hundred percent. That’s why I started all this. I want to take it all the way to court. Can you come back sometime soon when we don’t have a watchdog with us?” Trouse asked.
“Yeah, but first I’m going to Sacramento with this,” I said.
I put my hand out to Kamien. “I’m sorry things got a little heated here. Before I leave I would just like to feel that Trouse will be protected.”
“That’s our obligation; we become liable if we put him in a situation where his life is in danger,” Kamien replied.
“I’m already in danger,” Trouse shot back. “They’ve moved me to B-quad, where I don’t have any friends. Everyone thinks I put in for the move so I would be protected from Watson. They’re calling me a snitch.”
“Is Watson in B-quad?” I asked.
“No, he’s in A,” Trouse said. “I’m probably going to get a bus ride for trying to break up Tex’s little cult. I’ve put this institution under a lot of heat by bringing you into this. You’re a thorn in their side.”
“Is he going to be transferred?” I asked Kamien.
“The issue is where he can safely be housed. Just as you are concerned, Mrs. Tate, we wouldn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize his safety.”
“I want to state in front of you two and Kamien that I am in jeopardy,” Trouse said. “If anything happens to me toward bodily harm on the yard or anything like that, I hope that you will follow through on it.”
Sandy finally spoke up. “Does anyone know how Watson feels about all this?”
“He wouldn’t speak to me last night,” Trouse answered. “He knows I’m pulling his covers. He’s scared, and that makes me scared. Just yesterday, someone came down with a message that Watson wanted me to meet him in the chapel. Well, no way I’m going over there, so I don’t know what that was all about, but I don’t like it.”
“Okay, let’s go, Mr. Trouse,” Kamien said.
Steve took my hand. “Don’t leave me hanging in here.”
“I won’t. You take care, honey, and God bless.”
THE TRIP TO Sacramento was unnecessary. In fact, I didn’t even have to pick up the telephone. Word of my visit with Trouse swiftly traveled through the CDC, and the word must have been damaging.
Before a week’s passing, I received a nondescript envelope. Enclosed were two items. A page entitled, “Statement for Release by Warden Wayne Estelle,” and a note. The handwritten text lacked a salutation as well as an endorsement: “Reverend McGuire has asked to take an early retirement. Instead of twenty-five years work record, he will receive twenty-one. You have my word, Watson will be moved within the next year.”
I read the press release.
“Charles Watson is being removed from his assignment in the Protestant chapel at CMC. He will receive an appropriate work assignment at Post Board Classification.
“The results of a preliminary investigation in the chapel reveal no major mechanical discrepancies. Some changes will be made to eliminate any perception by inmates or others that the chapel program has been misused. Changes will also be made to eliminate procedural shortcomings.
“Chaplain Stan McGuire has run an acclaimed program for twenty years at CMC. His dedication to filling religious needs has been reported by the press on numerous occasions over the years.
“Inmate Watson’s crime has been given an accurate description by the Parole Board in past years. His term in prison should reflect no more or any less consideration than the other seven thousand prisoners at CMC.”
15
BASTARDIZING THE LAW
Mr. Watson, the night that you broke into my daughter’s home you said, “I’m the devil here to do the devil’s work.” As far as I’m concerned, sir, you are still in business.
—DORIS TATE
Patti
Amid a snarl of minivans, SUVS, and station wagons, parents mysteriously lose all sense of civility in the quest of dropping off or picking up their kids from school. Such was the case at my daughter’s middle school at three in the afternoon. Horns bleeped, fender-benders cracked, and obscenities flew. All the while, children curiously appraised whether their parent was sane.
My two-year-old son, with his shoe planted firmly in his mouth as a pacifier, found it all very amusing from his backseat view. “Bweeee! Mama, Bweeee!” he yelled.
I pressed down the passenger window and yelled right along with him, “Brie! Let’s go.”
She ran up to the car. “Hi, Mama.”
“Hi, sweetie. Where’s Ally?”
“I don’t know,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat.
“Wait, hon. I need you to go find her.”
“Aw, Mama,” she groaned, “you go.”
“I can’t leave Bryce alone.”
“Hellooo,” she rolled her eyes, “I’m going to be seven next week; I think I can watch him.”
“Fine,” I said, too tired to argue. I pointed at her to start my spiel, “Don’t open the door—”
“I got it, I got it—not for the principal, not even for the police.”
I locked the car behind me, and then scrambled through the throng of children. I spotted her on the side stairs. “Ally! Come on!” I hollered across the schoolyard.
She waved me over.
“It’s going to be one of those days,” I mumbled, dodging the opposing flow of kids.
When I reached Ally she said, “Mama, this is my friend and her mom.”
“Hi, I’m Patti.”
“Hi. Suzan LaBerge. The girls were just talking about having a sleepover this weekend at our place.”
I quickly appraised Suzan. A throwback to the Flower Child era. Hair long, a little wild and frizzy, bell-bottom jeans, T-shirt, and sandals. My inflamed opinion may have a biased tone, but the hippie trend is not my favorite culture. “Oh, sorry, not this weekend. I’m going to New York with my mom for the Geraldo Show.”
“We’ll make it another time,” Suzan said. Then as an afterthought, “Are you going to see the show or to be on it?”
Dammit, I have a big mouth. “Well, my mom is going to be on it, I’m just going to watch.” I took Ally’s hand. “Let’s go, hon.” Then to Suzan, “I’ve got the kids waiting in the car. It was nice meeting you guys.”
Suzan, however, was persistent. “Why is she going to be on television? Is she famous?”
I felt the tug of worriment. The invasion of privacy. “Sort of, my sister was murdered so my mother’s a victims’ advocate.” If nothing else, the word murder should have quashed her interrogation just as it did with all the others who dared to ask questions.
Suzan’s smile faltered. A murky sheen seemed to have glazed her eyes. “What’s your sister’s name?”
I gnawed at the last of my thumbnail and pulled Ally closer. “-Sharon Tate.”
Her eyes widened as did her smile, which I could have sworn was tinged with menace. “I knew you looked familiar; you and Sharon could have been twins. You’re never going to guess who I am.”
I took a protective step in front of my daughter.
“Rosemary LaBianca is my mother!” she blurted out.
“What?”
Her head bobbed enthusiastically. “As soon as you started talking about your mom, I recognized you, but I wanted to be sure.”
“Oh, my goodness,” I said, able to breathe again. “I was afraid you were involved with Manson.” I wrote my number on her daughter’s notebook. “Listen, I have to get back to my other kids, but here’s my number, call me.”
“Better yet, why don’t you let Ally come home with us, and you can come by later for a glass of wine?”
“Well.”
“Please, Mama,” Ally said.
I looked back toward the car, uneasy about leaving the other kids for so long.
“Just this once. I’ll be okay,” Ally coaxed.
“All right. I’ll come by around seven?”
Suzan ripped a sheet from a spiral notebook. “Sounds good. Here’s our address.”
“I’LL BE DAMNED,” Mom said, when I told her about my encounter with Suzan LaBerge. “I always wondered what became of those kids—you know her and her brother, Frank, were the ones who found their parents’ bodies. If I recall, Suzan had a nervous breakdown afterward. How did she seem?”
“Fine, I guess. We didn’t get a chance to talk. I’ll get the scoop later.”
Just after dinner, the phone rang. My mother was close to hysterics. “Calm down, I can’t understand you,” I told her.
“Get Ally out of LaBerge’s house. Now!”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“Steve Trouse called. They’re friends. He overheard Watson talking to her.”
“Slow down. Who was Watson talking to?”
“They’re friends, Patti! Suzan and Watson are friends! They’re planning—”
I dropped the phone and ran to the car. Twice, my hands missed the ignition. Finally jamming in the key, the car roared to life, and my tires squealed in protest all the way out of the driveway.
The two-mile drive to the LaBerge’s felt more like twenty as I ignored red lights and stop signs through the neighborhood streets. “What in the fuck have you done?” I yelled at the rearview mirror. “Oh, Jesus Christ, you fed your daughter right to Sharon’s killers!” I pounded the steering. “You broke the rules dammit. You broke the goddamned rules!”
Rule number one, the kids are never out of sight, except at school and Mother’s. Rule number two, never overlook danger. Because of LaBerge’s background, I’d overlooked both.
On the next turn, my tires swerved out of control along with my mind. I got the car back under control, but my thoughts continued sliding toward the cliff. What is LaBerge’s background? Is she a member of the Manson Family? I never did believe in coincidences, why else would she be living so close to me. My mind ran to the worse possible places. She and Watson must have planned to kidnap Ally to silence Mom at the parole hearing.
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