In 1972, when California removed the killers from death row, Atkins did another about-face to exonerate herself of Sharon’s murder.
In 1976 Atkins metamorphosed into a born-again Christian and cleansed her soul. “The whitest, most brilliant light I had ever seen poured over me,” she wrote. “Vaguely, there was the form of a man. I knew it was Jesus. . . . He spoke to me. . . . ‘Susan, I’m really coming into your heart to stay. Right now you are being born again and you will live with me in heaven through all eternity. . . . You are now a child of God. You are washed clean and your sins have all been forgiven. . . .’ There was no more guilt! It was gone. . . . The bitterness too. Instantly gone.”
Ten years and several parole hearings later, Atkins gave her first television interview since the trial. The 60 Minutes program opened with an image of Atkins in prayer before a portrait of Jesus. A voice-over from the host touted that she was about to grant viewers “an extraordinary new version of the killings.”
Atkins tearfully explained, “I’ve spoken the truth as I’ve talked to you and the truth is I never killed anybody. I lied at the grand jury. I lied at the trial and said that I killed people that I had in fact not killed. I live with the fact that people think I killed a pregnant woman.”
“Would you clear up once and for all what actually happened that night?” the reporter asked.
“I was instructed to go to the Tate home. I went to the Tate home, and I saw people brutally murdered, and I was instructed to kill two people, and I could not do it. Everything I was told to do that night I did with the exception of killing somebody . . . it was terrifying, horrible . . . could we not talk about this? It’s really hard.”
Curious if she had changed her story since 60 Minutes aired, I turned to the record of her 1987 parole hearing, the one following that TV interview. Not surprisingly, she’d added another twist to her story. “I want once and for all for it to be understood that what I have been accused of doing and what I actually did are two different things. I’m asking that you believe me when I tell you I did not by my own hand kill any human being. I said and spoke several different stories between the grand jury and the trial that were in fact not true. What I said at the grand jury was the truth. I ask for your indulgence that if you were to read the coroner’s report and police reports, you’ll see that all of the stab wounds to all of the victims were made by the same weapon. And it was not the weapon that was found at the crime scene, which was my knife that I lost while struggling with Mr. Frykowski, and the forensic tests showed that there was no blood on that knife.”
Willing to indulge Atkins’s theory, I read each transcript she’d mentioned. “He (Frykowski) got behind me,” Atkins testified for the grand jury, “and I had the knife in my right hand. I was just swinging. . . . I remember hitting something repeatedly behind me. I didn’t see what it was that I was stabbing . . . it could have been a chair.”
I read the crime scene report and scanned the photos with a magnifying glass. There was not a single rip in any of the furnishings, not a single gouge in the wood surfaces, not even a tear in the carpeting.
In truth, the coroner’s report attested to Atkins’s stabbing Sharon. In preparation for an eventual trial, Dr. Noguchi wanted to have the exact dimensions of the knives used in case they were recovered. To do this, he poured barium-sulfate paste into each wound and then took X-rays. Sharon’s wounds ranged in size from some that were 1 inch in width and 3½ inches in depth to others that were 1¾ inches in width and 5½ inches in depth. He concluded from those tests that two knives were used, one smaller than the other.
Testimony from the four killers supports that Patricia Krenwinkel was out of the main house when Sharon was murdered; that leaves Watson and Atkins as the two knife wielders.
Whether Atkins actually stabbed Sharon has no bearing on her culpability. The pertinent issue is this: If she’s lying about her participation, then she can’t possibly be rehabilitated or remorseful.
In 1985 Mom attended Atkins’s parole hearing, giving Atkins the chance to extend personally her condolences. Instead, Atkins emphasized a need for absolution.
Over the next four years, Mom made Atkins’s lack of remorse a point of contention, goading her into saying, “Mrs. Tate, I am sorry.” Nevertheless, at her 1989 parole hearing a board member asked, “Miss Atkins, who have you made amends to?”
“To God, to myself, to my family. I don’t think that the family members of the victims are willing to make amends, though I would like to do that. Sometimes I cry because I see this woman (Mom) sitting over here in tears and I know her anguish is because of actions that I did. I feel their pain every single day.” She went on for twenty minutes about her emotions, but noticeably neglected to say those five simple words.
The last bit of information that I wanted to explore was an Internet page that Atkins established with the help of friends on the outside. The website appeared to be dedicated to “spreading the word of the Holy Spirit.” Atkins wrote many prayers on this site, for herself and for other inmates—especially those on death row. It includes thoughts about God, Christ, and religion, and sentiments shared on her salvation through repentance and rehabilitation. What’s unmistakably missing from her wisdom are the victims. There is not one prayer for my family, not one word of remorse directed to the eight families of her victims.
The final page of her site held one last prayer—for her parole hearing: “I’ve prayed much about this after I heard from the Holy Spirit on it. I write it only at his leading and direction. I will once more appear before the California Board of Prison Terms for the purpose of determining whether or not I am suitable for parole. This letter is from my heart, to ask you to pray with me that only God’s will be done when I appear again. That He will fill my mouth with His wisdom that day . . . hope-filled loving sister in Christ, Susan Atkins.”
18
CHANGES
We were each a different person every day of our life. In fact, we were three, four, five different people. We changed clothing, changed expressions. Just changes. You know, changes are changes. They’re not progress, they’re not regression. They’re just change.
—SUSAN ATKINS, 1971
Patti
Mixed between palpitations, my heart shivered in protest for the entire three-hour drive to the prison. I was on my way to meet the bogeyman and scared to death. I pulled off the lightly traveled highway a half-dozen times when my conviction faltered.
Parked on the shoulder, I felt as if I were in one of those old cartoons with an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other, bantering back and forth in my mind. “You can’t break a deathbed promise to your mother,” the angel coaxed.
“Sure you can, she won’t care anymore,” the devil assured.
“Sharon did so much for you, you must do this for her,” the angel counseled. “Remember the picture of her, crumpled against the couch? She needs you.”
“Yeah, remember that picture—because it could be you if you go through with this,” the devil warned.
Before the men in white coats could show up with a straitjacket, I pulled back onto the road, just trying to take it mile by mile until I saw a sign that indicated the California Institute for Women at Frontera was the next exit. My coffee cup was empty, my throat was parched, and my eyes stung from salty tears. I’d crushed one empty pack of cigarettes and opened another before I pulled into the prison parking lot and took the first available spot.
I draped my shoulders across the steering wheel, feeling more like I’d run the distance than driven it. When my breath slowed to a steadier pant, I chanced a look in the rearview mirror to find a face I hardly recognized. My makeup had been wiped away hours ago from the steady flow of tears, enhancing my sleep-deprived eyes. Jittery hands had matted my hair and spilled coffee stained my blouse. I shook my head wearily. I’d fooled myself into thinking I could confront Susan Atkins. I’d studied like a good student for the final exam, but in this case, knowledge didn’t bring pow
er, just more fear, anxiety, and discouragement.
I was in no condition to attend this hearing. The parole board would see right through my weakness, and any persuasion Mom may have had over them in the past would be instantly undone by my instability. Conceding defeat, my head returned to the steering wheel for a nap before I’d turn around and make the trip home.
Sleep came instantly, but lasted only seconds before there was a tap on my window. Disoriented, my blurry eyes focused. Oh, no, I’d completely forgotten that Kelly was attending the hearing as my support person. She was also the executive director of the Doris Tate Crime Victims Bureau and had taken me under her wing to guide me through the bureaucratic complexity of victims’ legislation.
The look on her face said that my escape wasn’t going to be easy. Still seated in safe surroundings, I opened the door. “Look, I can’t do this, Kelly. I’m sorry you drove all the way out here.”
She handed me a fresh cup of coffee. “Yes, you can.”
“No, you don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand?” She smiled. “I just went through this for my brother. Now let’s go.”
My only move was to take a sip of coffee.
Her look hardened. Though ten years my junior, she had Mom’s stern force. “Patti, this is the point in your life that you stop being the victim and start being the fighter. Now, you’re going to get out of that car, put up your dukes, and go get that witch.”
My first parole hearing didn’t have the celebrity of Mom’s. Purposely low-key, I filled out the prison attendance forms using my married name. There were no petitions to deliver and no press conference to be held beforehand. Only the press’s speculation about how I was connected to the Tate family. And so we easily walked through the thick of the press and my last steps of sheltered anonymity. Steve Kay waited in the lobby. “I was about to give up on you,” he said. “Come on, they’re waiting for us and not too happy about it.”
A prison guard led the way to the dark paneled boardroom. I kept my focus telescoped to the ground and took the seat next to Steve at the head of a T-shaped table. My rear end barely hit the chair before the board member sitting closest to me pressed the RECORD button on a tape machine. “We’re on record. This is a subsequent parole consideration for Susan Atkins, I’m Chairman Manny Guaderrama. Miss Atkins, the way this hearing will be conducted today is that I will be discussing your life offense, your prior criminal and social history. And then Miss Bentley on my right will discuss post-commission factors, and your adjustment in the institution. Then Mr. Neilson on my far right will discuss parole plans.
“You are not required to admit your guilt,” Guaderrama continued with hardly a breath, “but the panel does find true the findings of the court. You came into this room convicted of murder and you’ll leave this room convicted of murder. Our charge here today is to see if you are suitable for parole.
“Okay, now what I’m going to do is read a statement of facts from the hearing held on July sixth, 1979, your initial hearing. Referring to case number A267861, the victim, Gary Hinman, was apparently cut and stabbed repeatedly. Case A253156, referring to counts one through five, these concern the murders which occurred on August ninth, 1969 at the Polanski residence. . . .”
I felt Atkins gaze settle upon me; it caused my heart to hammer so hard that I thought it would bounce out across the table and right into her hands. Perspiration beaded across my hairline. My underarms burned with the surge of nervous sweat. My goose bumps–plagued arms banded across my stomach as it lurched in protest. Too many cigarettes, too much coffee, and not enough sleep. My head throbbed to the rhythm of my pulse. The room swirled. Oh God, I was going to vomit, and if I were going to toss my cookies on national television, I may as well be looking at her. My eyes settled on the bogeyman—or woman, as it turned out, and an old one at that.
Atkins’s dress was short-sleeved and innocent-pink. Except for the sides, which were clipped back, her graying hair fell below her breast. Oversize smoked lenses that she awkwardly pulled off and put on masked her black eyes. Her red nails were long as daggers, and her ruby lipstick had bled onto her upper teeth like the vampire she once claimed to be. Our eyes met briefly before she looked away, and I realized she was powerless. She had come to plead for her life much like her victims had pleaded for theirs, and I had come to keep her quashed in a lifeless prison. My stomach and heart settled at once.
“These murders have been gone over a number of times,” Mr. Guaderrama was saying, “is there anything that you would like to say concerning your involvement, Miss Atkins?”
“Yes. There is no way to justify or excuse my participation. I would also like to state that it is impossible to explain to intelligent people insane actions that occurred twenty-three years ago from a cognizant, aware position. And that’s what I was living in, insanity.”
Atkins’s words came slowly, as if addressing children, yet with a rehearsed eloquence. “I left home at eighteen. I came from a very, very dysfunctional family—again, it’s not an excuse, just a statement of fact. I had two alcoholic parents. I suffered sexual molestation as a young child. When I left home at eighteen, I was extremely angry, extremely vulnerable, and directionless. Couple that with my involvement in drug abuse and my need to be loved and accepted, I became very susceptible to the times, and I ask that the panel members take this into consideration—not as an excuse—but just to take it into consideration.
“When I met Charles Manson, he was extremely charismatic and I was in love with him. My intent when I met Charles Manson was not to spend the rest of my life in prison. There was a combination of circumstances that brought me to the homes of the people that died. Again, there’s absolutely no excuse. I take absolute and complete responsibility for my actions, but I did not by my own hand kill any human being. I was there, I participated, I did nothing to stop it—and that’s inexcusable, but I did not raise a knife to anyone.
“There were several things that I’ve said that were not true. During the trial, I was asked by Charles Manson to take the heat off him and my co-defendants and so I stated that I had stabbed Sharon Tate, when in fact, I did not. It almost seems pointless to say this—”
Guaderrama interrupted. “Let me ask you, what were you doing while all this killing was going on?”
Atkins took a deep breath. “When I was told to get in the car and go with Tex Watson, I did not know exactly what was going to happen. I was told by Mr. Manson to do what Tex said to do. So I got in the car and did exactly as Tex said. When he told me to climb a fence, I climbed a fence. When he told me to hide in the bushes, I hid in the bushes. When Steven Parent was killed, I was watching. When I was told to go into the house, I went into the house. I was told to go into the back rooms and see how many people were there and I did that. I was told to tie up Woytek Frykowski and I tied him up with a towel. And I was told to kill him, but I was incapable of doing it. I had raised the knife to do it and I could not do it. At that point, Woytek Frykowski jumped on me and we got into a struggle. I screamed for help and Tex Watson came over and took him off me. Tex then screamed at me to watch the other woman, and that happened to be Sharon Tate. And I sat in front of her until Tex came back.”
“Were you holding her hostage?” Guaderrama asked.
“No. I was just sitting in front of her.”
“Did she try to get away?”
“No, she did not. I believe she was tied up.”
“Did she say anything?” Guaderrama asked.
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Atkins closed her eyes before answering and I wondered what went through her mind; did the murders play out across her lids or was she conjuring a way to keep out the conversation between her and Sharon? “Oh God,” she said tearfully, “she asked me to let her baby live.”
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her I didn’t have any mercy on her—” Her tears conveniently cut off the rest.
“W
as she physically hurt at this point?”
“No. Just tied up.”
“And the others? Where were they?” Guaderrama asked.
“Abigail Folger had run out of the house. Jay Sebring was lying on the floor. He had been shot.”
“Hmmm,” Guaderrama fished out a piece of paper. “I was curious, in your probationary report, the evaluator comments: ‘The defendant stated with some bitterness that she was not even at the LaBianca killings, nevertheless she was convicted. The defendant claims, “I killed Sharon Tate. I don’t know why I killed her. I was on acid; whenever someone tells me not to do something, I do it. She said don’t, so I did.”’ So what I was curious about is why don’t you take responsibility for killing the LaBiancas if you take responsibility for killing Sharon Tate? I mean, you’ve very emphatically denied that you had any involvement in killing the LaBiancas—”
“Because I never entered the LaBiancas’ house. I didn’t kill them,” Atkins said.
“Yes, but you were an accomplice. You didn’t stop the murders and in this case, today, you just told us that you didn’t kill Sharon Tate either. I don’t understand why you take credit for her murder, but not for the LaBiancas.”
Atkins squirmed in her chair. “See, when I made that statement twenty-two years ago—I don’t know if you can understand this—”
“Try me,” Guaderrama said.
“Okay. When I was first arrested for the murders, I had a lot of guilt for what I had done, but I didn’t want to admit it. I could only hear Charlie in my head saying, ‘When you’re in jail, you have to be big and mean so that everyone will leave you alone.’ I was very frightened and I had no support mechanism around me. All I knew was that I somehow had to convince everybody that I was mean so I wouldn’t die in jail. That’s why I said what I said and that’s why I didn’t take responsibility.”
Restless Souls Page 33