Restless Souls

by Alisa Statman

  After years of flying under the radar, Patricia Krenwinkel’s 1993 parole hearing was perhaps the most damaging hearing she’s had to date, and I like to think that my mother played a large role in her eventual meltdown that day. She was the first victim to ever confront Krenwinkel and had brought forty-two thousand petitions to support her effort. By this time, Mom was no longer the frightened, timid person she’d been at her first hearing. She’d attended three other hearings for Sharon’s killers, and she was a force to be reckoned with.

  There were other key players at the hearing: Steve Kay, and Tom Giaquinto, the commissioner of the Board of Prison Terms. As an ex–homicide detective, Giaquinto was trained in the most effective ways to interview a witness, and for the next hour, he grilled Krenwinkel about the murders in what I believe was an attempt to surface her repressed hostility.

  Krenwinkel’s answers to how seven human beings were eliminated from this world at her hand were bland at best—or as she described herself in 1969, “very dead inside, empty, and just completely kind of hollow.” I think it was this attitude that incited my mother’s anger by the time she made her impact speech and said, “I feel like she has no memory of what happened that night, and what she did. She didn’t know them . . . I did, I knew Gibbie. Does she remember what she looked like? . . . Does she remember when she led my sister down the hallway to her death, what she looked like, with her belly out to here? She doesn’t hardly remember what she did. And I want to put some faces and feelings here because I feel like she’s just so blank.”

  Through the course of the hearing, Giaquinto threw question after question challenging Krenwinkel’s participation, but in the end, it was board member Guaderrama’s question that flung her over the edge: “How do you feel now about what you’ve done?”

  As she responded, her composure unraveled more with every word until she was just a sobbing heap of outrage and anger. By the time she got out her last sentence, she had turned her animosity toward Mom: It was as if she was incensed that Mom wasn’t more sympathetic toward her and how difficult her life had become since the murders. “It’s grotesque. It’s absolutely horrible. It’s very difficult for me to live with the fact that I could do anything so horrible. . . . So I try every day, the best I can to deal with it. Every day of my life, I try to define to myself that I have a little bit of self-worth because it is terribly difficult to deal with this. . . . No matter what I do, I cannot change one minute of my life. And, as I said before, I don’t expect the board to say that I can go home, I am paying for this as best as I can. There’s nothing more I can do outside of being dead to pay for this and I feel that’s what you wish, but I cannot take my own life.”

  Mission accomplished. The hearing ended soon after with a three-year denial.

  In an interview with Court TV following the hearing, Krenwinkel’s resentment of Mom’s presence was apparent when she said, “After they removed the death penalty, I have been granted the right to return to a parole board for them to consider within their hearts and their judgment whether or not I fit a criteria. . . . So it’s up to them, no one else.”

  Perhaps, but as with the parole board, Court TV gave Mom the last word on the subject, “To sit back and judge the taking of a life by the amount of years spent by that prisoner is not good enough for me. The prison system is set up for many purposes. Retribution is one of them, but the biggest is safety, isn’t it? The biggest issue is to not make more victims.”

  HIGH COURT SPURNS LESLIE VAN HOUTEN’S BID FOR RELEASE, read the headlines for the Supreme Court’s final ruling on her case. Presiding Supreme Court Justice Manuel Ramirez wrote in the record words like “cruel and callous” before stating, “The courts must uphold the board’s exercise of its discretion to find an inmate unsuitable for parole as long as there is ‘some evidence’ to support it. And that evidence can come solely from a review of the circumstances of the crime.”

  And that’s just what happened on July 6, 2010, when Van Houten had yet another parole hearing. As if flaunting the Supreme Court’s 2002 ruling, Chairman Robert Doyle noted in their decision for denial, “The crimes involved were so atrocious and heinous that they must be considered in the decision.”

  Of course, they cited other reasons for Van Houten’s unsuitability. Most noteworthy, they stated that even after forty-two years, Van Houten has “failed to gain complete insight into her crime and its motivation. . . . She does not look at herself to see what made her capable of this activity.”

  Whereas in the past, Van Houten had received a one- or two-year denial, this time, they gave her a three-year denial.

  Twitter is the frontier, the wild west of cyberspace where outlaws, gurus, the lonely, the incarcerated can communicate with YOU. The fact that Charles Manson was able to communicate that message to a forum of millions from the confines of his Corcoran prison cell is extremely disturbing. Cell phones in prisons have become an epidemic. At Corcoran, in just one day, officials were able to track more than five hundred cell phones and four thousand attempts by prisoners to text, make calls, or to get an Internet connection.

  In 1969 Manson had maybe a hundred followers. Today, courtesy of a cell phone and his Twitter account, he has more than five thousand followers, including Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme and convicted killer Bobby Beausoleil.

  At the moment, all the lobbying in the world can’t stop this because California doesn’t have the funding to get it under control, and even if they managed the funding, there’s no law to support the cause. In California, it is not illegal to smuggle a cell phone into a state prison.

  The CDC did make an effort to thwart cell phone use when they launched “Operation Disconnect,” in which they conduct surprise inspections looking for phones. On January 6, 2011, they confiscated a cell phone from Manson. By January 7 he was back online and tweeting. Considering the multitude of infractions he has on file, the thirty days they added to his sentence is hardly a deterrent.

  For Manson, a cell phone infraction may be a moot point if he wins a new trial. From the moment of his conviction, Manson has claimed that he didn’t get a fair trial because he was not allowed to represent himself nor put on a defense. With the help of Saddam Hussein’s former attorney, “The Devil’s Advocate” Giovanni Di Stefano, Manson has filed a petition with the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights. In an interview, Di Stefano commented, “I have no interest in the facts of this case. The law is the law. Denying his rights under the Sixth Amendment to represent himself is grounds for a new trial.”

  And so the saga continues.

  Papa was right when he said Linda Kasabian was as guilty as those imprisoned. For me, her name is synonymous with what if? What if she’d run to get help? What if she’d gone to the police? The oft forgotten Linda Kasabian has managed to remain out of prison, but not out of trouble. She has been arrested on at least two occasions; once in her apartment filled with guns and narcotics, once for disturbing the peace. In 1989 she reemerged to the spotlight for a Current Affair interview. On the show, Kasabian recalled her crime partners with a wistful gleam and a smile. Of Krenwinkel she said, “Quiet, earthy.” Of Atkins, she laughed heartily, “She really knew how to talk. She knew all the right words.” And of Watson, “Tall, dark, and handsome with deep, deep blue eyes.”

  For someone who was supposedly so horrified and remorseful, these are very peculiar adjectives for her to use considering the last time she was with any of them in free society she watched them relentlessly stabbing their victims.

  I first laid eyes on Susan Atkins when I attended her 2005 parole hearing. That day I had bronchitis and a 102 fever, but I’d gone anyway, intent to make an impact statement against the woman who had brought so much pain to my family. For reasons that are still unclear, I was denied that right. Debra Tate spoke instead. At that point, given my condition and the fact that I had been silenced, I should have gone home; yet I still hoped that I would catch Atkins’s eye, if even for a second, to let her know that her horrible act
ions had flowed through and impacted another generation. So I stayed and endured.

  In California, by definition of the penal code, the reason a defendant is incarcerated is for punishment. There’s nothing about rehabilitation, and yet I had to listen to four hours of discussion about how her rehabilitation entitled her to a parole date. That was followed up with an endless list of organizations and self-help groups she’d participated in. Even in my weakened condition, it was tough to suppress a laugh by the time the born-again Christian got to the Shalom Sisterhood.

  In all, there are only two segments that are noteworthy. The first came when Atkins’s husband/attorney, James Whitehouse, made a note at the end of his closing statement: “When they (the victims’ next of kin) make their statements, they say that we’ve never tried to apologize. And I don’t think they realize that the Board of Prison Terms and the CDC won’t allow us to do so.”

  Presiding Commissioner Perez interrupted him, “That’s inaccurate, sir. . . . You may, but there is a process to follow.” And then, a moment later she told Atkins, “This is your opportunity to provide a statement to the panel relative to your suitability for parole. If in your statement you wish to indicate that you are sorry for what you’ve done to the family as well as the victims, you may do so; however, you have to address them through the panel.”

  Nana must have been looking down on this scene, waiting on pins and needles for her reply. It seemed that after four decades Atkins was finally going to utter the words, I’m sorry. . . . Only, she didn’t. Even after her husband made it a point of contention, Atkins couldn’t seem to bring herself to say those two simple words. Instead, she chose to use her opportunity to read letters from those supporting her release.

  The other significant moment came directly after that when the panel turned the floor over to Jay Sebring’s sister. In under a minute, she countered the preceding four hours with a simple summary: “She’s got all these things she’s done, all these committees, all these organizations, all these degrees, but the bottom line is, she’s just as much a murderer today as she was thirty-six years ago because my brother is just as dead as he was thirty-six years ago.”

  And with that, I knew Nana had said a quiet amen.

  In the spring of 2008 Atkins was diagnosed with a cancerous brain tumor. She and her family appealed for compassionate release from prison so that she could die in the comfort of her family’s home.

  At present there are more than eleven thousand elderly prisoners in California, and the Manson women are among them. For anyone with a heart, it’s tough not to feel sympathy when prisoners’ rights advocates who support compassionate release show us pictures of old, fragile, often sick women and say, “It’s a terrible injustice . . . When you’re in prison, all you want is to be able to die with dignity . . . I saw a woman get down to her knees and beg for morphine . . . I saw one woman with throat cancer, who kept getting denied parole, fall into her own blood and die.”

  While my heart aches for any suffering human being, I forced myself to look away from photos of the pathetic and dying Susan Atkins and remember the young and vibrant Atkins who with callous disregard unjustly murdered eight people and watched them beg for their lives, fall down into their own blood, and die without an ounce of dignity. The parole board must have agreed because at her last hearing in 2009, with full knowledge that she had only months to live, they gave her a three-year denial.

  On September 24, 2009, Atkins’s husband, James Whitehouse released this statement: “Susan passed away peacefully surrounded by friends and loved ones . . . Her last whispered word was ‘Amen.’”

  Well, God bless her, because that’s more than I can say for any one of her victims.

  Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Aunt Sharon, Nana, Papa, and Mama. With them, I often contemplate the word fate. Despite Mama’s wish to have our name disentangled from Charles Manson’s, I’m left with no choice but to integrate the names, because on August 9, 1969, in an hour’s time, Sharon’s killers played with fate and changed destiny’s blueprint until theirs merged with ours. Unfortunately, that night, those killers and their actions became part of who I am.

  Just as Sharon was the night of her murder, I am almost eight months pregnant. As I wait for my baby to arrive, I spend every day planning for our future together. As her arrival draws nearer, I shop for our needs and ready the house. I spend most days in the nursery; first painting, then furnishing, and now, lovingly placing mobiles, photos, bedding, and organizing clothing in the drawers. Every morning, I awake excited about our future. And every night, as I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but think about the night Sharon was murdered, because as she safely got into bed, she must have been having the same thoughts and feelings that I’m experiencing. In these darkened moments, alone in bed, with the baby that I feel so much love for; the baby that I’ve named Patricia, who is already full of life and constantly shifting in my belly as she readies for her birthday, I finally, truly comprehend how Sharon must have felt as she pleaded with her killers, “Just let me have my baby and then you can kill me any way you want.” As I’m sure it was for Sharon, my baby is my world and I would gladly give my life to save her life. Each night, as my heart soars with joy, it also breaks for Sharon’s loss. My last conscious thought before dreams overtake my mind is a prayer that I will safely awaken to have at least another day with my child and hopefully a lifetime together.

  Manson, Watson, Atkins, Krenwinkel, Van Houten, and Kasabian are thieves as much as they are killers. They stole Sharon’s future, and in turn, stole the future of every generation to follow, leaving us with the infinite question of, what if?

  I nostalgically roam the quieted rooms of my house where three generations have passed through the portals of time and a fourth generation is about to begin. Everywhere I go, I’m pleasantly haunted by days gone by. It seems these walls do talk with remembrances of a lot of joy, a lot of love, and a lot of sorrow.

  Sorrow may seem a pitiful emotion, yet I am blessed by it. For it has left me a legacy of love, determination, and courage handed down by my mother and my grandparents before her. They taught me that we learn our greatest lessons through hardship. And through that hardship, they taught me not about fear and retribution, but about giving.

  In the last year of Mama’s life, I went to bed every night searching for one special gift that I could give her in which only she benefited. I’m still searching. Because I have yet to find a gift in which I won’t reap in the blessing of giving unconditionally.

  I am enamored by Father O’Reilly’s eulogy for Sharon: “We create in every act of good we do; we destroy in every act of evil we perform.” For in it is the key to a civilized society much like Catherine Ryan Hyde’s novel Pay It Forward, about a boy who believes in the goodness of human nature and sets out to change the world with one act of kindness. An act, which instead of being paid back to him, is paid forward to three others, and so forth.

  Like a stone pitched into a dead calm, every act committed toward another—good or evil—will reach a hundred more by the day’s close, and in some cases, like Aunt Sharon’s, millions are affected. Mom and Nana spent their lives throwing positive stones. The outcome of their ripples will remain a mystery, but I like to believe that their splash is still circling outward and paid forward by those who don’t even know where the epicenter formed.

  President Bush honored Nana, but Mama left this world clueless (and in denial) to the beneficial impact from her stones. Many of the issues she challenged didn’t come to fruition until after she passed, such as Manson’s song being removed from the Guns N’ Roses CD, or the abolishment of conjugal visits for life-sentenced prisoners. Moreover, through her guidance, we, her children, matured into responsible, caring adults. I hope now she understands the lasting impression she made during the short time she was here.

  My grandparents and mother left me a well-cultivated garden of endless growing capabilities. I owe it to them—at the very least—not to cast an
y negative stones. As I tend to that garden and plant my own seeds, perhaps one day, as I dig through the soil, I will uncover and collect a handful of contributive stones and pay it forward.

  In my path, I find the dimes that Mama promised to drop from heaven—inflation, she joked. At least once a week I find a dime that reminds me that she’s still close at hand, watching over me; keeping me alert that at any moment her spirit could startle me with a quiet “boo.”

  I think about the past and I think about the future. Both seem so distant yet so close; according to some, they run simultaneously.

  I believe that with the final court denial of Susan Atkins’s plea for compassionate release from prison, it’s a safe bet that the rest of Sharon’s killers will never leave prison alive. The parole hearings will continue, but I believe that the need to attend those hearings to give a victim’s impact statement has finally been laid to rest with my mother’s generation. If that situation changes, you can be certain that I will be the first one in line to oppose their release because, I figure I’m Nana’s and then some.

  Further Information

  If you or someone you know is a victim and in need of support, please contact Crime Victims United at Crimevictimsunited.com, 530-885-9544, mail@crimevictimsunited.com.