Charles Manson Behind Bars: The Crazy Antics and Amazing Revelations Of America’s Icon of Evil

by Mark Hewitt

  The second letter was from a producer wanting to create a documentary about Satanism and Satan worship. The letter writer had experienced an exorcism and wanted to tell the world about the reality of demon-possession. The third letter was a request for a television appearance. The producer of a television show hoped to bring cameras into the prison for a one-on-one, sit-down interview with the icon. I responded to all three letters, but not much came of my efforts. Apparently, they all wanted to interact directly with Charlie and couldn’t be bothered with me. I never got any money or a television set out of the deal, but I couldn’t fault Charlie for trying to help me. He was at least attempting to give me something.

  This showed me a side of Charles Manson that few people see, and even fewer understand. If someone wants to sensationalize his life and actions for a television show or a movie of the week, it’s not hard to do. It titillates the audience. The truth, however, is much more complex. Charlie, despite whatever crimes he has committed, had a big heart.

  Because I generally mistrust others, I was cautious around him at first. I expected and demanded something from him when he requested something of me. In those days, it was quid pro quo in my world. I didn’t give anything unless I got something in return. I would ask for cigarettes, money or food items whenever I gave him food items or information about other inmates. Thankfully, he never held it against me. He never demanded anything from me, but continued to give generously. As I got to know him, and felt comfortable in our economic dealings, I began to realize that he didn’t grasp his possessions as most people do. If someone needed something of his, he was quick to provide. By copying his example, I learned to share as generously (well, nearly as generously) as he did.

  When I first started to show him my artwork, he was overjoyed. Like a kid with a new toy, he would really light up to my drawings of animal life. Charlie’s heart would melt like butter in an oven if I showed him a scorpion that I had drawn, or if I shared with him a picture of a dolphin or butterfly. He liked my pictures of spiders the most.

  At first, he offered to buy some of my artwork with cigarettes or food items. After a few exchanges, where I suspect I got the better of the deal, I began to just give things to him without any expectation of repayment. He even tried to give me things in exchange, but I refused. Soon, we were both giving, heartily and joyfully, and not keeping track of who received what and when.

  In addition to the great volume of mail that he received, Charlie had many visitors, more than any other prisoner. A fortunate inmate will get a visit a week from a spouse or close family member. Many get few or none. Charlie’s fans nearly beat the doors down to get close to him. Few people were actually granted personal visits, but that didn’t stop a parade of reporters, ministers, evangelists, and groupies from requesting to meet him in person. The people who did get to see him were the ones who were already at the prison for some other function. They were the ones who requested and were granted the opportunity to “see” Charlie.

  It amazed me to witness the large number of inmates, guards, and prison visitors who clamored to get a glimpse of the icon. Every week, there were people who came to Corcoran to tour the prison facility. They came from junior colleges, universities, and different law enforcement agencies. All these groups visited to learn how the system works, and possibly find employment among the ranks of the Department of Corrections. In addition to these educational visits, some juvenile probation officers brought their charges to participate in a “Scared Straight” program, designed to scare the living hell out of youngsters to steer them away from a life of crime. Part of many visits included a walk past Charles Manson’s cell, as a zoo tour would include a trip to the tiger cage. Most participants never approached his cell directly, staying some 30 feet or more away from it as though they could sense danger. They hoped he was not asleep, but if he was, a guard would tap on his window. “Charlie, you’ve got some visitors,” they would say, or “Girl’s, Charlie, girls!”

  He usually got up to the window and put on a show for the guests. Sometimes, he would wave his arms around mimicking an octopus or he would jump around his cell like a monkey. The visitors usually went away laughing. Once, he put on a fierce expression, and appeared to growl at the spectators. He may have been trying to look like a grizzly bear. Even in his seventies, it was apparent to me that Charlie could still move quickly and be entertaining.

  It made Charlie sad that he could have no visits from children. He wasn’t allowed any visitors under the age of eighteen. The reasoning behind it really made him angry: because Sharon Tate, one of the victims he was convicted of killing, was eight months pregnant, Charlie had been branded a child killer and deemed to be unsafe around minors. He used to be able to welcome children. Many years ago, he had an adult visit him with several children (I do not recall the facility he was in at the time, if he told me). Since that time, this privilege has been removed from him and he no longer gets to see any children at all.

  He told me that in the past, when he had been able to have visitors in a crowded visiting room, many children would come up to him and make friends with him. This undoubtedly occurred before his famous trial on multiple murders. “I couldn’t help it if the kids wanted to meet me and play with me,” he told me. “Now the authorities have prevented me from being around children. They were just jealous of my popularity!”

  During the time I was next to Charlie, he never received a visit from a relative, a friend on the outside, or even a lawyer. Despite the volumes of requests he received, it appeared that few on the outside really cared about him. They may have desired to profit off of his notoriety or possess some evidence of his skill or creativity, but they didn’t care about him as a person. I wondered whether his whole life had been like that: was he surrounded by people who took without giving, who profited without providing, and who wanted something without loving in return?

  I wondered whether the many letter writers who reached out to Charlie really understood him. Perhaps, they were impressed by his image or the portrait that had been painted of him by the media during the 1960s, and continues to echo to this day. Many of them no doubt thought that they were corresponding with a bearded, charismatic leader in his early 30s. In the backs of their minds, they probably saw the video footage that was shot around the time of his trial and played over and over on television. Everyone wanted something different; no one, it seemed, wanted to know and understand the real Charlie.

  Day after day, the piles of mail kept coming.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Origins of the Manson Family

  “It’s like a family”

  Unknown female member of the Manson Family

  I discussed many topics with Charlie, but by far, the one that most interested me was the murder spree the Manson family undertook in August of 1969. In two nights of mayhem, the Manson family members killed Sharon Tate, those in the house with her, and the LaBiancas, an older couple, the next night in a separate attack. It was these seven murders that led to Charlie’s incarceration. They were the most significant events in my friend’s life. I decided not to pry to learn the details of what happened, and discover Charlie’s role in the murders, if any. I was certain that every prisoner and every guard had questioned him about his involvement in order to gain the truth about the events or to pursue a prurient curiosity. I was sure that he had developed some stock reply to all the questions that arose. I didn’t want some fabricated story. I didn’t want him to blow me off with some trivial comments. I wanted the truth, so I waited until he himself brought up the topic, and, even then, acted only mildly interested, masking the true depth of my desire to know and understand.

  In prison, it’s not wise to take too great an interest in someone else’s crime. Some curiosity is fine, practically expected. Everyone but the reformed criminal or the inmate who has found religion is eager to learn new ways of making a quick buck or eluding the police. Convicts learn what not to do by studying how others were caught. Prison, therefore,
can be a wonderful educational center to learn all manner of criminal activity. If an inmate is friendly and committed to helping others, he can learn about safe-cracking, armed robbery, burglary, and forgery. Nevertheless, it’s best not to act too interested in specific crimes committed by specific inmates. The inmate who asks too many questions looks like a snitch. Since no one likes an inmate who will pass information on to prison guards or to his own lawyer in order to testify against someone, prisoners have to think long and hard before deciding to be a hated snitch. I have seen numerous men beaten to a bloody mess or killed for sharing information about a crime. Even appearing to collect information can be deadly.

  I desperately wanted to know if Charlie had committed these murders. I wanted to understand what it felt like to participate in these gruesome crimes, and what it felt like to go through a long trial in the public sphere that was his “trial of the century,” long before OJ Simpson captured the public’s attention. Charlie was a celebrity and I wanted to participate in his experience. Slowly, the details emerged within our conversations. Too slowly for me at times, but I patiently waited until I understood the story. If there was one commodity I possess in great abundance behind bars, it’s the time to be patient.

  Charlie never sat down with me and told the story from start to finish. I never expected that and he never offered it. My understanding of the events is a patchwork gleaned from a hundred conversations or parts of conversations. Never once did I bring up the topic of his murders, either. In fact, when he first asked whether I wanted to know some of the details, I declined. Eagerness, I knew, would prevent him from sharing deeply and fully. Instead, I feigned a disinterest that actually served to make Charlie more willing to discuss the events. Probably, he realized that nothing he could tell me could or would be used as a bargaining chip. What judge would agree to reduce my sixty-eight year sentence in exchange for info on Charles Manson, who was already over seventy and who most assuredly never will get out of prison alive? None, we both knew.

  The second time he brought up the murders, I just listened. I didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t comment on what he offered. I think he felt good getting it off his chest. We wove the conversation away from the 1960s many times, but Charlie kept leading conversations back to the events surrounding his murders, and filling me in on additional details.

  Charlie had made his way to the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco after being released from Terminal Island prison in 1967, he told me. He had been paroled to the Los Angeles area, but the news out of “the Haight” had been a magnet to the rock-star wannabe. The summer of love called to him and its lure was too great for him to ignore. He wanted to indulge in the free love, drugs, and perpetual party scene. He hoped to build a career as a rock and roll star, and San Francisco appeared to be the place to start construction.

  Manson also spent time in Berkeley during the summer of love, 1967. Wanting to participate in the wonderful youth movement that was taking place, he eagerly joined in the communal atmosphere. The environment suited him so well. He told me that he already had an anti-establishment bent as the youth movement was just waking up to the ills of our society. The young people were environmentalists who hated the police and didn’t trust politicians anymore. This was so different from the conservative, straight-laced world he left in the 1950s when he was first sent to prison. It seemed that Charlie was a hippie long before the 1960s—the youth culture needed time to catch up to him.

  Charlie was welcomed with open arms when he arrived in the San Francisco Bay area, even though he was an ex-con, even though his education was lacking. No one asked very many questions in those days. Everyone in the hippy movement had his or her own story. Few would have guessed that Charlie had spent any time behind bars as he looked and acted no more unusual than the next hippy. Although he was a few years older than most of the hippies, no one seemed to care. The goal of the hippie movement was to be a non-conformist. While some young people labored very hard to capture this ideal, it came naturally to Charlie, his eccentricities, charm and confidence making him popular on the streets.

  Northern California proved to be an excellent hunting ground for women. The ones Charlie had prostituted prior to going into prison had departed, never to be seen again. Perhaps they had found other pimps. Perhaps they moved on with their lives. Either way, it did Charlie no good to regret or feel sentimental. He put his mind to the task of gathering new girls. In northern California of the late 1960s, there were many from which to choose. He didn’t intend to send women out to the street, initially. In the back of his mind, however, he knew that if push came to shove, that would be an easy way to raise some cash.

  Many wayward youth were arriving in California daily. Charlie watched them come in buses and cars. He told me that you could always recognize a new hippie by the disoriented and confused look in her eyes. Maybe they were from the east coast; maybe they were from some small town. Regardless, they were very unsure of themselves and faced with experiences for which life had not prepared them—and it showed. Their clothes were noticeably clean and new, although disheveled in an attempt to make the wearer look rebellious. Charlie laughed out loud when he recounted to me how naïve these girls were.

  He worked hard to meet as many people as he could, in those months. He was open to new experiences and new ideas. Mostly, he was open to finding others that would listen to his philosophy and join him in his criminal activities. He looked for girls that bought into the free love atmosphere of the 1960s, ones he could continue to shape and mold. It was a numbers game, he confided in me. Sure, he had difficulty finding a girl and grooming her to trust him in everything. However, the more women he talked to (and he talked to hundreds, if not thousands), the better chance he had of finding one receptive to his teachings and willing to follow him. As his harem grew, so started the Manson family.

  Charlie couldn’t remember who it was that coined the phrase, “the Manson family,” but it was one of his girls, he told me. The girl was talking to a newly-arrived hippy in a park. Manson overheard her invite another girl to join their group. “‘It’s like a family,’” Charlie quoted her. “‘We are the Manson family.’” Charlie liked the name so much that he began to use it. He called the group, “the family,” frequently, “the Manson family.” He found that a name added to the cohesiveness of the group and gave each of them some ownership. I suspect that he liked it also because it also informed everyone one that he was in charge, in case they were ever tempted to forget. Charlie started his commune with a couple of girls. Soon, others were added, and even a few guys.

  Once, Charlie told me that he had to face off against one of the young people that joined his group. A guy named Robert was bothering the girls, pressuring them for sex. None of the girls were interested, and this infuriated Robert. The man started making threats. He told the girls what he would do to them if they didn’t agree to sleep with him. He badgered them about how it was an era of free love. One of the girls, fearing that violence might erupt, went to find Charlie.

  Charlie told me that he had been very blunt with the man, “Leave the girls alone.” He added, “Go find yourself another girl somewhere else. These girls don’t want to be with you. Brother, its time for you to leave now!”

  Robert left never to be seen again. The girls saw first hand how Charlie would protect them, so they trusted him even more than they already had. They had seen Charlie demonstrate love, and not just talk about it.

  Charlie and his burgeoning “family” frequently squatted in unused homes in the early days. His voice cracked with excitement when he recounted to me how many vacant residences there were, and how easy it was to locate one and take it over. There was so much inside each of these places that the family could use or take with them: food, clothing, and even small pieces of furniture. The family tended to trash these houses, stripping them of many possessions before moving on. They tried to enjoy their homesteading while not staying long enough to raise the attention of autho
rities. The Tate and La Bianca residences were by no means the only homes that were invaded by the Manson family.

  Charlie believed that one particular home in which they lived was possessed by evil spirits. It had a painted black line, inside the house, running from the back of the house to its front door. The line appeared to serve no purpose, looking very ugly and visually disruptive, especially compared to the pristine condition of the rest of the home. Charlie told the inhabitants that the line moved power around. They all believed him. The property was owned by a woman who didn’t live there, but welcomed people from out of town, giving them a place to crash. There were many young people in and out of the house every day, including many who didn’t hang out with his family. One man moved in who spoke very little and had a hatchet tucked into his belt. No one talked with him, sensing that he was either mentally ill or on drugs. After a few days, he was gone like so many other hippies who came and went from the property.

  Around that time, while in San Francisco one day, Charlie had an experience that moved him deeply. He was hanging around the docks facing Alcatraz. He wandered through a parking lot, and noticed a small seagull flitting from one discarded candy wrapper to another. He approached a street vendor to purchase three hot dogs and a soda. Still observing the bird, he downed two of the dogs and the drink, and then tossed the last hot dog toward the small gull. Before long, there was a crowd of seagulls, each bird vying for the discarded bun and wiener. Charlie’s bird, because it was quick and was the recipient of Manson’s generosity, was able to gobble most of his prize and leave only scraps for the others. Charlie noted how the seagull was like him. It was small in a land of giants, yet through pluck and tenacity it was able to get what it needed. It dominated the other birds, despite being diminutive in stature. In the same way, Charlie ruled people in his world, even though he stood just 5 foot 3. In our discussions, it was clear to me that my friend looked for opportunities to compare himself favorably to wild life. In animals, he found friends and fellow strugglers in life. He also found symbols of his experiences.