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

by Mark Hewitt

  If Charlie were to be retried on the charges that got him sent to prison, I have no doubt that he would be acquitted and set free. I am not a member of the California State Bar Association, but the information that Charlie related to me proves to me that he would walk out of court a free man. Not only liberated, he would likely receive a large settlement check from the state of California.

  Tex Watson, one of Manson’s most trusted “family” members had testified against Charlie in return for a reduced sentence. Tex told the court that Charlie had been the mastermind behind all the killings, the one in control of the events. However, that’s not good evidence against Charlie. Tex couldn’t be believed because he had a vested interest in making up a story. To escape greater punishment, Tex would have told the court anything that the prosecutors asked him to say, anything at all.

  Charlie told me that he hadn’t been allowed to call any witnesses in his own defense. Time and time again, he asked the judge for permission to represent himself in court. Each time he was denied. His defense lawyer didn’t represent him well: he didn’t allow Charlie to testify to his side of the story, and didn’t call a single witness in Charlie’s defense. All this would come out in a retrial or in an unbiased appeal.

  Charlie has tried to prove his innocence, but without success. One lawyer, many years ago, offered to help him overturn his conviction. Instead of aiding Charlie, the unscrupulous man gathered all the information that Charlie could supply him with, and wrote a book. He had no intention of helping get Charlie free. His work of defaming Charlie probably made it more difficult for Charlie to get a fair trial and get out of prison.

  My friend said to me with sadness in his voice, “Boxcar, it’s better to just stay in here than to put all my hope into a lawyer who may not give his all to get me out.”

  I asked whether the bar association could disbar the deceitful lawyer for his lack of ethics and the disservice he provided. Charlie responded that the lawyer in question had taken his millions of dollars from the book and fled the country. “He could’ve helped me,” he moaned. “Instead, he took the money and ran.”

  Charlie hated the way the media portrayed him. “All they show is footage of me being walked to court,” he complained, “then they show the girls crawling along the sidewalk. That’s not who I am. Those girls did what they did to demonstrate against injustice. ALL INJUSTICE. That wasn’t just about me!”

  Every anniversary of the death of Sharon Tate, Manson gets featured in a television show about the murder spree that killed seven people. Charlie hates these shows because he thinks they give a distorted picture of him. When thoroughly frustrated with the world and his mistreatment, Charlie turned to his music and his art for solace. In the most difficult of times, art and music were his only solace.

  CHAPTER 12

  Charlie’s Art and Music

  “Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.”

  Victor Hugo

  As I got to know Charlie, I came to see him as one of the most talented people I had ever known—in prison or beyond the walls. He demonstrated skill in music, in creativity, in art, and in lyrics. I began to wonder if there was an area in which he was not gifted. He was no prodigy, to be sure. I never saw him do a parlor trick with his talents, but he was able to master so much of life behind bars. While many inmates wondered what to do to fill their time, Charlie always seemed to be busy as he pursued his many interests.

  Music was by far his greatest love. Charlie once told me that he could take anyone and very quickly teach him how to sing. “He would be the perfect singer in 15 minutes,” he boasted. I assumed he was referring to voice coaching and hypnosis. Since it never appealed to me, I never took him up on the offer. I was curious, and now regret not asking more questions. At the time, I was doubtful of his claims. Perhaps he could teach a child to carry a tune, I concluded, but not much else. I’m not so sure anymore.

  As we talked about music, Charlie shared with me some of the songs that he enjoyed. Because his music was before my time, he had to tell me about Frank Sinatra, fats Domino, and so many other musicians. The oldest band of which I had any familiarity was the Beatles, who broke up when I was a toddler. I asked whether the murders he was charged with were inspired by that British group’s music.

  He denied it. “The prosecutor invented the story that I killed in response to so-called messages in the Beatles songs,” Manson assured me. “The girls had written phrases from Beatles songs on the walls in blood because those were the words that they liked best. They thought that they were common words so that they could never be traced back to them.” Stupidly, they had also written similar words on the walls of Spahn Ranch, though not in blood. Charlie told me that he liked most of the songs written and performed by the Fab Four. “That had nothing to do with who I am and what I’m about,” he informed me. “I did play music and sing at Spahn Ranch, but my music was about love and about caring.”

  Charlie shared his artwork with me as he came to trust me. I was astounded by the things he was able to do. He demonstrated a talent and resourcefulness I was not aware even existed. To do what he was able to do would have been difficult for any artist on the outside with all the materials within reach. Charlie expressed his creativity not only in his art, but also in his ability to take the limited amount of prison supplies and use them as though he had a full art studio.

  He showed me some beads that he had fashioned entirely out of bathroom tissue. He taught me how to make them, as well. “All you need to do,” he explained, “is get a sheet of toilet paper, fold it lengthwise, and wrap it around the insert of a pen. As it is being set in place, the paper needs to be wetted. When it is fully wrapped about the pen insert, you take string and wind it tightly about the paper, using a crisscross pattern. As the string is pulled tight, the water will get squeezed out of the toilet paper. By loosening and rewrapping the string around the paper, the donut shaped mass gets harder and harder.” I found that with a little patience and practice, I could make a bead that dried to a density of rock or hard plastic.

  Charlie explained out that once the water is squeezed out of the paper “donut,” the paper has to be carefully slid off the pen insert so that the drying process can be completed. When several hours, preferably days, have elapsed, the bead, I learned, can be painted with a mixture of Kool-Aid powder and water, ink from the pen insert, or whatever other coloring is available. It is best to do the painting in stages so that the paper does not get soggy and come apart. Larger beads can be created with two or even three sheets of bathroom tissue used at a time. The beads that he created, and showed me, were unbelievably hard, harder than any wooden bead I had ever felt. If someone didn’t know, he or she would never have guessed that the beads were created out of toilet paper and not a hardwood plank.

  The development of a painting utensil requires no less creativity. A tiny paint brush can be constructed out of strands of hair forced into another pen insert. Charlie described the process as I listened intently. I now know that if you stuff the pen insert with a wad of moist paper, once a few strands of hair have been threaded into the insert, you can create a rather durable brush. The shorter the hair that protrudes from the brush, the more detailed the artwork that can be managed.

  Once several beads were produced, they could be displayed together on a string or rope. Charlie showed me how to make the rope too, which can be fashioned out of the elastic band of boxer shorts. If you carefully peel layers of the band from around the tops of typical shorts, you can soon amass great lengths of stretchy material, even from a single pair of underwear. These rubber filaments can be braided together or wrapped around a pen insert in several directions. By repeating the braiding into larger and larger thicknesses, or providing more and more layers on the pen insert, you can make the rope as thick as you like. Inmates have committed suicide by hanging themselves with this type of woven strand. Consequently, prisons don’t allow inmates who are on suicide watch to
be left alone in their cells, unobserved, lest they manufacture this or some other type of homemade device.

  Beads and rope can be assembled into bracelets, anklets, or necklaces. Anyone can produce the jewelry in the exact same manner as was done by Charles Manson, but few have the patience to make them as intricately and accurately as he did. I suspect that many of his tricks were taught to him by other inmates, just as he graciously shared the things that he knew with me and anyone else who cared to learn. Charlie provided me with many samples of his work and lots of advice in how to perfect my artistic creations. He warned me, though, to keep the pieces well hidden. Some of them are contraband and could lead authorities directly back to him.

  Charlie informed me that there is a room in the prison full of contraband items taken from inmates. He boasted that there was a separate room containing only the stuff that had been taken from him: oil paintings, jewelry, drawings, as well as items sent to him from well-meaning fans, such as shoes, pants, shirts, hats, harps, and water colors. I believed him because I saw many items removed from his cell during repeated shakedowns. It became a sort of cat and mouse game between Charlie and his guards: Charlie attempting to conceal items and the guards determined to find them. Generally, these confiscations were done respectfully, each side acknowledging the others’ ability and need to compete.

  On one particular shakedown, I did lose some of the things Charlie had entrusted to me. I was so angry. He had shown faith in me, and I had repaid it by allowing the guards to find and take Charlie’s things. I lost about six beads and two larger pieces of art, a painting of a scorpion and a drawing of a mutilated woman. I would be more careful in the future with the things given to me by my friend, I resolved. I apologized profusely to Charlie. He assured me that it was no big deal.

  Charlie had told me about his “Satan’s Babies,” his hand-crafted spiders, but for many months, I never saw one. One day, he ordered me to shoot him my fishing line over because he wanted to show me something. I gathered my line and caste my car in the direction of his cell. In one smooth motion, the car swung around the cinder block wall that separated our cells, and landed with a thump within his reach.

  Charlie drew in some of the slack that remained. After tying something to my line, he jerked it tight. “OK pull, Soul. Pull it slowly,” he demanded.

  When my car was fully back in my cell, I found one of Charlie’s works of art tied to it. It was a large spider, a Satan’s Baby, about the size of my hand. It was an amazing representation of a real arachnid with the detail of authentic legs and tiny body hairs. It was entirely white, however, as though it had been born albino. I found it hard to believe that it could have been created behind bars.

  “Wow, Charlie! It looks so real,” I told him. “It looks like a real spider.” I was not trying to impress him or gain favor with my words. I was truly amazed at what I was holding.

  “Soul, it took me 30 years to perfect how to make them,” Charlie bragged. He pointed out some of the detail that had eluded me, as though it were a real child, his baby.

  “Hey, Charlie, are you going to color it,” I inquired.

  “Boxcar, paint it for me, will you?” His words were halfway between a request and a command. I knew that just holding his artwork was a real honor for me, one that he would grant to precious few people. How much did he trust me and care for me to allow me to paint his creation, I wondered.

  “Sure, I could color it with ink from a black ball point pen,” I offered.

  “That’s cool with me,” assured Charlie. I grinned with pride that he was open to my suggestion. I inspected the spider again to assure myself that this was not merely a piece made in error, one that he was casting off in my direction rather than throwing it in the trash. I was pleased to see that the spider was perfect in every detail. This was no error; this was the work of a master.

  I set about painting it immediately, completing the task in about forty five minutes. Because the spider needed about two hours to dry, I carefully placed it in a used potato chip bag that had been wiped and rinsed to the sterility of a surgeon’s scalpel.

  “Hey Soul, I’m finished with it,” I informed Charlie later that day, “but it needs to dry. Soul, put it somewhere out of the way to dry, okay?”

  “Boxcar, you are done coloring it already?” Charlie was surprised. Apparently, he didn’t realize how important this task was to me. I had done it quickly, but as carefully as if it were to be displayed in the Louvre.

  “Yeah, Charlie,” I responded. “I did it just like you wanted. Now it looks like a real, live spider.”

  “That’s good, Boxcar. That was really fast.” Charlie’s appreciation was clear. He slowly pulled his fishing line toward his cell, tenderly receiving the chip bag once it was within his grasp.

  “Do you have enough string left to make me a scorpion?” I asked. I recalled Charlie offering to make me one several weeks prior. Charlie laughed.

  “I got enough to make you a scorpion,” Charlie answered. “Soul, it’s just a little time from my sentence. The only thing that gets in the way is getting an extra pairs of boxers.”

  “I know what you mean, Charlie,” I empathized, “but it’s a lot of work too, and I appreciate it.” I hoped that my gratitude appeared as sincere as I experienced it. I was certain that my friend had heard all kinds of false statements of appreciation from his fawning fans who wanted something from him. I wasn’t looking to receive from him; I was honored to receive what I had gotten already, which was much more than I deserved.

  “Yes, but I’ve been doing this for so many years now that it’s easy for me to do.” Charlie countered, “I’ve gotten better and better at it. Nobody can make these babies as good or as fast as me.

  “I’ve got a doll in Japan at the House of the Dead,” he continued. “The only way you can get a doll displayed in that museum is to be dead. Well, I’m a dead man walking three times so they put my doll in there. It’s a two-foot high doll. The ties on it are really small, too.”

  “I bet its worth a lot of money,” I offered. Charlie went silent as he set about his next task. I hoped that he was working on the scorpion for me.

  Charlie also created melodious harps. He once offered to show me one and even make one for me one. “You can tune it and play it like a real harp,” he had explained.

  The next day, Charlie called over to me: “Boxcar, shoot me your line. I’ve got something for you. Shoot me a chip bag, too.”

  I rushed to get a chip bag and line ready to extend to Charlie. I was eager to talk with him, but my curiosity consumed me. What was my friend going to show me this time? When he had my line in his possession, he told me to pull back slowly. I found one of Charlie’s scorpions in the bag when it finally arrived back in my cell. I was in awe. It was more intricate and delicate than the spider I had just painted for him. I couldn’t image how he created it in less than twenty-four hours. Perhaps he had started, or even completed it, weeks ago, I considered.

  “Charlie, I’m going to color it black,” I promised. I was feeling very emotional at this gift. No one had given me anything like this before.

  “Boxcar, a black scorpion is the most deadly scorpion in the whole wide world,” he told me. “It’s called the Emperor Scorpion.”

  “Is that right?” I didn’t doubt his knowledge of animals, particularly deadly ones.

  “Yes, one sting from an Emperor Scorpion and you’re dead real fast,” he warned.

  I thanked Charlie, but he didn’t like me showing appreciation. “Boxcar, don’t tell me, ‘thank you.’” His words became strangely serious. “Hobos don’t have to say ‘thank you' because they get what they got coming, so there’s no need to say it to me, Soul. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I understand, Charlie.” I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I did understand that I was not to thank him for his generosity. Whether he blurted this out in a need for control or out of embarrassment, I don’t know. I made a mental note not to say “thank you” t
o him ever again. I would have to find alternate ways to express my appreciation for him, I realized.

  About two weeks later, soon after I had colored the scorpion to a menacing purple-black shade, I began to hear a strange sound emanating from Charlie’s cell.

  “Boing, boing, boing.” It sounded like the twanging of a door stop or the reverberations of a flexible strip of metal slapped against on the top of a table.

  “Boxcar, can you hear this?” Charlie asked me. There was no question that everyone on the tier could hear it.

  “Yeah, I can hear it.” I replied. How was it possible to not hear it, unless you were approaching complete deafness, I wondered. It appeared as though Charlie was trying to get my attention, rather than the usual other way around. “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s a string on a harp I’ve made, “Charlie gloated. “I’m tuning it right now.” The delight in his voice was contagious. “When you come out for shower, take a look in my cell. That way I can keep it out of sight of the guards.”

  We had showers at 2:15 that afternoon. I was third on our tier to make the trek to the shower room. I peeked into Charlie’s window as I walked past his cell. I tried to do it smoothly so as not to draw unnecessary attention to myself or to Charlie’s harp. Several inmates had been written up for disrupting the tier while heading to the shower. I didn’t intend to join that group. I caste a glance into his cell and saw his harp. He was holding it up toward the window as if he were offering it for auction. He was proud of it, and I was honored to see it.

  It was truly an amazing piece of art—and it played too! I wondered how many hours had been used to fashion it and what Charlie had used to create it.

  “Hey, Charlie,” I said after I had returned to my cell. “That’s a trip. You actually made a harp that plays. I can’t believe it.”

  “I told you, Soul,” Charlie said, “I’ve been doing this for years and years. Did you see the beads on it to separate the strings?”