One day, a beautifully crocheted vest arrived through the mail. It was decorated with the most brilliant display of intricate, multicolored scenes I’d ever seen. It was cut like one of those leather biker vests, only the embroidery was truly a masterpiece. Studying it closer, I was amazed to see that it was an artful history of the Manson Family. There were scenes of sex and murder, and images of snakes, spiders, wounded bodies, swastikas, and black-magic symbols harmoniously balanced with clusters of flowers, birds, butterflies, dancing children, musical notes, and natural panoramas. The garment, custom-made by Squeaky and friends, reflected long hours of meticulous, painstaking work. Elaborate and delicately woven, it clashed severely with the ugly, drab monotony of the prison.
Vests were not approved items. Because it was such a work of art, I made an exception, slipping it to Charlie under the loophole that allowed handmade cardigan sweaters. Charlie played it cool when I presented it to him. That was smart. Veteran cons like Charlie know better than to become attached to anything in prison, especially something unusual or special. I could tell, however, that he cherished it.
Two days later, a sergeant strolled into my office with some startling news.
“You know that vest you gave the little motherfucker?”
“Yeah?”
“Everyone’s got it now.”
“What?”
“Just what I said. It’s all over the tier.”
I bolted from my office and immediately began to investigate. I couldn’t believe Charlie, even a homicidal creep like Charlie, could do such a thing. Turned out that it was another example of Manson’s keen survival instincts. A few of the bigger, meaner inmates became jealous and tried to take it from him. Charlie, as weak and helpless physically as he was strong mentally, saw where that was heading. A violent confrontation was inevitable. To save face, he decided, King Solomon style, to cut up the vest and bestow it upon everybody. It was a brilliant move. He not only ingratiated himself with inmates longing for a keepsake from the famous cult leader, he frustrated the thugs who wanted it.
Despite the logic of the action, I was still upset that he had destroyed so precious a gift just to save his butt. When I told Lynette, she let out an emotional wail. “Why did he do it?” she asked in a horrified tone. “Doesn’t he understand what that meant to us? How much love we put into that? That was our souls, the souls of the people devoted to him.” It was the first and only time in my decades-long association with her that Squeaky questioned the actions of her master.
“I have no idea, Lynn,” I ducked, praying that the incident would be the catalyst to help her break away. “You’ll have to ask Charlie that.” There was a long pause, followed by some rare sobbing. Then the phone went dead. That was really unusual. Squeaky was never one to cut short a conversation with someone close to her prince.
Charlie saved his butt all right, but he nearly lost his most faithful follower in the process. Nearly. When I told Charlie how devastated Lynette was, he immediately put pen to paper. His explanation was short, and rather well stated. “It will always live in my mind, where no one can destroy it or take it away from me.” That was it. He said nothing more. I sensed that because the gift was so special, he indulged her brief defiance, but only to a point.
The next time she called, she was her old Squeaky self, as devoted to her sinister master as ever. She never mentioned the vest again. Yet, as the weeks passed, I sensed something different about Squeaky, an unraveling of her already loosely knit psyche. There was a tension and desperation building inside her that was unnerving. Her desire to visit Charlie grew into an obsession that consumed what little remained of her outside life. It seemed as if she had a burning question she needed answered, and approval for something big she was planning. That, or she desperately needed to confirm or challenge some order she had already received. Whatever the reason, Squeaky was coming unglued.
Her threats increased so much that a public advocates attorney in San Francisco, whom Squeaky and Sandra had been consulting in their efforts to obtain visiting privileges with Manson at San Quentin, went to the police. They had began writing to and appearing at the attorney’s home.
When he felt their implied threats were becoming dangerous to his welfare, he reported their strange behavior. According to deputy chief William Keayes, the two women were interviewed at the Hall of Justice by police investigators and admonished that legal action could be taken against them.
On Tuesday, September 2, Associate Warden Rinker held a routine staff meeting. The chats were highlighted by each program administrator giving a progress report on his unit’s operation. When it was my turn, I suppressed my concerns about Squeaky and addressed the issue of how Manson was handling his newfound freedom. Although everybody in the prison was talking about it, the transfer was news to Rinker—bad news. The wrinkles on his forehead deepened and his eyebrows darted upward in shock.
“Are you sure he won’t get killed over there?”
“I checked it out before I made the move,” I countered. “There’s no reason to worry. He’s working as the first-tier tender, so he’s screened off except for some outside exercise. And we only exercise him with those who aren’t a threat. It’s working great.”
Rinker glared at me. “How do you know there’s no threat?”
“I had my staff question and investigate all the inmates housed in B section. He’s safe. Even Pin Cushion says he’ll be safe.”
“Pin Cushion? That’s a joke,” Rinker sneered, attempting to solicit a laugh. “Do the rest of you think Manson is safe in B section?”
Rinker’s yes-man, a lower-ranking associate warden, shook his head, supporting his superior. Rinker then turned to his buddy, the head of the prison security squad. Before the man could second his boss’s opinion, I cut in.
“Wait a minute. He’s there already. He’s been there over a week. This isn’t speculation. It’s past history. He’s hasn’t had a single problem. Besides, he’s no dummy. He knows how to survive.”
“Does Manson have enemies in B section?” Rinker asked the security chief.
The officer cleared his voice and glanced around the room for support before answering. “Yes, I think he has enemies there.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” I argued. “I checked with Smokey Thompson, your squad sergeant, long before I moved Manson. He cleared it.” I turned back to Rinker. “Our unit classification committee agreed and endorsed the move. Dr. Sutton wrote a report stating that it would benefit—”
“I think you better move him back to the AC,” Rinker interrupted.
“What—?” I began before cutting off my protest. I knew it was no use. Once Rinker started in a direction, he couldn’t be budged. I decided to let it rest, then appeal the decision to Warden Rees.
The following day, Wednesday, September 3, 1975, Squeaky phoned me with an urgent message for Charlie. She was happy and upbeat, as if she had finally come to grips with the issue that had been tormenting her. “Tell Charlie I’ve found a way to save the redwoods!”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
After that, however, her mood quickly darkened. She began rambling in a menacing tone. “Look, George, you’ve kept us apart long enough. We’ve tried to reason with you, but you’re too stupid to see that you’re killing yourself. Time is running out. There will be blood running in the streets. The people killing the planet will pay with their lives!” Squeaky’s voice grew harsh and shrill. She spoke of murder and mass mayhem, and evoked scores of bloody images. Her tenses shifted oddly as she ranted. “The dagger was raised. Death was at hand. Nothing could stop it, only Charlie, who was in prison for something he didn’t do. We are responsible for him being there and we must pay the price!” She began to cry, softly at first, then building to the point of hysteria. The tears fed a new round of razor’s-edge doom and gloom.
Then, for a brief moment, she hushed. “I’ve sent you a book,” she said. “It’s about Charlie. The Day They Murdered Christ. I want yo
u to read it.”
“I can’t accept a book from you,” I explained. “It’s against the rules.”
That infuriated her, unleashing more verbal abuse. She raved about the children rising up against their parents, killing them and taking vengeance on those destroying the earth, water, and air. “Blood will wash down on the streets. People will die!” I couldn’t stand it anymore. She had pushed my tolerance to the limit. I hung up.
The next day, before ending my shift, I paid Charlie a visit in his cell. His eyes sparkled with the prospect of outside news.
“I just talked to Lynette.” At the mention of her name, Charlie cracked his sinister, dirty-old-man grin, as if some depraved erotic flashback from the past had flooded his demented little brain. Charlie liked to make love to his women “in the dirt,” as he said, especially white, creamy, upper-middle-class girls like Squeaky. It was part initiation, part debasement to subjugate them to his will, and a large part pure perversion. “She asked me to tell you she found a way to save the redwoods.” Charlie jumped from his bunk and started rubbing his hands together like a witch over a cauldron. I sensed that I’d just delivered some secret message that only Charlie and Squeaky understood. Never one to back away from a pending disaster, I pushed on. “She acted real crazy on the phone. She threatened me and everybody else, talking just like you about blood flowing in the streets, children rising up. She sounds more like you every day.” My words jabbed him like a sharp stick. His face contorted with rage.
“Don’t you know who I am, man?” he roared. “You should be on your knees, begging for your life. I hold it in the palm of my hand. I could have you killed anytime!” He rambled on for another three minutes before I cut him off. I found this dark, ugly side to be his least entertaining facet, and could only stand so much.
“Stop the bullshit!” I interrupted. “I don’t have time for this.”
As I walked away, I was more convinced than ever that something was up. Charlie had never threatened me like that before. For some reason, he wanted me to know that he had resources on the outside, that he still had power over life and death. Ominous as it sounded, I didn’t take the threat seriously. Sure, Charlie continued to have tremendous control over his robotic minions, and they’d kill for him in a heartbeat. I knew that because I read his mail. I just didn’t think Charlie would turn on me. I was the guy protecting his back and taking care of him in a hostile environment. I was also a gullible ex–seminary student who showed him more compassion, however undeserved, than anyone else had, or probably ever would. Now I was suspicious that Squeaky and Charlie had some plan afoot.
Twenty-four hours later, Squeaky shocked the world. At the Capitol Mall in Sacramento, Manson number-one follower Squeaky “make love to her in the dirt” Fromme, cast off her goofy robe, dressed herself in a slightly less goofy full-length fire red gown with a matching turban (so much for subtlety), and went to see the President of the United States. Her winning smile and cute freckled face excused her rudeness as she pushed forward through the throng, inching ever closer to the most powerful man in the world. She worked her way past spectators and grim-faced Secret Service agents until she was a mere arm’s length from Gerald Ford. This was it, Squeaky’s chance to join her master in heinous, historical glory. Through her shocking action, she would propel Charlie back into the limelight and establish his evil power like never before. Carving up a bunch of Hollywood types was one thing. Taking out the President of the United States was something entirely different.
As Ford leaned forward to shake her hand, Squeaky pulled out a massive .45 caliber automatic and shouted, “The country is a mess! This man is not your president!” She lunged toward Ford, aimed at his gut like Jack Ruby plugging Lee Harvey Oswald, and squeezed the trigger at point-blank range. Click. The weapon didn’t fire.
One can imagine Squeaky’s agony as a half dozen Secret Service agents swarmed her small body and knocked her to the ground. “It didn’t go off,” she wailed as the agents dragged her away. “Can you believe it? It didn’t go off.” Although she’d loaded the clip with four deadly rounds and popped it securely into place, she’d forgotten to slide the critical starter bullet directly into the chamber. Without the fifth slug, the only way the big gun could have fired was by snapping back the entire upper chamber and spring-loading it the hard way, a process that’s difficult for many men, much less a one-hundred-pound woman. Familiar with weapons from her heavily armed, desert-rat days, Squeaky’s baffling oversight can only be explained by fate. Ford’s number just wasn’t up.
One of the agents, Larry Buendorf, came away from the fracas with a cut on the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger, indicating that the determined Squeaky had pulled the trigger at least one more time during the struggle, slamming the hammer down on the alert Buendorf’s hand.
If any doubt remained as to Squeaky’s true intentions, best pal Sandra Good immediately appeared to dispell them. Squeaky, Good proclaimed, was only the beginning. “We’re going to start assassinating presidents, vice presidents, and major executives of companies. I’m warning these people they better stop polluting or they’re going to die.”
Ultimate failure aside, Squeaky did take her place in history as the first woman ever to try to assassinate an American president.
Personally, Squeaky’s attempt came at the worst possible time for me. Despite Associate Warden Rinker’s unbending order, I’d yet to move Charlie back to his old, suffocating, high-security home. My plan was to run it by Warden Rees first. Now all hell had broken loose. Rinker led a team of FBI and Secret Service agents to the Adjustment Center to interrogate Charlie. The hotheaded Rinker flew into a rage when he discovered Manson wasn’t there. He gathered a squad of security goons, charged over to B section, and banged on the locked door. “I’m taking Manson out of here, and don’t anybody try to stop me!” he bellowed, intoxicated by his authority. The prison SWAT team, known as “gooners,” marched through the halls, stormed Manson’s cell, swung the door open, and ordered him out.
“What for?” Charlie asked, unaware of what had happened in Sacramento. A pair of officers rushed into the cell, grabbed Manson, and threw him violently against the screen just outside his unit, pinning him against it.
“When I say move, asshole, you better move!” a gooner shouted. Charlie was searched, cuffed, and dragged out of B section. Swept down the corridors in a mad rush, his route took him past Rinker, a man he was, surprisingly, meeting for the first time.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“I’m Ted Rinker!” the starched officer announced with all the piss and vinegar he could muster. “Associate Warden!”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Charlie responded. “Another fuckin’ asshole!”
In the interrogation room, Charlie defiantly faced the army of accusers and denied everything, insisting that Squeaky had acted on her own and that he had had no prior knowledge of her plans.
The following morning, I received a call at my home from Warden Rees. The warden had handpicked me for the job of helping him clean up San Quentin. Until that moment, I’d always considered him to be an ally. “Ed,” Rees opened in a stone serious voice. “Ted Rinker wants you fired.”
“What? What for?”
“He said you disobeyed a direct order to move Manson.”
“Well yeah, he did tell me to move him, but he didn’t say when.”
“Rinker said he told you Tuesday at his staff meeting, and expected it to be done the next day.”
“The next day? I don’t remember that,” I dodged. “It was more like, ‘I think you better move him.’ That’s how I read it. We disagreed about it, but he cut me off. I tried to explain what I was doing, but he wouldn’t listen. So I waited to get a psych report from Dr. Sutton before discussing it with him again. If he didn’t buy it after that, I was going to appeal to you.” Rees said nothing, letting me twist in the wind. “Let’s see,” I continued. “He told me at the Tuesday staff meeting. I was busy Wednesday.
I asked Dr. Sutton for a report on Thursday, then I took off Friday. So that makes two lousy workdays that I delayed. For that, he wants to fire me?”
“Well, damn it, it’s bad,” Rees said, finally speaking up. “Real bad. He wants you fired, and he has witnesses. It’s a bad situation.”
“He has witnesses? Who? That suck-ass associate warden and Rinker’s pet security chief? Look, Bob, whatever I did, I didn’t do it thinking I was disobeying a direct order. Rinker’s directive didn’t come across with urgency, like a command. It was more like a request, something I should do soon but not immediately. He’s only making a big deal because that goof-ball Squeaky tried to shoot President Ford! Sure, that looks bad, but you can’t hang that on me! I don’t know why Rinker hates my guts. The day I got here, he told me I didn’t have the balls for the job. He wanted one of his gooner buddies to get it. Ever since then, he jumps on my ass every chance he gets. He treats me like shit, and he’s just using this Squeaky thing to try and get me. Frankly, I’m damn tired of him!”
By then, I was so angry I was shaking.
“Look, Ed,” Rees said, trying to calm me down. “We can’t solve this over the phone. We’ll work it out next week.”
Great, I thought, hanging up the receiver. String out the misery.
Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars Page 4