I waltzed in, sat on the floor surrounded by seven condemned men, and promptly worked out a deal. The row would get a television set, a Ping-Pong table, three hot meals a day (accomplished by adding soup to their lunch sandwich), more diligent medical care, better access to law books (so the inmates could sue the state easier), legal visits among inmates to help one another with cases (translation: have sex), a stool for each cell (probably to carve into weapons), a public telephone on the row (to plan their escapes), and dry cleaning (in case they needed their tux pressed for a night out at the Ritz). The demands I denied were weight lifting equipment (too dangerous); community, out-of-cell exercise periods (with Richard Simmons maybe?); weekly movies (too costly); ice cream (nice try); cable TV (too complicated); and conjugal visits (not appropriate for condemned men).
We shook hands, and that was the end of the silly strike. Back in my office, as I was accepting congratulations, I heard that the creeps responsible for taking the school bus (and burying the damn thing underground with the children inside) had been caught and arrested, and the children had been rescued. It turned out they were not involved with either “Geronimo” or Manson. The whole thing was financially motivated.
Charlie missed out on the publicity wave surrounding that one, but he was hardly cast aside by the fickle press. Lynette’s assassination attempt had thrust him into the limelight again, and a new prison policy would enable him to take tremendous advantage of it. After decades of restricting the media from entering prison lockups and interviewing notorious criminals, the policy was abruptly changed. If an inmate consented and signed a waiver, he could be interviewed once every ninety days. Beautiful. If there was one prisoner in the whole world that the media wanted, it was my buddy Charlie. The avalanche of requests began the instant the policy change was announced. Reporters wrote from all over the United States, as well as Britain, Europe, and Asia. That gave me a whole new job description—Charles Manson’s press agent.
Charlie was thrilled by the attention and the power it gave him. He could sit like a king in his cell and give the thumbs-up, thumbs-down treatment to the most famous journalists and television broadcasters in the country. He was in heaven. He was also pretty shrewd. Instead of starting with some national media superstar like Mike Wallace of 60 Minutes or Dan Rather of CBS—both of whom made pitches—he selected a local TV anchor from small-market Sacramento. Manson viewed it as a test run, a chance to rehearse his latest show off Broadway. The anchor, Stan Atkinson, was thrilled at having hit the Manson lottery and rushed over with his crew in early January 1976. We selected an upstairs property room for the historic event, and had the TV folks set up their lights, cameras, and sound. Manson was housed two floors down, on the first-floor south side of the AC with the rest of the HVP (high violence potential) inmates. The rule was that HVP cons couldn’t be moved without restraints, and the cuffs stayed on until the inmate returned to his cell. After the officers cuffed Manson to prepare him for the journey upstairs, he refused to budge.
“I’m not going to any fuckin’ interview with handcuffs on,” he announced. I’d already cleared it so he could have the cuffs removed during the actual interview, so Manson’s hissy fit pissed me off. The transporting officers didn’t give a shit about Manson’s PR and stood firm, refusing to remove the hardware. Naturally, I got the job of trying to break the stalemate. Storming downstairs, I spotted Charlie standing like a frail street beggar between two gargantuan officers. The moment I looked into his beady eyes I could see he was playing his mind games. I felt like canceling the interview, but knew how excited Atkinson was and how crushed he’d be if Manson didn’t come through. I pulled the sergeant aside.
“Do you see any problem with moving him without the irons?”
“No problem,” the sergeant responded. It was a macho thing with them, so I figured the answer would be positive. I walked back to the cell and spoke loud enough for the surrounding inmates to hear. “You can move him upstairs without cuffs, but watch the little bastard. If he tries anything, knock him on his ass and lock him up.”
“Yes sir!” the gooners answered.
Charlie shot me his best shit-eating smile. To him, it was a great victory. He’d beaten the system!
The interview went off without a hitch. Charlie played the terrifying cult leader, and Atkinson recorded enough video to milk it into a three-part series. After the report aired, the requests began coming in by the bagful. Since Manson had selected a small-market station, every one-bulb television outfit and two-typewriter newspaper in the country tried to get in on the action.
A couple of weeks after the interview, Charlie was moved to the second floor, where he was reunited with his good pal Pin Cushion. I allowed Pin to help me with Manson’s mail, and he jumped at the opportunity to become Manson’s assistant media agent. Instead of filtering through the requests, Pin decided to take the bull by the horns. He began writing the big networks and magazines offering special arrangements. The problem was, Pin was selling the interviews! To my shock, he said he’d worked out a $100,000 deal with CBS for an eight-hour taped interview. After all Pin’s work, Manson turned it down, choosing instead to chat with a reporter from The National Enquirer for free. Pin went nuts, thinking Manson had lost his mind and betrayed him. I had to calm him by explaining that Manson was no fool. He knew that inmates can’t profit from their crimes by selling interviews, so the money was moot. He’d selected another non-traditional media outlet to further his master plan of working up to bigger scores. Pin ended up getting the last laugh, as the Enquirer interview hit a snag and was delayed.
Rebuffed by the $100,000 letdown, Pin Cushion traded his agent efforts for a new position as Manson’s tailor. Because the AC is a lockup, my inmates got the worst of everything. The clothing was especially bad, usually ill-fitting, full of holes, and missing buttons. On the mainline, the cons switched garments themselves by going to a window and hassling a clerk. If they were given junk, they could bitch until they got something better. In AC, the men had to take what was delivered. Knowing that my guys couldn’t complain, the clothing staff always sent us their rags.
With Manson being a TV star, Pin felt he deserved better. Using the trustee status I’d given him, and the free movement the designation afforded, Pin went on a raid. The fast-talking con was an expert in what is known as “bogarting.” That’s when an inmate affects a certain tough guy swagger, like Humphrey Bogart, to convince the guards that he has the authority to do whatever it is he’s trying to do. In this manner, Pin conned an officer into helping him unlock doors by claiming that there was a “clothing emergency” on the block. The inmates, Pin explained, were ready to riot, and I’d responded by ordering him to get everyone new threads. Not only was the officer convinced, he helped Pin do the job! The pair took a dolly and picked through the clothing stocks, bringing back decent uniforms for Manson and his neighbors. After that, Pin began running similar missions to get anything else Manson and the guys needed, cutting through the red tape and the “you guys are last on the list” roadblock we always encountered. Pin even helped me acquire critical office materials. For the most part, I let him get away with it because the prison’s policy was unfair, and “Roger’s Raids,” as they were called, boosted morale on the wing.
I had to temper his activities, however, after he promised to secure a typewriter and came back with five—including one from the chaplain’s office.
“You stole from the chaplain?” I exclaimed.
“Don’t worry, boss. It was the Protestant! You didn’t think I’d take one from Father O’Neal?” That didn’t excuse his behavior, but I couldn’t help laughing. “Besides,” he added, “the Protestant chaplain doesn’t keep material things.”
“You’re gonna get me arrested, Pin.”
“I’ll pick out a nice cell for you. You can room with Charlie!”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
A few days later, the wing was rocked by the news than an inmate was lying buck n
aked in the yard sunbathing. I figured it was a scam of some kind, but sure enough, there he was, resting on a towel, trying to seduce some young punk by displaying his impressive equipment to the world. In his hand was a Playboy magazine, which he was using to help in his advertising campaign. I looked closer. It was Pin!
“Damn it,” I wailed. “That crazy bastard’s going to get me canned!”
I started to open the window, then was struck by a thought. I raced to Manson’s cell, suspicious that the pair were up to something. Was Pin creating a diversion so his pal Manson could escape?
“What the fuck do you want?” Manson growled. I could tell by his calm demeanor that nothing was going on. This was obviously one of Pin’s solo flights. Back at the window, I leaned my head out. “Roger, what the hell are you doing?” Pin, whose nickname suddenly seemed all wrong, casually rolled his eyes from the magazine.
“Just getting a little sunshine, boss.”
“For goodness’ sake, Roger, get your clothes on or I’m locking your ass up!”
Pin rose slowly, acting insulted by my intolerance. “It’s no big deal, boss. I’m so white from all that cell time. I need a little tan.” Pin pulled on his undershorts, then followed with his prison blues. He left his shirt off. “This okay, boss?”
I was too furious to respond. I laughed about it later, but at the time, it was a critical breach of policy. With Pin covered, I made another pass by Manson’s cell, making doubly sure he wasn’t up to something.
“You again?” he snarled. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Never mind. I’m sure you’ll hear about it later.”
Without saying another word, Manson went to the back of his cell, picked up a metal mop holder, and handed it to me through the bars.
“This could be dangerous,” he said.
I was stunned. A mop holder could easily be altered into one of the most feared weapons found in a prison. The size and amount of metal made it something to kill for—and with. It had fallen into Charlie’s lap when an officer foolishly left it on the tier after an inmate mopped the floors. Since Manson never did anything out of benevolence, I viewed it as an act of self-preservation. Without ratting, he was signaling to me that security was sloppy on the block and needed to be cleaned up. Manson had reason to be concerned. If the mop handle had fallen into another inmate’s hands, it might have been used to kill or maim him. There was always the fear that somebody wanted to gain a reputation by taking out Charles Manson, and such slipups would give some young sociopath the perfect opportunity. Although Manson was loath to admit it, and often railed against it, he was a strong proponent of tight security.
A few days later, I was bent over my desk concentrating on some procedures for the new AC manual when a shadow crossed my path, giving me a start. I glanced and saw Pin’s imposing frame blocking the doorway. He had a strange, wanton look on his face.
“You sure have a nice ass, boss,” he cooed. “I’d sure like to bust your brownie.”
“What?” I demanded, angered by the lewd remark.
“I mean, I’d like to butt-fuck you,” he clarified, jerking his hips forward to emphasize the point. Oh shit, I thought, feeling a trace of fear. What were these two scheming now? Had Manson ordered Pin to force me into a compromising position so they could gain blackmail power? Was Pin, possibly with the help of others behind the door, going to try and rape me in the hope that I would be too ashamed to file charges and would thus be under their control? Pin knew that if something like that happened, many of my fellow officers would think that I’d willingly participated. A number of officers at San Quentin had destroyed their careers by having relations with inmates, so it was possible that I could end up being thrown into the Dumpster with them. This was a serious situation. I dropped my pen and glared at the burly Irishman.
“Over my dead body!”
My response broke the tension. A smile cut across both of our faces, then laughter, side-splitting laughter. Neither of us could stop for nearly five minutes. We couldn’t talk. Tears filled our eyes as we howled. Each time we tried to regain control, we’d look at each other and burst out laughing. When we were finally spent, we confirmed what had been so funny. Pin was imprisoned because of sexual crimes. He’d killed for sex. Even in prison, sex was his main motivation. He came to me once with a plan to randomly murder someone so he could be sent to death row and reunite with a lover. He was dead serious about it, dropping the idea only after I explained that his lover would be long gone before Pin made it through the system.
My ad-libbed “Over my dead body” remark was the wrong threat to make with this character. Pin was laughing for the same reason. “The moment you said that, I thought, ‘I’ve killed guys for a lot less.’ And I knew you knew it,” he said. What started out as a scary moment ended with us bonding emotionally in a way two men rarely experience. Yet after it was over, driving home that evening, I couldn’t help feeling uneasy about what might have prompted it. Would Pin have tried to rape me? I didn’t think so. We’d gone through a lot together and I trusted the guy. He wouldn’t have forced the issue—unless he was under the influence of somebody else. Would Pin have go through with it had I consented? Absolutely. Pin’s motto was, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” As long as it was Pin just being Pin, everything was cool. But if Charlie had something to do with it, then everything was decidedly uncool. As I pulled into my driveway, I realized that I’d probably never know the truth.
Later that spring, something happened that put my problems with Manson and Pin Cushion in glaring perspective. The brutally murdered body of a thirty-eight-year-old officer was found sprawled on the floor of the laundry warehouse in the lower yard. His head was crushed and brain tissue was oozing from his fractured skull. It took a blow of tremendous force to do that kind of damage. A bloody gunnysack containing a heavy weight was found near the corpse. There were no signs of struggle, indicating that the officer had been jumped. A general recall was immediately sounded, summoning the inmates to return to their cells. The guards examined everyone as they filtered back. The prison was locked down, and the gooner squad sealed off the crime scene, searching for clues. The assignment officer gave the gooners a list of the inmates who worked in the laundry. They were located and grilled in their cells. One, a man named Rios, had blood on his clothing. He was panting, perspiring, and extremely jittery, looking from one face to another expecting something to happen. His answers were nervous and evasive. It was pretty obvious that he was the one.
Rios was jerked around, pushed, and yanked from his cell. The gooners dragged him across the yard and brought him to the AC. Inside, they blew past the door officer and bypassed the holding cage, where the suspect should have been deposited. Instead, they pushed him into the sergeant’s office, cornered him, and began to beat him mercilessly. The whole gooner crew took part, each venting his fury on the con’s body. They were so frenzied that they battered him against the wire-fused windows, cracking two and completely caving in a third. When Rios fell to the floor, they proceeded to kick him around like an old soccer ball. After Rios confessed, he was dragged limp into the holding cage.
The Marin County DA went ballistic over the prison-style justice. He jumped on the warden, demanding to know who had inflicted the beating and why. He warned that the whole case against Rios had been jeopardized because the confession was obviously coerced. Warden Rees angrily sought answers. None were forthcoming. The code of silence among the officers was an impenetrable stone wall. The gooners didn’t care about the law, or even losing the confession. Rios was in long-term anyway, so another mark on his record was meaningless. They’d meted our their own instant sentence as a message to him, and to everyone else.
Justified as this might sound in an eye-for-an-eye environment, the problem was, it wouldn’t end there. As I’ve explained before, all this does is start an endless cycle of murder and mayhem. The officer had been killed because a prisoner somewhere had been roughed up. The gooners in turn had b
attered the culprit. Now Rios’s brothers had a new score to settle, so another officer would go down. Around and around it went. To break the cycle, I received permission to crack down hard on the men. I hammered the door officer—one of my crew—until he broke down and fingered the specific gooners. That only made things worse. The gooners found out and threatened the door officer for snitching. That enraged me. I called in the bully who delivered the threat and jumped on his ass. Didn’t matter. Despite my efforts, nothing changed. All I’d done was place one of my men in jeopardy with his fellow officers. No matter how hard you try, sometimes things can’t be changed.
The government put on a good show for the slain guard’s funeral. The church, St. Dominic’s in San Francisco, was packed with law-enforcement officers from every city and county in the Bay Area. The eulogy seemed to fit not only the victim, but what I had tried to accomplish in the aftermath. “Christlike he died.… Like Christ, he would have said, ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.…’ He was a loving father, humble, peaceful, caring. So, his life with God begins for him, as his life ends with us here.”
The military-style ceremony at the cemetery had all the bells and whistles, including a twenty-one-gun salute, taps, and the presentation of the folded coffin flag to his devastated widow as her four stunned children clung to her side.
Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars Page 13