Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars

by Edward George

  Three months later, Dr. Edwin Lehman offered similar insights:

  “Charles Manson is an individual who (as he often points out) literally grew up in institutions, and in some measure is a product of his environment. He is endowed with above average intellectual capability, which, in most cases, has only been tested on the criterion of survival for his is a usually hostile and predatory environment. In our relationship, he was an intellectual and talkative individual, who has a good sense of humor and who was friendly and likable. After spending some time with him on several different occasions, his philosophizing conversations begin to repeat themselves. When heard in that way, his ideas resemble the grandiosity of adolescent revolutionaries who ache to fight for the rights of oppressed peoples on the other side of the world while they use people close to them and never think about it. He is a persuasive talker and in almost all ways has been a ‘good’ prisoner while he has been with us. I feel that we should listen to and try to honor his sensible requests while not forgetting that basically Charlie is a psychotic person with a very tenuously balanced emotional state. The goal of a mainline placement may still be distant but I feel we should continue to try him in slightly less protective environments in order to upgrade his movement and placement.”

  I was encouraged by Dr. Lehman’s suggestion that Charlie might one day be ready for another stab at the mainline. I’d been toying with that idea for years. Although my first attempt at San Quentin nearly destroyed my career, it wasn’t Charlie’s fault. Trying him on the CMF mainline was an intriguing concept, one that I had mixed feeling about, but planned to consider. That was mostly because when I cut through the games and bullshit, Manson himself could be counted on to offer the best insight into his mental state. His self-analysis, in its own primitive way, said more than all the shrink reports combined.

  “Hell, I know the difference between right and wrong. Always did. I know how to get along in the real world. I know what to do to keep the kids fed, the fat wife happy, and the cops off my ass. I tried it a few times. But where I came from, how I grew up, what happened to me, I didn’t have a chance. Everybody kept telling me what was bad, what I shouldn’t do, how to act, but they all forgot to give me a chance to be that way. You take the nicest ten-year-old from the best home in the land and put him on the streets, and he’s going to learn to steal to survive. You take the best little girl in Sunday school, tell her her parents left and don’t care, and dump her on a corner, and she’ll be turning tricks by the end of the week just to eat. Well, I was that boy! I was that girl! I didn’t want to be that way. No kid does. I wasn’t some demon that sprang from my mother’s womb. Everybody talks about role models. What role models did I have? Perverted reform school guards?… Great parents? Jesus and the Bible? Hell, it was the Bible that drove my mother out of her home and put her on the streets. [Charlie’s mom had rebelled against a strict religious upbringing.] Once in the system, the ‘fathers’ and ‘mothers’ society provided to raise me beat me bloody with whips and straps, fucked me in the ass until I shit blood and couldn’t walk, and taught me to hate. And now, everybody’s shocked how I turned out. Wake up! You did this to me. And you’re doing it to thousands like me every day. Every kid who wandered into the ranch back then came from a bad family. Every kid who writes me today complains about their rotten parents. And none of them had it as bad as me.”

  That didn’t excuse what he’d done, but he did have a point. Charlie always had a point. And it made me cringe at the thought of how many little Charlies and Squeakys are out there right now taking life on the chin, bouncing from one adult to another, all the while suppressing a rage that’s destined to explode. It also explained why the mail kept coming in, bagful after bagful, month after month. These were the kids Charlie spoke to—and for.

  After a few weeks, I settled in and felt comfortable at CMF. Once again, Manson was a major reason. To kill time and break up the day, I began letting him out of his cage for casual chats in my office. Charlie enjoyed the freedom, but didn’t want to be called out too much or the other inmates might think he’d turned snitch. Heaven forbid. Occasionally, he became demanding and destructive just to assure the cons he was still one of them.

  Dr. Rotella noticed all the time I was spending with Charlie and took me aside one afternoon for a fatherly chat. “You like the guy, don’t you?” he opened.

  “I find him interesting, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, I asked you if you liked him.”

  “I guess so,” I admitted.

  “You’re aware that he’s a psychopath among other things,” the doctor warned, strengthening his earlier diagnosis. “He can screw you over and never think about it.”

  “He’s been trying to do that since the moment I met him,” I said, laughing.

  “Don’t take him too lightly,” Dr. Rotella admonished. “He’s had some nasty psychotic episodes.”

  “Yeah, and I think he faked them all,” I countered. “I’ve seen him go for weeks acting as calm and rational as you and me. Then something sets him off and wham, he flips out. Rants and raves and threatens the world with annihilation. There’s a pattern to it, and I think it’s pure bullshit.”

  “Perhaps,” the doc said, playing along. “You think he’s crazy like a fox?

  “Exactly. He’s clever, quick, and intelligent.”

  “But foxes can go crazy, too,” the doctor astutely pointed out.

  “Psychopaths aren’t considered crazy, are they?” I dodged.

  “Not in themselves, but they can be. They can become psychotic.”

  The psychological double-talk numbed my mind. I shifted to a comparison that was easier to grasp. “Did you see One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? The movie where Jack Nicholson played a con man named McMurphy?”

  “Sure. That’s a classic.”

  “If you remember, McMurphy and the big Indian both played crazy, but they weren’t. They conned everybody, made fun of the system, and had a ball doing it. When Charlie’s in a good mood, he reminds me of McMurphy. Believe it or not, he can be a real funny guy.”

  The doctor looked at me as if I’d gone completely mad. “Hitler was a real funny guy, too,” he cracked.

  “I hear what you’re saying. I’m not blind to that. Most of the time, Charlie is likable. Behind it, there’s this deceptive little weasel who hides an incredibly evil side. Don’t think I’m not keenly aware of it.”

  “He’s schizophrenic, two personalities, but in remission. Of course, if the guy’s psychotic, then he can’t be evil because he doesn’t know right from wrong.”

  “But he does!” I jousted. “He’s as sane as we are, so that makes him evil.

  “I agree.”

  “He knows exactly what he’s done, what he’s doing, and what he’s going to do,” I continued, my voice rising. “I’ve sensed that talking to him. I’ve felt the chill when his evil side emerges. And he knows it. It’s fascinating.”

  The doctor paused, then stared at me with deep concern. “You’re really into this guy.”

  “More than I want to admit, I guess. But I can’t help it.”

  “Can I give you some advice?”

  “Only if you don’t charge me,” I said, trying to lighten the dour mood.

  “Don’t let any inmate consume your life. You can only go so far, do so much. You can only understand just a part of what makes them tick. You can’t change the world, Ed. When you go home, after work, forget it. It’s all bullshit. And this creep Manson is not the kind of person you should be getting entangled with. You can’t lose sight of what happened with him. He took a bunch of stupid, rebellious kids, brainwashed them, and made them kill. They butchered people for that little shit. And because of that, we get to see him every day, smirking like he’s really got some special powers of control.”

  “He does. And he’s still doing it.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He’s still using his women to recruit followers. The women who are locked up, and t
hose on the outside. And people keep flocking to him. I know. I read his mail. He’s never even met these people and they still want to kill for him. It’s crazy what’s going on.”

  “The little shit does have a strange attraction. I can’t really put my finger on it,” Dr. Rotella confessed.

  “It’s an evil genius. Something he developed from his years in prison.”

  “It’s certainly something that’s difficult to comprehend. The common belief is that evil people are stupid, but that can be dead wrong. Some evil people possess a considerable intelligence which they use to plan truly monstrous deeds.”

  “So why are all these people drawn to him?” I wondered. “Why all this sick mail, year after year?”

  “Curiosity, probably. People looking for excitement.”

  It was my turn to look at the doctor with skepticism. These lost souls who worshiped Manson were not your average thrill seekers. “It’s got to be more,” I argued. “Maybe their lives are boring and they feel inadequate. Therefore, they gravitate to the lowest common denominator. Maybe some kids feel so evil and guilty inside that they believe only a guy like Manson can understand them.”

  “That’s a horrible thought,” Dr. Rotella responded, wincing.

  “Hey, what’s even more horrible is the possibility that maybe it’s our fault, just like Charlie’s always said. Maybe we’re raising our children wrong. Maybe our traditional Christian beliefs emphasize guilt and punishment over compassion, and it’s taking a toll. We judge quickly and harshly without understanding. Maybe that’s why so many kids run away, kill themselves, drop out of school, take drugs, have loveless sex—”

  “Hold on there,” Dr. Rotella interrupted. “You’re starting to sound like Charlie. Not all kids are like that. Just a minority. And the reasons are diverse and complicated. You’re letting Charlie get to you. You should pull away for a while, let someone else deal with him and his nonsense. I really think you should consider it, Ed.”

  It was a solid suggestion, one that I naturally ignored. Over the months, Dr. Rotella became so concerned about my relationship with Charlie that he invited me on a number of Catholic retreats to see if he could break the spell. These were intense twelve-hour overnight vigils to the Blessed Sacrament that consisted of prayer, sermons, spiritual readings, and meditation. I found them inspirational and soothing, but they did nothing to quell my fascination with Charlie. If anything, my addiction grew.

  Dr. Rotella warned me repeatedly that I was heading for a meltdown, but I merely scoffed and foolishly steamed forward, confident that my mental shield was unbreakable.

  Dr. Morton Felix was another CMF shrink who Manson loved to jerk around. A passive, rumpled man who smoked a pipe that constantly spewed tobacco fragments on his sweaters, Dr. Felix reminded me of an earthier Sherlock Holmes. One afternoon, the psychologist was startled to discover that an unknown inmate had crashed his group therapy session and immediately dominated the conversation. The strange character wore a baseball hat turned backward (long before that became fashionable) and was toothless. With gums flapping, the guy lectured everyone about exterminating child molesters and Jews, and suffocating women who force their husbands to work themselves to death. Offended by the remarks, especially the grossly anti-Semitic comments, Dr. Felix investigated. To his shock, he later discovered that the inmate was Manson! What was even more shocking was that Manson was a part of Dr. Felix’s group! He had altered his appearance by shaving his beard, getting a haircut, and taking out his false teeth, and was so successful in his ruse that he fooled everybody, including a trained professional. That was Charlie all the way. He’s such a chameleon he can change his shape and colors almost at will.

  The final insult came when I heard Dr. Felix complaining one evening that he couldn’t locate a brightly decorated Mexican serape he frequently wore. I had to restrain myself from bursting out laughing. I’d spotted Charlie wearing the poncho earlier that day. Dr. Felix sighed deeply and decided not to report it. Charlie spent the next few months looking like a bad guy from a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western—The Good, the Bad, and the Incredibly Loony.

  Charlie’s burgeoning media career remained in full swing, so we got right back into it at CMF just as we had at San Quentin. I brought him the latest batch of requests, we talked it over, and Charlie picked the next journalist to honor with his wisdom. The long-delayed National Enquirer interview was finally given the thumbs-up, and Manson had a blast verbally fencing with, and performing for, a pair of the famed supermarket tabloid’s best. After the session was over, Manson posed for a series of remarkable photos that made the forty-two-year-old mass murderer appear cute, boyish, and hip, like he could have easily fit in as one of the Beatles or Monkees.

  The reporters, Eric Mishara and Jeffrey Newman, spared no octane when they rushed their scoop into print, referring to Manson as “the messiah of murder” and laying it on thick with the descriptions. “During the rare and exclusive interview,” they wrote, “his eyes were aflame and he talked in staccato sentences, a wild look on his thin face.” When it came to quoting Manson, no hyperbole was needed.

  “You see, the average person in the street believes everything that has been written and put on TV about me. They go look at those movies and they read Helter Skelter and they think, ‘Wow, what a monstrous monster!’ I’m a monster, maybe, but not a monstrous monster.… I don’t think [Squeaky] meant to kill the President. She was just trying to help us get a better trial and fight for what she thought was right.… Every one of those kids in the Family have saved a lot more lives than they took. If I were to judge the children in the Family, I would judge them as children who love their world enough to do the unspeakable—to do things that no one is supposed to do.…

  “No one was picked—no one picked out Sharon Tate and went down there and plotted a course for madness. You have to understand the episode. It was a soul movement, children willing to rise up and change the world. How else were we going to wake up the people that don’t know we cannot destroy our children’s world? I wasn’t there in the house that night, but I was there in spirit.… I’ve never killed anyone with my own hands—but I’ve cut up some people and I’ve shot some people because they pushed me.…

  “If I were outside the walls of this prison, I would be living a lot differently. I would be back in the woods somewhere, with a guitar and two kilos of grass … hiding from people like you.”

  I thought the article was pretty much on the mark, although I didn’t recall him saying the “I was there in spirit” line. Charlie, however, was enraged, calling it “lies” and threatening to kill the two reporters.

  “What did you expect, Charlie? You picked the Enquirer,” I reminded.

  “I expected the truth!”

  “Hell, when your mouth gets going, I’m sure you don’t even remember what you said.”

  “I remember everything.”

  Following the Enquirer splash, Manson hit the big time with Tom Snyder, Diane Sawyer, Ron Reagan (the President’s son), and a host of others. I observed with fascination as he studied his performances and polished his act. He’d repeat expressions and body language that he felt were scary or effective, and eliminate mannerisms that didn’t play as well. It was the same with his long, preachy answers. When he slowed down enough to make sense, he generally pushed his standard agenda about saving the environment, bad parents, abandoned children, etc. The one thing that didn’t change was his refusal to take direct responsibility for the Tate-LaBianca murders.

  We got along pretty well during this period. As usual, an external force was destined to poison the well. The years of therapy at her own prison had done nothing to quell Squeaky Fromme’s worship of Manson. The pair still weren’t allow to write to each other, so they were forced to continue to communicate thirdhand. They’d write to mutual friends, or send messages through inmates who were scheduled for release. This meant that everything they received was probably garbled and distorted. It was an imperfect system that blo
cked the intimacy they each hungered for. Manson pretty much accepted it. Squeaky never did. The moment she discovered that I was back in charge of the circus, the letters poured in. As always, she begged me to allow her to write to him. Sadly, I couldn’t find any loophole that would allow it. Their communications, filled with threats and coded directives for criminal behavior on the outside, were precisely what the corrections department wanted to eliminate.

  Rebuffed, Squeaky did the next best thing—she tried to communicate with him through me. Knowing her anguish, I answered all her letters. The problem was, I found it hard to agree with anything she said or felt about Charlie. In fact, in virtually all my letters, I tried to wean her from her aging master, arguing that she was a fool for turning her life over to a worthless man destined to spend the rest of his days in prison. All that did was rile her up. She’d answer with blistering tirades, cursing me for “dissing” Charlie and their special bond. The more I tried to dissuade her, the more frantic and hateful her letters became. One time, she sent a photo of a car that had been completely demolished in a head-on collision. Streaks of dry blood stained the sides. In the background was a garage supporting a large sign that read “Body Parts.” If Lynette had been free, I was certain that another president would have been in serious danger. And if she escaped the attempt, she’d immediately come gunning for me.

  Charlie never directly confronted me on my letters to Squeaky, but Pin Cushion said he was really burned up about it. “He hates you for trying to turn Lynette away from him. Other than that, he likes you. He knows you treat him decent.”

  I did. And I tried to treat Squeaky decently also, telling her what she needed to hear. She just wasn’t ready to accept it. Despite Manson’s anger, I intended to keep trying until she saw the light. After all, that was my job, to rehabilitate society’s lost sheep. Squeaky could never be rehabilitated until she cut the ties to her strange guru.