That statement, twisted as it was, stayed with me for days. There was something about it that sparked a memory of a passage from a book I’d once read. Searching through my library, I finally tracked it down. It was Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire, the account of his lonely sojourn in the arid wilds. I perused it with new eyes, amazed how Abbey meshed natural beauty with savage violence—just like Charlie.
Cutting the bloody cord, that’s what we feel, the delirious exhilaration of independence, a rebirth backward in time and into primeval liberty, into freedom in the most simple, literal, primitive meaning of the word, the only meaning that really counts. The freedom, for example, to commit murder and get away with it scot-free, with no other burden than the jaunty halo of conscience … My God! I’m thinking of the incredible shit we put up with most of our lives, the domestic routine, same old wife every night, the stupid, useless, and degrading jobs, the insufferable arrogance of elected officials, the crafty cheating and the slimy advertising of the businessmen, the boring wars in which we kill our buddies instead of our real enemies back in the capital, the foul, diseased, and hideous cities and towns we live in … the useless crap we bury ourselves in day by day, while patiently enduring the creeping strangulation.
In other words, “Soon you will be an old man, working hard, killing yourself, living in a paper bag. When will you stop chasing money and become free like us?”
Manson’s problem was that, unlike Abbey, he wasn’t geared toward literature. He could grip an audience orally, but had difficulty putting his thoughts down in writing. Squeaky, on the other hand, was just the opposite. Her speeches lacked force, mainly because of her tinny voice. But give her a pencil and paper, and the girl could move you. I was never sure whether Charlie admired her talent, or resented it. A clue came in May 1978. Squeaky submitted a riveting article to Rolling Stone that the editors were anxious to print. Although she was eager to spread the word to the magazine’s young readers, she refused to allow its publication without her master’s approval. Instead of giving his queen her moment in the sun—and promoting himself to boot—Charlie squashed it. His lame excuse was that Rolling Stone was Jewish-controlled and he wanted nothing to do with their dirty money. Lynette docilely accepted his decision.
Even without the infusion of publicity the Rolling Stone article would have provided, Manson’s mailbag remained full. As the years passed, I was disturbed by a transformation that was taking place. Time was muting the horror of Manson’s actions while amplifying his celebrity. Instead of sacks overflowing with the musings of crackpots, a wave of letters started coming from respectable citizens and organizations. The leader of the Cascade Council Camp Fire Girls in Washington wrote requesting that Charlie be allowed to speak to her group! Seems the girls had taken a vote on which person in the whole world they would like to talk to. Former president Richard Nixon was first, and Manson was a close second. Nixon brushed them off, so they came to Charlie. I immediately called the lady who wrote the letter, explaining that the last thing she should ever want to do was to expose her impressionable charges to a man known for turning young women into sexually depraved murderers. The troop leader saw the folly of her ways and withdrew the request. After I hung up, I visualized the scene had it occurred. There, around a blazing campfire, would be all these fresh-faced little suburban girls. In the center, hopping around like a drug-crazed Rumpelstiltskin, would be Manson. With eyes ablaze, he’d tell them that the key to life is to drop acid, give voracious blow jobs on command, and happily submit to being sodomized in the dirt. Once so enlightened, they would then be encouraged to rise up and hack their parents to death.
Esquire magazine followed by asking for Manson’s favorite dirty joke. They wanted to include it in a section consisting of fellow celebrities like movie stars, athletes, and politicians. A Canadian wax museum requested permission to cast Charlie in wax. Doctors wrote from around the world insisting they could cure him. Researchers from major universities sent detailed questionnaires as part of their highbrow studies. Ministers offered to convert him to their various beliefs and promised to remember him in their prayers. Since it wasn’t necessary to censor these fine folks, Manson read them all, passing the best ones to Squeaky or Sandra to put on file. For what? That remained a mystery.
I searched the records for some insight into this mystery. Bingo. The previous year, in May 1977, Sandra had filed a blistering legal brief that offered a possible answer. Sandra was appealing her federal conviction for mailing a staggering three thousand threatening letters to corporations and individuals on behalf of a post-Helter Skelter Manson offshoot organization called the International People’s Court of Retribution (IPCR). The IPCR was a more palatable place to herd those who believed in theory with some of the Family’s pro-environment ideas, but weren’t ready to engage in the violent, crazy stuff. Sandra’s document provides a brilliant insight into the mind of a devoted Manson follower. Although she was desperate to win her freedom, her slavish loyalty to Charlie came through loud and clear, destroying any chance she had of actually winning her otherwise well-stated argument.
In the weeks subsequent to Lynette Fromme’s visit to President Ford in Capitol Park … defendant [Sandra] … made strong statements regarding the consequences of environmental destruction … If I warn you your house is on fire, it does not mean I set the fire, rather I give you a chance to save your house and your life.… The fact that the defendant was seen as the threat, rather than the threat being the problems she spoke of and the consequences of not facing and dealing with these problems is something you must look at.…
Good argued that in the seven years since the Tate-LaBianca murders, a vast myth has been created called the Manson Family. She reasoned that the killings had to be understood as “seven more murders in Los Angeles,” which had occurred “amidst a time of war in Asia, international political intrigue and assassination, and social and political and environmental dissolution in this country.… A cross-section of white Christian children took the lives of seven people at the same time young American men were killing and being killed in Vietnam.…” Good continued: “The world watched as President Nixon said that Manson was guilty. An opportunity was provided for lawyers to get publicity, district attorneys and judges to gain political advancement and scores of media people and book writers to create stories and get rich selling the most marketable items—sex and violence. A myth and monster was created in true Hollywood style and the public has devoured it. No one understands or even has a small glimpse of the real family.… In Good’s view “the Family was convicted by public frenzy and fear,” she had been judged unfairly as “another ‘mad Manson maniac’ that’s got to be locked up before she ‘gets in our house.…’ As it stands, lies and illusions cover all that we have to offer and explain the thoughts that are running this country to violence and anarchy and the lies that cover us will leave the United States looking like the Tate house.…”
Returning to her defense of the letters, Good conceded that “in many cases, the letters were worded shockingly strong,” but defended them as having been sent “to people whose activities have been shockingly devastating to life. Companies who knowledgeably cause cancer-causing elements to flood our air, waters, food; industries that tear up the earth and destroy the life on it for resources to make products that we do not need to live are not sane, reasonable, concerned people who can be pleaded with to stop.… By warning these people of what will befall them, they were being given a chance to save their own lives by presenting to them an alternative whereby they would leave something other than poisoned air, water, concrete and death for our children.… By law, defendant should not have come to prison for warning, and you will see much death that she did not cause but warned to prevent. Who has concern enough to risk prison for telling the mean truth that no one wants to hear?…”
Sandra’s appeal, suffice it to say, was denied. She did, however, win a major victory six months later when she was transferred to Alderson Federal P
rison in West Virginia—home of those two squabbling, fun girls, Squeaky and fellow presidential assassin wanna-be Sara Jane Moore. Like Lynette, Sandra had no use for Moore, but she was in heaven being with her best pal Squeaky. Their letters took on a decidedly upward beat, especially when they were ripping Moore, something they did with relish.
“She has no thought to replace it [the existing government structure] but with her own, superimposed on old photos of Lenin and Marx. She’s like the head of these people because she had all the words. She’s snotty, almost aristocratic. She was married to a wealthy man, a doctor of some kind I’ve heard, in the San Francisco area. She drops names like a society gossip. I’ve heard her talking to greedy black women about shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue. Only Godless blacks will listen to her long, even though her offers of money are tempting. She gathers fools and instigates discontent. She’s good at her job.”
In the same letter, Squeaky, writing for both herself and Sandra, gave their updated take on the race issue. “We see how the black people have been taught to follow the white Hollywood images. We said that race mixing destroys both their race and ours and you can’t have one without the other. It has nothing to do with hate, but hateful people of all races and self destructive people of all races will be destroyed. That the debt must be paid to earth and the future of our children, not to the past thoughts of debt.”
After that, they relayed an interesting conversation they’d had with a television cameraman regarding the Manson Family’s association with the famous musical group the Beach Boys. The original version of the band included brothers Brian and Dennis Wilson. (As an aside, Charlie helped pen the group’s song “Never Learn Not to Love,” which he had called “Cease to Exist.”)
“He [the cameraman] asked about Dennis Wilson. He’d seen Dennis on TV say that his brother, Brian … [wanted] to get him away from us and how that had straightened out his head.… “The cameraman used to be a big fan of theirs but said they’d lost their creativity. Blue said that was because they had been untrue to you [Charlie].”
The letter ended with the ladies asking me to assure Charlie they still had their girlish figures. “Please tell Charlie that Blue and I are doing and being okay, in good shape, 106—110, not fat, and thoughts of him keep us going.”
With their auras reunited, the joined light of Squeaky and Sandra blazed brighter than two separate beams—at least when it came to adoring Charlie. His Christmas package from them that year was a whopper. There were colorful handkerchiefs, bandannas, an embroidered red headband, a blue scarf, a black silk scarf, cloth shoes, slippers, two flannel long-sleeved plaid shirts, a blue sweatshirt with an owl embroidered on the pocket, two black short-sleeved T-shirts with intricate embroidery patches on the front, four colored T-shirts (red, gold, and two shades of blue), three black knit caps, a pair of flared Levi’s with embroidered pockets and fly, a rainbow-colored yarn belt, a harmonica, a booklet on Martin guitars, and some maps. Charlie was easily the hippest, most well-dressed inmate at CMF!
Actually, most of the goods weren’t allowed, but I bent the rules and let him have the bulk of it. A colorful Charlie was a content Charlie, and that made life easier for everyone. Of course, that meant a new wave of extra-special voodoo dolls would soon be dotting his cell, but that was too dark a thought for Christmas.
It had been a strange year, all the way around. The previous August, a theology student preparing for the priesthood spent some time at the CMF to get hands-on experience in starting prison ministries. Tim was a young man aspiring to the priesthood who really threw himself into his work. When he asked to be locked up overnight in Willis—home of our most dangerous felons—I didn’t hesitate. Not only didn’t I hesitate, I plunked the guy into the cell next to Manson! From 8:30 A.M. Friday until 10:30 A.M. Saturday, Tim was locked down in a maximum-security cell a few feet from the world’s most feared criminal.
Charlie reacted to having a budding young priest next to him the same way the girl in The Exorcist reacts to sharing her space with Father Karras. The crazed cult leader spent practically the whole time ranting, raving, cursing, threatening, blaspheming God, foaming at the mouth, and jumping around his cell like the floor was on fire. He did everything but vomit torrents of pea soup into Tim’s cage. A black inmate on the opposite side of Charlie spent the evening repeating over and over in a monotonous tone, “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” trying to keep the little maniac from busting a vein.
In the early-morning hours, Charlie finally wore himself down and began to speak in a more civilized manner. He told Tim his life story and offered his disturbing personal philosophy in a typically charismatic manner. It was, not surprisingly, an evening the clerical student would never forget.
“How’d it go?” I asked the suddenly haggard-looking young man the next morning.
“The night brought no rest,” he sighed.
Tim made it all the way to the priesthood, then switched to a more unorthodox strain so he could marry and have a family. He moved to New Orleans to work with the poor and underprivileged. For all his devotion, he never asked to be housed next to Manson again.
Failing to take a cue from the priest, three FBI agents marched into CMF one afternoon in 1978 demanding an audience with Manson. They wanted to interrogate him regarding some unspecified case they were working. I winked at one of my officers and welcomed them inside the unit classification office. The stern, clean-cut agents hardly got their first question out before Manson leaped from his chair and stood on the table. Ruffled by the agents’ elitist attitudes, we let Manson do his thing, lecturing the increasingly nervous feds as only he could. He held them personally responsible for the woes of society and the environment, and warned that the kids—their kids—would rise up against them. “Look down on me and you’ll see your own fool. Look up at me and you’ll see your master. Look into my eyes face-to-face and you’ll see yourself. I grew up like all Americans with the gift of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I was free in the desert, pursuing happiness; then you FBI men came along and stole my liberty and gave me life! Now, I demand that you give it back! I command you to give it back!”
To emphasize his request, he angled his fingers into a gun and drew down on the G-men, shooting them one by one, giving each his classic evil eye. They tried to laugh it off, but I could tell their knees were jelly. I never determined what their agenda was, only that they were more than happy to get the hell out of there.
“Nice performance,” I complimented, escorting Charlie back to his cell.
“You guys just use me like a freak show,” he groused. “I’m your rabid dog.”
“That’s because we can always count on you to foam on cue. And you really came through this time. I don’t think they’ll be coming back for an encore.”
“If they do, maybe I’ll just answer their questions.”
“What questions?”
Charlie looked at me and smiled, twisting his goatee with his fingers. “Now that you mention it, what the hell were they here for anyway?”
We both laughed hard as the door clanged shut.
* * *
On November 5, 1978, I pulled Charlie from his cell for a rare official meeting. I needed to interview him regarding his upcoming parole hearing, the first of Charlie’s storied life. Ever the realist when it came to things like this, Charlie could hardly keep his mind on the subject. He rejected his right to an attorney, then changed the subject to something considerably more important to him than a pie-in-the-sky shot at freedom. Squeaky and Sandra had sent a nifty combination radio, television, and cassette player that was now wallowing in the property room. Such luxuries weren’t allowed, and he was incensed. He was so worked up over it that I suspected the girls might have slipped a gun or file inside. A thorough check revealed nothing more than some ingenious Japanese technology.
Charlie coveted this gift and bitched about it constantly. ‘You’ve dangled a carrot in front of me for eight years, and every time I reach for it,
you pull it away!” he accused, ripping me for my previous attempts to make his life easier. “You always jack me off, but you never let me come!” He was so upset, he threatened to commit suicide over it. “Next time you see me, Ed, I’ll be hanging from a sheet!”
To be safe, we transferred him to the psychiatric ward and kept him under a tight suicide watch. Not long afterward, I successfully pushed to have the property rules changed, and Charlie was given his precious combo set. He received it like it was a present from the gods, cradling it in his arms like an infant. For the next month or so, he was in heaven. He could alternately watch television, listen to rock music, or play tapes. Then boom! He threw another stupid tantrum over something totally insignificant and smashed the combo set to smithereens. He was promptly yanked from his cell and tossed into isolation. An hour later, I walked to that dismal ward and peered into his tiny enclosed cell. He was sitting there half nude in the cold darkness staring blankly at a bare wall. He didn’t have any property at all anymore, and had left himself with absolutely nothing to occupy his mind. He just sat motionless like he was in a trance, dead and aloof, empty of spirit and devoid of feeling.
What was it with this guy? I wondered. Why did he do such stupid, self-destructive things? Why was he torturing himself so much? It couldn’t be because he was suddenly feeling guilt over the horrible murders. I knew him far too well to believe in that “he’s punishing himself” psychobabble. In eight years, through all sorts of physical and emotional hell, I’d never seen him cry. Not a single tear ever dropped from his demonic eyes. Even his brief moments of sincerity appeared contrived for effect. Every move he made was calculated to gain a specific return. He studied other people’s character and emotions to find their strengths and weaknesses, yet kept his locked within some internal shell. He often struck me as a brilliant actor playing the part of Charles Manson, one who was never out of character. Hard as I tried, I failed to detect the real man behind the act—if, indeed, there was one.
Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars Page 24