Manson in His Own Words

by Nuel Emmons

  MANSON IN HIS OWN WORDS

  MANSON IN HIS OWN WORDS

  AS TOLD TO NUEL EMMONS

  Copyright © 1986 by Nuel Emmons

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Manson, Charles, 1934–

  Manson in his own words.

  1. Manson, Charles, 1934– 2. Crime and criminals—

  California—Biography. I. Emmons, Nuel. II. Title.

  HV6248.M2797A3 1986

  364.1'523'0924[B] 86-45257

  ISBN-10: 0-8021-3024-0

  eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9638-5

  Designed by Abe Lerner

  Grove Press

  an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

  841 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  Dedicated to destroying a myth

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  PART ONE

  The Education of an Outlaw

  PART TWO

  A Circle of One

  PART THREE

  Without Conscience

  Conclusion

  MANSON IN HIS OWN WORDS

  Introduction by Nuel Emmons

  In late July and early August of 1969, eight of the most bizarre murders in the annals of crime surfaced. The murders were committed with the savagery of wild animals, but animals do not kill with knives and guns, nor do they scrawl out messages with their victims’ blood.

  On July 31, 1969, homicide officers from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Office were summoned to 946 Old Topanga Canyon Road. When they entered the premises, the officers were assailed by swarming flies and the pungent stench of decaying human flesh. They found one male body, marked by multiple stab wounds, that they established had been dead for several days. On the living room wall a short distance from the body the words “POLITICAL PIGGY” were scrawled in the victim’s blood. Also on the wall were blood smudges as though a panther had left its paw print.

  The victim was Gary Hinman. Thirty-two years old, Hinman had been attending UCLA in pursuit of a Ph.D. in sociology, supporting himself by teaching music. It was later discovered that for additional income he manufactured and sold a form of mescaline.

  On Saturday, August 9th at 10050 Cielo Drive in the plush residential area of Bel Air, adjacent to Beverly Hills and Hollywood, officers from the Los Angeles Police Department arrived at a second crime scene so gory it might well have come from a Hollywood horror film. There, sprawled throughout the house and grounds, were five viciously slain victims, all of whom had been in the prime of their lives. They were Sharon Tate Polanski, Abigail Folger, Voytek Frykowski, Jay Sebring and Steven Parent. And as in the Hinman house there was a bloody message. On the door of the home where the five had lost their lives, in what was later established as Miss Tate’s blood, was the word “PIG.”

  The shocking massacre brought droves of reporters and photographers who surrounded the restricted area of home and grounds where police investigators sought clues. Nothing but the deaths was certain, yet when the reporters filed their stories, speculation filled the newspapers. Some described the deaths as “ritual slayings,” others stated the killings were the result of a wild sex party, still others declared the five had died in retaliation for a drug burn. Jealousy and love triangles were also mentioned as motives. Some reporters simply stated what was known at the time; that the police were baffled about the motives for the crime and were still searching for clues in the most bizarre multiple murders ever committed in the Los Angeles area. But this was just the beginning.

  On Sunday, August 10th, hardly more than twenty-four hours after the initial call summoning police to the Cielo address, the LAPD was summoned to yet another ghastly death scene: 3301 Waverly Drive in the Los Feliz district of Los Angeles, the home of Leno and Rosemary LaBianca.

  Leno, forty-four, was dead as the result of twenty-six stab wounds, some of which were administered with a carving fork. When his body was discovered, the fork still protruded from his stomach, as did a knife from his throat. His thirty-eight-year-old wife Rosemary had been stabbed forty-one times. Again the slain victims’ home held messages boldly printed in the victims’ blood: “DEATH TO PIGS” and “RISE” on a wall, and the misspelled words “HEALTER SKELTER” on the refrigerator door. District Attorney Vincent Bugliosi would ultimately theorize that Helter Skelter explained the motive for the slayings, but for the present, everything but the nights of horror and the eight brutally assaulted bodies was a baffling mystery.

  As news of the murders swept the country, newspapers, radio and television were quick to report anything associated with what soon became known to the world as “The Tate-LaBianca Slayings.” The crimes and the news coverage had a chilling effect in and around the Hollywood area. Fear and suspicion gripped the homes, hearts and streets throughout southern California. Guns and weapons were purchased for self-defense in record numbers. Police investigators, pushed to find a suspect, worked long hard hours checking clues and following leads. Although several days after Hinman’s death a suspect named Robert Beausoleil had been arrested, no one linked him to the slayings in the heart of Hollywood. It was not until months later, when a second suspect in the Hinman case was arrested, that some light would be shed on the Tate-LaBianca slayings.

  That second suspect was Susan Denise Atkins, who would eventually be convicted for the previously mentioned deaths, as well as the death of one Donald Jerome (Shorty) Shea, a ninth victim whose murder did not surface until the killers were apprehended. (His body, a mystery during the trial, was not discovered until several years later.) Atkins flamboyantly confided her participation in the deaths to jail-house acquaintances, and described Charles Manson as a charismatic cult leader, a living Jesus, a guru possessing mystical powers strong enough to entice his followers to kill for him. Atkins’ jail confidants relayed the disclosure to the police, who announced in a press conference at the beginning of December that the grisly murders of five months past were at last solved.

  With Manson and several other suspects in custody, Atkins sold a copyrighted story, “Two Nights of Murder,” to The Los Angeles Times and several foreign newspapers, and before Christmas, 1969, the world read the sensational story. It, and similar stories that followed, made Manson the most publicized and discussed villain of our time, even before he went to trial. During the trial, under the persistent attention of the media, Charles Milles Manson and his followers (now described as the “Manson Family”), would gain worldwide notoriety.

  Manson was charged with being the mastermind that unleashed the animal savagery in his followers. As motive for the slaughters, prosecuting attorney Bugliosi established that Manson believed, and convinced his followers, that there would eventually be an uprising by blacks against whites which Manson referred to as “Helter Skelter,” from the Beatles song of the same name. Manson was said to have ordered his followers to commit bizarre murders to accelerate this conflict, leaving false evidence to indicate that the violent acts had been committed by blacks. There was also the suggesti
on that Manson had chosen the Cielo Drive residence because it had formerly been occupied by Terry Melcher, a recording company executive who had failed to promote Manson’s recording efforts. When Manson initiated the killings he remembered Melcher’s “rejection” and the secluded location of his former home, making it an ideal place for murder.

  The prosecution further contended that Manson had convinced his followers a pit existed in Death Valley where he and his group would be safe during the conflict between the races. Manson predicted the blacks would emerge victorious, but would not have the mental capacity to govern properly. Once the turmoil subsided, Manson and his chosen people, having grown to 144,000, would emerge from their haven and begin building a new society more in keeping with Manson’s views.

  From arrest to conviction, the investigations and trials of Manson and members of the Manson Family lasted well over a year-and-a-half. Those convicted and sentenced to be executed in San Quentin’s gas chamber were: Charles Manson, Susan Atkins, Charles (Tex) Watson, Leslie Van Houten and Patricia Krenwinkel (for the Tate-LaBianca murders), Bruce Davis and Steve Grogan (for their participation in the murder of Shorty Shea), and Bobby Beausoleil (for the murder of Gary Hinman). However, within a year after the group was sentenced to death, the State of California abolished capital punishment and the sentences were automatically commuted to life imprisonment. With the commutation the eight were eligible for parole consideration as early as 1978. In the fall of 1985, after sixteen years of confinement, Steve Grogan was released under stringent parole conditions by the California Board of Parole. To date, all others have been refused parole.

  Most people see Manson and his co-defendants as callous, coldblooded, dope-crazed killers. But others accept Manson as a leader and a guru with mystical powers. They champion Manson, defend him, and try to imitate the life he led before the murders. He has received thousands of letters and numerous visitors during his confinement: letters from teenagers and adults of both sexes; visits from women wanting Manson’s love and attention, from seekers of advice, from would-be followers. They even offer to commit crimes for him—or rather, for the myth that has grown up around him. But the myth is very different from the reality.

  It happens that I knew Manson years ago, long before there were flower children and hippies. We weren’t what convicts call “joint partners,” but we did share some time and space in the same institution; Terminal Island in 1956 and 1957, where I had been sentenced on a charge of interstate transportation of a stolen vehicle. At the time, he had just turned twenty-one and I was twenty-eight. The extent of our prison association was mostly based on our mutual interest in the athletic program. However, I did see in him then what I myself had been at twenty years of age: a youth among older convicts, listening to every word the hard-core, accomplished criminals said, not yet old enough to realize the agony of a life of crime.

  I was released in 1957 and shortly after opened an auto repair shop in Hollywood. Manson was released in 1958. We had mutual friends in the area and because of a problem Manson was having due to an automobile accident, one of those friends told him where I was located. Though the accident was a civil matter, it was creating other problems for Manson. “My parole officer is giving me a lot of static,” he said. “Either I fix the guy’s car I hit, or he is going to have my parole violated and send me back to the joint. Will you help me out?” I did the repairs, fixing Manson’s car as well. This incident, coupled with our having been in the same institution together, became my opportunity to record Manson’s story in his own words. For, as he has often said over the past six years, “You kept me from going to jail, Emmons. I owe you. And if anyone can explain how things came to be, maybe, because you’ve been inside, you’re the person.”

  I didn’t see Manson again until 1960. We met at the McNeil Island penitentiary, where I was serving a sentence for conspiracy to import narcotics. Our relationship was much the same as it had been at Terminal Island—our contact was limited to the prison athletic programs, except for a few casual exchanges. I remember Manson once asking me if I knew about L. Ron Hubbard and Dianetics. I didn’t and had little interest in learning, so the conversation was a short one. The time served at McNeil was time that would change my life—for the better. As you will see in the following pages, it was also time that would change Manson’s life.

  On my release in 1964, I wanted only to take a responsible and honest part in society. Since that time I have never infringed on the rights of others, nor have I jeopardized my personal freedom. I resumed my trade, auto repair, and later started a second career as a free-lance writer.

  In 1969 I hardly noticed the Gary Hinman murder, but like the rest of the world I became very familiar with the Tate-LaBianca slayings. When Manson’s name surfaced in December of 1969, I was astonished—not because he was involved, but because this man supposed to have powers to manipulate others into carrying out his every whim bore little resemblance to the man I remembered.

  By 1979 I had forgotten almost entirely about him, until one day a local publication carried a feature story on him. The writer had journeyed to Vacaville, where Manson was then confined, with the intention of interviewing him. Manson refused to permit the interview. The story was finally published using information from prison personnel, and it mentioned that Manson seldom responded to requests for interviews. I was then writing for a newspaper, and I felt that my past association with Manson might give me the opportunity to see him that had been denied others.

  My first letter was answered by one of his inmate friends, who said, “Charlie gets letters all the time from assholes like you wanting to interview him. He ain’t interested in talking to you and having it all turned around and some more lies printed. But if you want to write about a wild, crazy motherfucker, send me a television and I’ll talk to you.” Enclosed in the letter were two clippings identifying the person and the murders he was serving time for. Other than returning the clippings as the writer requested, I ignored the letter.

  In a second letter to Manson I identified myself enough to be certain he would remember me. I then explained that if he did not want to talk to me as a writer I would come over for just a routine visit. His reply was almost immediate, if barely legible. The essence was, “Yeah, I remember you. You should have told me who you were in your first letter and I wouldn’t have passed you off to Butch. I haven’t been having any visitors, so don’t expect too much, they say I’m crazy. But if you want to come—do what you will.” When I showed Manson’s letter to my wife, her reaction was, “Are you really going to see him? Doesn’t the thought of it give you an eerie feeling?” She, like so many others, had read the book Helter Skelter and believed very strongly that Manson had the power to lure people into his fold.

  The California Medical Facility in Vacaville was only a two-hour drive from where I lived. I made the drive with thousands of thoughts racing through my mind, and several questions for each thought. I wondered which personality I would be dealing with: the young, soft-eyed, not-very-aggressive kid I remembered in prison, or the hard, wild-eyed villain the media always seemed to capture. But for all the thinking, I signed in at the institution with a complete blank on a line of conversation. Hell, I was wondering if I was in my right mind for even being there.

  Signing in was an experience for me. Being at a prison again, even as a visitor, stirred memories of my days in confinement. My heart beat rapidly, and my hands trembled so badly I could hardly fill out the necessary visitor forms. Once inside, I had the urge to retrieve my pass, to head back out the gate and forget anything that was even remotely connected with a prison. Instead, I took a deep breath and took a seat among other waiting visitors.

  After about forty-five minutes, the guard announced, “Visitor for Charles Manson.” At the mention of Manson, heads turned. I started toward the visiting room. Those that weren’t looking at me were craning their necks for the appearance of Manson himself. As I neared the door a guard intercepted me, saying, “No, you’ll
have to come this way.” He escorted me to an area known as “between gates.” On the way, he allowed me to stop at a vending machine for some cigarettes, cokes and candy bars.

  Between gates is a highly secured area that separates the front of the institution and the administrative offices from where the convicts are housed. Two electronically controlled, barred gates face each other at either end of a twenty-five foot corridor. On one side of the corridor is a room enclosed with bullet-proof glass where at least two officers control the operation of the gates and check the identification of every individual who enters or departs. Never are the two gates open at the same time. Across the corridor from the control room are two or three rooms with barred fronts. Each room is about eight feet by eight feet with a table and four stools bolted to the center of the room.

  Manson had already been escorted to and locked in the room we were to use for our visit, and while the guard unlocked the door to let me in, Manson peered out, looking me over carefully. He was dressed in standard, loose-fitting blue denim prison garb with a blue and white bandana tied around his forehead to keep his long hair in place. He had a full, Christ-like beard. At that time he was forty-four years old, but other than a strand or two of grey in his beard and hair, he didn’t look much older than when I had last seen him in 1964. As the guard locked the door behind me, Manson backtracked to the far corner of the room. He looked like a frightened, distrustful animal. With his body in a slight crouch, head a little bit forward and cocked to one side, he gave me a nod and said, “What’s up, man?” “Nothing,” I said, “I’m just here like my letter said I’d be.” With that, I placed the soft drinks and candy on the table and extended my hand for a greeting. Manson straightened his slight body, stepped toward me and took my hand. A faint smile was visible through his beard. “Yeah, Emmons,” he said, “I’d have recognized you anywhere. How’s your handball game?” “Hell, I haven’t played since I left McNeil. How’s yours?” “Fuck, are you kiddin’, that Mizz Winters [then chief psychiatrist at Vacaville] and her black boyfriends have had me locked down so tight, I don’t get to do nothin’. It took me nine years to get out of S Wing.” S Wing is a segregated unit that confines those who are still under intensive psychological observation. “They got me in W Wing now,” he added, “and that ain’t much better.”