by Nuel Emmons
Even the federales heard about the macho gringo who was a friend to the Yaqui. They told me all about it, after they arrested me. “Oh si, Señor Manson, we hear about you before. The United States say send you back to Texas.” Two weeks later I was being booked in the Laredo jail. When it was discovered I was already on the streets by virtue of a suspended sentence, they didn’t bother to prosecute on the new charge in Laredo, but shipped me back to L.A. The judge who had given me the ten years revoked the suspension and I was on my way back to prison.
Reading this far you might say, “You never tried an honest life.” That isn’t completely true. It’s just that I don’t feel the need of telling the disappointments, the rejections, the accusations I went through in trying to maintain steady employment at a legitimate job in your world. When I was working an honest job, I experienced daily the resentment of people who never failed to let me know where I had come from and where they thought I was headed. To fully describe many of those incidents would put me completely out of character. You don’t want to read it, and I’m really not into seeing it written down.
I would like to say to you that I did know the difference between right and wrong, and I do know what is expected of an individual in an honest world. But where I am coming from, all that I heard when it really mattered was: “Get out of my way, kid, I haven’t got time for you.”
Asking me not to break the rules of society is like telling your kid not to eat candy because it’s bad for him. The kid will continue to eat candy until you take it away, or until you prove why he shouldn’t. You also need to provide substitutes for the candy you have denied that child. I was told often enough what was bad, but I was never given a substitute or the opportunity to try another world until I had already become so defiant and twisted, I no longer cared about someone else’s right or wrong. By then I could not see enough honest faces in the world to pattern myself after. Your Bibles didn’t mean anything to me. A Bible had driven my mother from her home. The people you chose to raise me beat and raped me and taught me to hate and fear. From what I have seen throughout my life, the laws of the land are practiced only by the little guy. Those who have money and success abuse every law written and get away with it.
I admit my reasoning comes from the wrong side of the tracks, but once these opinions are formed and reinforced a few times, it is hard to believe otherwise. So even if I don’t shed a tear, I console myself: I had some help in becoming the person I am. Yes, I resent the system!
CHAPTER 3
I APPEALED the revocation of the suspended sentence, but not because I thought I had a chance of beating the case. By filing an appeal, I could delay being shipped off to a prison. I figured I would be able to post bond and be out on the streets until the outcome of my appeal, and with a good attorney an appeal can drag on for years. Then, if things didn’t look good for beating the case, I might split to Mexico or South America. I was being held in lieu of ten-thousand dollars bail but a bond for bail is only ten percent of the total, so with a bondsman, I would only need a thousand dollars to hit the streets. I felt very confident that either my hustler friends or my girls would come up with the money for me in a few days. It might take a couple of weeks at most.
The real outcome was that none of my high-rolling friends had the time of day for me. With the exception of Sandy, the girls stopped coming to see me after a few visits and some hard-luck stories, and either went outlaw or found themselves another old man. Sandy and I had taken out a marriage license, but had never actually tied the knot. Pregnant and unable to work as a prostitute, she visited me for a month or two but soon went the way of my wife. I have never seen her or the son who was born. Anyway, so much for my control over my harem and my chances of posting bond. I wasn’t in jail sixty days and both were all gone.
I spent a year in the county jail fighting a loser. I could have dropped the appeal and gotten on with my sentence but I was stubborn and defiant. My ego had been crushed when the broads stopped showing up. Screw them all! Who needed them? With all my experience of people turning their backs on me, I should have known better than to trust anyone but myself. Still, I had hoped—and was again rejected. The whole trip put me on a real hatred high. I cussed every son-of-a-bitch I knew and the government too. I wasn’t about to give up on the appeal. Since the government had dropped the Mann Act charge, all I was going back to prison for was the $37.50 check. I felt it was too much time for such a petty amount. By the time the appeal was denied, I was sick and tired of the county jail. I hadn’t had any visitors for the last ten months. The winos and the confinement were getting on my nerves and I was eager for a change, even if it was to be at McNeil Island.
McNeil Island is in Washington state, one of the many islands in Puget Sound. The prison is accessible only by boat and prison-owned vessels are harbored, not at the island, but at a mainland harbor. The island is only twenty minutes from the mainland, but damn, to be so close yet so far is frightening. The return trip takes years, and sometimes never happens for the guys who go there to serve time for the Feds. Most prisoners take that boat ride feeling lost, forlorn and defeated. In years past I had experienced similar emotions, but that was at the age of twelve—a thousand years ago. Now, in 1961, it was almost like returning home. Though I had never been to Mac, I was sure I would know a bunch of the guys there. With my recently-acquired experience on the streets, I wouldn’t have to stand on the edge of a group listening to their tales of scores, girls and fast living. I now had a few tales of my own to spin, and with a little typical convict exaggeration I could come on as king of the road and maybe send some kid back to his cell to dream of “the life” as a pimp. No, I wasn’t feeling bad at all. After a year in the restrictions of a county jail, I was almost eager.
The boat moved across the water toward the prison. Out of habit, I took complete stock of the shore lines and surroundings just in case the opportunity to slip off the island came my way. Because of the water, one of my escapes from the Indiana School for Boys flashed through my mind. I had to smile as I saw myself trying to out-swim the fellows on shore who were waiting to take me back to another beating. I pictured myself trying to swim this water, escaping from the island. Nope! Too deep, too cold and too far. I would need something that floated. It was wasted thought.
I have never been certain about the full size of McNeil because my stay there was completely within the walls of the prison itself. I say walls; actually, McNeil doesn’t have the surrounding walls you might envision if you imagine a normal prison compound. The concrete and steel buildings themselves are designed to serve as barriers against escape as much as to house convicts. The entire institution is laid out so that it is possible to do a life term without feeling a ray of the sun or a drop of rain. Halls, rotundas, and tunnels connect living quarters, work assignments, education facilities, kitchen, mess hall, gymnasium, hospital, auditorium, and the administrative offices. And if a person remains in maximum-security during his entire sentence, chances are he sees sun or rain only through a barred window. Escape is a dream, not a reality.
I fell right back into the routine of prison as though I had never been let out. I knew a slew of guys. We talked the same language. Nobody looked down his nose at me. I was one of them, an equal. If you’re called a bastard in the joint, it is not a reflection on your mother, simply a figure of speech. We were all from basically the same mold and resented the same things—the police, the guards and society in general.
I didn’t have anyone on the outside sending me money for commissary items, but I knew how to maneuver and I kept myself provided with the essentials through wheeling and dealing in the joint. If I worked in the kitchen, I’d steal coffee or other items of food that the guys who had plenty of commissary money wanted. If I worked in the laundry, I’d starch and press the clothing for those who were willing to pay a few packs of smokes for the service. Every job I worked at had some kind of market value which I capitalized on. Additionally, I played cards and gambled. While I
am impatient at most things, I had long ago learned the value of patience when playing cards for money. In some of my previous travels I had become pretty adept at dealing seconds and cold-decking, so I won more often than I lost.
The first year or so back in the joint was a breeze. I didn’t have anyone on the outside I was doing hard time over. There wasn’t anyone out there who gave a fuck about me and the feeling was mutual. About the only time the streets entered my mind was during bullshit sessions with other convicts, and instead of getting the blues I’d get charged up and exaggerate or tell a bigger lie than the one I had just heard. As for work assignments, I always promoted myself into a job that afforded me the easiest time, those that permitted me to hustle the needed commissary goodies. I didn’t care about the programs the institution had for constructive individual development. The only thing that mattered to me was having the respect of the cons I was doing time with. I was the perfect example of the completely institutionalized inmate. Fuck them, they can’t stop the clock and someday I’ll be back out there. That was my attitude, and in the meantime I’d just coast right on through their jails.
Then one day something happened to me, it seemed like a goddamn cloud dropped over me and wouldn’t blow away. It started with a couple of my closest friends getting released. That shouldn’t have mattered because in the past I’d seen plenty of guys leave who were like brothers to me. Still, I couldn’t shake the gloomy mood—that fucking cloud wouldn’t move on. I looked around me and hated everything I saw. I was thinking about the streets but, strangely, not about my high-rolling times in L.A. and all the girls and fast times. My thoughts were of my wife and the first few days of our marriage—me working and coming home to our little old room that only had a bed and hardly any furniture; she and I wanting to go someplace but unable to afford it, and instead pretending we had everything in the world and were making love in a palace. The love was real and it didn’t matter if we had a palace or even a dime for a cup of coffee; we had each other. I had felt good about myself in those days and I realized what a dummy I had been for not toughing things out and trying harder. “Get off this bullshit,” I told myself. “Get back into the swing of things.” But it didn’t work. I was sick of the routines. I wasn’t into telling or listening to any more convict fantasies. I hated the bell that went off every morning waking everyone up. Lining up for each meal, shower line, sick line. Work unlock, school unlock. Every fucking thing in the joint is lines and unlocks and being told what you can and can’t do. Man, was I sick of it. It wasn’t sexual lust or a desire to be rich on the outside that was making me feel sick, it was the little things people take for granted on the outside. Who on the outside ever stops to appreciate the luxury of being able to open a refrigerator door for a drink and a bite to eat? Or being able to open a door and go outside, or at least into another room? Or being able to take a piss or a shit without being in full view of your cellmates or a prison guard? These are all very simple little things to a person in normal life, but for a guy doing time they become the very things responsible for escape attempts and violence.
I was doing hard time. The restrictions of confinement had caught up with me. I longed to walk in the woods, feel the rain on my face, or the sun on my back. I wanted to stroll on a beach or stretch out on a lawn. My life, my mind, was being mutilated by concrete and steel, the clanging of barred doors, the constant drone of nothing but male voices. I felt an urgency to be away from anything created by man. Yet because I was a man, I wanted to live like one. I wanted to put my arms around a soft, smooth-skinned girl, not in lust, but just for the comfort of something that wasn’t related to prison. I thought of escape but in the same moment realized my foolishness. That avenue was next to impossible. Besides, escape wouldn’t give me the kind of freedom I now sought. I would still be running, hiding, living in a world that would soon put me back in confinement. I was depressed, and I wasn’t just sick of jails—I was fed up with being the individual prisons had made of me.
I realized that, since my release from the reformatories, I had been my own worst enemy. I didn’t feel those years in reform school were self-inflicted, and I still don’t. I’d gotten shitty breaks and no help along the way. But now I was taking an honest look at myself: I didn’t like my life or the outlook of my future as things were currently going. It was up to me and me alone to straighten out my act. The answer was in taking advantage of this time in prison. I should do something constructive, learn a trade to earn an honest living on the streets. In addition to that, it was important to me to fully understand myself.
I spent the next several days in a kind of trance. I went through the prison routines like a zombie programmed to walk, talk, eat and do as I was told. I didn’t have a thought in my head except getting into a program that would do two things for me. One—teach me a way to provide for myself on the streets without being a thief. Two—improve my mind and habits so that I could overcome my weaknesses and resist temptations. I wanted to develop character and stop being the fool.
McNeil was an institution that afforded an inmate the opportunity to reconstruct his life. There was a good educational program, and classes in skilled trades. I was twenty-seven years old, but my education was about fourth-grade level. For the past twelve or thirteen years, I’d been camouflaging my lack of education. I had always maneuvered around anything that required reading or writing. Since I had a good memory and verbal skills, very few people realized my inability to read or write proficiently. I was serious in my desire to develop into a more capable person, but my pride wouldn’t permit me to begin school programs at a fourth-grade level when the guys I was lining up with were college level. Any reading I did was done quietly, by myself. It was a struggle, but I began reading and studying in my cell.
The subject that interested me was understanding and knowing my own mind. Prison psychs had told me often enough that I had “persecution and inferiority complexes” but they never did anything to help me overcome those faults. Even if they had I doubt if I would have been receptive to their advice ’cause no one likes to think of themselves as having mental hang-ups. But since my siege of joint fever, I wanted help.
I looked into Christianity, not necessarily for someone or something to worship but for an understanding of me and why my thoughts were so negative. I started going to services with some of the other cons. I’d listen to the guys say “oh yes” and “amen” and recite Bible verses. Then outside the chapel, I’d see them stealing cigarettes from their friends, telling obvious lies or rushing to some secluded spot in the institution where they could make love to some punk. I’m not knocking Christianity, only the hypocrites. Maybe if I’d only wanted to get out, I would have played at being a Christian, but my search was for me. I was looking to improve myself without pretending.
In prison there is every kind of belief imaginable. Some are good, others are bogus. What is good and right for one person isn’t necessarily so for the other guy. So I took a look at everything. I began paying attention to individuals as well as beliefs. If I saw a con who seemed to be on top of everything and in control of himself, I’d pursue his beliefs in an effort to see if I could strengthen myself through him. I began noticing the various groups around the prison, not entirely sanctioned by the administration. If I saw sincerity in the guys who were participating in group sessions, I’d find out which way they were headed. Though I wasn’t black, I picked up on what the Black Muslims were practicing. I did the same with the Indians. I found them solid in their beliefs so I watched them and began to appreciate their rituals and traditions. I studied hypnotism and psychiatry. I read whatever books I could find (and understand) that dealt with mind development. A cell partner turned me on to Scientology. With him and another guy I got pretty heavy into Dianetics and Scientology. Through this and my other studies, I came out of my state of depression. I was understanding myself better, had a positive outlook on life, and knew how to direct my energies to each day and each task. I had more confidence in my
self and went the way I chose to go, whereas previously, I had always been content to listen and follow.
As far as a trade was concerned, the institution had a variety, but most of the trade programs that interested me required lower-security custody than I had. The welding and automotive shops were outside the prison compound. The plumbing and electrical shops were inside, but the waiting lists were pretty lengthy and with all the fucking-up I had done in the past (here and in other joints-McNeil had the records), my past insincerity, and the fact that I had never completed a trade program when given previous opportunities, I was not considered. At the most, I was placed on the bottom of the list. It sounds like an excuse and a cop-out for not taking advantage of what was offered in the way of practical job training, but it’s really just an explanation why I settled on music as a career.
Music wasn’t a totally new thing for me. My mom, before putting me in Gibault, had let me take voice and music lessons. And there had been times in other institutions when I’d turned to music. Music is always an enjoyable time-killer in prisons. Whether you are playing or listening, it takes your mind out of the joint. Years ago a Mexican friend had taught me the fundamentals of playing the guitar and through the years it had been a comfort, as well as an escape, from the repetitive life in prison. When I wasn’t eligible for one of the more conventional trades, it was a natural move for me to try and develop my ability on the guitar, perhaps someday become a professional musician.