Manson in His Own Words

by Nuel Emmons

  We were taken to the Inyo County Seat, Independence, California. With those previously arrested, plus two more of the girls who were arrested on their way to the ranch as the cops were taking us away, the Independence jail was now bursting at the seams with twenty-five members of the so-called Manson Family. I think the date was October 12, 1969.

  At the time of the arrest I thought most of us, including myself, would be back on the streets in a matter of days. But the worm had finally turned. Except while being transported from one jail to another, I haven’t seen the streets since.

  The first day in custody, we were only questioned about the charges the California Highway Patrol and the local cops were interested in. So I was still resting easy about those L.A. happenings. One night’s contented sleep is all I got. The very next day some of the L.A. Police Department showed up and I realized we had more serious problems than what we were booked for. I waited for them to call me out of my cell for questioning. When the day was almost over, I thought I was on the verge of getting another pass—until I heard that the L.A. investigators had left, taking Sadie, Lyn and Katie with them. With that, I knew the police were at last closing in on those who had put fear and panic in the homes and on the streets of Hollywood some two months ago.

  Some heavy scheming and a lot of communication had to be done. The police made both avenues possible when charges on several of the kids were dropped. With their release, I had the means to spread the word, “Clam up, no talking! Find out where the cops are getting their information.” The warning came too late. Almost immediately, word got back to me that Kitty Lutesinger, a biker named Al Springer, Danny DeCarlo and Little Paul Watkins were not only telling what they had heard, but were spicing things up with imaginative input of their own.

  Springer and DeCarlo had pending beefs they were trying to beat. Telling their tales about me and the rest of our circle got their charges dropped.

  As for Little Paul talking to the cops and later writing a book, that was his desire to be noticed and looked on as someone special. His rap to the police, like the book he wrote, was so full of lies, I’m surprised he has the balls to ever look in a mirror again. Kitty was a pregnant little girl who got threatened with the gas chamber just for knowing us. She, of the four, was perhaps the most authoritative person to be repeating things she heard. She was close to Katie, Sadie and Linda, two of whom were always running off at the mouth.

  When Lyn, Katie and Sadie were taken to L.A., Sadie was booked as a suspect in the Hinman case. Katie and Lyn were both released, and Katie split out of the state. Lyn and Sandy, a girl who had been released earlier, came to Independence and got an apartment. They were my link to everything that was going on. Though in jail some six or seven hours’ drive from L.A., I had Lyn and Sandy burning up the highways and telephone lines with daily reports on who was saying what, and to whom. And with each report, Charles Manson was getting buried deeper and deeper.

  Sometime in early December, I was moved to L.A. and formally charged as the one responsible for the Tate-LaBianca slayings. Sadie, it seems, had blabbered to a couple of her jail-house roomies. In her bid for immunity, Sadie delivered the final blow. She and her attorney put her version of all the happenings in the DA’s lap. A few days later, Sadie, through her attorney and some writers, sold a story, “Two Nights of Murder,” for the whole world to read. The Los Angeles Times published it on December 14, 1969, and other publications picked it up quickly. This girl, who had perhaps taken more drugs, created more scenes, inflicted more stab wounds, possessed the most perverted imagination, and desired more attention than anyone among our circle, told a story that projected me as love itself, magic musicmaker, a devil, a guru, Jesus and the man who ordered her and others to kill. Her story gave the newsmedia the material for any fantasy of death and perversion they cared to print. If I hadn’t been the guy they were writing about, I’d have laughed at every word printed, but being in the spot I was in, laughter didn’t come that easy. Still, some of the stories were so ridiculous, I was amused.

  I was a half-assed nothing who hardly knew how to read or write, never read a book all the way through in my life, didn’t know anything except jails, couldn’t hold on to my wives, was a lousy pimp, got caught every time I stole, wasn’t a good enough musician to hit the market, didn’t know what to do with money even if I had it and resented every aspect of family life. But a week after Sadie’s story, I was a charismatic cult leader with a family, a genius who could program people into doing whatever I asked of them. Shit, if there were any truth to what I was said to be capable of, I’d have been sitting in Hearst Castle with stereos in every room, listening to my own platinum albums.

  Sadie’s story was so widely accepted by the public that the other kids involved could use it to escape or minimize their roles. The DA grabbed Sadie’s sick version, capitalized on the publicity, and ran all the way through the courtroom with it. By the time I made my first court appearance, the myth of Charles Manson had taken root and was spreading clear around the world.

  After reading or hearing someone tell me what I was supposed to be, I’d lay there in my high-security cell wondering, “Wow, am I really all they say?” And the more I read and heard, it wasn’t too many days before I was half way believing the shit myself. Half way believing it, and yet knowing that I was truly a nothing, I let the girls feed me the myth until it has finally burned me so bad, I’m not sure what face I should be wearing.

  Actually, the way we started adding to all the hype came through a bad visit with Lyn and Sandy. The two girls had come to see me and I was feeling it was the kids’ and the world’s fault that I was in jail. During that visit, Lyn and Sandy took the full brunt of my bitterness. I told them, “See where it’s ending? I told all of you months ago you had me headed right back to prison. I knew I should have packed my shit and hit the road. But, ‘No,’ you said, ‘please stay, Charlie, we’ll take care of everything, we won’t let you go back to jail.’ Well, here I am, and in deeper trouble than I’ve ever been in my life. So now what?”

  Both girls were crying and suggesting different things that might keep me from going back to prison. “Charlie,” said Lyn, “you weren’t in the houses when any of those people were killed. They will have to let you out. We’ll tell the whole world about your good, your love. We’ll make them see that you’re not responsible.”

  When they left, none of us had any idea what their method of getting a message through to the world would be. But Lyn, the little girl who was always at the end of the line, the one who seldom made herself noticed, came right to the front with what she thought would do me some good. She and some of the other kids started spending their days on the street corner next to the jail. They weren’t bashful about anything they did or said, and everything they did made for more hype about the power I had over my followers. But it wasn’t me or my wishes that put them on a street corner and kept them there. It was Lyn’s strength and devotion that engineered and kept that scene going. And the longer they stayed, the more publicity all of us and the trials received. And with all the publicity, more people came into the fold and wanted to be part of the “Manson Family.”

  When the girls first hit the corner, I guess I was somewhat on the proud side. Every other time I hit jail, everyone I knew or depended on left me before the ink got dry on my prison number, including a wife and another girl I’d had a kid by. So when a bunch of girls started living on a street corner to profess my innocence and their love and loyalty for me, it was a big switch from all the other times I had gone to jail. A couple of tabloid publications interviewed the girls and printed stories suggesting we weren’t as callous and cold-blooded as the straight papers indicated. Remember, this was the 60s, and when they called me a revolutionary martyr, I thought, “Hey, there might be something to all the charisma, love and magic trip Sadie was rapping about. Now if the bitch will just retract her statement of, ’Charlie instructed us to, ’there’s no way these people are going to convict me of kill
ing anyone.”

  As the trials progressed, Sadie did do a turn-around and got on my side again. At one time she, Katie and Leslie even wanted to cop to the whole thing so I’d be off the hook. But it was too late for that, because, the way I see it, Linda and Mary picked up Sadie’s old stand and testified against me to get immunity for themselves. Their stories were almost a word-for-word repeat of what Sadie had said. I can’t help but wonder how they would have laid out their clean-ups if they hadn’t had Sadie’s words to guide them.

  Anyway, as the weeks and months passed, any thought of beating the case sank. Nothing was going my way, and the only voice I had was those girls on the corner. The attorney the court gave me was full of motions, but all his motions were with his hands. Nothing that might carry some weight in a court room was ever heard. I kept asking for a chance to be my own attorney, but every time I asked or made a scene to represent myself, I was denied, and sometimes even removed from the court room. So, if over the years, I have screamed about the injustice of the system, it’s not because I’m without guilt. It’s because I don’t feel I got a fair shake in the court room according to the laws and codes of justice as written in the books.

  When those of us facing murder charges were found guilty, Lyn and the rest of the kids on the street corner stopped promoting love and innocence and started mouthing threats and violence. For the most part, the threats were nothing more than a bunch of kids wanting to be heard, but the media grabbed them and frightened the whole world. And Charlie Manson was that much more a monster.

  A few of those kids, in their own frustration, did commit robbery for the purpose of raising money and arms to take me out of jail by force. They got nailed robbing a sporting-goods store. When some of them started rapping to the police, it was as though I had engineered that, too. Shit, by then I’d been in a high-security cell for over a year and a half. I didn’t even know half the people involved. The guys that had come into the picture and carried the guns weren’t there because of me, but because publicity had alerted some sex-hungry, thrill-happy guys that there were some pretty, young girls available on the street corner. The girls did the rest of the maneuvering. From where I was sitting, I had no control over anything that went on outside my cell.

  When the judge finally laid the death penalty on us, I wasn’t shocked—just resentful. I’d been on the wrong side of the law too long not to realize, “if you get caught doing the crime, you gotta do the time.” The resentment and denials I’ve expressed over the years stem, not from being convicted and sentenced, but from the way things got totally turned around, and from the manner in which I was convicted. I mean, the deaths happened, so someone has to pay. It’s obvious the right people are locked up, but the motives used to convict us, especially me, were absurd.

  The media, film directors and book authors took a mole hill and made it into a mountain. The myth of Charles Manson has twisted more minds than I was ever accused of touching. Hell, in that book the DA got rich on, he’s got me so powerful that a look from me stopped his watch. In one movie, they had me making the hands of a clock spin by giving it a glance. The only way I ever stopped a watch is by stepping on it. Since the movie I’ve been staring at every clock I see. And you know what? As hard as I try, the clock neither stops or spins. But all the bullshit has people believing I hold some kind of magic.

  And if there is some doubt about that statement, I’ve got tons of mail to prove the fact. Mail from every country, from all ages and both sexes, sent by people totally unknown to me. Their awareness and interest are strictly the result of books and other forms of public exposure. The letter-writers believe I have the power and charisma that status-hungry journalists have put in their eyes. The twister is that about fifty percent of the people who contact me are offering me their lives to instruct and deal with. Some want to pick up guns and knives for me. Some just want my love and attention. Shit, I could have been on the streets a hundred years trying to lure people into my fold and I’d never have come up with more than those who were with me at the time we were arrested. But thanks to all the sensationalism, there are thousands out there who want to be associated with me and a part of what I’ve been promoted as being.

  Now I ask you, is my charisma, my power, my love or my madness drawing those people to me? Or is it an attraction caused by writers so obsessed with proving themselves to the public, they created a monster and fed a myth to establish their own names?

  When I first hit Death Row I wanted to be a forgotten person with a normal prison number. But that hasn’t been the case. I’ve spent eighteen years trying to make it to the general prison population and be just an everyday number in the yard, but the authorities won’t let it happen. Nor will the media let up.

  There are days when I get caught up in being the most notorious convict of all time. In that frame of mind I get off on all the publicity, and I’m pleased when some fool writes and offers to “off some pigs” for me. I’ve had girls come to visit me with their babies in their arms and say, “Charlie, I’d do anything in the world for you. I’m raising my baby in your image.” Those letters and visits used to delight me, but that’s my individual sickness. What sickness is it that keeps sending me kids and followers? It’s your world out there that does it. I don’t solicit any mail or ask anyone to come and visit me. Yet the mail continues to arrive and your pretty little flowers of innocence keep showing up at the gate. Hell, they don’t know me. They only know what your world has projected and won’t let go of.

  Truth is, the load is too heavy to carry this many years. I want out from under it. I ain’t never been anything but a half-assed thief who didn’t know how to steal without getting caught. The only home I’ve ever known is one of these concrete and steel prisons. How I was raised, what I actually am and what all your printed words have made me is on your head. I’m not sorry or ashamed of who I really am. I’m not even sorry for the myth of Manson that your newspapers, books and television keep putting in front of your faces. My disappointment is that so many of you are so gullible, that you eat everything you are fed.

  Even the system lends to the madness. Your world requires the California Board of Parole to call me before them for release consideration. On my recent appearances they have had the room full of TV cameras so that everyone can go through their act of justice and efficiency for anyone that wants to watch. But it’s a game with two sides, theirs and mine. They know they aren’t about to let me out. And to make them feel good about their foregone conclusion, I play the fool for them and their cameras. And even if they should say, “Okay, Manson, you can go home,” I’d have to ask, Go where? You gave me this cell when I was twelve years old. I’ve become as much a part of the cells as the bars on the windows and doors. This is my home. You kicked me out in 1967, gave me your kids, allowed me a little space on the desert and then took it all away from me. I got nothing out there. If you did kick me out, I’d just have to find some place to hide. Truth is, I’m tired of hiding. I’ve been hiding under the myth and using it for protection ever since I’ve been here, but I’m tired of playing that game that was created in 1969. Like me, it’s growing old.

  So for you people who are filled with the fear that I might someday be released: breathe easy, I don’t see it happening. And for you people who are victims of all the hype that portrays me as a charismatic cult leader, guru, lover, pied piper or another Jesus, I want you to know I’ve got everything in the world, and beyond, right here. My eyes are cameras. My mind is tuned to more television channels than exist in your world. And it suffers no censorship. Through it, I have a world and the universe as my own. So, save your sympathy and know that only a body is in prison. At my will, I walk your streets and am right out there among you.

  Conclusion

  by Nuel Emmons

  Charles Manson is currently confined in San Quentin Federal Penitentiary, outside San Francisco, where he was first imprisoned after his conviction in 1971. In 1972, after California abolished the death penalty, h
e was transferred from San Quentin’s Death Row to Folsom Prison, and in 1976, he was transferred again to Vacaville Medical Facility (where I renewed my acquaintance with him) for treatment. In both institutions, he was kept in segregated housing (isolated from all but a few other inmates and under constant supervision) and denied the privileges commonly granted the general prison population, until 1982.

  From 1982 through 1985, Manson received some work assignments at Vacaville that permitted him to work among the other inmates, although he was closely supervised and allowed only limited contact with others. It was during these periods that the most constructive work on this book was done.

  Unfortunately, his relative freedom ended in 1985, as a result of his own actions. Among other incidents, Manson recorded some of his music and smuggled the tapes out of Vacaville. Friends of Manson’s then mailed the tapes to someone who was to market and distribute them. However, when a dispute arose between the friends and the would-be distributor, the latter began receiving threatening telephone calls. Perhaps recalling Terry Melcher, he notified prison authorities and was allowed to speak to Manson, who responded, “If you’ve lied and broken someone’s trust, I have no control over what happens. I didn’t send you the tapes. Your fear is of the people who did, not me.”

  A few days later Manson was on his way to San Quentin. During a routine body search on his arrival there, a four-inch piece of hacksaw blade was found in his shoe. He was immediately placed in administrative segregation, where he remains. Manson knew that the metal hacksaw blade would not pass the electronic device used in searching inmates. He carried it in order to make certain that he would be placed in a segregated unit until he was familiar with the institution and the convicts he would be associating with. As he told me, “Sure, I knew the blade would be found, but I had to be in a safe place until I found out who I could trust.”