Charles Manson Behind Bars (11 page)

“Have a good yard, Charlie,” I yelled as I banged on my window. As he turned, I saw him smile at me. He appeared to be free of any worry about an invasion of his cell while he was away. As he shuffled toward the tier door, I concluded that he was not going out to the yard in weakness. After thirty-five years of incarceration, he had the right to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Too, no one better criticize him or speak ill of him while he was gone. I determined that I would monitor the conversations that took place in his absence. I was happy to note that no one said anything disrespectful to him as he left the unit. It was still really early in the morning: breakfast would not be served for another half hour. Charlie could be gone for as long as three hours, I knew.

I turned my attention to cleaning myself up for the day. At my stainless steel sink, I grabbed a bar of soap and starting washing up in a rush of hot water. I brushed my teeth and began to fold my blankets when I heard the breakfast guard approach from the door that led to two sections called lower A and lower B.

“Chow time,” the breakfast guard announced. “Uncover your lights and stand at your door, or I’ll pass you by.” I knew that if I didn’t obey, I would miss breakfast and would not receive a bag lunch. I could not wait until dinner that was not due to be served for another ten hours!

I recognized the guard. He was an ex-marine drill sergeant who had seen action in Vietnam. He was what you would call, “a true Marine Devil Dog.” He was firm in the orders that he gave to everyone. He always kept his boots clean and shiny, as nicely polished as his gear; his uniform was always immaculate.

He yelled to the tower guard his staccato order, “Open twenty six! Two! Six!” He jammed my breakfast tray through the meal slot. As I received it, I surveyed its contents: scrambled eggs, beans, two tortillas, two hot sauce packets, grits, two packets of imitation sugar, a packet of state coffee, and one half pint of milk. The eggs were still steaming. Because it was Tuesday, I also received some fresh fruit juice. Sometimes, the juice would be substituted with stewed prunes or stewed apples. On rare occasions, we would find stewed apricots. But not today.

I received my sack lunch at the same time. I opened it to inspect the contents, not really anticipating anything out of routine. I found what I had come to expect: a bologna sandwich, an apple, chips, and some graham crackers. Lunch never changed. Never.

The guard went to Charlie’s cell. After carefully setting a meal in the cell, he placed a second tray over top of it, upside down, to keep Charlie’s food as warm as possible in his absence.

It was going to be a good day, I reasoned. Charlie had gone outside to see some birds, bugs, and plants. He would shower if he dared to do that in the 50 degree weather outside. That would wake him up and refresh him, I thought.

At three hours exactly, the Devil Dog returned with Charlie. For me, it was a joy. It was like seeing a long lost friend again, even though it had been only a few hours since he left. I was happy for him, certain that the trip to the yard was soothing and refreshing. I was feeling happy for myself, too. Here was the most notorious killer in American history, swastika on his forehead, the most dangerous person in our prison—and he was my friend. In his absence, I began to realize how much this man meant to me. His history did not matter to me. Where he had been and what he had been involved with prior to our friendship did not affect me and our relationship. I was ecstatic to see him return to me.

I had half expected him to behave like a raving lunatic outside of his cell. It had been so long since he had left it that I didn’t know how he might act. He was not affected by his long stay in his cell, it appeared to me: he was calm, walking with a flat-footed shuffle. He had told me he practiced his ability to always be alert and always be nimble on his feet. He knew after so many attempts on his life that he could be attacked at any time. He had also told me about how he practiced every movement. “In prison, you can’t take anything for granted,” he had warned me. “The only certainty for an inmate is death.” Charlie worked hard each day to postpone that inevitability.

It was common knowledge that whoever killed Charles Manson, if someone were able to reach him and carry out that act, would be recorded in history. The murderer’s name would be entwined with Charlie’s forever and ever. Some no-named lifer who has nothing to look forward to could instantly make a name for himself by bringing about the death of Charles Manson. Because the prison system knew this about Charlie, guards took extra precautions to keep him alive. Yet, they provide no bodyguard service. They have a prison to run and costs to contain. They do what they can to keep each prisoner safe without any guarantees. Sometimes, what they do proves insufficient.

With Charlie, there is more incentive to keep him alive than with other, typical inmates. No prison official, guard or administrator, wants to be responsible for the death of such a high profile inmate. Not on their watch! The staff also does not want their prison to be the location of his murder. That would not bode well for the politics of prison funding or the institution’s reputation. Daily, the conflict played out between the no-name inmates desiring to gain historical significance and vigilant guards attempting to uphold the prison’s safety record. In the center of this storm of conflict, Charlie’s life hung in the balance.

When Charlie was back in his cell, he asked me, out of the guard’s earshot, “Did anyone come in my cell while I was gone?”

“No, Charlie.” I responded. “It’s all good. They know better than to lie to you like that!” I wasn’t sure if he asked out of paranoia or out of a sense of protection of his turf. Probably both.

“Did you see any birds out there?” I changed the subject.

“Yes, I seen some birds flying around, some ants walking around, and I seen a black widow, too!” He was referring to a black widow spider that had been spotted in the Section-A Yard, or Yard One as it is frequently called. It lived in a crack in the cement at the far end of the lot. In the shelter provided by the crack, in a pile of leaves above a dirt floor, it had built a three-foot web. It would gracefully emerge from its hole to capture and eat any unfortunate insects that got entangled in the web. It could manage a grasshopper if it had to, even one that was ten times its weight. Charlie was particularly eager to talk that day and filled me in on all the events of his trip outside.

Two days later, it was my turn to go out. “Mendez, you want to go out to the yard, today?” A young guard queried me.

“Yeah,” I replied. I was in need of some fresh air and different scenery.

“OK, be ready in five minutes.” He commanded as he left the section. He appeared less sure of himself than the veteran guards.

Five minutes later, he returned and unlocked my tray slot. I slid my hands through the opening and waited as I was cuffed. The door opened as the guard yelled, “B-Section, twenty eight! Two! Eight! ” I turned around and walked toward the yard. Because it was still a little chilly, I requested and received a jean jacket to be used only in the yard. I glanced toward Charlie’s cell as I walked passed it, and noticed him wearing his state-issued, black reading glasses. I tipped my head back in greeting. He returned the gesture.

Once outside, I drew in the cool fresh air. The sky was clear. The birds had apparently fled for shelter from the strong breeze. You cannot prepare for this cold when you are confined to a cell all day, every day. You can think about it and attempt to prepare your mind for the experience, but the reality is too palpable for the imagination. I shuddered against the stiff wind, quickening my pace to provide some warmth.

When my allotted three hours had elapsed, I stood waiting for my escorting officer. Another guard noticed me and asked whether I would like some books. I asked him what he had. He listed a few different titles, including a murder mystery and a military book. I said, “I will take those two,” indicating two books to his left.

He handed them to me and added, “Charlie really likes you. He don’t like most people.” I agreed, pointing out that most people judge him by what they hear in the news.

“I accept him for who he is,” I boasted.

“Yeah, well, I like the old man, too,” the guard assured me. He smiled. “He can sure tell stories, can’t he?”

“Yes, he’s been around a while.” I turned to walk away. When I got to my section block, I noticed that Charlie was at his window. He smiled at me while he did something with his hands. It occurred to me that he was weaving something, not unlike the spider in the yard. That was an interesting metaphor, I thought: Charlie was just like the spider, weaving a web and attempting to catch something. I wondered what he was creating and what he meant to catch.

I had to drop the books on the floor once I arrived at my cell. The tray slot was only six inches by eighteen inches. I always had to carefully maneuver my six-foot, 230-pound frame so I could slide my hands through. After I was uncuffed, I washed my hands and wiped down the books. The cuffs were always dirty and God only knew where the books had been. I like to keep myself clean and a prison cell offers no protection from germs.

Soon Charlie was banging on the wall. “Boxcar!”

“Yeah, Charlie. What’s up?” I replied.

“How was your yard?” He was as interested in my time outside as I was in his.

“Oh, it was really nice, Charlie. It was a little too cold, but it was okay.” I elaborated. “I saw some bugs and a moth. The birds weren’t out. The moth was the biggest one I’d ever seen.”

“What did you do with it?” He wanted to know. His tone of voice was firmer and more serious than I had heard from him before.

“I watched it fly over the wall,” I lied. I had no interest in arousing his anger.

“Oh, that’s good. That’s good.” The old man said in a tone that resonated of a child’s fascination mixed with that of an approving parent.

I knew that he considered all animals, even moths, sacred. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the moth was dying and I fed it to some ants. I figured it made no difference to the moth. The ants would have found it eventually. I felt bad for lying to my friend, but not bad enough to incur his wrath. I didn’t want to have to sit and explain it to him either. I rationalized that I had helped the ants, not killed the moth. I’m not sure that Charlie would interpret events that way, and I didn’t mean to find out.

Later in the day, I came to see how profound Charlie’s concern was for the natural world. He asked me about the moth again: “It went over the wall?”

“Yes, Charlie. It did go over the wall.” I said, repeating my lie.

Perhaps picking up on my falsehood, he growled, “Because anyone who messes with the bugs will be cursed and what they do to the bugs will be done to them!”

For a long time afterwards, I stopped killing bugs. Not so much out of fear, but out of the love and respect that I had toward Charlie. I cared about nature, but no one could care as deeply as Charlie.

Charlie often talked to me about friendship, not just our relationship but the concept in general. He insisted that I understand what it was, what it looked like, and what it took to be a true friend. It seemed like such a simple topic, since everyone learns about friendship about the same time he or she learns to walk, but to Charlie it was much more complex than I thought—and very personal. He spoke of our friendship in the most intimate terms.

“People will hate you as they’ve hated me all of these years,” he said. He seemed to be quoting Jesus. “You are famous just by being around me because I have spoken things to you that I never have to any one else.

“Boxcar,” he continued. “You are famous now. You’re in history.” Since I was locked up next to him, since I had furthered a relationship with such a celebrated and feared icon, I guessed he was right. I was not sure what it meant for me, though.

“I don’t like people,” he went on, “because they are a lot of problems, and they’ve brought me a lot of problems. I don’t need any friends because friends are a responsibility.

“There was this Hawaiian guy.” Charlie’s tone changed as he began to recount a story he had heard. “He wanted to take his friends with him when he died. He dug a big hole and put a long pole inside of it. He called his friends over and asked them to climb down in the hole and hold up the pole for him. They did what he requested because they were his friends. He pulled out a gun and killed all of them before taking his own life.”

“That’s what a real friend is about.” I said to show Charlie that I had understood his message. “He will lay down his life for his friend. He will do whatever it takes to serve him without thinking twice about whether he’ll live or die. A true friend gives to protect those he cares about most: his friends and family members.

“There’s no honorable way to die in this fucked up world, Charlie.” I added.

“You got that right, Boxcar,” Charlie agreed. “I knew there was some reason why I liked you. You’re very smart!”

“Thanks, Charlie. You’re very smart too, you old man.” I laughed at my joke, “ha ha ha.” Charlie joined my laughter.

When I had been living next to Charlie for about ten months, I decided that I would show him the depth of my devotion to him and to our friendship. We had been through much together, most of it positive, some of it trying. Despite the tough times, and maybe even because of them, we really did care for one another.

One day, when a guard passed my cell, one with whom I got along reasonably well, I asked him if I could come out of my cell to sweep and mop the tier. He gave me a suspicious look. I could see that he was reviewing in his mind my previous violent acts. He was weighing a decision, while considering whether I was trying to pull something over on him or not. I explained that I wanted to sweep and mop the floor correctly, to make the area a better place in which to live. He acquiesced with a shout to the tower guard. “Close B-section. Then open cell door twenty-six.” He must have reasoned that a better living area for me would mean a better work environment for him. I am sure he concluded that if we were happier, his life would be, too.