Charles Manson Behind Bars (2 page)

“Close 28. Two-Eight,” he shouted loudly enough for the tower to hear him. With a thud, the door shut behind me. I backed up to the tray slot in the cell’s door, slid my arms through the opening, and waited to have my cuffs removed.

“This is a good building,” the guard assured me. “Old guards. They’ll give you what you got coming. Just be cool.”

“I’ve been doing this a long time, you know. I’ll be cool,” I responded. I wanted to assure him and the rest of the staff that I would not be a problem. I did not need any more of their attention than was absolutely necessary.

I was given some fresh linen for the bed. I looked around at the place that would be my home for God-knows how long. It was as gray and bleak as my last three cells. I sat on the edge of the cold bed and surveyed my surroundings. My six-foot-by-nine-foot cell was an off-white that looked rather gray: gray walls, gray floor, and long, gray slabs of concrete on either side of the cell that were the beds. My bed had an old, dingy state-issue white mattress with a quarter-inch pin striping down its length. It appeared only thick enough to be barely comfortable. No luxury here, I noted.

I could look out of the windows if I got lonely. There were four of them. The one on the back of the cell was about 5 inches wide and 48 inches high. Dozens of substantial bolts held a two and a-half-inch thick pane of dense Plexiglass in place. Nothing but light would ever pass through that opening. The remaining three windows were opposite the back window, one at the front of the cell and two on the cell door. All were of similar size and shape, held firmly by the solid cinder block walls. If a human wanted to leave this room, he would have to do it through the doorway.

The shiny stainless-steel sink was a welcome visual change from the gray of the walls and floor. So was the stainless steel-toilet. Under the beds, two hollowed out square shapes provided a place for clothing and toiletries. The only other notable fixture in the cell was the one-foot-long tray slot. When unlocked, a steel plate fell outward, away from the cell, exposing an opening large enough that a breakfast or dinner tray could be passed to a faceless inmate without the guard having to open the door. The slot doubled as a handcuff facilitator. Every time I would enter or exit the room, I would back up to the door, extend my arms through the opening, and have cuffs put on or removed. It became a routine that I did, day after day, month after month, without thinking: back up to the door, insert hands, and wait for the application or removal of cuffs. Probably, the guards moved through the routine with the same absence of attention.

I pondered my future as I sat on the bed. Well, it was no worse than my last cell, I thought to myself. I had space to move around so my regimen of exercises, which could take me 90 minutes, would continue. I attempted, and usually succeeded, in cycling through my workout three times per day. I had room to write; therefore, my correspondence would also continue, as would my appeals to the courts. In the same space that I would use to write letters, I would also continue my artwork. I loved to draw and paint. Other inmates frequently commented on the quality and life-likeness of my creations. My situation seemed all right. The important parts of my incarcerated life appeared protected. If I remained free from rules violations and the accompanying write-ups, and the system did not institute some new draconian restrictions, my life would continue pretty much the same as it had during the previous twenty-one years of my confinement. Corcoran was going to be good for me.

Opened in 1988, California State Prison-Corcoran is California’s largest prison, located just outside of Corcoran, in Kings County in Northern California. Its capacity for inmates is just over 3,000, but it regularly holds more than 5,000 prisoners at a time. It employs over 1,700 guards and support staff. It is referred to as Corcoran I to distinguish it from Corcoran II, or California Substance Abuse Treatment Facility and State Prison-Corcoran, a newer facility built nearby. Because inmates are always considered residents of the nearest town, the inmates of the two facilities comprise more than half the population of the town of Corcoran.

Corcoran, as it is routinely called, has the reputation of being the toughest correctional facility in the state, possibly the country. There have been more inmate killings at this facility than in any other penitentiary. Recently, investigations were initiated to determine whether the killings have been the result of systemic corruption, the type of criminals housed there, or something else.

The official prison website informs the reader of the following: “The California State Prison (CSP)-Corcoran is committed to ensuring and instilling the public and inmates' families with the confidence that CSP-Corcoran is committed to providing the best medical, mental health, education, vocational and self-help programs for all inmates confined to Corcoran.” Because of the size, the overcrowding, and the reputation of the institution, the experiences of many of the inmates housed here would not be described in terms so positive. I knew that I would see violence and death much more frequently than I would see the inside of any classroom.

I prepared to clean my cell, an important routine over which I had complete control. I always found it therapeutic to wipe down my home. It gave me something to do and helped me feel good about myself and my circumstances, as good as an inmate can feel about himself immured in solitary confinement at one of the toughest prisons the golden state could boast.

As I was cleaning, I heard the voice of someone calling me. It was the elderly inmate I had passed on the journey to my cell. I remembered seeing him and thinking, Well, he will be no threat to my safety and me. If only all the inmates here would seem so benign. He was just over five feet tall, and no more than 140 pounds. His yellow, state-issue jumpsuit was creased with wrinkles. The old man reminded me of my own mortality. Is this how I will look when parole is granted to me? Will I look like that while I am still waiting to be released? With the exception of his pasty-white skin, he could easily have passed for my tiny grandfather.

I responded to his call. This man, being no threat, might even help me. You never can tell when you need a friend. In my state, disrupted from my previous cell and alone in a new setting, I could use a few. We began to converse in hushed whispers around the gray, cold, cinderblock wall that separated us.

“You settled?” The man continued.

“I’m cleaning my cell.” I replied as I pushed a soapy sock across the floor of my new home.

“Well, I’ll give you a holler when you’re done,” he said.

“Okay,” I agreed. Once I had completed my cleaning and had settled down to eat my bag lunch, I heard a tapping. The sound was coming from the entrance of my cell, from the same side that the voice had emanated.

“What’s your name?” the voice asked.

“Wino.” I shared “Where you from?” I was still chewing my sandwich. The old man told me that he was from Virginia. I responded that I was from Hayward, just outside of San Francisco. He knew where it was. This innocuous exchange seemed innocent enough. It could have been shared by two college students or by a child with some kid new to the neighborhood. This conversation, however, changed my life forever because the old man who addressed me was none other than Charles Manson, one of the most notorious criminals in the world: a serial killer, cult leader, and icon of California in the 1960s.

In 1969, the year I turned four, momentous events were occurring across our country and beyond our world. The baby-boomers were coming of age and throwing off the shackles of their parent’s society. Long-haired hippies used that summer to converge on a music festival to dwarf all music festivals: Woodstock in upstate New York. NASA had responded to President Kennedy’s challenge to put a man on the moon by successfully sending astronauts aboard Apollo 11, to the moon and back. In northern California, an unidentified serial killer calling himself the Zodiac killed numerous young people in lover’s lane locations around the Bay Area, and threatened to kill many more. Richard Nixon, a polemic president who would eventually be forced to resign from office in disgrace, occupied the White House.

It was in this highly charged atmosphere that a housekeeper showing up for work at a large Los Angeles estate found five people butchered in and around the property. Words were written on the walls with the victims’ blood. The dead included eight-month pregnant movie star Sharon Tate, the wife of world-renowned movie director Roman Polanski. The very next night, an older couple, who were successful business people, were found in their home, several miles away, similarly stabbed to death. More words in victim blood were scrawled across the walls.

The murders sent Los Angeles into a tizzy. Handguns flew out of gun shops; the wealthy fled to vacation homes or far away cities. The police did not receive a break in the case until a woman arrested on unrelated charges began to talk to her cellmates about the killings. It was soon realized that these killings were perpetrated by a commune-living group that called themselves “the Manson family,” led by career criminal Charles Manson. Manson and the family members who participated in the two-night killing spree were convicted in the then-longest trial in California history–the OJ Simpson trial of the era. The death penalty meted out against the killers was commuted to life in prison when California temporarily rescinded the death penalty in 1972. I knew the story, but had never met any of its principles and I never expected to meet them.

When I asked my neighbor to tell me his name, he responded, “Charles Manson.”

“Is that right?” I was stunned. Most inmates will give you a nickname on first meeting. We are often too ashamed of ourselves and the mess in which we find ourselves, or we do not want to get too close to anyone. Either way, the names given to us by our parents are not utilized much behind bars. A nickname, a profanity, or simply, “Dude,” are the preferred tags for inmates. Apparently, this did not apply to Charles Manson.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I tried not to sound like a preteen girl with a childhood crush. I was fascinated to have a famous neighbor, but I was not going to fawn over him. He was probably sick of others treating him with false flattery, doing all they could to impress or please him. The other celebrities I had met told me that they were tired of phoniness and wished to be treated like the guy next door. I would be myself, I decided. He could take me or leave me. His choice. I didn’t really care who he thought he was.

This was the beginning of our deep and turbulent relationship.

I committed myself to checking the man’s forehead on my next trip past his cell. I knew that if this really was Charles Manson, he would have a swastika or scars to prove that a swastika once graced his face. For all I knew, this was some imposter and the whole tier was laughing at my gullibility. Perhaps there were a dozen men who all posed as Charles Manson for the benefit of new arrivals to Building Four. There was going to be no punking of Wino at this facility, I resolved.

Soon enough, I saw the legendary symbol. During my first trip to the shower, I scanned for the swastika on the old man’s head. There was a faint ink and white scar outline on the forehead, just above the bridge of the nose that made it perfectly clear that he was the murderer he claimed to be.

Charles would tell me about his life, during our many chats. I would get to know him, from his point of view. Our discussions would proceed without the sensationalized media reports, the biased or fabricated tales, or the focus on the horror and death of crimes committed a long time ago. I would, over time, get to know the real person. He liked to talk and I presented a willing listener. It took many weeks, however, until he felt comfortable sharing his more closely held secrets. I listened, without judgment, and soon he was telling me things he had shared with no one else.

At this point in my life, I already knew about Charles Manson. At least, I thought I did. I remembered hearing the stories about the southern California killings in the 1960s that were linked to hippies. I knew that the events were inspired by the Beatles’ song, “Helter Skelter,” and that an anticipated race war had played a part. I knew that the band of young people who were accused, and later convicted of the murders of a half dozen people, was led by a cult leader named Charles Manson. I knew that the leader was a musician and that his songs had been recorded by the Beach Boys and some other groups. I knew that the counter-culture singer, Marilyn Manson, took his stage name in part from Charles Manson. I think I even saw parts of the movie, “Helter Skelter,” the story of his crimes. He was huge in my mind and in the mind of our society. Talking with him face-to-face, I realized how little I really knew about him. It appeared that I had more questions about him than I had answers.

I would use this opportunity, I decided. Being housed next to the most notorious criminal in California just might open some doors for me. At the same time, I resolved to be wary of this man. No one was going to make a follower out of me. I was not much into religion and I certainly had no intension of being told what to do. Many guards and inmates had tried to manipulate me in the past, some for good, most for bad. None of them had ever had much effect on the decisions I made for myself. My own mother even commented on my stubbornness when I was three years of age. This man would not be a boss to me. I had no intension of revering and following him. I would be cautious with him as I am with everyone in prison. I am no rookie and not easily persuaded. There was no way he would have any influence over me, no matter what he did to a group of young kids forty years ago.

Charles Manson’s best days had come and gone, I could tell when I was escorted past his cell. To look at him, you might wonder why Rolling Stone Magazine dubbed him, “the most dangerous man alive.” In appearance, he was more an affable grandfather than a physical threat. If he were intentionally blocking a doorway, he would not even slow me down. One swing and he would be stretched out on the floor. A knife probably wouldn’t give him any advantage over me, not even an exceedingly large knife.