Charles Manson Behind Bars (6 page)

I was surprised that I got as emotionally close to Charlie as I did. Repeatedly, he told me that he had been disappointed and abused by people. He told me this directly and he told me stories of his abuse. I gained a great understanding of his loathing of humanity. From early childhood, he was repeatedly beaten or neglected. Who knows how his life would have been different had one caring adult spent some time with him. No one can possibly know how they themselves would react to years of similar abuse while attempting to find his or her way in the world.

I was thankful that Charlie decided to put trust in me, even if he could never trust those around him while he was growing up. After my initial skepticism, I never offered any resistance to him, never doubted him, and never threatened him. I guess he felt very safe with me, safe enough to share some of his darkest experiences, safe enough to let me in and see what he cared for, or dreamed of when he opened his mind to possibilities. He confessed that his repeated abuses taught him an important motto by which he lived: “never lose control and never get close to others.” On some emotional level, with me, he violated both parts of this commandment.

By the time I met Charlie, he had spent nearly forty years in prison for commanding his followers to kill, and for being the ring leader of a murderous cult. In 1969 when the crimes occurred, Richard Nixon was president and China was still a society out of the reach of the western world. Had Manson been arrested and tried today for his crimes, he would almost certainly have been charged using the RICO, or organized crime laws. Even under the laws that existed four decades ago when he was arrested, Charlie was in serious trouble. He and his “family” members had been picked up on unrelated charges for stealing cars. On December 1, 1969, in a high-profile press conference, the group was introduced to the public as the counterculture cult responsible for the two-night murder spree, as well as some additional, unrelated, killings. The police wanted to impress upon the people of Los Angeles that they could breathe a sigh of relief. The perpetrators were behind bars and the killing had stopped.

Thanks to a lengthy and well-publicized trial, Charles Manson had become a household name, synonymous with evil incarnate. In our conversations, it was clear to me that Charlie was keenly aware of his notoriety. Some days, he bemoaned it, finding it a tough job to live up to, as people expected him to have god-like powers or wanted to measure themselves against him. Other days, he seemed to relish the infamy that swirled about him, boasting of events that revealed the far reach of his influence on our society.

Charlie bragged to me that he was responsible for creating some of the music made famous by the rock band called, “Guns ‘n Roses.” According to him, a prison guard in Vacaville named Sergeant Rose really enjoyed Manson’s music. The guard happened to be the father of Axil Rose who was at the time building his band in Sacramento. Some of the music and lyrics that Charlie composed were shared with Axil who used them to make millions of dollars. Charlie claimed that some of the music and lyrics were altered slightly, but were still obviously his. Though he was the composer, Manson never received the proper credit due him, or any royalties, for his compositions. This infuriated him to no end. When he discussed his music that was stolen, he was inconsolable.

“They steal my bandstand,” he complained, “steal my music and say that it is theirs, take all the fortune and fame, and they couldn’t send a dollar to help me, the brother who helped them. Nobody would have cared about their music if I hadn’t shown them how to do it!”

He paused for a few seconds, and then began to rant again. “There is a group called, ‘the Stone Roses.’ Now the Stone Roses and Guns ‘n Roses are stealing my bandstand!” Another pause and his words came out rambling. “There was nobody like me with long hair and a guitar who went into the bars in Bakersfield to play. I heard the people mock me, ‘look at the bitch playing a guitar. Look at that long-haired bitch.’

“I had to fight all the time with all the rednecks in the bar,” Charlie explained, “After I kicked some ass for disrespecting me, here comes a long-haired, bandana-wearing guitar player named Willie Nelson having it easy. Nobody steals my bandstand, nobody!”

By this time, Charlie was really yelling. I began to think that he would have a heart attack for getting so worked up. It started to get quiet on the tier. Charlie calmed down enough to start singing the Beatle’s tune, Strawberry Fields Forever: “Let me take you down, ’cuz I’m going to Strawberry Fields.” He carried the melody flawlessly. His voice was smooth and even, surprisingly unravished by decades of incarceration.

Down the tier, some crazy inmate who had just moved into an empty cell, number twenty-three, started to sing a twisted song at the top of his voice: “Get you, pa. Fling him in the mud. Hit your bitch. ROCK ON. ROCK ON!” His voice became louder than Charlie’s and that set Charlie off again.

“You’re juvenile,” Charlie screamed. “Why are you stealing my bandstand? This is my bandstand, juvenile. That’s juvenile.” At this moment, I realized that I needed to calm my old friend down.

Charlie could get very angry from time to time. Who could blame him? Stuck in a cage like an animal, stripped of his rights and his property, and taunted by other inmates, he would explode into threats and cursing. He only did this when he was locked tightly in his cell, secluded from the rest of the prison population, free from the threat of any violence or retaliation. He was full of rage, but he wasn’t stupid.

Sometimes, when he got angry, he got quiet. He seemed to be preparing himself or considering his next move. It appeared that his rage was barely under his control, while those around him waited in anticipation for what would happen. He would get noticeably quiet, unusually and eerily silent. It was scary to be caged beside this man while his anger was building up like the steam in a pressure cooker.

Suddenly, without any warning except for the period of quiet that foreshadowed his outburst, he would begin to lash out. He would explode over the recent infraction that got him upset. His fit of rage resembled the viciousness of a pit-bull amplified to the full volume of a stadium sound system.

There was no calming him down, once aroused. As he explained it, “there isn’t no ‘and,’ ‘why,’ ‘how,’ ‘sorry,’ ‘maybe,’ ‘I forgot,’ ‘I didn’t know,’ or, ‘whatever.’” Excuses and explanations were not part of the equation.

On this day, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “I give no warning shots.” It got quiet on the tier. Then he repeated himself, “I give no warning shots.” He spoke as though he were a tower guard clutching a sniper’s rifle. He imitated the sound of gunfire: “bang, bang, bang, bang,” with the volume and staccato cadence of a drill instructor. The tier remained quiet to see what would happen. At least, this was entertaining. At worst, there might be a significant threat for which an inmate needed a warning. Charlie, in these situations, would often voice threats to the immediate target of his wrath. He would tell an inmate what he would do to him. He would tell another inmate what was wrong with him and how he would straighten him out. Invariably, there was an implied or real threat of violence. His confidence, intensity, and hate were always palpable.

Usually, his fits of rage became tirades of words. He could yell anything at anybody: personal insults, threats, and criticisms. Frequently, these would degenerate into disjointed screaming against anything and anyone who had ever violated him. He would begin to use the word “You” in his diatribe. It was not always clear whether he was yelling against the California prison system, against the government, or against society in general.

New inmates frequently tried to join the eruption or argue against it. They soon learned that this was not a good strategy. Charlie would single out these new residents for some particularly creative threats or insults. Soon, the new inmate would realize that he could not out-shout or out-insult the old man. Other prisoners would instruct the fresh faces to quiet down, let Charlie have his speech, and ignore what he said. Those familiar with Charlie knew it was futile to try to interrupt him or stop him.

Like an ignited rocket, Charlie needed to spend his fuel before he could quiet down. Sometimes, it only took a few minutes; a short tirade could appease him at times. Usually, it went longer. The average was probably thirty minutes, but once he shouted for a full two hours. No one and nothing was free from the full brunt of his wrath. It wouldn’t have been much quicker for him to address his grievances, one by one, starting with one end of the tier proceeding to the other end. His words addressed each inmate in no particular order, then went on to address all the ills of the California Prison System, its review board and parole boards, before finally lashing out at society as a whole.

If someone has ever recorded one of his outbursts, I was never aware of it. It would be fascinating to possess a recording, even if only to preserve his thoughts for future generations. During the event, however, there is no thought to saving his words, on tape or otherwise. Inmates generally cowered and waited for the storm to pass. Even veteran guards would give Charlie much room so he could cut a wide swath. I saw more than one guard turn right around, forgetting whatever task he intended to complete, in order to leave the area while Charlie was yelling. I suspect that this “leave Charlie alone” strategy was encouraged at the highest levels.

The storm would pass, given enough time. It always did. Now in his 70’s, Charlie couldn’t sustain that wrath and that intensity indefinitely. Once spent, he would go and lie down or he would begin to busy himself with other things. I learned not to try to talk to him after his expulsions of anger. He was in no mood to talk, and even less willing to listen. He needed quiet time to relax and regain his strength. He would often fall asleep.

Frequently, the next day, an inmate would comment on Charlie’s outburst, knowing that the old man was spent, and, therefore, it was safe to do so. The inmate would offer some sarcasm, hoping Charlie wouldn’t revisit his anger, or he would make some snide comment about Charlie’s words. The only defense the old man was usually able to muster the next day was a dismissive, “Oh, shut up,” or, “Mind your own business.”

“Charlie, you have a lot of talent,” I pointed out to him in an attempt to calm him. “Everyone knows it.”

“Boxcar,” he started to explain, “Cell 23 used to be my cell. One day when I wasn’t getting respect, I set the front of that cell on fire. The flames reached as high as the door. That’s my cell!”

“Is that right, Charlie? Is that your old cell that you lit on fire?” I mirrored. I could tell that he was starting to calm down.

“Yes,” he affirmed, “in cell 23.” Knowing that I would be there for him helped him to relax, I think. I was aware that he had heart problems. He told me about them all the time. He also told me that he didn’t like to take his heart medication, or any medication for that matter. I may have saved him from some kind of cardiac event that day. I knew his health wasn’t very good. I also knew that he didn’t take care of himself exacerbating any health issues he had.

Sometimes, I would hear him cough and cough repeatedly, and then act like it was nothing. I knew it didn’t sound good. I would tell him to get some air in his cell, but it never helped to tell him what to do. He always did what he wanted to do, regardless of any advice he would receive from me or anyone else. He kept the bottom of his door covered, as well as the sides of his cell. He would block the air vent. I don’t know how he survived in that heat, but he managed, while still complaining that everyone was killing me, poisoning his water and polluting his air.

Occasionally, I would suggest to him that he go out in the yard to get some fresh air and some sun. The guards would urge me to convince Charlie to go outside. They knew I had a good relationship with the old man. Relationship or not, he scarcely listened to what I suggested. Almost always, he would refuse. He would say “That’s not a yard. That’s all cement. The yard I know has grass, flowers, and trees where I can smoke my Pall Malls.” I would agree with him then change the subject. Sometimes, when he got on some rant, I would tell him that I would get back to him after doing something. I invented activities with which to busy myself just to give him a chance to calm down.

At times, he could get extremely angry at the guards. I heard him yell at one, “I’m not P.C. [in protective custody and therefore segregated from the general inmate population]! I’m not P.C.! I didn’t ask for P.C.! They put P.C. in me! I’m not P.C.! They put P.C. in me. Not me! Not me!” Charlie raved as the bewildered guard tried to explain to him that some privilege was not available because he was in protective custody. I awoke to his yelling.

“Charlie, you all right?” I said as I shook sleep out of my eyes.

“I’m all right. He just wanted to rattle my cage,” Charlie replied.

That morning, we had to get ready for shift change. We knew it would be a difficult day for all of us. The guard we named, “Strawberry,” was coming on the tier. No one ever spoke with Strawberry unless he absolutely had to. We all knew that there was bad blood between Strawberry and Charlie. Charlie truly hated the guard and the rest of us understood why. We all witnessed the things the guard did to get Charlie riled up. The last thing we wanted was Charlie angry at us for cooperating with such an imbecile.

After Strawberry made his initial round, Charlie called to me. “Strawberry is the reason that I’ve lost so many privileges. He went into my cell and searched my pants and found two shives.”

“Is that right?” I asked as I listened.

“He could have just flushed them down and warned me not to have stuff like that in my pockets. Yeah, well, he only hurt himself when he did that to me. His wife and kids probably hate him because he is an asshole.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “He knew you don’t like chemicals and that you have bad lungs, and still that bitch dumps all that soap there and leaves it on the floor. Fuck that motherfucker, Charlie. That’s all I got to say. Fuck him: he’s a bitch-ass motherfucker.”