Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars (14 page)

A famous prison like San Quentin adds fuel to the fire. Even without Manson, there was enough going on in the lockups to bring a band of newshounds to our gates every few weeks.

Personally, I enjoyed the media and felt they served a purpose. It was their job to snoop around and make sure everything was being handled properly. If it had been my call, I’d have had an open-door policy that allowed the press to scrutinize anything they wanted. Unfortunately, my bosses, particularly Associate Warden Rinker, didn’t share that view. In typical heavy-handed fashion, Rinker believed in making things as tough for the media as possible. That, however, only gave the impression that we had something to hide. With Charlie in the house, that was not the best signal to send out. As any good PR person knows, you give the media the impression that something sneaky is going on, and it brings them out in droves.

Although Manson had used the media to his own advantage, and would again, he had his own reasons for distrusting the pen, pad, and microphone brigade. “When all this stuff went down about me, the lies, twisted stories, and outright fabrications were unbelievable. Every day I’d read something and wonder who they were talking about, because it sure as hell wasn’t me. After that first wave of media vultures picked my bones, there was nothing left to live for. Hell, I didn’t need to be put in jail. The media locked me in a cell that I’ll never be able to escape! They created a monster that can no longer live in their sick society. I’ve had to create a new life in here, in my mind. It’s an existence that’s not related to this planet. To protect my world, I’ve learned that I must remain silent and stone-faced around others, because the slightest blink will result in some half-assed opinion on what it means. Then another version of who I am goes out to the masses that in no way reflects who I am. Everybody’s had their shot. The media, authors, shrinks, lawyers, broadcasters, prison guards, they’ve all fucked me like a whore, then refused to pay. And after all that fucking, nobody really knows me.”

There was some truth to that, but the vision of Manson being “silent and stone-faced” is laughable. He’s the most glib and animated person I’ve ever known. And he’s an expert at using exaggerated body language to boost whatever image, philosophy, or mental state he’s selling at the moment. The media can hardly be blamed for going along with his sensational act.

“You think you know me, Ed, but you don’t,” he lectured. “That’s because I’m many different people. I’m God to my friends. I’m the Devil to my enemies. When I’m bad, I’m ‘the Black Pirate.’ When I’m peaceful, taking care of my flocks, I’m ‘the Gardener.’ When I look into the future, I’m ‘the Prophet.’ When I must lay down the law for our earth, I’m ‘the Son of Man.’ And these are only some of my beings.”

“Yeah, well let’s make sure we see a lot more of ‘the Gardener’ and a lot less of ‘the Black Pirate,’” I parried.

Another group prison administrators despise are liberal, crusading lawyers. These are the guys who file suit after suit trying to gain privileges for the cons and protect their rights. There was one particular legal gadfly named Paul Cominsky who had a ramshackle office right outside our gates. He made his living filing writs for inmates. Since most inmates are stone broke, it was basically a labor of love. For that, I couldn’t help admiring the guy—even if he was a major pain in the ass.

I liked Cominsky. We shared a common bond in that both of us had done some serious time at Catholic seminaries before escaping and going into law enforcement. Cominsky’s problem was that he was a wee bit gullible. He believed everything the inmates told him, and about three quarters of it was total bullshit. I tried to make a deal with him to honestly reveal which twenty-five percent was the truth, but he wouldn’t go for it. He accused me of being part of the silent conspiracy to protect the institution.

After Manson arrived and more attention was being placed on San Quentin, Cominsky stepped up his activities. When the accusations of inhuman treatment began to rain on us fast and furious, I took Cominsky aside and invited him and his legal cohorts for an up close and personal visit. “That’s a deal!” he said, quickly submitting a list of people he wanted to bring with him. I ran a security check and everyone seemed okay. None appeared ready to join the revolution by smuggling a zip gun in to Charlie and leading a suicide charge out the gates. Regardless, when I passed the list to Deputy Warden Lou Fudge, it was promptly disapproved. “Too many local radicals. Could be trouble,” he growled.

“We’ll search them and have the officers keep a keen eye on them,” I argued.

“No. That’s final. Not with that little fellow up on your wing.”

I relayed the bad news to Cominsky. He smiled and pulled out another writ form. “Say no more,” he cracked. “We’ll see what you’re hiding now.”

A few weeks later, we began hearing persistent rumors about plans for another inmate riot, this one to occur in the AC unit. Rumors like that flourished in prison, usually started by the cons to screw with the officers’ heads. However, this one began having an eerie ring to it that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. When a call came in from the outside with specifics, we really took note. The caller stated that an AC inmate currently out for a court hearing was going to “come back with a piece.”

The problem here—aside from the horrors of another savage riot—was Manson. This was his unit. If things went crazy, we all knew that the one con who’d slink away in the commotion and vanish into the night would be Charlie. If that happened, newspapers around the nation—even the world—would dust off their Pearl Harbor–sized headlines and announce to a terrified populace that the planet’s most frightening murderer now walked among them.

For me, it was far more personal. Once out, Manson would probably go straight to my house for a well-rehearsed chat with my daughter.

The caller didn’t specify that the attempt was being backed by Manson’s clan. That didn’t matter. If anything, it was worse. If Manson wasn’t the focus of the takeover, it would be that much easier for him to slip away during the chaos.

I huddled with my men. We spread out the prisoner lists to determine if anyone was in court at that moment. There were a half dozen, which wasn’t unusual. Narrowing it down, we kept coming back to an inmate named Parks, a longtime radical who’d been suspiciously quiet for a while. The book on Parks was that he associated with violent revolutionary types. That set off alarms as the cons with a higher “cause” are usually the most dangerous kind. Instead of merely wanting to escape, they want to raise hell and attract attention to their agenda. Plus, they can gain assistance from their brethren on the outside as well as inside. Interestingly, although Parks was white, his jacket said he’d thrown in with the African Americans.

When Parks returned from his hearing, I issued an order to give him a thorough going-over. The handheld, paddle-shaped metal detector let out a piercing squeal just as it passed over Parks’s butt, signifying a “keister stash.” That meant he had something metal up his ass. Parks, realizing the gig was up, made a break for it. After a brief scuffle, he was subdued and transported to the hospital for an X ray. The minute he saw the machine, he freaked again. Several officers had to hold him down so we could photograph his butt.

Bingo. The X ray revealed the shadow image of a barrel about three inches long. A secondary shadow inside the first appeared to be a .22 caliber slug. I immediately ordered the chief medical officer to dig in and yank the weapon out. To my dismay, he refused, claiming that he didn’t have the patient’s permission to do such an invasive procedure.

“Are you nuts?” I barked, my voice rising. “He’s got a zip gun up his ass and you won’t operate? That’s evidence for a felony, Doc!”

“I know. But I have liability to worry about. I’ll need a search warrant.”

“A search warrant for a pistol in a con’s ass?” The doctor nodded. “Okay, I’ll call the judge,” I conceded, totally exasperated.

Parks had probably received his Colt .45 colonic in the judge’s court, so I knew this was one warrant that was going to be fast-tracked. I reached the judge at home and stressed that precise point. The judge was no fool. “You don’t need no stinkin’ warrant,” he snapped, sounding like a Mexican bandito in a Bogart movie. “Tell that damn doctor that he has the right to take the evidence as long as it’s done in a medically acceptable manner.”

The doctor wasn’t happy with the verbal order. After more vacillating, I finally convinced him that the judge really, really wanted him to perform the procedure. The M.D. sighed and called for an anesthetist. The dream weaver arrived and administered sodium pentothal, a powerful downer. The drug relaxed Parks so much that the barrel began sliding down on its own. The doctor was able to easily grasp it with his handy probes. The freed contraband was exactly as depicted, a three-inch barrel with a .22 caliber slug inside. What the X ray hadn’t shown was that it was wrapped in plastic and had rubber pencil erasers plugging each end. It had been smeared with Vaseline for smooth sailing.

Although the weapon wasn’t complete, I was certain the other parts were already up on the tier.

When I phoned Rinker to inform him of our big save, his reaction was bizarre. “What are you talking about, Ed? Are you smoking weed or something?”

“No, Ted, this is real. We X-rayed this guy and found part of a zip gun in his ass.”

“Ed, you shouldn’t be using X rays on a routine basis. I told you that. It could get us in trouble.”

I couldn’t believe it. We had just stopped a gun component from literally walking on to Charles Manson’s tier, and the only thing this guy could think about was Mickey Mouse procedure? All Parks had to do was cut a fart on the stroll to his cell and Manson’s ticket to freedom would have bounced into his cell like manna from heaven.

“Yeah, I know the rules,” I said. “But this time we had good cause. Are you listening? We found part of a gun!”

“Look, Ed, I don’t want you blowing the place up. You’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting? Do you know who’s in Parks’s wing?”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” I said, shaking my head.

“Let me make the decision,” Rinker continued.

“What decision?”

“About the X ray.”

“I already did.”

“Did what?”

“Made the decision to X-ray.”

“What are you trying to do, be a hero?” he raged. “Get promoted? Make me look bad? Who’s over there with you?” he demanded, rattling off the names of his top henchmen. Fortunately, all were off duty. “Okay. Well, you better not mess up,” he huffed. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

Parks clammed up when we grilled him on where he got the barrel and what it was for. Some of the guards suspected a fellow officer of helping the cons bring in contraband, and things got ugly for a while. The suspect, an African American, was being singled out because the wing housed packs of African American revolutionaries who constantly pressured their “brother” for help. It got so bad on both fronts that the officer wanted to quit. I knew he was above reproach and tried to convince him to stay, but he wanted out.

To keep that kind of staff suspicion from tearing us apart, I instituted a plan in which the guards themselves were searched before being allowed on the job. This included their lunch pails, briefcases, everything. Instead of railing against the injustice of it, the men were in favor. This took the pressure off those being tempted or hounded to bring in illegal materials to the cons.

Of course, when the media found out about it, they made it front-page news and put a slant on the story that the officers at San Quentin—the men entrusted with keeping Charles Manson behind lock and key—didn’t trust one another. Rinker wasted no time in chewing me out, ordering an abrupt end to the innovative program.

Another innovative program I helped put into place—and my buddy Manson nearly derailed—was even more controversial. The psychiatrist assigned to my section, Dr. Joyce Sutton, was a rare, eternally optimistic soul who felt she could really help degenerate reprobates like Manson, Pin Cushion, and the rest of the murderous crew. A classy, sexy woman who resembled Grace Kelly, she was totally out of place in a stink hole like San Quentin. Naturally, the prisoners gave her a hard time. During her first months, every time she walked down the tier to pay a house call she was showered with lewd and crude remarks and come-ons. Some of the sickos even dropped their pants and gleefully masturbated as she passed by. One particular joker called her over to his cell, expressed an admiration for her eyeglasses, and asked if he could see them. Wanting to fit in and make a friend, she obliged. The guy promptly walked to his stainless-steel John and flushed her eyewear down the toilet.

In the face of all this abuse, Dr. Sutton persevered. She ignored the relentless 1-900 talk and continued to display an unwavering professionalism underlined by a sincere concern for the inmates in her care—even the ones jacking off in her honor. Little by little, her mental toughness began to earn the respect of the men. By her sixth month, the gross sexual comments had virtually vanished. Dr. Sutton had become one of the boys.

After initially playing his typical sexist mind games with her, even Charlie came to respect Dr. Sutton. She spent time working with him, trying to sort out his myriad psychological problems. Buoyed by his calming temperament and brief periods of seeming understanding, she felt she was making some real headway. Although I was Dr. Sutton’s biggest supporter, I remained cynical. Manson, I figured, had to be manipulating her for his own benefit, whatever that might be. He’d talked rings around his past shrinks, transforming himself into anything he wanted to be at the moment—sane or insane, genius or simpleton, abuser or victim. There was no reason to believe that he wasn’t doing the same number here.

One explanation for his “progress” seemed pretty obvious. Dr. Sutton was responsible for handing out Valium, a sedative that’s valued like crack cocaine behind bars. That, I suspected, was the main reason that Manson, and scores of other devious cons, cut her some slack and went along with her program. Questioning her about this, I was surprised to learn that Manson “just said no” when it came to Valium. He’d drop LSD like gumdrops, but swore off the legal tranquilizer. His respect for Dr. Sutton was apparently genuine.