Charles Manson Behind Bars (16 page)

Charlie’s time at McNeal Island also helped to shape his perspective on the death penalty. It made no sense to him to purposefully end the life of another human being, not in war and certainly not as the result of some crime. Even the worst of the worse behind bars had talents that could be a benefit to others. Why the state would want to terminate the life of anybody was beyond him. It was also beyond him to understand how putting someone to death would benefit society. No one ever refrained from committing a crime, or changed locations, simply because a particular state had the death penalty while another state did not. Had anyone ever heard of someone lugging an enemy across state lines to put a bullet in his head? Everyone knows that the government has put to death numerous people who were later exonerated, their innocence proven too late to allow any kind of restitution or final justice.

Manson pointed out to me that most people in prison are there because of drug offenses or because of doing something stupid while under the influence of drugs. Charlie always included alcohol when he spoke of drugs. Just because it’s legal doesn’t make alcohol any less damaging. In fact, more people have killed, stolen, or raped while under the effects of this legal substance than those who have been high on marijuana, cocaine or any other narcotic. Since alcohol remains legal, every other narcotic, all of which had done less damage to people than alcohol, should also be freely available to all citizens. “It might even lead them to a higher consciousness,” he observed.

Charlie believed that most people in prison were of a higher quality than the average person not in prison. He convinced me that our judicial system is essentially racist, elitist, and money driven. He had met his share of white collar criminals, even learned from them. What was most noticeable about them, Charlie told me, was the fact that they had shorter prison sentences and eagerly looked forward to returning to their previous lives. Those of lower classes were forever branded for their stay behind bars. Many didn’t welcome the uncertainty and the futility of life after confinement, a sentiment most white-collar criminals didn’t share.

“Many criminals should be housed in mental institutions,” he once related. The prison system isn’t a place to reform or treat those who are mentally ill, he was certain. After a few years behind bars, many inmates lose their sanity and need to be treated for depression, suicidal tendencies, or any of a host of other mental illnesses. Others were crazy before sentencing and didn’t find proper care in the general population.

Manson convinced me that many inmates are incarcerated simply because they are too good for this world. In carrying out this good nature of theirs, they offered a threat to a society that is lost in its evils. Consequently, many inmates are locked up to prevent them from making society’s ills look more egregious than they already do. He never included himself in this category, but I suspect that, if asked, he would say that this was his circumstance too. He repeatedly claimed that he did more good than harm, if he did any harm at all. His good ends were the justification in his mind for some of the acts that ran him afoul of the law.

He pointed to his work with Native Americans as proof that he did much good. Charles Manson is a rare Caucasian who has gained acceptance within the prison’s Indian, or Native American, population. Not only did he win friendship and respect from them, he achieved a leadership role among a group of people singularly known for mistrusting outsiders. While he was an inmate at McNeal Island, he gained a reputation for being friendly and charming. He seemed to be able to calm most other inmates and was often called upon by administrators to comfort a prisoner who was out of control. Long before he gained infamy with a reputation for being evil, and developed the accompanying aura of danger, he was generally liked by the inmates and guards.

At McNeal Island, there was one lone Native American. Nicknamed, “Iron Teeth,” the large inmate had just physically assaulted his sixth consecutive cell-mate. Because he was so big and muscular, as well as violent, no one wanted to be celled with him, Charlie explained to me. The warden had an insight. Instead of housing this man with an even larger cell-mate, he would try to pair him with Charlie to hopefully produce a positive match. Perhaps Charlie’s unthreatening stature and his friendliness would win the day.

Charlie was open to the idea, when approached. His friends told him that he was crazy, but that type of derision had never stopped him in the past. Perhaps Charlie saw the way to an advantage by cooperating with the prison hierarchy; maybe he wanted to get close to this large Native American for some unspecified reason.

As few would have predicted, Manson developed a friend in Iron Teeth. Almost certainly, he used street smarts and charm in lieu of any size or strength advantage. Charlie told the Indian many stories and related to him his own love for, and concern for, the environment. The two men’s devotion to Mother Earth drew them close to one another. Over time, other Native Americans were incarcerated at McNeal Island or transferred in from other institutions. No one suggested separating the Manson-Iron Teeth pairing because it was going so well. Manson soon earned the respect of the whole Native American community at McNeal Island. His acts of kindness and his love of nature impressed those who considered themselves at one with the trees and animals. His wisdom was sought by them when issues arose.

When the numbers of the Native Americans housed in the institution had grown to more than twenty, the group chose one of its members to function as a leader, the one who would have the final say in many matters. Leaders were always chosen by the group during a ceremony that involved a sweat lodge, a sort of sauna that functioned as a spiritual experience, a fellowship time, and a formal means of deliberation. For weightier issues, the natives would return to the sweat lodge to discuss and decide. Small issues were always decided by the leader of the band. Minor decisions only rose in prominence if one of the members demanded a gathering, Charlie told me. Through these sweat lodges, members of the various Native American groups represented in prison would cooperate and communicate their needs to one another, later informing the prison’s administration of any needs, objections, or frustrations.

One day, it was learned that the current leader would be transferred to a different facility. This greatly upset the community, the members of which would be required to choose a new leader and adjust to the changes. Iron Teeth explained the situation to Charlie and then added a prediction. He told Manson what he had foreseen in a dream: that another Native American would be chosen to be leader, but that a separate role would be created, that of spiritual advisor, a role that Charles Manson would fill. Honored, but more than a little surprised, Charlie made a bet with Iron Teeth that that would not happen. “I’ve got two packs of smokes and one prison meal that says that you are wrong,” Charlie offered. Iron Teeth accepted the bet. Soon after, the large native was called to participate in the sweat lodge.

Just as Iron Teeth had predicted, a new Native American was chosen to lead, and Charlie was invited to be the spiritual advisor of the band. Charlie accepted the proposal that was unheard of in Native American circles: an outsider invited to join and take a leadership role. The band eagerly welcomed Charlie, granting him the honorary native name, “Walks on Clouds.”

Charlie informed me that parole from McNeal Island penitentiary came unexpectedly and quickly. In preparation for life on the outside, he was transferred to Terminal Island Penitentiary, a familiar place where he had served time in the 1950s. Terminal Island, located outside of Los Angeles, functioned as a last prison for many inmates as they transitioned to life after prison. The transfer informed him that he would be released, but it didn’t tell him the date of parole. One day, several months into his time at Terminal Island, he was notified that he was to appear before the parole board. With only about an hour’s notice, he quickly washed and dressed in his finest attire. He was ushered into a hearing with no wait and with no lawyer. He noted the unusual nature of this meeting and wondered. All his questions were answered when the spokesperson for the board began to speak.

“You have been chosen for parole, Mr. Manson,” the man said, reading from a script. “You may gather your belongings. You will be released immediately. Congratulations and good luck!”

This turn of events greatly concerned Charlie. He didn’t know how to act on the outside, he told me. Up until then, he had spent nearly half of his life behind bars at one institution or another. The only places he felt truly comfortable, and relatively safe, were highly regulated institutions where he knew the rules and understood the system. He admitted that he was afraid to leave his familiar life behind bars.

He asked the parole board if it was necessary for him to leave, and whether he could stay. To me, his questions appeared more information gathering in nature, and not a plea to remain in prison. The answers he received didn’t give him any room to negotiate. The board told him that he had no say in the matter and that he was to be released immediately.

He stepped off the island ferry to freedom on September 11, 1967. He told me that at the time he felt exhilarated but intensely fearful of the future.

I was regularly amazed at the amount of mail Charlie received, something to which I never got accustomed. Several times he informed me that no prisoner in the United States got more mail than him. I don’t know how he knew this, but I didn’t doubt it, seeing the piles of letters that came his way each day. Usually, he was bragging when he claimed the “postal crown,” but once he lamented the volume that had just been delivered. I suspect that he was overwhelmed by his deluge of letters quite often. He couldn’t reply to all of the letters he received. Even reading them all would have consumed most of his waking hours.

Every prisoner receives at least some mail. Unpopular inmates only get a letter once or twice a month or less, as well as any inevitable pieces of junk mail; others will receive a small pile each day, especially those inmates who dedicate large portions of their time to preparing missives and responding to numerous pen pals. Charlie, by contrast, practically needed his own postmaster general. On a daily basis, he received stacks and stacks of mail. Everybody, it seemed, wanted a piece of Charlie.

As our friendship blossomed, he would share some of his mail with me. Some of it would make us laugh; other pieces caused us to roll our eyes.

Charlie noted, “Everybody has their angle: this person wants to write a book, that person plans to make a movie.” His insights into the schemes of others only reinforced his pessimism toward the human heart. Daily, he had to sort through the avalanche of mail with its demands that came to his cell.

Charlie generally ignored books and magazines. He was not much of a reader. Sometimes, he paged through these to observe the pictures. He might glance at the first paragraph or two of an article that caught his attention, but usually these did not hold much interest for him. He was more interested in the many personal letters he received.

He received so many personal letters that it was all he could do to skim the most interesting ones. Over the course of his many years of incarceration, he had developed a methodical system of moving his mail from an “in pile” to the trash can, a procedure that he worked through almost every day of the year.

Junk mail was quickly identified and deposited in his trash pile. What need he had of credit card offers or home equity loan applications was beyond him. He ridiculed the banks and companies that reached out to him. He didn’t need money: he was above and beyond the economy in his mind. “My world is not their world,” he declared to me in response to a picture of a flashy boat and a pile of cash.

He saved pieces of blank white paper, heavy stock paper, and cardboard to use in his artwork or his outgoing mail. Rough stock could be used in his art projects for its pulp content. He was generous in sharing the materials that he saved. Our tier never lacked for writing paper, even if it had been torn from the inside of a brochure or was the blank page of a magazine.

Charlie appreciated the magazines and books that were sent to him by friends and concerned admirers, though he never requested them nor agreed to receive them when offered. Depending on the issue, he would skim, discard, or study very carefully what published materials were sent. Very few articles actually held any interest for him. Most of this material was quickly added to the discard pile.

Personal mail received more care. Charlie prioritized it. Letters that were a thinly veiled (or not so thinly veiled) request for something were quickly tossed. Often, he had to read less than a paragraph, sometime only a few words, to realize where the note was headed.

Those letters that came from particular people with whom he corresponded, and those that drew his notice and interest, were given special attention. These were generally set aside until his could dispose of the large volume of mail that proved no attraction. His most personal letters were not shared with anyone, not even with me as we became close. They were evidently for his personal consumption only.

Charlie did share with me many of the letters from people who wanted something from him. Sometimes, he invited me to correspond with these people, if there was something that drew his attention and he thought I might be interested. We regularly shared jokes about the people who made demands of him.

I saw numerous requests that he received from reporters who wanted to write a story or produce a show about him or his crimes. Every time an anniversary of Sharon Tate’s murder approached, his volume of requests from newsmen, newswomen, and authors would increase. Some reporters sent questions in their letters. Usually, the queries were neither profound nor original. “Why did you do it?” and “How did you gather your ‘family?’” were the most common.