Manson in His Own Words Page 2

  The ice had been broken, but the room was filled with tension. Manson wouldn’t allow me within arm’s length of him, and never placed himself in a vulnerable position. He was always geared to defend himself instantly. His paranoia was even more evident when I first offered him a cigarette. “You light it!” he said. I handed him the lit cigarette, but before taking a drag, he carefully fingered the entire length of it and asked, “How far down is the bomb?” He wouldn’t touch the soft drinks or candy bars I had placed in front of him until I drank from one or took a bite of candy. He would then reach for the one I had tasted, eating or drinking only after my example had assured him that it wasn’t poisoned. “Are you putting on an act,” I asked, “or are you really so paranoid you think I’m here to poison you?” His eyes met mine in an unblinking stare as he said, “Hey look, I ain’t seen you in fifteen or twenty years. When we were in the joint together, you didn’t have the time of day for me. Now all of a sudden you show up. How do I know what you got in mind? I been alive this long ’cause I’m on top of people’s thoughts. You don’t know how bad these motherfuckers want to get rid of me. I been livin’ in their shit for ten years, and every day they send in somebody to do a number on me. I been alive this long ’cause I’m aware. I don’t trust you or anyone!”

  At that moment, trying to change his opinion of me would have been wasted effort, but I did feel it necessary to explain why I hadn’t had the time of day for him when we were doing time together. “You were eight years younger than me; I had already been through all you were going through. You and the guys you lined up with in the joint were playing games and trying to impress everyone. All I wanted was to do my time and get out. It wasn’t a question of liking or disliking you.” My words seemed to calm him. The intimidating anger that had been mounting in his voice vanished and he began asking about some of our former mutual friends. As it turned out, he was much more up-to-date on their lives and whereabouts than I was. Jails have a hell of a grapevine on alumni, especially if the guy has taken another fall or is still wheeling and dealing. On the other hand, if he straightens himself out, it seems the line ends and the person might as well be dead as far as other convicts are concerned.

  After about thirty minutes, the guard informed us we had five minutes remaining. During that five minutes Manson brought up what I had decided not to mention on this first visit. He said, “So you’re a writer now, huh? You know I’ve been burned by all you bastards, and I don’t trust any of you fuckers to tell the truth. Whatta you think about that?” I didn’t know if he was telling me to get lost, or if it was just his way of checking out my reaction. I answered, “That’s all right, Charlie, I don’t trust a lot of writers either. So forget I came over here looking for a story—I’m here because we’ve done some time together, and if a visit or two breaks up the monotony for you, I’ll come back. If you’d rather I didn’t, I won’t.” He didn’t give me a direct answer, but said, “Hey, I could use some stamps and writing pads, can you handle that?” “Sure,” I told him, “and if you need a few dollars on the books, I can do that too.”

  Our time was up, and as we said our goodbyes he stood closer to me. We exchanged a parting handshake that held a little warmth. Neither of us had mentioned the crimes. Though he hadn’t said so, I felt he wanted me to continue visiting. Given time, I thought, some trust and confidence could develop between us.

  I sent the writing material he asked for, along with some money for commissary items. We exchanged a letter or two and I began visiting almost weekly. The next couple of visits were pretty much like the first. He didn’t talk much about the outside or the past, but had plenty to say about how the prisons had changed. For a sentence or two he would be coherent—if not logical—but then he would suddenly switch subjects without completing the thought.

  I wasn’t aware during the six or seven visits that first couple of months that Manson had been receiving medication until one day he said, “Maybe you’re some kind of therapy for me, ’cause they are cutting down on jabbing me with that needle.” After that, our visits became more constructive. We began talking more about the crimes. He was evasive in response to direct questions about his actual involvement, but talked freely about “his girls,” life at the Spahn Ranch, the Mojave Desert and his dune buggies. He volunteered some information about Lynette (Squeaky) Fromme and the assassination attempt on President Ford. One day, he unexpectedly asked, “You heard about Red being in Alderson, didn’t you?” (”Red” was his “color name” for Fromme; several of the main girls in the family were identified by various colors.) “I have to carry that load too. I didn’t tell her to take no shot at Ford. That was her trip, but like everything else, it’s Charlie’s fault. Hey, Charlie’s Angels on TV is even a take-off on me and my girls. By the way, do you think I sent those kids to Melcher’s house?” It was the first time he had asked outright if I thought he was guilty or not.

  “You’re here, Charlie,” I said, “I have to believe some of it.” He exploded and I got my first look at those sharp, penetrating eyes that appeared so often in newspapers and on the covers of magazines during the court proceedings in 1970. He came at me, not in a physical attack, but shouting, his face inches from mine. “You motherfucker, you ain’t no friend, you’re just another victim of Sadie’s [Susan Atkins] and Bugliosi’s Helter Skelter bullshit! Fuck you, get your ass on down the road.” The guard had his keys out and was about to open the door to break up the fight he thought would surely happen, but I told the guard, “It’s all right, we’re just having a little disagreement.” The guard hesitated and Charlie backed off and glared at both of us. He was trembling with anger. Then I saw him relax, and he said to the guard, “Yeah, it’s all right, everything’s under control.” The flare of temper subsided as quickly as it had surfaced. Manson picked up the conversation in a quiet, calm tone of voice. “You know, I been around long enough to know that if you do the crime you gotta pay, but I ain’t guilty the way those pricks convicted me. So I ain’t supposed to be here! At least not under the gun the way they got me. They might have made me on conspiracy, an accessory before or after the fact; that would have carried the same sentence, and I’d be doing my time without crying.” Then quickly, for fear I might think he was showing weakness, “I ain’t crying, understand, but these fuckers are doing me wrong.” There was a moment or two of silence as his eyes bored through me in an effort to read whether I believed him or not. I broke the silence by saying, “If that’s the way it is, Charlie, let me write the book the way you say it was.” He smiled and said, “You cagey mother. After two months you finally got it out. But man, I don’t know if I can trust you.” “What’s to trust, Charlie?” I asked. “Everything bad has been said about you. But your life represents all the ills in our society and, properly illustrated, it could be an example for society. You’ve always said, Those parents sent their kids to me.’ Your life as it really was, without all that Helter Skelter bullshit that went down during your trials, could show why those kids came to you, and make parents take a look at themselves and their kids. There is a lot to be learned from the life you have lived. And besides, you have your own version of what happened to bring about the slayings. Let me write it.”

  “You know what, Emmons, I don’t give a fuck about those kids out there! It’s up to their parents to take care of them. Those kids and their one-way parents are what got me here. Let them take care of themselves. No—fuck it! I ain’t into being no part of no book! Especially a book that makes me look like some do-gooder. Fuck ’em, they built the image, let them live with all these kids writing me letters wanting to visit me and join my ‘Family.’ Fuck, there was no family! Some reporter stuck that on us one time when they hassled us out at the ranch. Besides, ain’t nobody out there wants to read something they might learn from. Blood ’n guts and sex is the only trip they get behind when they’re spending their dollars.”

  I left the visiting room that day feeling discouraged. I realized I’d used the wrong approach when
suggesting he allow me to use his life as an example. He hated everyone in conventional society so much that he didn’t want to contribute anything that might, even remotely, be of value to society.

  Several days after that particular visit, I received a letter from Manson that included two letters from publications requesting interviews with him. In his letter to me he asked if I thought he should do the interviews. Instead of writing back, I went to see him the next day. No mention of the book was made, but I told him if he was allowing interviews, let me be the first. “You got it!” he replied. “But one of these letters is from a girl from a local newspaper who has been hounding me for a long time to let her come in, so why don’t you check her out and maybe bring her with you.” We agreed that the woman and I would interview Manson together. I spoke with her and she, in turn, agreed to certain restrictions.

  During the interview the reporter asked Manson, “Why do you have so much confidence in Emmons? I mean, you have refused so many interviews, but you have allowed him to interview you.” Charlie’s answer held a pleasant surprise for me. “Well, me and Emmons go back a long way. He understands me. Actually he’s one of my fathers, he helped raise me and he’s doing a book on my life.” For Manson to suggest that I had been like a father to him and had helped raise him was anything but flattering, but he had mentioned the book and I wasn’t going to press him as to why or when he had changed his mind. Perhaps he appreciated my regular visits, perhaps he recalled the favor I’d done him; whatever the case, he was willing to cooperate.

  In addition to the publication I was working for, I had made arrangements with UPI to furnish their wire service with some pictures and a release on the interview. My story did not mention that Manson had agreed to furnish me information for a book, but UPI’s release said that I was writing a book on Charles Manson. I immediately began receiving letters about him. Though his crimes had been history for over a decade, Manson still attracted a startling amount of attention and interest. Most of the mail came from the United States, but there were also letters from Canada, England, Germany, Spain, Italy, and Australia. Many of them offered information for a book about Manson, all such letters suggesting that he be allowed to tell his version of his life and the chain of events that led to the slayings of 1969.

  The material for this first-person narrative has been assembled from many interviews, corroborated by his correspondence with me and with others, despite numerous obstacles. Even after Manson had agreed to cooperate, he was not always willing to do so, and I listened to hours upon hours of repetitive complaints about how rotten the prisons and the prison system were. I was allowed the use of a tape recorder only when interviewing Manson for a commissioned article for publication. On such occasions, the institution furnished me with a tape recorder because some years earlier, after an escape attempt at San Quentin, it was believed that an attorney had used his tape recorder to smuggle a gun inside. With the exception of these limited occasions, I had to make mental notes until I could record them on tape or in writing. I spent many hours in the prison parking lot, writing down names and specific phrases that typified Manson’s speech and his ideas. I frequently had to go over events with Manson several times to confirm details and correct the misperceptions created by other accounts. In some cases it was impossible to corroborate Manson’s version of the facts, but the purpose of this book is, above all, to record that version.

  I pieced his childhood together with help from many sources. In addition to what he told me, which contained many gaps, I journeyed across the United States to where he was born and the places he spent the first sixteen years of his life. In Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia and Kentucky I talked to those who could fill in gaps and verify what Manson said. When there was new information, I would return to Manson and repeat what I had been told, to hear his words and sense his feelings about it.

  What I have recorded here as a continuous chronological narrative is therefore actually the result of a long process of discussion and re-examination of the events, checking and cross-checking of details, and re-organization of the frequent, frustrating leaps of Manson’s conversation. Nevertheless, it represents Manson’s recollections of his life and his attitudes toward it as accurately, consistently, and coherently as is humanly possible.

  Since my first visit with Manson, more than six years have passed. During those six years, and hundreds of hours of conversation, I have experienced his hate and contempt—and he mine. I have seen tenderness, a soft side that may well have been his strength in attracting those involved with him. But never has he demonstrated any remorse or uttered a word of compassion for those lives taken in the madness he and his group shared.

  When questioned about his lack of remorse, Manson abruptly changes his attitude and aggressively defends himself: “Remorse for what? I didn’t kill those people! Ask the DA and all the media people if they have any remorse for sending all these kids to me, kids wanting to pick up knives and guns for me because the DA and the money-hungry writers pumped the public into believing I’m something I’m not. Shit, they built the image—and they keep feeding the myth.”

  The myth of Charles Manson, the publicity that made him seem intriguing, the current concern about child abuse and where the use of drugs can lead all seemed important reasons to tell his story. It seems to me the myth of Charles Manson is not likely to survive the impact of his own words. They are important testimony to the consequences of the continued use of drugs, and the account they give of his early life shows once again that all children must have love and understanding. Failing to find it at home, they will search for it elsewhere. Enticed into accepting the myth of Charles Manson as reality, many people have turned to him for help.

  Manson does not exaggerate the mail, visitors and potential followers who seek his attention. I have met many of them. He has forwarded to me almost two hundred pounds of mail, and sent similar quantities to others for safekeeping and review. His statement that “some are offering to pick up knives and guns” or willing to “off some pigs” for him is verified in many letters I have read addressed to Manson.

  It is frightening, and most of us wonder why they do it. Manson stated, “Look at yourselves! It isn’t me or any power I have. It’s the way they were treated when they were small and their parents tried to play God. All the propaganda laid out by someone wanting to feel important and get rich gave them someone to turn to in their frustration.” He said it as clearly as it might ever be said.

  With the exception of the introduction and conclusion, my opinion of Manson is not represented in this book. In letting him tell his story, I have edited it to eliminate repetition and digression, and standardized many irregularities of speech. Some names have been changed, even those mentioned elsewhere, out of consideration for those involved. But the ideas and opinions expressed here are entirely his. I have simply tried to record his story as coherently as possible, to convey his meaning as he presented it to me in his own words. And although it is his story, Charles Manson receives no royalties or any other remuneration from this book. His only recompense will be the chance to have his story heard. Although he has heard or read most of the manuscript, the final decision about what would be included and what would not has been entirely mine.

  I would like to express my gratitude to Grove Press, especially Fred Jordan and Walt Bode, who dared, and helped, when others turned their backs.

  Finally, to the Tates, LaBiancas, Folgers and other surviving family and friends, I apologize for opening wounds and stirring thoughts of those horrifying days in August 1969.

  PART ONE

  THE EDUCATION OF AN OUTLAW

  CHAPTER 1

  ON April 19, 1971, in Los Angeles, California, Charles Milles Manson heard Superior Court Judge Charles H. Older say, “It is my considered judgment that not only is the death penalty appropriate, but it is almost compelled by the circumstances. I must agree with the prosecutor that if this is not a proper case for the death penalty, what should be? The De
partment of Corrections is ordered to deliver you to the custody of the Warden of the State Prison of the State of California at San Quentin to be by him put to death in the manner prescribed by law of the State of California. “

  In the courtroom with Manson were three co-defendants, Susan Atkins, Leslie Van Houten, and Patricia Krenwinkel. On March 29, 1971, a jury had found them guilty of the murders of Sharon Tate Polanski, Abigail Folger, Voytek Frykowski, fay Sebring, Steven Parent, Leno LaBianca and Rosemary LaBianca. At a later date, Manson received the same sentence for two additional murders, as did four more co-defendants: Robert Beausoleil, Charles Watson, Bruce Davis and Steve Grogan. Beausoleil was convicted for the murder of Gary Hinman, Davis and Grogan for their participation in the death of Donald (Shorty) Shea. Watson was a member of the group that did the Tate-LaBianca slayings.

  —N. E.

  JAILS, COURTROOMS AND PRISONS had been my life since I was twelve years old. By the time I was sixteen, I had lost all fear of anything the administration of the prison system could dish out. But convicts, being unpredictable, made it a real possibility that dying in prison would be my fate, especially when the prosecuting attorney, the media and some department of corrections officials planted seeds in the minds of other convicts by statements such as, “Due to the nature of Manson’s crimes he will be a marked man for other convicts seeking attention and notoriety.” In hearing Older pronounce the death sentence, I realized he was doing so with the full authority of the California Judicial System, yet I knew I would never be executed by the State of California. Die in prison, perhaps. But executed by the State, no!