Charles Manson Behind Bars (13 page)

There were times I felt obliged to protect Charlie due to his advancing years. It was apparent to me that senility was setting in. The predators behind bars will prey on the weak, all of the weak, including the aged and infirmed. Like many elderly people, Charlie had been abandoned by family, and denied care that he dearly needed.

He was still very alert and very cautious, often overly suspicious and paranoid. I couldn’t blame him because of all that he has had to endure. I observed that almost every day someone was talking “shit” about him. If it wasn’t an inmate on the tier, or someone from another building passing a note, it was a person from the media communicating through the radio or newspaper. The worst were the comedians who often invoked his name as a synonym for pure evil before hitting a punch line that was never respectful of him. I learned to keep any negative information away from him.

At first, when I told him that I had heard or seen something about him, he would always say, “Yeah? What did they say?” I could tell that it hurt him and infuriated him when I recounted the slight. Over time, I stopped passing on information that I knew would upset him. He didn’t need to hear the latest joke or the false bravado of some rookie inmate who had never even met Charlie. On anniversaries of the Tate and La Bianca killings, the number of references to Charlie would always peak. It was especially important at these times for me to remain silent.

I felt very close to Charlie because of the depth of his sharing with me. He had a way of opening himself that at one and the same time revealed him to be vulnerable, yet very, very strong. He could be open, extremely open, sharing some of the disappointments of his life: how others had let him down, how he was abused as a child, and how he never had the support, supervision, and direction he needed as a young boy. Yet, I found out quickly that this sharing couldn’t be equated with weakness. Charlie refused to show any form of weakness. “Kindness is not weakness,” he often told me. And, to me, he was very, very kind—and generous.

Charlie made it clear to me that if I ever double-crossed him or brought harm to any of his friends, he would be sure to exact his revenge. He never detailed what he would do to me, the same way he seldom fleshed out his threats to others. However, it was impressed upon me that I didn’t want to even know what his revenge would look like. He never threatened me directly; he was able to couch his words in hypothetical instances where other people would be the ones who stepped out of line and others would be the recipients of revenge. He seldom took responsibility for violence or threats, but no thinking person could come away from his warnings without the clear message that to bring harm to Charlie was a punishable offense.

Even with the threats looming over me, our friendship could proceed. He had three rules for close friendship that he regularly shared. Friends of Charlie had to:

1) Keep it real

2) Never tell lies, and

3) Be a friend to his friends.

It was almost a gang code, the way he explained it.

By keeping it real, I was never to act phony around him. He wanted to know what was going on, exactly. He forbad me from playing games with him, falsely flattering him, or deceiving him. I’m not sure that he obeyed his own rule. In retrospect, it is possible that this code was part of the grooming to which he subjected others. He had no qualms about playing mind games with me. He had no problems with deceiving others, although not usually directly. By insisting that I keep it real, more than likely he was setting me up to be manipulated by him. At the very least, he was informing me that he was in control of the relationship.

He also never wanted me to lie to him directly. He told me that to lie was to disrespect. He noted that when you lie, you damage your own reputation. “Lies always get revealed sooner or later,” he explained.

Charlie’s third requirement ensured that his friends were friends with each other. Not that he had all that many close contacts in jail: he didn’t. Nevertheless, he insisted that those who were in his inner circle commanded the same respect and deference that he did. I never had any difficulty abiding by this demand. Generally, I don’t cross anyone’s path unless I must. I’m not well connected enough to afford to be on the wrong side of anyone, especially a powerful icon such as Charlie. If Charlie wanted me to befriend his friends, I was happy to oblige.

Charlie’s friends consisted mostly of those celled around him. He spent almost his entire week in his cell. He could if he wanted to, and sometimes did, send messages to other parts of the tier by means of a fish line or relayed message. Most of his communication was to the neighboring cells where he could converse quickly and in some privacy, however. His mail contacts were much more spread out, obviously. He corresponded for months or years with people on the outside. I had no doubt, ever, that he was strongly protected by his friends, whoever they were or wherever they happened to be; therefore, I never sought to harm him or allow any harm to be done to him. I knew my safety depended upon it. With his worldwide contacts, and his media presence, I could not risk being out of his favor. I learned that I would have to be loyal to him until death, even when we were in the throes of disagreement and not talking to one another. Because I cared for him so much, it was not hard labor for me to be committed.

I was educated about political movements through my relationship with Charlie, even though it was not a formal education. Through our friendship, he taught me how the world works. He impressed upon me the need for a revolutionary movement to correct the problems in our world. It is necessary for each and every voice is to cry out against injustice and wrong. We are witnessing injustice all around us, and we have observed it down through history. Yet changes are happening, too.

“It is a revolution that started a long time ago and continues to this day,” he elaborated one evening. “Every person who is a rebel against our democracy is labeled. It doesn’t matter if they are protesting our government’s exploitation around the world, or its oppression of the poor. They will be criticized and minimized. If you try to help young, lost children, teens, and young adults, you will be rejected, called ‘bad for society.’

“The revolution has leaders in every country in every generation,” Charlie continued. “They go by different names, but the message is the same, whether they were called Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara, Hugo Chavez, Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, Luis Farrakhan, Chairman Mao, Fidel Castro, Pancho Villa, Benito Juarez, or Emiliano Zapata. The list of people goes on and on. The faces are many, but the cause is the same. The establishment has always exploited the poor,” he went on, “and thrived off the blood, sweat, and lives of the old and young. The powerful springboard their careers, lacing their pockets with the money better spent to help the poor get a decent education, or help the farmer to modernize his farming equipment. If they choose, they could build better hospitals, schools, houses, roads and bridges. They could clean up our rivers, beaches, air, and soil. Instead, the politicians elected into office do nothing, even though they could make some difference because they have the platform to do so.

“Where the politician has failed, you and I could take a stand.” By this time, Charlie was animated and passionate as he preached. I could visualize his arms waving about, punctuating his words and emphasizing the cadence of his ideas. “This, my brothers and sisters, is the medium that I, Charlie Manson, have chosen to use to change the world.” I was the only one listening to him, but in his mind he was orating to some large crowd. I don’t necessarily agree with every aspect of what Charlie said to me. At the time, I did accept everything he said, unquestioningly. I am now somewhat removed from his words and can think more independently.

Still, I believe that changes are needed. The world will continue to deteriorate until someone does something to grasp our attention. Now I’m not saying that anyone should go blow up a car or building. Rather, I would prefer that everyone take a non-violent stance and utilize the writing of books as a way to reach people all over the world. Inspiring others can be accomplished through music, art, and writing, whatever medium that can be utilized to help spread the word so that it benefits people. Charlie chose art and music. For others, political discussions with their neighbors are probably the fastest, cheapest means of propagating a positive message of change.

Thankfully, today, because of the World Wide Web, it has become possible to help victims all over the world. Those with diseases require medicines and proper care, the poor need food and sustainable jobs, and the orphaned need security and a sense of belonging. All people need the basic building blocks of life and health and purpose. All of us need to help each other, or as Charles Manson would sing on the tier, “Love one another, help your brother.” One person at a time, we can make a difference. That is the revolutionary movement that is needed to correct our world’s problems.

I would never have understood this if it weren’t for my friendship with Charles Manson, and his words reverberate in all areas of my mind: “We are one. There is no you, me, him, they, or them. There is only one!”

Many people ask me whether Charles Manson is insane. My answer is always, “well, yes and no.” By the legal definition of sanity, in my presence, Charlie was as sane as you and me. He knows the difference between right and wrong. He was in full awareness of what he was doing and how it was affecting others. In fact, it’s this awareness that enables him to act the way he does. He is so sensitive to the actions and thought patterns of others that he is able to manipulate people for his own ends. He studies others to learn their weaknesses, and then uses these weaknesses against them. Acting crazy, and inviting others to conclude that he is in fact crazy, is one way he gets what he wants from other people.

Indeed, many of his actions appeared crazy. They were designed to be this way. He was always very intentional in the moves he made. Charlie did many bizarre things in my presence, and these served to keep others confused and perplexed. Who is the most feared adversary, according to any military strategist? Certainly, it is the insane opponent who may do anything at anytime and whose actions defy rationality. Charlie embraced the identity of the lunatic adversary, and he kept his opponents (and his friends) on edge with a deep sense of unease.

On one occasion, Charlie told another inmate and me to start talking with each other, yelling at the top of our lungs when he said the word, “go.” There was no warning, nor prior discussion of this bizarre charade. He simply commanded and expected us to carry out his orders. We didn’t know why we should do this or what purpose Charlie had in mind. We also didn’t know why we should not participate, so we each for our own reasons decided to comply with Charlie. Perhaps, it was easier to go along with his scheme than to object to it. It might lead to some fun, too. It doesn’t take much to amuse an inmate.

When he said, “Go.” We began to shout at one another:

“HI, MY NAME IS WILLIE.” I could not talk any louder.

“HELLO, BROTHER,” yelled Bill. “YOU KNOW WHAT I’D LIKE TO DO?” Bill was talking at the same time as me.

“NO, WHAT?” I asked.

“I’D LIKE TO GO FISHING IN A LARGE LAKE,” he screamed. “I WOULD CATCH ME SOME SALMON AND SOME TROUT.”

“I’D LIKE TO GO TO MCDONALD’S,” I yelled back. “I MISS HAVING A BIG MAC AND FRIES.”

“I’M FROM NORTHERN CALIFORNIA,” Bill continued. “PEOPLE FROM NORTHERN CALIFORNIA ARE MUCH COOLER THAN–”

Suddenly, Charlie shouted, “STOP.” We ceased speaking and sat in silence. Just as suddenly, he got us started once again. Soon, we were laughing like little girls at a slumber party. Crazy? Yes. However, everyone knew who was in control. As usual, the guards were put on notice to expect the unexpected from Charles Manson. Only the newer inmates had questions about what had transpired. The veteran Building Four inmates had seen it all from Charlie before.

At times, Charlie would say crazy things out of the blue. Anyone might think upon hearing about one of these that he must be completely out of touch with reality. As I think about it, however, I realize that he usually had some ulterior motive to say his ridiculous statements. He was entertaining others, he was recapturing control of the conversation, he was putting others on alert with the threat of the unexpected, or he was feigning lunacy to gain sympathy or elude responsibility for something. He may even have used fake insanity as a mask for his insecurities and fears.

He once told me that fish had talked to him while he was at the beach many years ago. I am convinced that he believed what he was saying. I saw no evidence that he was trying to get an untrue story past me. The words of the fish were no life changing pieces of wisdom. They didn’t issue commands of the type that a schizophrenic heeds. The words spoken by the fish were no more bizarre, other than their source, than any conversation that happens between friends. Why he felt the need to attribute the words to creatures that swim in the ocean, I couldn’t explain, unless, of course, it really happened to him.

The strangest thing he ever said to me was that dead people visit him. “If you want to know what one of your dead relatives has to say, just let me know,” he offered. We were talking about something entirely different. I have no idea how his mind wandered to talking with the deceased. “Dead people come to meet me in my cell and sometimes they tell me things about other inmates.”

Even in the height of my adoration of Charlie, I was skeptical of these visitors. If it were true that he was visited by the dead, I was certain that my granddad had better things to do beyond the grave than chat with Charlie. I didn’t respond to his offer, and he never brought up the subject again.

Charlie did many bizarre things in my presence, things that could be classified as crazy or psychotic. Why he did them is open to debate; that they always put people on edge is not. You could never know what to expect from day to day out of him.