To Charlie, I was a loyal friend. He told me one day that he spends a great deal of time watching the way people interact with one another and has honed the ability to tell when people are being real and honest and when they are being false and deceptive. He’d decided I was trustworthy. When I asked him how he knew this, he said, “Easy: the way you are with Kenny.” According to Charlie, most people would have “dropped” Kenny after he facilitated a connection to Manson, his famous friend. I hadn’t. Manson has cultivated many ways to gauge and test a person’s loyalty. The assumptions he’d made about me from studying my
relationship with Kenny made sense. Some other observations about honor and devotion were less clear.
For example, Manson told me about a character he’d met on death row in the early seventies. “Pincushion” was famous for being the most-stabbed inmate in the history of the American prison system. Pincushion’s real name was Roger Dale Smith, and he’d originally gone to prison in 1964, for stealing a wallet from JCPenney. Throughout his time in prison, members of groups such as the Aryan Brotherhood and the Mexican Mafia stabbed Pincushion numerous times during conflicts that Pincushion claims he alone provoked. Eventually, Pincushion attacked and killed his cellmate. He was sent to death row for the murder, transferred after California
v.
Anderson abolished California’s death penalty, and eventually moved to Corcoran’s PHU in the mid-nineties. He’s since died, according to the men on the unit, from cancer.
After they’d met, Manson “hooked up” Pincushion with Graywolf and sat back over the next few years to see how the relationship developed. Manson said he’d been impressed with Graywolf’s patience and fortitude in sustaining the relationship, because “Pincushion could be a mean son of a bitch.” After spending considerable time watching the two interact, Manson concluded that Graywolf had all the characteristics of being an “honorable” man and that Graywolf was truthful, loyal, and righteous. Manson said he learned a lot from Pincushion, who he deemed the “best of the worst.”
I began talking to Graywolf almost daily. He told me he met
Manson in 1969, after Graywolf found himself out in California. He’d arrived just as everything Manson created was starting to fall apart. Intrigued by Manson’s environmentalist philosophy, Graywolf met most of the remaining Manson family members and even visited Manson himself in prison. And throughout the following forty years, Graywolf has upheld the highest level of loyalty to Manson, and to ATWA, which to Graywolf isn’t just a message or an idea, but a way of life. He’s worked tirelessly to promote ATWA through the creation of newsletters and other media, coupled with a nonstop approach to networking. But though Graywolf is unrelenting in his commitment to Manson’s words, thoughts, and ideas, he does not ascribe himself any level of importance higher than that of a true friend. Graywolf feels that he is in no way Manson’s right-hand man. But he is capable of contributing a great deal to Manson’s effort, considering the limitations surrounding a man who’s been incarcerated, often in solitary confinement, for more than the last forty years. Charles has never even experienced the Internet; he exists as a relic of another era, frozen in future time.
In the midst ofplanning Manson’s final address, I unexpectedly received Corcoran visiting papers from Charlie and Kenny. And so I quickly became acquainted with PHU’s visitation policies. If an inmate wishes to receive a visitor, he must send out a visiting form, signed, to the visitor. The visitor fills it out and mails it back to the prison to be processed. The approval procedure can take anywhere between four to six weeks, after which time the inmate learns whether or not his visitor has been cleared. I was more than a little surprised to receive the forms from Manson; it was common knowledge that he’d recently obliterated his entire
visiting list (something he routinely does according to whim) and had refused to see anyone. When I spoke to Kenny about the possibility of visiting Manson, he asked me to keep quiet on the issue, especially when talking to Manson himself. Kenny told me the old man didn’t like to talk on the phone about visiting. I’d have to wait for Kenny to suggest a good time to make the journey south to Corcoran, assuming I’d obtain clearance.
It started to look as if I wouldn’t. Weeks went by, then months, and after six months of waiting, I began asking Manson if he’d heard any news regarding my visit Each time I mentioned the matter, he acted as if he had no idea what I was saying. So I called the prison to inquire about the status of my application. I was told that I was “approved but pending,” and that everything should work out in my favor within three weeks. But when I called back after three weeks, I was informed that, due to matters of confidentiality, the prison officials could not share any information with me. Graywolf suggested I work out the issue exclusively with Manson and wait for him to tell me what I should do. Eventually, I got Charlie to listen to me. And he revealed, cryptically, that his door was always open to me; I just had to find a way in.
I decided to go to California. Of course, I wanted to meet Manson, but when it comes to Charles Manson, nothing is ever what it seems, and our relationship rarely ever worked out as I expected. So I planned the road trip as an adventure. I had accumulated a few weeks of vacation time from work and I could think of no better place to enjoy my freedom than on the open road, gazing at the beautiful western scenery, listening to great music, contemplating the complexity of my new friendship with
a man who’d intrigued me my entire life. I planned to keep a loose itinerary, and devote myself to visiting a few old friends along the way. I would go to Hollywood because, for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt drawn there.
To me, Hollywood feels like home and I’ve been its frequent visitor for the last twenty years. Sadly, Hollywood is not what it used to be; its history seems to be fading, fleeting, so much so that I wish I could have lived during its glory years. Still, I feel as if I can relive history just by walking around the famous monuments, the theaters, the restaurants, the Roosevelt hotel. It’s always fun to find Houdini’s star on the walk of fame, though for some reason I can never seem to remember where it is. I make a point to stop by Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, to see the celebrity signatures, handprints, and footprints forever preserved in concrete. When I find them, I always rest my hands over Marilyn Monroe’s delicate impressions. I love the clubs on the Sunset Strip, where rock ‘n’ roll made its debut and still echoes from such legendary establishments as Whiskey a Go Go, The Troubadour, and The Rainbow room.
This visit, Hollywood took on a whole new meaning. As I visited the familiar landmarks, I thought of Charles roaming the streets, hanging out. He had once lived just off Hollywood Boulevard. I remembered a story he told me before I left, about his days dancing at the Whiskey a Go Go. One night, he’d danced so crazily that sparks flew; he cleared the dance floor and when he had everyone’s attention he summoned the ten most beautiful girls at the bar to dance with him. Not one declined. “No one could believe how I could move,” he’d laughed over the phone. Walking down Hollywood Boulevard, I was overwhelmed by
the thought that I was somehow participating in history. If those streets could talk.
My friend Mark Hollywood Hatten grew up nearby, and his father is the groundskeeper of the former Houdini estate. Mark once gave me several old keys he’d found while exploring the property as a child. He believed they once belonged to Houdini; I do too. When he heard I would be in California, Mark encouraged me to meet his father, a man everyone called “Robin Hood,” a legendary percussionist who’d once been a member of The Doors. Robin Hood was a fixture at the old Tom Mix cabin, the “hippie cabin” as it was popularly known, in Laurel Canyon. Right off the Sunset Strip, the cabin was the hot spot for all the “freaks” once the bars let out. Frank Zappa, The Byrds, The Stones, Buffalo Springfield, Joni Mitchell, Charles Manson, pretty much everyone involved in the ‘60s rock scene would hang there. Even Houdini was into the scene; he had constructed an elaborate network of underground tunnels that traversed the distance between his home and his favorite hang-out. Houdini also hollowed out parts of the Hollywood Hills to create concrete cabins for parties and get-togethers. These secluded spots were some of the Manson Family’s favorite places to gather.
I met Robin Hood for breakfast at a small diner on the Sunset Strip. He looks exactly like an older version of his son Mark. He has a Nordic, Viking type style; I could see him being a tough, strapping man in the day and, by all accounts, he was. He wore a blue bandana in his long white hair and he was draped in at least fifty necklaces and probably one hundred bracelets. When I commented on his jewelry he told me, “This is nothing. You should have seen what I wore in the ‘70s.” I got the impression
that he’d always had this look and was currently just an older version of his former self. We talked about his life, my friendship with his son, and his days working as the groundskeeper of the Houdini estate. When he offered to take me on a tour of the property, I jumped at the chance.
While we strolled around the estate, Robin Hood shared stories of his glory days and pointed out the notable aspects of the area. Eventually stopped in front of a wide-open space. “This is where the cabin was,” Robin Hood said, sadly. He explained that the cabin had burned to the ground in a fire that hadn’t been the cabin’s first.
We talked about Houdini, who died under mysterious circumstances on Halloween, October 31, 1926, at the age of fifty-two. One of his last requests was that all of his personal effects be destroyed so his secrets could be buried with him. This request was never taken seriously, and, as possible consequence, there subsequently have been several mysterious fires related to Houdini. Robin Hood pointed out that on October 31, 1959, Houdini’s Laurel Canyon mansion burned to the ground. Exactly twenty-two years later, on October 31, 1981, the legendary hippie cabin was finally finished off after several previous fires. “The last time, the fire department just let it burn.” Robin Hood looked as if he could cry as he said this. He hadn’t been out to the site in more than ten years, and I got the sense that he wanted our visit to bring him some sort of closure. We stood in silence, looking over the few scarce pieces of foundation that remained. Robin sighed and I knew it was time I leave.
As we made our way back to my car, a beaded turquoise necklace fell from Robin Hood’s neck. He scooped it up and
immediately handed it to me. “What’s this for?” I asked. “It’s an old hippie thing,” said Robin Hood. “When you lose a piece of jewelry, you have to give it to someone else.” I accepted the necklace and hung it on my review mirror before we drove off to Sunset Boulevard. On the way, I asked Robin Hood what he thought of Charles Manson. He shook his head. “I didn’t like him; he once took an ax and chopped up my drums. I had no money to get them fixed.” Robin Hood believes Manson wanted to be like him. Robin Hood was a highly respected musician. Everyone wanted to be in a band with him. And so, Robin says, Manson saw him as a rival. “I think he was jealous of me.” Later, I would ask Charlie about Robin Hood. “He’s alright,” Charlie remarked, before denying his involvement in the drum incident. He could have sworn he remembered “some girl” breaking Robin Hood’s drums.
Eventually, I set off to meet Manson. The correctional facility is roughly a four-hour drive from Los Angeles, so I was able to leave one Saturday morning and drive directly to my destination, the forbidden fortress known as California State Prison, Corcoran. There are two major prisons in Corcoran: one is a substance abuse treatment center and the other is the state prison. Corcoran basically sits in the middle of the desert. It is extremely secure and eerily quiet. Everything is gray, including the gun towers that loom overhead and the buildings are large and spread out, so as to consume a massive amount of space. Thinking about how many prisoners have lived and died inside, you would expect to see at least a few people walking around, but there is no one. Instead, there are giant expanses of gravel surrounding structures built from solid rock. The prison’s seal, which depicts the state of
California and a few of the jail’s building and towers, is stamped on a stone wall surrounding the metal gates.
I made it past the first guard, who was standing in a small booth, almost like the kind you’d find in any paid parking lot. He approved my passport, but when I told him which inmate I was planning to visit, he told me not to get my hopes up: Manson wasn’t seeing anyone. I parked my car in a gray, graveled parking lot and once I was past the gates, I was surprised to see so many families inside, so many children. As I made my way into the processing area, I rehearsed everything Graywolf had said to prepare me: be confident, tell the guards, “I am on the list,” ask for a visiting form. When I completed the form and submitted it to the guard, he immediately turned me down: “Manson does not accept visitors; there is no one on his visiting list.” I insisted that I had been cleared, that Manson was expecting me, and for the following five minutes, I watched four guards hover around a computer, trying to figure out if they should let me through. They eventually decided that even though I’d been cleared, the “pending” part of my application still had to be handled by someone higher up. And since it was the weekend, there was no one around who could help me. I was denied and instructed to contact the warden on Monday.
I was disappointed, but not surprised. And I had yet to meet Graywolf, so I regrouped and organized the next leg of my trip. I called Graywolf to fill him in on what happened at the prison. He wasn’t surprised that my visit had been declined either: “This sort of thing happens all the time,” he remarked. I asked Graywolf for directions to his home, but he gave me directions to a public park instead. Driving to our meeting place, I felt a little apprehensive. I
had spoken to Graywolf on the phone, grown accustomed to his North Carolina accent and his deliberate, confident, articulate style of speaking. But I had no idea what he looked like, and as I approached my destination it seemed increasingly strange that he had asked me to meet in a park.