No Journey's End: My Tragic Romance with Ex-Manson Girl, Leslie Van Houten

by Peter Chiaramonte

  At the time he published Helter Skelter in 1974, author Vincent Bugliosi remarked, “The average incarceration in California for first-degree murder is ten and a half to eleven years. Because of the hideous nature of their crimes and the total absence of mitigating circumstances, my guess is that all will serve longer periods…the girls fifteen to twenty years, the men, with the exception of Manson himself, a like number…my guess he will remain in prison for at least twenty-five years, and, quite possibly, the rest of his life.”

  Bugliosi published these estimates more than forty years ago. By the time of her next parole hearing in 2018, Leslie will have served forty-eight years. Turns out Bugliosi hadn’t been right about most things.

  * * *

  Two weeks after the murder of Rosemary and Leno LaBianca, Manson ordered another person killed. Only, this time, it was someone very specific. Donald ‘Shorty’ Shea was a foreman at Spahn Ranch. He was the ninth and final victim in the Manson murder spree that began a month before, beginning with Gary Hinman.

  Manson and Shea never got along. And, since Shorty was continually trying to convince George Spahn to run the Manson Family off the ranch, Charlie concluded that it was Shorty who snitched to police about the drug dealing, car theft and rumors of more strange, sinister goings on. Two weeks after the Tate-LaBianca murders, Manson enticed Shea to take a ride with him and three of the guys into the nearby mountains.

  Shorty got into a car with Tex Watson, Steve Grogan and Bruce Davis. Manson took another car and followed behind. They drove to a spot a short distance away in the Santa Susana Pass, where Manson once took Leslie to the edge of a cliff under duress. There, his would-be killers beat Mr. Shea over the head with a wrench and carved him with their machetes and bayonets until dead. They buried Shorty near the train tracks, and, despite rumors of decapitation, Shea’s body was not dismembered. However, part of his left hand was missing from the shallow grave where it was discovered. He died from several skull fracture blows to the head along with multiple chop and stab wounds to the rest of this body.

  Manson, Watson and Davis remain in prison, of course, but Steve Grogan became the first and, so far, only Manson Family member convicted of murder to be released from prison. Grogan served fifteen years for his role in the killing of Shorty Shea. Originally found guilty and sentenced to death for first-degree murder on December 23rd 1971, Judge James Kolts decided that Grogan was “too stupid and too hopped on drugs to decide anything on his own,” and that it was really “Manson who decided who lived or died.”

  Therefore, the judge reduced Grogan’s sentence to life imprisonment. Grogan, also known as Clem, later drew the authorities a map to where Shea’s body was buried, and that’s the reason he was let go in 1985.

  * * *

  On Thursday, June 9th, 1977, I was in court when Leslie testified about how things changed so dramatically at Spahn Ranch throughout 1969.

  When asked by Max Keith about what life was like when she first joined the Family a year before that, Leslie said, “At that time, it was a mellow situation. It was an easy, slow life. No one had any ambitions or goals in life, other than to get rid of our thoughts and live only for the moment. That’s what Spahn was all about then. Manson’s songs and lyrics were about loving your fellow man. It was what I had been looking for.”

  Then, she testified by the spring of that year, there was an increased mood of fear and anger surrounding Manson that replaced all the peace and love that had gone on before.

  Leslie only stayed with Manson in the first place because she was seeking a spiritual advisor to lead her on the path to enlightenment. Lots of the girls her age were of that mindset. Those were the times and circumstances. Then, of course, he kept them isolated from their family and friends so he might bend their wills to his own. For instance, Charlie would malign or abuse any girl who dared get out of line. Then, he’d immediately follow that up with a full dose of ecstasy (or LSD) and a firm bout of sex with his victim. Manson didn’t want girls who were totally wrecked—only fractured.

  Other cardinal rules Manson learned from the more experienced crooks and pimps in prison were things like: Never allow the girls to carry their own money—even coins, let alone dollars. That way, they couldn’t pay for a call to friends or relatives or buy themselves a bus ticket home. And if a girl refused to perform as she was told, Manson might strip her naked of all but her bruises and teach her a lesson in front of the others. He used the same tricks a lot.

  The girls learned never to seem put off or refuse a man’s advances. And, for special business partners such as Terry Melcher and Gregg Jakobson, Charlie insisted that the prettiest girls—Ruth Ann and Leslie—be on ready call. It helped that both Quisch and Les liked to hang out with some of the bikers anyway. Les told me she liked this one guy named ‘Sammy’ in particular. She said he was a lot of fun, though not very handsome—kind of like Vince Bugliosi, only with hair and a real sense of humor.

  Then, came more testimony about Charlie’s obsession with The Beatles White Album. Former cult members spoke about the delusional belief system Manson created for them to accept his word on the subject as gospel. Several admitted that they believed Charles Manson was the actual figure of Christ and that The Beatles were in on this secret, disguising this message in their songs.

  During her time on the stand, Leslie described herself as a huge Beatles fanatic long before she ever met Manson. She said the cult was astounded to learn their leader was so special that The Beatles encoded messages meant only for him and the Family. And, by repeating over and over how The Beatles were charging him to trigger an inevitable race war called “Helter Skelter,” Manson convinced her and the others they were destined to raise from the smoldering heap of ashes left after the war.

  Leslie admitted under oath, “I felt he [Charlie] was more special than anyone I had ever met and felt that everything he said was the truth …”

  She believed the Manson Family was destined to rule over the world and restore it to peace—just like it said in the White Album, or so she and the others believed with all of their hearts. Why is that so hard for some to imagine?

  Sometime in June 1977, the jurors were also told about how, at the time of the investigations into the Tate-LaBianca murders in December 1969, LAPD detective Mike McGann offered Leslie immunity protection. (It’s worth pointing out that Bugliosi once offered immunity to Susan Atkins as well but finally settled the deal with Linda Kasabian.) The police also promised Leslie a $25,000 reward in exchange for all she could tell them about the slayings. And, even though this would have saved her from prosecution (and therefore the death chamber), Leslie declined their offer.

  Max Keith asked her ‘Why?’ and she answered, “I felt kind of like I was sitting in the seat of Judas. I knew if I needed twenty-four hour protection, I would be doing something that wouldn’t please Charlie. I just played games with him [McGann].”

  Weeks later, at the beginning of the New Year, Leslie Van Houten was indicted for murder. After all, if she had taken the pledge for immunity, that wouldn’t have pleased Charlie. She feared him more than the gas chamber. Now tell me, if that isn’t crazy, what is?

  * * *

  Friday morning, June 10th, 1977, Glen Peters, who told Leslie he had something urgent to discuss with her, bumped me from the visitor’s lineup. I suspected it had to do with the publishing deal he had brokered between Frank Andrews and Leslie gone sour. But this had nothing whatsoever to do with me, unless she asked for my opinion. Since I was uninformed in the matter, the best I could do for her was to confirm whatever she told me.

  After a four-set workout with a ninety-pound curling bar Judy’s neighbor lent me, I went for a run and cooled down in the pool. Jane Van Houten called and invited me over for lunch, where I met Leslie’s brother David’s wife, Shannon. Les’s sister, Betsy, whom I was friends with, was also there. My social space was
expanding. That evening, I went out with Judy and Max for dinner in Pasadena. It was just after midnight when Jude and I got back to Micheltorena. Her sister, Jenn, left me a message, asking me to call Glen Peters when I got in. But, being so late, I didn’t return his call.

  The telephone ringing woke me at 7:10 a.m., when Jennifer brought the receiver into my room. It was Glen. He said he wanted to see me that morning and asked if I could meet him at his office in the Los Angeles Times building at First and Spring Streets. He took me for soup and sandwiches in the remarkable Pablo Picasso Room, where we sat at a table alongside portraits of whom I was told represented Marie-Thérèse Walter, Dora Maar and Jacqueline Rogue.

  After an overture of polite chitchat, Glen finally finished stirring his soup and said, “I won’t waste your time or mine, Peter. So I’ll just say this. Okay? I’m concerned for Leslie and for you. I don’t want either of you to be hurt or fooled by the fantasy picture frame in which you see yourselves.”

  “Picture frame?” I challenged, thinking it best to put on a good fore-check before he got started. “Do you mind me asking how so?” I asked this rather sternly in response to his tone.

  “Cut it out, Peter. You know what I mean. That glass window you and Leslie see each other through at Sybil Brand every day. That picture can be very seductive. I hope you aren’t fooling yourself.”

  I put my spoon down and picked up a butter knife to jam his toast with—or so I imagined.

  He said, “I’ve invited you to lunch as a courtesy. I’m trying to help you here, not start any trouble. I know Jane and Max seem to think well of you.”

  The way he said it made my blood boil. Good thing I was still a bit stoned from the joint I smoked on the way over.

  “Has Leslie told you anything about this book business with Frank Andrews?” he asked.

  Ah, now I thought—here comes the real reason for the free lunch. Glen pursed his lips. I looked away and noticed the expression Picasso gave Dora Maar looked very similar.

  “Frank Andrews? Not really,” I said. “I’ve heard his name mentioned, that’s all. Something to do with the book Prose and Cons.”

  “I’m just telling you to be careful. You could find your feelings hurt. Leslie can be very charming, but she can be a tough cookie too.”

  I kept quiet.

  Glen asked, “Has Leslie said anything to you about writing her book with Judy? What do you know about that?”

  “Look, Glen. This is all very interesting, but none of my business. As far as Judy writing Leslie’s book...I don’t see how that’s possible. It seems to me the only person who can write Leslie’s book is Leslie.”

  Then, pushing my chair away from the table, I got up to leave. Glen said nothing, but I could see he was steaming. I turned to face him.

  “I know you mean well and all that,” I said, faintly. “Thanks for the caution or...whatever. I may be young, but I’m not stupid. Here’s the thing though. Whatever you think...I’m not the one writing a book or publishing a newspaper story. That’s not my thing. It’s yours. Whatever you believe or imagine, I’m here as Leslie’s friend...at her request. I leave in two weeks. Keep me posted.”

  “Rude bastard. Who do you think...” Glen started.

  Only I sprinted out of earshot without taking a breath ’til I stepped on to Spring Street. All I could think of was how much my arrogance fueled my anger. It wasn’t Glen I was mad at. It was myself.

  Leslie called me that night from the county jailhouse. I told her what happened with Glen. She said she was weary from all of his intrigue plus all of this peripheral junk about coauthors, letters, lawyers and publishers. I gave her my side of the story which was, of course, hers to begin with.

  “What’re you doing now?” she asked, in need of cheering up.

  “Day-dreaming about you and me naked,” I teased.

  “Liar. No, you’re not.”

  “Writing you a letter…and reading. Just started Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I’d been meaning to read it for years. And I’ve finished rereading In Cold Blood. Time to take notes. I found it on Judy’s bookshelves. She has a very respectable library, by the way. Can’t wait for you to see it…naked.”

  “Peter, I started to write you a letter. But, when I got this one from you today, I thought I’d take a chance and just call. It’s about Erich Fromm’s theory of...what’s the book called? The Dogma of Christ? I’m still unsure what it’s about. Tell me.”

  “You said something in court about ‘all of us girls worshipped Charlie.’ It sounded so real it was shocking. I could feel the whole room tensing up. Something as simple as that...it goes to show how unaware you were at the time that what you were doing was wrong...or the consequences. To worship means strict observance to the rules and commands of your god.”

  “Manson liked to say how he was all about love...about how love is for everyone. But he sure put you down if you showed too much ego or doubt about him. So he used fear the way he used love. Oh, darn it…Honey, I got to go. Tell me more in your next letter. My time is up. But will I see you tomorrow?”

  The next day, I went to see Leslie with her mom in the morning, and I saw her again from a distance on Monday when she testified in open court. I couldn’t see her that evening though, because I had to pick Judy up from the airport. But, for the rest of the month of June at least, Les and I were able to keep up our regular routine of daily courtroom glances, phone calls, five- and six-page letters, and evening visits with Max every chance we could get.

  I taught her some more about Eric Fromm. And we talked about how other monotheistic faiths, such as Judaism and Islam, each have their own versions of heaven and hell, god versus the devil, angels and demons in battle on the field of Armageddon, the mark of the beast tattooed on foreheads, blood sacrifice and a bottomless pit somewhere east of Eden. Leslie confirmed how this diminutive con man extraordinaire had covered the waterfront.

  The last time I saw Leslie on that leg of my journey was on Tuesday, June 21st. I’d spent the afternoon at the Huntington Library with her mom. I remember Thomas Gainsborough’s famous portrait of “The Blue Boy” in the picture gallery but, personally, could not see what all the fuss was about. However, just outside in the courtyard there was a wonderful bronze of a stag being gang-tackled by pack of wolves. That shocked my emotions but also captured my attention.

  Jane and I held hands as we walked through the gardens and chatted. That calmed me down. This made me think about Leslie and about the urge to help and protect her. Only how?

  That evening in the conference room at Sybil Brand, Max, Leslie and I got to talking some more about whether or not the jury seemed to be getting the picture as to the potency of Manson’s combined approach to music, religion and psychotropic drugs. Maybe not. I asked if the reason might be on account of too many dubious plotlines in their heads about “insanity pleas” from TV and the movies. Yes, I was still slightly stoned from blowing a doob earlier on with Les’s brother, David, before I rode out to the jailhouse.

  “You know,” Leslie said, “I did get to say for the record how one time, while on LSD, I’d actually experienced my own crucifixion. I’m not sure they believed me or understood the experience I was talking about. But that was a turning point for me in terms of devotion to Manson.”

  I interrupted. “It’s hard to believe how real an experience an acid trip can be unless you’ve been there yourself, but I thought you did a good job of describing the feeling.”

  Leslie continued. “Yeah well, it was a hard chargin’ trip. I saw myself bleeding from both my hands, my feet and from right here just under my heart,” she said, pointing to the exact spot. “Like all the blood was draining out of me, and I just kept seeing Charlie’s face in front of me the whole time. My whole world became Charlie and the ecstasy I felt led me to him. I thought he was the holy spiri
t of Christ.”

  Leslie waited for my reaction, and I frowned.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” she asked, sounding concerned for the way I looked.

  Max got up to stretch his arms and legs for a minute.

  “What? No...nothing,” I said. “I was just thinking how much I hate leaving you in the middle of all this right now. The timing is wrong. I don’t want to go back to Toronto. Not now...maybe never. Not unless you come with me.”

  “It’s okay, honey,” she said. “You know you need go back and finish what you had planned to do before I came along. It’s important to you and me too. Of course I hope things will work out like we hope. Maybe it will and maybe it won’t. Time will tell. But we need to be prepared if it doesn’t.”

  The next day I packed up my things from Judy’s—sweat suits mostly along with some borrowed books, stacks of letters, notebooks and shoes. I was sure to give Tricia Woodbridge a last call to say “Hello goodbye” again. Judy was out of town, so I made sure her car was polished and topped off with fuel. I left a bouquet of flowers and a thank you card on the driver’s seat.

  I got a ride from Jennifer Frutig over to Jane Van Houten’s place in Monterey Park. That’s where I spent my last night in LA watching an old movie on TV—Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney in Two For the Road. Jane and her neighboring best friend, Georgie, drove me out to the airport first thing in the morning. I had three empty seats all to myself on the way to Vancouver. By the time we landed in Toronto, just after nine o’clock, I had begun marking up Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood with my pencils.