August 23rd, 1977, was Leslie Van Houten’s twenty-eighth birthday. A beautiful young woman coming into the prime of her life. Human rights activist Karlene Faith (who Leslie met while in prison) was in town and took my usual 8:00 a.m. slot at the jailhouse. Betsy Van Houten and I spent the morning walking the beach, talking and taking pictures to send to her sister. Once the pictures were developed, I put the best of the lot in with what I would soon regard as a most embarrassing letter, some of which read in part:
No offense against Jude as a writer. I’m in no position to judge her reports. I’ve read her pieces about you in the Monitor, and I believe that you are the more daring writer. Why don’t you try writing it yourself? Or do you feel you need her for just talking to? Just remember: Judy spent the sixties in bible camp. She’s curious about the counterculture but never took part. From what she tells me, she went to some sort of Christian Science prep school while you and I were in search of mind-exploring adventures. If she and Glen want to publish a series of ‘have faith in God’ stories about you for their congregation that’s one thing. But a biography of Leslie Van Houten can only be written by you. No one but you. That’s whose voice people need to hear, not some story ‘as told to a reporter.’
Hey, you know what Mark Twain had to say about Christian Science? He said that Mary Baker Eddy was head of a ‘greed-infested tribe of superstitious buffoons.’ He said not a single material thing in the world is conceded by them to be real, except the all-mighty dollar. ‘Long live the Prince and the Pauper.’
* * *
No one hates moving as much as I do, and no one has moved more times than I have—my everlasting curse. David Van Houten and I took his boss Milo’s van to Micheltorena Street, first thing in the morning, to fetch the last of my things from Judy’s apartment. I had everything already packed and ready to go. Judy and her sister Jenn were both away, so there was nobody there to say goodbye to. I left a note thanking them for my stay and said I’d call them later from Betsy’s. When I called later that evening, Judy said she was surprised to find some of my personal papers left behind on the balcony. She also said her neighbor handed her a letter addressed to me that was put by mistake in his mailbox. Plus, he wanted his weights back. She wasn’t specific, but said she had something important to tell me and asked if I would come over.
An hour later when I got there, it was obvious that Judy was red-faced and upset about something. So after the cold but customary salutations and prattle I asked her, “What’s wrong?”
“Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll show you.”
I sat on one of the stools beside the kitchen counter. and Jude handed me a legal pad with what were obviously my own notes. I took a quick look at the pages of notes and put them down on the counter.
Judy asked, “Would you care to explain this?”
Pushing the pad a few inches away on the countertop, I said, “What’s there to explain?”
“Try explaining why you are telling Leslie not to write her book with me as coauthor. What business is it of yours to interfere with my job?”
“You’re right,” I admitted, “it’s none of my business. What Leslie decides to do about her book is up to her, you, whomever. It has nothing to do with me.”
Judy said nothing, but I could see she was steaming. All I wanted was to escape from the scene.
“Yes,” I said, as if I were talking to myself. “It was fainthearted of me to leave this laying around. I’m sorry you found it. I should have said what I thought of your project.”
But the truth was I felt better now that she knew. Time heals all wounds, they say—or at least toughens the scars used to cover them over.
I told her to please tear up the pages and let’s try to start over. She said she felt betrayed. Who could blame her? Yes, I was awful. Judy marched down the hall and shut the door to the bedroom behind her. I tore up the pages myself and tossed all but one into the trash bin. I kept some of the pieces. Stepping outside to where my MG was parked, I had the feeling that some invisible tax had been lifted. I was in a much better mood when I got back to Hermosa Beach and stayed that way for days while exploring this modish district.
The next time I heard from Judy Frutig was on Wednesday afternoon, August 31st. She called Betsy’s apartment with breaking news concerning the DA John Van de Kamp’s resolve in the case.
“I’ve just spoken with Max,” Judy said. “Van de Kamp’s office just announced their decision to prosecute Leslie a third time for first-degree murder.”
14
PROSE AND CONS
Leslie returned to court September 12th, when the judge set the new trial date for January 16th, 1978. She was in court again on Monday the 19th of September for a bail hearing. The jailhouse door wasn’t open yet. Bail was set at $200,000. Family and friends (including my own) began working behind the scenes, canvassing those we thought could help us raise the fee for securing her freedom.
Another month after that, Richard C. Paddock wrote in the Los Angeles Times about District Attorney John Van de Kamp’s decision to retry the case. The headline read “Third Leslie Van Houten Trial Scheduled for Jan. 16: Smiling Cheerfully, Former Manson Cultist Waives Her Right to Go to Court Within Next 10 Days.”
I found it noteworthy of Paddock to point out that “If Miss Van Houten had been allowed to plead guilty to a charge of second-degree murder, she would have been eligible for parole almost immediately.” And that, “the LaBiancas apparently were selected as targets at random by Manson.”
Perhaps I was reading too much into these facts, but it led me to feel more confident in Max Keith’s defense strategy. I wasn’t so sure of the law. If the LaBiancas had been selected at random by Manson, and if an experienced con such as he was in total control of his cult, then how could a brainwashed, teenaged Leslie Van Houten be held entirely responsible for the part that she played? She couldn’t. Could she? Whatever crime she committed, it couldn’t be first-degree murder. Given the facts, that charge wouldn’t hold—at least that’s what we thought.
At this point, Leslie did not stand convicted of any crime whatsoever. Even her prosecutors were of the opinion that, of all the former Manson Family defendants in this case, she was seen as the one most eligible for release on parole.
I knew it was important for Leslie to see her supporters in person, so I made time for visitors to take my place near the head of the line. My personal deprivation was offset by the fact that Les would call me during the evenings.
We discussed her prospects with the new trial in three or four months. It seemed to us that, ever since Leslie’s admissibility for bail, a more liberal sentiment began to appear in the press. This indicated to us that we might be headed in the right direction. Actually, getting her free on bail seemed like the next inevitable step toward gaining her freedom. To turn the key in that lock, all we needed right away was twenty percent and a valiant bondsman willing to help bail her out.
* * *
Most autumn mornings, if I wasn’t visiting Leslie, I’d spend my time either reading on Betsy’s couch, writing notes in my diaries or composing letters home and abroad. Once or twice a week, I’d help David out with his job at Milo’s. I ran on the beach and lifted weights by the pier. I even went sprinting and bounding on the grass in Cypress Park. Most evenings, Betsy and I would either eat out at some place on the beach or at home. Or else we’d ride over to her mum’s place in Monterey Park and chow down with the rest of the family.
One night, after Glen and Doris Peters had already left, Jane introduced me to Leslie’s father, Paul, her brother, Paul Jr., and his wife, Marge. Judy was also there but left to have dinner with Max somewhere else after cocktails. I’m certain I didn’t make much of an impression on Les’s dad and older brother. And, to be honest, it didn’t matter that much to me. Girlfriends’ fathers and older brothers always made me feel restless,
and the suffering was no doubt reciprocal.
The next morning, I was back in line with the rest of the lonely hearts waiting to visit inmates at Sybil Brand County Jail. Leslie, at first, seemed to have something urgent to tell me. But it seemed to take her a while to sort herself out.
“Are Mom and Dad coming later on? I want to talk to them before I mail the letter I’ve written to Pete. I guess I need to get it together.” (‘Pete’ was Leslie’s nickname for Glen Peters.)
“What is it? What’s wrong? What did you have to tell him?” I asked.
“Just to lay off. Let me claim my own personal space for a change. Stop intruding into my affairs...that’s for one thing. I’ll write you about it later. Some of it was about you and me, of course. I don’t want to waste any more time worrying about it. Honey, let’s change the subject. Anything else going on out there in that big world of ours?”
“Just gossip. I think I told you that my friends Jean and Gabe are breaking up.”
“Oh. Yeah, you predicted something like that in your letter. Well, the last letter I got anyway.”
“It’s no surprise...their breaking up, I mean. Just part of a general epidemic.”
“Peter, I feel we’ve made a promise to one another. Haven’t we? And now with that comes responsibilities. Please say you agree.”
I nodded. “I guess. Please say what they are.”
“All we decide to do from now on we should decide to do together...like with you and your schooling. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. If you don’t get accepted into Santa Barbara, you’ll get in somewhere else, and we’ll make it work regardless. I love you, and I am committed to you and you only. Once this damn trial is over and I’m out, I want to support you, and I want you to support me. Now, I have said it. Do you want it in writing? I’m committed to us, aren’t you?”
“You bet,” I said. “It matters to me that you want this.”
“Now, I feel I can be completely open with you. I want to share my feelings. I couldn’t always. In a sense...I haven’t any secrets. Well, I do. What I mean is...a lot of what’s been said or written about me just wasn’t true. But I want you to know everything.”
“Is this about your old boyfriends?” I asked. “Maybe I don’t want to know. It will drive me crazy with jealous feelings I won’t be able to get under control. I get angry just reading about...”
“It’s because you are driven and want to protect me, but you can’t. Because you want to defend me from my past, but you can’t. So honey, please let me set your mind at ease. You asked me about Tex. I didn’t have that many…what you would call ‘boyfriends,’ not compared to you and all the girlfriends you’ve told me about.”
I cringed a bit thinking that over. What a strange way to try and impress a girl. I was a moron.
“Tex was a square kind of a guy. Nothing like you. I guess from things he told me about where he was from, I figured out that our high school pasts must have been similar. We got close that summer at Spahn.
“I had been hung up with the whole biker scene. I was getting a bit freaked out by it too. Charlie picked up on it and suggested I not hang around that scene any more. And, about that same time, Tex asked me to help him do things around the ranch. So that’s when we first got together.”
“Such as? Come on, let’s have it. What sorts of things did he need help with?”
“Nothing too special. Just ordinary things such as help him fix up the dune buggies and other stuff Charlie wanted done. Tex was always an up kind of guy. Sometimes, I felt very close to him. Not always though. I honestly thought then that I loved everyone, but I know now that wasn’t true. It’s like…I can’t remember the guy but the one that wrote about the whole acid scene.”
“Ken Kesey? You mean Tom Wolfe, The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test.”
“Yeah, that’s it. It was all detached like that. Love wasn’t real...although sometimes I thought it was. For a while Tex was catatonic, and I was really concerned for him. I’ll tell you more in my letter, I swear. Or, better yet, sometime soon when we won’t be interrupted and censored. Let’s not discuss it now or all of our time will be used up.”
After a pause, I reflected, “Listen, Les, I don’t want us messing this up. I can’t help wanting you all to myself. Is that wrong?”
“We aren’t going to mess this up, Peter. I feel the same way you do. Just please try not to get so rattled by what others say to rile you or get angered about stories you’ve read concerning my sordid past. You need to trust me and hear me out.”
“What happened a decade ago isn’t what gets to me, Leslie. It’s the more recent junk about you and Frank Andrews writing books, making films, getting married…” I growled.
“Well, I told you how Pete got involved and how confused everything got after that...”
“I’m not talking about book deals or whatever...just the part where he went on national television to say that you and he were going to be married. Were you just leading him on? Doesn’t bode well for me then, does it?”
After I made this last remark, everything stopped. The deputies started to rustle us up. Bad timing.
Our visit for that day was over. But it wasn’t the best place to stop. All Leslie had time to say at the end was to repeat, “I’ll write you about it, I promise. I’ll go do it right away now.”
And all there was left for me to do was to hang up the handset and jealously wait for her letter.
* * *
Here is part of what Leslie’s letter had to say about Frank Andrews, the writer who announced to the world that he and Leslie Van Houten were going to be married when she got out of prison. Martin showed me the article.
Hi My Darling, My Honey, My Love!
Wow! I thought I’d already rapped Frank to you, but now I will tell you the whole situation. When we started to write, he was the first person other than Jean Carver on Death Row that I would write or speak to. Pete saw it as a way to draw me out. I saw it as, ‘Why not? Nothing to lose.’ He was fun to write with. I was full of opinions about people. My understanding had been cut off philosophically—so Frank’s past being similar to Charlie’s years inside prison all made it seem OK to write him. I was still messed up from before.
His letters were fun. Funny and clever. I didn’t know much about people. We wrote letters all the time. He was bitter over his years in jail. He was from a different time. He missed the whole sixties scene. These differences at the time weren’t important because we were both locked up and had that in common. I can’t remember if we ever really discussed freedom or anything very deep.
As time went on, he asked if I’d marry him. I said I felt it was a bit premature. He got weird. I wanted the fun letters again. So I said ‘yes.’ He got out. I asked him not to say anything because it wasn’t for the public. I encouraged him to find another love interest. Or whatever. Though I was saddened in knowing our letters would not be the same, I didn’t want to hurt him and thought it would just die out over time. Marriage didn’t mean anything to me. A piece of paper. Maybe because of mom and dad. I don’t know. Also commune life. It seemed square. Dumb. Unnecessary. Only now, with you, and all you’re teaching me about alternatives, have I come to realize the beauty in accepting this alternative for us.
Anyway—with Frank it was already off as far as I was concerned. Prose and Cons was coming out. The promotions were not supposed to exploit Pat’s and my notoriety. He got out and went on a tour—part of which brought us together for a second meeting. That’s when I became really uneasy. He told me he had let it slip, during one of his interviews to promote the anthology, supposedly, that he and I were going to be married. I got angry. But I never thought it would get out. So I wasn’t all that forceful in opposing it. I couldn’t deal with all the issues with Glen and all the rest of it. Also, I was new on the mainline and trying once agai
n to become close to people—relate to other cons—find my place in the prison life I was resigned to.
He did an article for the Times. It was supposed to be about the book of our letters, which had taken on a new form. At first they were going to be an exposé of two people in prison—through letters expressing the true conditions and the effects it has on people both physically and mentally. I was feeling confused by it all, so instead of dealing with it, I just kept saying ‘yes yes yes’ and not caring about any of it really. It became the Frank Andrews’ project more than mine or ‘ours.’
The thing is, those letters were good for its time. It could have been a good book. Anyway, in the article, Frank also went into all the money he’d make—then it got to the money I’d make. Ugly scene. I told him I was tired of him trying to speak for me. Only I didn’t present myself forcefully enough. Then, when he returned to New York, our letters had already dwindled to not much. All he did was complain. No money for this or that. He lived above his means. All the women he slept with. We were not together in any respect.
At one point he called to say he had set up a TV thing with Barbara Walters. He insisted I had to tell him right then if I’d do it or not. I said I was hesitant. He said how great it would be for me. I’d have to show myself someday and on and on. Once again, I said ‘yes’ instead of ‘no’ (just like the shrinks told me—I really had a problem.) I told Pete on a visit and he freaked. Now I see it was because he hadn’t made the decision for me. He always has to have such control. Now even mama was upset because of Pete. Boy, now that I write it all down, I can see how dumb I was. Also, Frank had said he would do me a couple of favors. He didn’t. Anyway this was after Pete had stopped everything. No deal.
No Journey's End: My Tragic Romance with Ex-Manson Girl, Leslie Van Houten Page 21
