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

by Peter Chiaramonte

  When I got home, I tried calling Leslie again. This time Judy picked up the phone. She said she didn’t know where Leslie was but expected her home any minute. I said I’d ring again later and to please tell her I called. When Leslie called me back hours later. She was no less excited than I was.

  She said, “Things are finally going our way! Didn’t I tell you?”

  * * *

  With less than a month to go before leaving to rejoin Leslie in California, I found myself doing less and less preparation for classes and more time readying myself for what lay ahead for both of us later that fall. In particular, I read all the F. S. Perls I could find in the bookroom. I ordered Roberto Assagioli’s Psychosynthesis techniques for the “imaginative evocation of interpersonal relationships” and read it all in one go. No matter whatever else I used for distractions, I was obsessing less about what Leslie might be up to. Instead, I focused on how good it felt to be truly in love. But for how long must I wait to have all I wanted?

  Then, on Wednesday, June 14th, I was eager to hear how Max Keith’s closing argument to the jury had gone—same as the last time. He said the evidence showed Leslie’s ordinary thought processes had been profoundly disordered by the combined effects of acute domination by Manson and the prolonged use of psychedelic drugs among his cult. Furthermore, Max wasn’t asking the jury to acquit Leslie of any wrongdoing. According to the law on diminished capacity, the appropriate charge in this case, he conceded, would be manslaughter not first-degree murder. On the contrary, Prosecutors Stephen Kay and Dino Fulgoni argued that Leslie knew what she was doing and willfully took part in what she knew was going to happen. They offered the same tired and predictable slogans, saying a verdict of any lesser degree than first-degree murder would be “a travesty of justice.”

  That wasn’t all.

  In the Los Angeles Times article titled “Jurors Debate Fate of Manson Follower: Leslie Van Houten’s Third Trial Focuses on Mental Capacity” dated June 23, 1978, Bill Farr quoted Judge Ringer’s final instructions to the jury before their deliberations as “If you find that the defendant’s mental capacity was diminished to the extent that you have a reasonable doubt whether she did, maturely and meaningfully, premeditate, deliberate, and reflect upon the gravity of the contemplated act or form the intent to kill, you cannot find her guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  Manslaughter, the verdict asked for by the defense, was explained as “an unlawful killing without malice aforethought.” Furthermore, Judge Ringer informed the jury that second-degree murder is defined as “the killing of a human being with malice aforethought, but where the evidence is insufficient to establish deliberation and premeditation.”

  Reading this in the LA Times made me think back to what Leslie said about the judge trying her case instead of a jury. One had to wonder whether a jury of everyday people would be up to the task. The justice system had charged them with deciding whether or not the accused was capable of knowing that society would consider the acts she engaged in to be morally, not just legally, wrong. But, to my way of thinking, all Leslie could have known at the time was what Manson had drilled into her. Indoctrination wasn’t free will after all. And even lifelong diarists such as myself can never be certain of what they were thinking up, dreaming of or just scribbling about nearly a decade ago.

  19

  Heaven Can Wait

  My last-ever week of teaching high school began with my submission of grades and ended with student complaints about final marks. And what a joke that was. I was already as gone as the wind. So what did it matter? I skipped all the staff meetings, speeches and phony end-of-year celebrations and stuff. I opted to count the stores of textbooks returned to my classroom. One hundred and forty Othello’s and that sort of thing. Meanwhile, the rumor that I was engaged to marry one of the “Manson girls” had made its way ’round the school among students and teachers. But, once Principal Budd and his circle of administrative thugs caught wind of things, I stayed away from as many sharp edges as possible.

  By Wednesday, I was feeling bored stiff and rebellious. I left school early on Thursday and skipped out on Friday completely. Instead, I rode my brother Mike’s Ducati 900 Desmo downtown to the university and sat in on a summer session at Innis College. I went to see Akira Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood and Jean Renoir’s La Grande Illusion.

  I wanted time itself to pick up its petty pace, so I stayed up the whole night and slept on the plane the next day on the way to Los Angeles. I recorded dreaming about my escape from von Rauffenstein’s fortress just before waking. Time to return my seat back to its upright position…

  Air Canada Flight #791 arrived July 1st at LAX at noon on the button. The plane got in ten minutes early, and Leslie was ten minutes late. Perfect...as I could have predicted. We had no delays other than a quick stop north of Ventura for fuel, oil and coffee. She’d made us sandwiches for lunch, which we ate as I drove as quickly as possible away from LA to Santa Barbara.

  We checked in to the Holiday Inn in Goleta again and then backtracked for drinks before dinner at the Head of the Wolf on State Street.

  “Even onions taste better on this side of the fence,” Leslie said, splitting her Mexican salad with me.

  The rest of the evening we walked around the downtown, stopping to look in on a series of interesting one-of-a-kind stores and bookshops. My fave was a place called The Earthling. Before the evening was out, we drifted down by the pier, snacking on shrimp dipped in beer and sea salt. Enough with the foreplay, I thought. Time to get back to our room on the first floor by the pool. After a quick dip and a warm shower, we moved the bed into position. That way, one of us at a time could be making love with a view of the mountains.

  First thing in the morning, we headed straight to Isla Vista to look at two places advertised as being available for the short term. It had been Leslie’s idea all along that we temporarily set ourselves up close to the campus. That way, we’d save ourselves time looking around town at longer-term options. It didn’t take long for us to settle on a first-floor, one-bedroom apartment at 895 Camino Del Sur. I handed our check to Mr. Bob Emery the landlord, who wrote a receipt for four hundred and ten dollars. That would carry us through to September 15th, when Mr. Emery’s regular tenants returned for the school year. By then, we imagined we would find a more suitable space to settle into.

  With that business out of the way, we took a quick walk around campus. No one we knew was around, so we drove up the San Marcos Pass to have lunch at the Cold Spring Tavern.

  When it was time to pay our check, Leslie said, “Look, honey. See? I have a purse now. Did I show you? It’s been such a long time I still can’t recall all the things I need to put in it.”

  There were so many things about Leslie I still took for granted.

  I held both her hands and gave her a deep, lasting kiss that caught the notice of more than a few of the customers. We left in a hurry and parked a few miles away on the dusty old Stagecoach Road that led to the site of the Lotte Lehmann ruins. We stayed up on that ridge overlooking Santa Barbara until it grew dark enough for the city lights below to take on the sparkle of lighted pearls. Our mission accomplished for now, we drove back to LA later that night after a late dinner at the Fish House in Malibu.

  When we arrived back at Judy’s well after two in the morning, she was still up, entertaining a date she had over for wine and whatever. He was a shy-looking guy whom Judy introduced as some kind of photojournalist. Les and I had a couple polite sips of wine from the same glass and then quickly excused ourselves to be alone in her bedroom. I moved the bed while Leslie put on her pajamas and punched in side one of Pet Sounds on the portable tape deck.

  We slept in Monday morning until Leslie’s brother David came over to Silver Lake with coffee and donuts. He and I had a date to go check out a few bikes at an Italian motorcycle shop in Glendale. I was hoping to test ride
a couple new café racers that day. Only, when we got to the shop, it was closed for the Fourth of July weekend. I planned to come back on Wednesday and bring Leslie with me when they were sure to be open.

  That evening, Les and I went out to Westwood to see Warren Beatty’s new picture Heaven Can Wait—a decent retelling of the forties classic, Here Comes Mr. Jordan. Leslie thought the roles Warren Beatty and Julie Christie played were convincing and very romantic. I said I preferred the version with Robert Montgomery and Evelyn Keyes, which she hadn’t seen. Afterwards, we went for pizza and beer, and walked right past Lisa Minnelli and some dweeb-looking guy she was with in the restaurant. Where had all the masculinity gone besides in the movies? Big world, small café, I was reminded.

  “If she only knew who I am,” Leslie said, walking past, “how do you think she might have reacted?”

  “You mean if she thought she knew who you are...or who she might think you are? It’s not the same thing.”

  “She’d probably call the cops for protection.”

  I said, “We’re just lucky it’s her and not Clint Eastwood or Steve McQueen we ran into.”

  Other than outside the courthouse, I can’t recall anyone recognizing Leslie in public when we were together. Neighbors at both Linda and Judy’s knew her for who she actually was, the pretty young woman in the apartment next door, not the counterfeit image of an evil monster that vested interests were so single-minded to keep perpetrating.

  The Fourth of July—Independence Day. How ironic. I’ve always thought of this day as an even more significant event in the history of Canada than the United States. Because that’s when the Loyalists, sensing what the American Empire might turn itself into, set out to inaugurate a better way to live on the continent. For one thing, Canadians have democratically managed to get by for hundreds of years without incarcerating millions of its own citizens. The annual average cost of keeping someone like Leslie in prison is equivalent to what out-of-state residents pay for the best state college tuition.

  Leslie and I had been invited to spend the day at a barbecue picnic in Monrovia, complete with a local fireworks display put on that evening by friends and neighbors of David and Shannon Van Houten. It was late when the modest but earnest fireworks ended. Les and I decided to spend the night back in Monterey Park at Jane’s instead of Judy’s. Jane was spending the night at Georgie’s, so we had the place all to ourselves. Our plan the next day was to stop by the condo again and pack up some more things for our upcoming move to the outskirts of Santa Barbara.

  Leslie suggested we hurry to bed once we got there. We had other things planned for tomorrow, including test riding Ducatis and Moto Guzzis in Glendale. So we headed upstairs straight away. Somewhere nearby, someone was still setting off fireworks—now there was a thought. In the bathroom, I took a warm cloth to my body and daubed a gram or two of baby powder in my shorts and under my arms. I don’t know why I turned on the taps to cover the sound of my gargling with mouthwash. Feeling a bit wild like a madman that hadn’t been fed in a while, I tore off all but my sweat socks, did a back-layout on to the mattress and watched closely as Leslie undressed after drawing the blind.

  I’d already turned out all of the lights. To me, it always seemed better that way—closer somehow. Leslie pulled her top up over her head, tossed it toward the wicker chair and missed. Then, she stepped out of her jeans and panties both at the same time. She bent over slightly, reaching behind to unfasten her bra. Then, as she slipped in between the sheets beside me, I heard the crackle and felt the spark of our bodies when we made contact.

  “Have I told you yet just how much I’ve missed you all these months?” Leslie asked.

  “Have you really? Care to prove it?”

  Laughing, she said, “You always say that.”

  I reached with one hand cupping her breast and slid the other around behind her. We stepped up the tempo of kisses. Then, with her lips and mine pressed hard and open, Leslie rolled onto her back and wrapped herself all around me. I had an erection so hard a cat could climb it. She let one hand go to put me in tight where she wanted. No tricks or devices, just lots of rhythmic, openhearted lust taking over.

  I’d been in a few close scrapes before, but somehow we both came out of this round of falls with only a few heavy bumps and some pretty mean scratches—nothing more serious. It had all been for a good cause, as far as I was concerned. I felt Leslie shiver and heard her sigh.

  “Thank you for all that,” I whispered.

  For that enduring event I remained achingly grateful. Leaning back to take a close look in her eyes, I felt, even then, like a drowning man released from the depths at the last possible moment as he filled up his lungs with fresh air for the very first time.

  “You know I love you...my jealous heart,” she said in a serious tone. Then with expressed amusement, she added, “You really turn me on, big boy.”

  That cracked me up to no end.

  “That’s a good laugh, Leslie...really,” I said, as I rolled out of bed and stood to attention.

  Still laughing out loud before she calmed down, Les said, “No, I mean it. Despite all of the head games and insecurity, we’re a very stable scene...you and me. It does my heart good to know this can last a lifetime if we want it to. Right here, right now…what I’m feeling is hard to describe…”

  At that moment, I confess, I felt completely bound to her—body and soul. Forever and always. My heart turned to feelings the greatest of all English poets alleged when he said, “How sweet is love itself possessed, when but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.”

  Consciously, in that moment, I wanted those feelings to last a lifetime—raised as it was with the scent of shadows and sighs.

  20

  Aftermath

  Recorded in my dream diary on the 5th of July 1978: Took an airplane ride with another man and a woman, who were strangers. Somehow the man, the pilot, managed to control the plane like a magic carpet, banking through narrow corridors of pine trees and Second Empire stone buildings. Suddenly, the pilot jumped out of the plane and carried me with him. We parachuted safely to land. I wasn’t the least bit startled or bothered. The woman I saw was left strapped in the plane alone, soaring straight up to the vanishing point, while the pilot and I watched from the ground. He had (cruelly, I thought) programmed the plane to roll and dive in ways that were nonetheless thrilling to watch. I shouted with excitement, not thinking about the fate of the woman inside any more.

  The plane crash landed in an open field of pink and blue-green clover. The ground was covered with honeycomb. The woman had changed into somebody else. However, she emerged from the bent and smoldering aircraft unscathed. She didn’t appear the least alarmed by the fire in the cockpit, and that surprised me. I caught a flash of light reflecting a man’s image off of broken wreckage. When I turned around, the mean-spirited pilot had vanished. I woke up thinking how few dreams were as obvious as this one seemed to be. All but for the mysterious, vanishing shadow.

  The sun was up when I opened my eyes. The skies were clear except for some faint-lingering smog. Morning birds were making a racket. Nearby, I could hear the shower taps running. Once Leslie turned them off and stepped out, I heard her humming some old R&B song. It was already past eight. It only seemed right to take chances. What were the odds if I begged her on bended knees that she would consent to revisit the shower?

  This was going to be Big Wednesday for me—and I’m not talking about surfing. Our original plan was to make a return visit to the motorcycle shop in Glendale first, so we could test-drive one or two Italian-bred racers with time enough, after that, to make a choice, settle a price and buy one. If all went according to plan, we’d spend the afternoon touring LA beaches and canyons in outfits of denim and leather.

  “I can see you’re excited,” Leslie giggled. “Is it me or on account of something else?”

&n
bsp; “Nothin’ compares with you, my darling young one.”

  “Care to prove it,” she said, I laughed.

  “What again?”

  Then I thought, why the hell not?

  Leslie got dressed in a bright summer print dress. I told her if we brought the bike home later that day, she’d have to change into something sturdier. I zipped up the back of her dress in the meantime, wrapped both arms around her and besieged the bridge of her shoulders with kisses. Leslie said she’d make us tea and toast while I shaved. When I was done washing up and came out to the patio, she was casually smoking a cigarette and reading the paper. I rolled a joint and smoked it alone while she finished her tea. I could tell she had other things on her mind besides buying a motorcycle, but I stuck to my selfish ambitions.

  Once we got to the shop and parked the MG, Leslie put her hand on my forearm and told me, “We don’t need a lot of things, Peter. You know that. Do we really need this machine more than we need to save for something more lasting?”

  “Whatever you say, partner. But, consider this...we will both need our own means of transportation. And motorbikes are cheaper to run. I thought you wanted to be independent?” I teased, and then I suddenly felt tense in the gut but shook it off quickly. “Besides, you don’t want the burden of having to provide all my excitement, do you?”