Restless Souls

by Alisa Statman

  Restless

  Souls

  The Sharon Tate Family’s Account of Stardom, the Manson Murders, and a Crusade for Justice

  Alisa Statman

  with Brie Tate

  Note

  This book is not intended to harm anyone in the Tate family’s past. In sharing these experiences with readers, the intent is to foster awareness of the impact crime has on victims’ families and the rights the Tate family fought hard to establish and maintain. In a few places, we have changed or left out entirely the names of individuals who have played a key role in these events in order to preserve their privacy. We have also, in some places, altered details, locales, and other specifics to be sure these people are not recognizable, but in no instance have we altered or changed the stories entrusted to us and shared here with you.

  Dedication

  To Patti,

  P.J.,

  Gwen,

  Sharon, and her baby.

  With much love,

  A.S. and B.T.

  Contents

  Note

  Dedication

  Preface

  Introduction

  1 The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives

  2 Fragile

  3 Alone in the Crowd

  4 Just for the Record

  5 A Million to One

  6 Nothing But Dead Ends

  7 A Family Like No Other Family

  8 Evil Has Its Allure

  9 Life Goes On. Or Does It?

  10 Revenge or Justice?

  Photos

  11 That Old Bitch

  12 A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

  13 The Lost Sheep

  14 The Informant

  15 Bastardizing the Law

  16 Passing the Torch

  17 The Crossroads

  18 Changes

  19 Manson and a Rose

  20 The Show Must Go On

  21 And Then Some

  Further Information

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Preface

  Sharon Tate is a name that most have bound to the word murder. But, for me, my aunt’s name inspires thoughts of strength, determination, courage, and unconditional love. Sharon touched many during her lifetime with those traits. With her death, she then touched so many more in the limitless way that tragedies do. My grandparents, Paul and Doris Gwendolyn Tate, ingrained those attributes in Sharon during her formative years, and in the aftermath of her murder they fortified those same traits in my mother, Patti Tate, and then in me.

  My grandmother, in her infinite wisdom, realized early on that we learn and grow most from the heartaches life tends to bring us. Through the infamy of Sharon’s murder, she was given a platform that could reach millions, a voice that could bring about positive change in the world. With this gift, she dedicated the rest of her life to helping others.

  After my grandmother died, my mother went through a major transformation. Her life motto until that point was: DON’T ROCK THE BOAT. But my grandmother’s death sparked in her a need to stop being scared and to start living her life. After that, she picked up the torch my grandmother had carried before her, advocating for victims’ rights and fighting to keep Sharon’s killers imprisoned.

  I was very young when my grandparents and mother died. By the time I was mature enough to care about my family’s history, it seemed there was no one left to help with my mounting need to connect with my roots. But then I came across my mother’s unpublished autobiography, which she and Alisa Statman wrote years ago. Within the pages many of my questions were answered and ultimately it revealed to me why my mother and grandparents had spent much of their lives as restless souls. Years later, with Alisa’s intimate knowledge of my family, my mother’s autobiography was reworked into this family memoir.

  Because of what my mother and grandparents instilled in me, I live my life daily fighting for what is right, not always with the ambition and determination that they did, but with love in my heart to carry forward their positive force. By publishing this book and sharing our story, I hope that readers will prosper from our experience, and perhaps in my own little way I will also help others by bringing about a bit of peace to the restless souls who follow our journey.

  —Brie Tate

  Introduction

  It seems natural to ask Why this book? Why now? The truth is, this book has been brewing within the Tate family since 1971, when Sharon Tate’s father, P.J., attempted to write his autobiography. In addition to his efforts, Sharon’s mother, Doris, also had numerous irons in the publishing fire. Sadly, though, neither memoir was ever published, as each passed away before their books were completed.

  A generation later, Sharon’s sister Patti and I moved into her childhood home as domestic partners along with two of her three children—Brie, who was nine years old, and Bryce, who was just six. Over the course of the next few years, Patti’s frustration over the constant inaccuracies and misportrayal of her family in the media peaked, so together we wrote her autobiography in an attempt to ease her mind, set the record straight, and fulfill her parents’ goal of sharing their important personal stories as well. But after breast cancer took Patti from us, plans to publish were laid aside as we all grieved our loss.

  In the years following Patti’s death, Brie and Bryce stayed in my custody. With the support of Patti’s father, P.J., we remained in the Tate family home. In time, the kids grew into young adults. I had a few more wrinkles around the eyes. And Patti’s autobiography had gathered a lot of dust until the day Brie read it. Shortly after turning the last page of the manuscript, she plopped it down on my desk and said, “You have to try to get this out there so people can read it.”

  I explained to her that with her mother dead, there was little hope that it would see the light of day. With a willfulness definitely passed down from her mother and grandmother, Brie pushed the pages closer to my hands and said, “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

  That something eluded me until P.J. decided to sell the family home to me and move to Whidbey Island for some peace and quiet. He packed his few remaining personal items from the house and left the rest with me to do with it as I saw fit.

  While P.J. boarded a plane for that faraway island, I was left to the task of cleaning out and organizing our home—a home that had accumulated the lifespans of three generations. Room by room, box by box, I unearthed a treasure of the Tate family’s home movies, audio and video recordings, journals, and letters dating back to 1961, as well as a massive archive of police and court documents from Sharon’s murder case.

  It took months to catalog it all, and during that period I was pulled into a time warp of their formidable lives. As I closed in on finishing the task, the answer that had earlier eluded me now seemed clear. I could expand Patti’s autobiography into a family memoir. By using what I’d found, as well as the personal knowledge shared over the years with me by P.J., Doris, Patti, and Brie, I decided to write it from each of their unique and extraordinary perspectives.

  By combing through all that information and then reconstructing the work into a four-decade, cohesive narrative, my goal was to chronicle their lives with historical accuracy in even the finest details. Nevertheless, with four of the five key witnesses to this story gone, there were a few times when I was left to fill in the gaps with my personal interpretation.

  Police, prosecutors, and defense attorneys alike will concur: There is no perfect witness. When the last page of this book has been turned, some will agree that I am certainly no exception to that rule. Over the years, friends and relatives have shared valuable anecdotes with me. But when those stories varied from Patti’s, P.J.’s, Doris’s, and Brie’s, I left them behind in order to pr
eserve and honor the shared memories of the loving individuals who are the heart and soul of this book. . . . Now, after three generations’ time, this is finally their story.

  —Alisa Statman

  1

  THE FIRST DAY OF THE

  REST OF OUR LIVES

  I left my sister’s house one night . . . and life was good. Then I woke up to another day and life had changed so very, very dramatically as our world just fell apart and I realized that it’s never ever going to be the same.

  —PATTI TATE

  Patti August 9, 1969

  “My God, Sharon’s been murdered.” Barely able to get the words out, my mother collapsed against the scarred door frame and then to her knees. I looked up from my favorite cartoon in time to see the first tear spill from her eyes.

  Paralyzed by her emotion but not understanding it, I could only stare at her while the seconds passed, waiting for an explanation. Her lips fluttered, but there was no sound. Leaning forward, I strained to hear. Then, in a scarcely audible whisper, she said, “My baby’s dead.”

  As if floating to me in delayed time and space, her words eventually reached my ears, forever altering the stability of my life.

  The morning hours preceding that moment began as so many others had in my eleven years, with only Mom and me in the kitchen. My oldest sister, Sharon, moved out years ago, Dad, an army intelligence officer, was stationed in San Francisco, and my sister Debbie was hibernating in her room because despite how mature she felt, we were the enemy who reminded her she was only sixteen. Unlike my relationship with Sharon, I felt distanced from Debbie. She was too young to be a role model, and too old to be a friend.

  With the clang of the last dish placed on the breakfast table, the phone rang. Assuming it was Sharon, I nudged my ear next to Mom’s. “Doris, have you talked to Sharon this morning?” the voice asked.

  I felt Mom’s body stiffen. “Why?” she asked.

  “Turn on the radio. They’re reporting some trouble in Benedict Canyon.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Thoughtful silence, then, “I’m not sure. I have to run.” The click of disconnection.

  Just north of Beverly Hills, Benedict Canyon winds its way through the Santa Monica Mountains in a labyrinth of entangled and unmarked roads. A quarter of a mile before Benedict Canyon Road ascends the mountain, is Cielo Drive, a narrow road that abruptly climbs the hillside. Without the benefit of a street sign, Sharon’s cul-de-sac is an inconspicuous left turn off the main path. Though her address is 10050 Cielo, it is often confused as an outstretch of Bella Drive, the marked road directly opposite.

  Always one to overreact with worry, Mom simultaneously turned on the radio and dialed Sharon’s number.

  On the radio, a newscaster was mid-story: “Reports of a possible fire or landslide first came over the police-band radios at 8:30 this morning. Our correspondent at the site reports that at least three people have perished in this disaster on Bella Drive in the Benedict Canyon area. Police are supplying little information at this point, and are withholding the victims’ names pending family notification. We’ll be reporting on this throughout the morning as the information comes in.”

  Bella Drive sounded familiar. “Isn’t that where the lady with the good cookies lives?” I asked.

  I noticed a slight tremble in Mom’s hand as she lit her second Tareyton in ten minutes. “Uh-huh,” she absently responded.

  It turned out that the lady with the good cookies was Doris Duke, heiress to the American Tobacco Company. But when I met her, I measured a person’s importance on the type of cookies they served.

  February 14, 1969, was Valentine’s Day, and the day that Sharon moved into the Cielo house. Two weeks later, Sharon was still unpacking boxes when I noticed the backside of the Duke estate across the ravine. Intrigued by its resemblance to a castle, I hiked to the front of the property. An engraved plaque to the right of the open gates read FALCON’S LAIR. Sharon had mentioned Falcon’s Lair when she talked about a haunted house in her neighborhood! Fearlessly, I started through the gates and down the sloped driveway in search of a ghost named Rudy.

  Ten feet into my adventure, there was a voice, English and bellowing. “This is private property. What are you doing here?”

  I wheeled, losing my footing on the gravel drive. Just then, a long, black limousine arrived, distracting me from the red beading across my knee. The car glided to a stop when the back door was even with us. The darkened window slid down. The woman behind the glass curiously looked at me, her eyes above lowered sunglasses. “Who do we have here?” she asked the man.

  “My name is Patti,” I blurted before he had a chance to answer. “My sister lives across the way in the big red barn.”

  The woman’s eyes shifted between us as if we were crime partners, eventually settling on the man. She pushed her sunglasses back in place. “Stop being such an ogre and bring Patti in so we can clean those scrapes. And get me the Polanskis’ phone number.”

  Before I’d even had a chance to take in the royal surroundings, my knee was bandaged, tea and cookies tantalized from the coffee table, and Sharon’s arrival was announced. “Mrs. Polanski here to see you, Ma’am.”

  Polanski was such an odd name, and even though Sharon had married director Roman Polanski over a year ago, she was still a Tate in my mind. Until I saw her nervously chewing her lower lip, it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d done anything wrong. Her hand reached out. “Miss Duke, I’m terribly sorry for the intrusion.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “We’re having tea. Please join us.”

  The sun streamed through the kitchen window and reflected off Mom’s glasses. I couldn’t see her eyes, which always revealed her mood. “I hope Miss Duke is all right,” I said, adjusting my view and looking for one of her reassuring winks.

  With the phone cradled on her shoulder, she was too preoccupied to respond. No one answered at Sharon’s house. I trailed Mom’s gaze to the clock and knew what she was thinking. Almost eight months into her pregnancy, Sharon slept late into the morning. It was too early for her to be out of bed let alone out of the house.

  With her biscuits and gravy still untouched, Mom made a series of phone calls beginning with Sharon’s obstetrician, then onto friends, the police, hospitals, and finally Roman, who was in London. And still, Sharon’s whereabouts remained a mystery.

  Mom’s pudgy fingers pulled at her dark curls until they were limply fringed around her face, all the while her lips murmuring her limited options. If her car wasn’t in the repair shop, she’d be halfway to Cielo by now.

  I giggled over the reason we were without a car. In three years, Sharon had totaled two cars; everyone—except her—knew she was a terrible driver. A few days ago, Sharon and I had gotten into her car for a trip to the market. The Ferrari roared to life when Sharon turned the key. Mom waved good-bye from the porch. I waved back from the passenger seat. Sharon throttled the accelerator, shifted into reverse, and off we went—right into the side of Mom’s Corvair.

  “It’s not funny,” Mom scolded halfheartedly. “And don’t you let it slip to Daddy—or Roman for that matter. Both of them will pitch a fit that’ll last till doomsday.”

  We finished breakfast with only the sound of the overhead fan’s whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. With each pass of the blades, Mom’s unease rose until it threatened to catch in the whirlwind above. She had a habit of wringing a Kleenex when she was nervous. By 10:30, the one in front of her was pulp. Sharon’s routine call was a half hour late.

  Before marrying Roman, Sharon had been engaged to Jay Sebring. After their breakup, Jay remained a family friend. His house was a five-minute drive, to Sharon’s. “Why don’t you call Jay?” I asked.

  “I already did. He wasn’t home,” she mumbled.

  I sighed. Ever since Sharon moved out of the house and began her acting career, Mom seemed to be expecting tragedy to strike Sharon. It was just last week that she’d decided Sharon looked too pale. The doctor assured h
er everything was fine, but Mom insisted on the proof of a blood test.

  Proof. Today I didn’t have any, so I tried Sharon’s tactic—distraction. In the afternoon, we were going to Sharon’s baby shower. I gathered wrapping supplies and piled them on the table along with my gift. “Have you wrapped your present yet?” I asked.

  “No.” She turned from the soap-bubbled sink. “You’re giving up Huggles?”

  “Yep,” I said, more bravely than I felt. “He needs a new baby to protect.” I wrapped the worn bear as carefully as china. Sharon had given me my lifelong companion and I was going to miss him, but he was the only gift I could afford.

  I placed the bow on top of Huggles’s well-wrapped head and propped him up on the counter where Mom leaned in meditation, possibly prayer. Another brew of coffee percolated with a thunderous rumble. So much for distraction. Back to proof. “They said the fire was on Bella Drive not Cielo,” I reminded her. “Why are you so worried?”

  “Because I think the reporters are confused. There are only two houses on Bella. They would have mentioned Falcon’s Lair by now because Doris Duke doesn’t have any next-of-kin to notify.” Her sentence was choked off by a sob; a sob sure to become contagious if I hung around her any longer.

  I grabbed some Pop Tarts from the pantry. “I’m going to watch cartoons.”

  Without the buffer of a door, it was hard to ignore the eleven o’clock newscast blaring from the kitchen radio. The reporter’s voice was more animated than the cartoon I muted. “Two hours ago, police cars raced through Benedict Canyon, responding to what was originally thought to be a landslide. We have just learned that the incident is being assigned to Robbery/Homicide. It is believed that there may be as many as five casualties. One name we’ve heard repeated over the police radio is celebrity hairstylist Jay Sebring. Whether or not he’s a victim has yet to be disclosed. In other news this morning—”