Restless Souls

by Alisa Statman

  “Mrs. Tate, I’m going to excuse you while we hear from Mrs. LaBerge, and then you’ll be given the same courtesy for your statement,” Carter said.

  I hurried out the side door to the monitor in the atrium to watch the spectacle of Rosemary LaBianca’s child pleading for her killer’s freedom. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was more going on here than mere forgiveness. After all, LaBerge had not contacted Krenwinkel or Van Houten, nor had she made a public plea for their release. A reporter once told me that Watson and LaBerge were friends prior to the murders. At the time, I’d thought it was speculative nonsense. Now, I gave the possibility more validity and wondered whether she or Watson actually wrote her script. LaBerge’s flowered dress cherubically disguised what must lay beneath her costume; a well-concealed evil.

  I was back to hiding a snarl, maybe even fangs.

  “I’m grateful for the opportunity to share my feelings and point of view with you,” LaBerge said. “I hope you’ll understand that I put it all down in notes so that I wouldn’t forget anything.”

  Watson watched like a proud parent as LaBerge read her pages in a monotone cadence. “I’ve had much time to think about the crimes Charles has committed. They affected me as much as anyone else who loved any of the victims. It has taken a lot of time, information, and God’s love to come to the opinion that if this case is going to continue to be viewed in the public, they deserve to know another side of Charles’s life—the loving side. They should be made aware that he is nothing like the news media portrays him. They should be aware that he is not rotting in some cell, and that he’s pressing forward to become all that God has created him to be.

  “I believe that Charles’s positive progress should be made known and acknowledged by all. I believe he has set a precedence with the way he has chosen to conduct his life. I believe that he has made the only restitution that he can and that it is valuable for society to know that one individual made a choice to overcome his past.

  “I believe fear is the primary reason Charles has not been given a parole date. Fear of recidivism, fear of setting precedence, fear of public opinion. I realize that some prisoners who are paroled return to prison within a few years, and that concerns me because I doubt their rehabilitation. I don’t view Charles in this light. His life before his crimes was well rounded and rooted in good morals and beliefs. He was reared in a secure and loving environment. For only a very brief time did Charles step out of his beliefs to experience another way of life. He was lured into the drug-crazed culture of the sixties . . .”

  Three pages later Carter interrupted. “Mrs. LaBerge, how many more pages do you have?”

  “Just a few more.”

  “Okay, proceed.”

  “Charles made very wrong choices for his life; however, the choices he could have made after his crimes were endless and he chose to repent. I believe that this has not been an easy accomplishment for Charles, considering who he was, what he did, and where he is.

  “The awareness of his change, growth, and true repentance should be obvious to you. I don’t think any kind of fear is justifiable for keeping Charles in prison. For Charles, I believe twenty-one years of imprisonment, and his having to live with the memory of what he did, is punishment enough. It is my belief that Charles could live in society peacefully and should be given a parole date. Thank you for letting me participate today.”

  “You’re excused at this time, Mrs. LaBerge,” Carter said. “We’ll call the other witness.”

  I’d been chomping at the bit for two hours—even two years—to say my piece. I took the position at the helm of the table and went at it. “I might say that I feel sorry for this man, that he chose this way of life, but there is no way of turning back, okay?”

  I looked to my well-prepared statement, then chanced another plan of attack. “I’m not going to read my speech,” I told the board, and then broke the rules by directly addressing Watson. “What mercy, sir, did you show my daughter when she was begging for her life? What mercy did you show my daughter when she said give me two weeks to have my baby and then you can kill me? What mercy did you show her?

  “For twenty-one years, I would have liked to have asked, why? You did not know my daughter; you had never seen my daughter—at least not that I know of, she had only been home for two weeks. How can an individual, without knowing, without any abrasive feelings go in and slice them up?

  “Sharon was eight months pregnant. What about her family? What about her family? And what about the family she was going to have, sir? Is that not a family? I saw how your feathers ruffled when you were talking about your family. What about my family? When will Sharon come up for parole? When will I come up for parole? Can you tell me that? Are these seven victims, and possibly more, going to walk out of their graves when you get paroled?”

  I took a calming breath. “Yes, I feel sorry for anyone that has chosen that way of life. But if you can tell me one person that wants to live next door to you, with your children, and with their children, I’ll eat my hat. You cannot be trusted.

  “And I’d like to remind the board that religious faith has nothing to do with release. If it did, we can open the doors for all inmates throughout California. Let’s open the door for Ramirez, let’s open the door for Randi Craft—well, we can’t do that because they are on death row. But let’s remember back when this man was on death row, before a fluke when the death penalty was overturned, and his death sentence was commuted to life. It took California only three months to get enough signatures to get that death penalty back on the ballot. I do not believe that the people of this state could accept the fact that this serial killer could be released to society. I rest my case.”

  With that, the parole board adjourned to decide Watson’s fate.

  They deliberated for twenty-five minutes before unanimously denying Watson parole. He would not be eligible again until 1993.

  Carter slid a copy of their decision to Watson. “The prisoner needs to show he can cope under any circumstances, in whatever institution he’s assigned. When safety is not an issue, the prisoner is to cooperate with a transfer to another institution and the staff is being requested to transfer the prisoner to another institution for further programming as soon as it is feasibly possible. The prisoner is released.”

  When Watson stood to leave, his legs faltered and he dropped back into his chair. As he rose again, our eyes met. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and he had. The ghost from his past came to haunt him during this parole hearing. It was going to be a long time before Watson felt peace of mind. Welcome to my world.

  Suzan scurried out behind Watson.

  Mr. Jan shook my hand. “Mrs. Tate, you’re my hero, don’t you ever forget it.”

  “I’m no hero, honey. I really don’t understand how you can represent him.

  Jan shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone is entitled to an attorney, Mrs. Tate, even killers like Watson. I’m just doing my job.”

  “It’d make all our lives a lot easier if you all weren’t so damned good at it.”

  At the parking lot, Steve and I ran into Suzan LaBerge. He blocked her path of escape. “You know, Suzan, that you dishonored your mother today.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  I couldn’t hold my tongue a second longer. “Oh yes you did. You were there today defending the man that stabbed your mother in the back forty-two times, that’s beyond human forgiveness. Every mother within the sound of my voice would cringe if their kid went into a parole hearing to beg for their killer’s release. You make me so sick I can’t even stand to look at you, you dumb shit.”

  “You have no right to talk to me that way,” she hissed. “It would be wonderful if you could be like my parents.”

  I got in the last lick right before the press came into earshot. “Oh, go to hell.”

  “Mrs. Tate,” a reporter approached, “Watson has been in prison now for twenty-one years, that’s longer than most of the convicted killers in California. When wil
l you feel he’s served enough time?”

  “Oh come on, you tell me,” I lashed out, still fuming over LaBerge. “Watson has been in jail for twenty-one years, okay. Divide that by the seven people that he killed and that’s three years for each person. Was each of their lives only worth three years? I’m sixty-six years old. I won’t be alive forever, but I will go to my grave intent that justice be served, and future generations will not forget Tex Watson’s evil deeds.”

  16

  PASSING THE TORCH

  They received the death penalty and it should have been fulfilled. Then, we wouldn’t have to worry about any of this, would we?

  —DORIS TATE

  Patti 1992

  An errant storm front edged its way inland from the coastline with low-slung clouds brooding well below my bird’s-eye view from the Holy Cross Cemetery. The June Gloom, as the Angelinos like to call it, had crossed into July. Mom wouldn’t care now, but for the living we decided the only proper place to bury her remains was next to Sharon’s in the same plot.

  The wind kicked up. I tilted my face skyward and found the silvery clouds with heavy black underbellies hurrying across my path at time-lapse speed. My eyes stung from the snapping current that kindled more tears. Memories of the past clawed at and pierced my durable resistance while I stood over Sharon’s freshly burrowed grave; her once pristinely silver coffin now blushed to the hue of the earth.

  I was eleven years old again, wanting to open her casket, needing to see my eternally beautiful twenty-six-year-old sister, wishing I could lay at peace with her.

  Time heals all wounds? Certainly not. The searing recoil of Sharon’s murder burned through layers and years until it reached my mother’s soul in the form of cancer.

  “IT’S GLIOBLASTOMA,” the doctor said.

  “Geo what?” Dad barked at the neurosurgeon.

  “Glioblastoma. It’s a malignancy of the glial cells that are the supportive tissue surrounding the neurons—”

  “Son, do you have the capability of speaking English? What in the hell’s the matter with my wife?”

  “Mr. Tate, calm down,” the doctor suggested.

  “You try sitting in my place and then tell me to calm down.”

  “Doctor,” I glared at Dad, “what’s the simple version of your diagnosis?”

  “Your mother has an inoperable, malignant brain tumor. It’s a grade four, which means it’s extremely aggressive, reproduces quickly, and invades the surrounding healthy tissue. Prognosis: She has ten to twelve months with radiation therapy, six months without treatment. You’ll need to find a neuro-oncologist and a damned good radiologist as soon as possible.” The surgeon stood, his extended hand ignored. “You have my deepest sympathy.”

  The tumor would spread through the adjacent brain tissue and eventually, if Mom survived long enough, throughout her central nervous system. The parade of physicians she saw refused the faintest shadow of hope. More readily available was a list of symptoms to track: seizures, memory loss, changes in behavior, progressive weakness, loss of speech and vision, fluctuating mental status, coma.

  I ignored Mom’s future. Instead, I chased the past, trying to recapture squandered time, and in doing so, I accused, prosecuted, and mentally condemned the smugglers of Mom’s attention. I resented every victim who had called her for solace or advice, every organization that had needed her support, and every bit of legislation that had distracted her focus from me over the years. Mayhem holds no boundaries, including holidays. The phone rang off the hook with victims on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Mother’s Day while I was pushed to the back burner, stewing over those who stole her away.

  They were all time thieves, including President George H. W. Bush, when he flew into Los Angeles to appoint Mom his 738th Thousand Points of Light. In lieu of viewing it as the proudest moment in Mom’s life, I regarded it as an intrusion of our last weeks together.

  Her motor skills degenerated and her body weakened by the radiation treatments, I pushed my wheelchair-bound mother through the airport’s special security to meet the president’s plane.

  The unrestrained wind gusted across the tarmac while we waited for Bush’s arrival. Mom shivered. The scarf and straw hat veiling her balding head were hardly adequate against the chilling dampness. I removed the hat, and wrapped my arms around her head to shield her from the flaring blasts. I was annoyed at the president for making her uncomfortable. My one-track mind concentrated on thoughts of getting her back to the comfort of her bed as quickly as possible. Sensing this, Mom tickled me under the arm. Her words came thickly. “I’m okay.” Then she handed me a pamphlet. “Will you read this to me?”

  Had she forgotten the reason we were here? The paper quoted Bush’s passionate idea behind the award he was about to present.

  “America has always been led by example. So, who among us will set the example? Which of our citizens will lead us in this next American Century? Everyone who steps forward today to get one addict off drugs, to convince one troubled teen not to give up on life. To comfort one AIDS patient. To help one hungry child. We have within our reach the promise of a renewed America. We can find meaning and reward by serving some higher purpose than ourselves, a shining purpose. The illumination of a thousand points of light is expressed by all who know the irresistible force of a child’s hand, of a friend who stands by you, a volunteer’s generous gesture, an idea that’s simply right.

  “Points of light are the soul of America. They are ordinary people who reach beyond themselves to the lives of those in need. Bringing hope, opportunity, care, and friendship.”

  My lids tightened around guilty tears. This substance of Doris Tate was a stranger. She’d tried to share her work with me, but I didn’t want to hear it, couldn’t bear to listen, didn’t want to waste more of our time on them. There’d been so many sad stories coupled to a never-ending line of victims needing her support. No matter how long that line grew, she refused to turn anyone away, and therein laid my resentment—time thieves.

  Mom and I rehashed the issue in clashing arguments until the impasse of my thirty-first birthday. The phone rang just as we sat down for dinner. I cringed. She came back a moment later putting on her raincoat. “That was Helen. The police think they’ve found her daughter’s body, and they’ve asked her to go in for an ID.”

  My fork clanged to the plate. I couldn’t look at her. “Mom, it’s my birthday. Let someone else go with her.”

  “She asked me to go with her.”

  “I’m asking you to stay.”

  “What would you have me do, Pat? Call her back and say, ‘Gee, Helen, I’m lucky enough to have my family safely around the supper table, so you go alone to pick out an identifiable piece of your child’s mutilated body—maybe a mole that withstood her otherwise bashed-in face!’”

  “Stop it! Just stop it! Your family is here.”

  “Lord knows I didn’t raise you to be this selfish, Patti. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “I won’t be here.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  We didn’t talk for three weeks.

  The president’s plane taxied closer. I’d become my own worst enemy. Everyone except me had recognized the importance of Mom’s work, including the leader of our country. I took her hand. “How could I have been so blind?”

  “Nonsense. You have a right to own those feelings.”

  “I’m proud of you,” I persisted, bathing my conscience.

  She made a sweeping motion with her one functioning arm. “Clean slate.” She pulled my head close to her lips, her words flowed smoothly as if my confession had regressed the tumor. “When tomorrow comes, and it surely will for both of us, I want you to remember this—cause I sure as hell won’t,” she smiled, and swatted my behind.

  The week following Mom’s shining day with President Bush, she flipped off the Phil Donahue show. Her hand patted the bed for me to join her. The same hand softly closed around mine while she studied my face. Finally, she asked, “What ar
e we going to do?”

  The question whipped me back to August 1969. In nearly identical positions, she’d asked, “What are we going to do without Sharon?”

  I didn’t answer the question then because making plans without Sharon seemed like killing her in my own right. Now, I felt that continuing this conversation would be tantamount to killing Mom.

  Aware of my fears, she continued, answering the question that I dared not ask. “I can’t go until I know that someone will continue my work.”

  “Mom, I’m not strong enough—”

  She forced my look to her eyes. “Stop hiding from your fears, Patti. Use them to find your strength again because pretty soon I won’t be here to be your buffer.”

  The saddening finality of her wisdom and frightening change it was sure to cause in my life cinched my throat. Though I was thirty-five, I curled up next to Mom like a child, burying my face against her neck; deeply inhaling her comforting scent. Silent moments passed before her whisper broke through, “Darlin’, if that son of a bitch or his followers are ever released from prison, justice will be lost.”

  Hidden from her sight, my tears rolled freely. I nodded against her neck, “Okay, Mama. I’ll do it.”

  Two days later, Mom fell into a coma. I lay at her side every day, holding her, massaging her, rubbing her head, anything to comfort her as she’d done for me throughout my life. She appeared younger; the worry lines that had creased her forehead, eyes, and lips were smoothed by her slumber. Wherever her mind had taken her, she was at peace.

  My father had changed, too. Two decades after he had moved out of Mom’s bedroom, he moved back in. Camped out on the floor in a sleeping bag next to her bed, he watched over her around the clock. We didn’t really need a nurse because Dad doted over Mom as I never thought he could. Brushing her hair, rubbing lotion over her dry skin, changing her bed linens and jammies, and, before the coma, spoon-feeding her the only thing she’d eat, strawberries and cream. For the first time in my life, I saw the man that Mom had fallen in love with so many years ago. He was a stream’s ebb and flow of sensitivity, yet he possessed a self-protective indifference. It was as if he was a parallel current of strength and weakness.