by Mark Hewitt
Charles Manson Behind Bars: The Crazy Antics and Amazing Revelations Of America’s Icon of Evil
By Mark Hewitt and Guillermo “Willie” Mendez
Copyright © 2013 Mark Hewitt and Guillermo “Willie” Mendez All rights reserved First Edition
PAGE PUBLISHING, INC. New York, NY
First originally published by Page Publishing 2013
ISBN 978-1-62838-028-6 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-62838-029-3 (digital)
Printed in the United States of America
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to all victims of violent crime, those past, present and future--until we all live in a land without violating one another.
Introduction: I am “Boxcar”
My name is Guillermo E. Mendez. From my earliest memories I have been called, “Willie,” by the members of my family. Never “Will,” or, “William,” always, “Willie.”
At about the age of twelve, I acquired the nickname, “Wino,” because of my penchant for fine wine. Usually, I drank cheap wine, but I enjoyed a merlot when I could get it. I’m not sure that I consumed very much when I was twelve, but someone saw me with a glass and the name just stuck.
I like to call myself the last member of the Manson family. Though I never met Charles Manson until 2003, and I was well into my life sentence in the California State Prison system, I had the opportunity to be housed next to the cultural icon. We became friends and confidants. I came to love “Charlie.” Through our relationship, I learned so much and grew very strong.
Charlie gave me the nickname, “Boxcar,” during one of our many cell-to-cell chats while we were both incarcerated at the Corcoran State Penitentiary, in Corcoran, California. My name, “Willie,” reminded him of Willie Nelson, the singer who sometimes went by the name of “Boxcar Willie.” Charlie called me “Boxcar” and I liked it. Occasionally, he called me, “Boxcar Willie,” but usually just “Boxcar.” I now wear the name as a badge of honor because I know that he only gave pet names to those he loved and respected.
He once told me that we were both hobos in a boxcar, going through life together. We were there for each other because we cared for each other. In many, many ways, his words were very true. Neither of us had very much and neither of us knew where we were going. Together, we grew as we traveled. We shared. We learned. We loved.
What I am about to tell you came directly to me from my own ears and eyes. I saw the following events unfold before me. I heard the stories and details told to me directly by Charles Manson himself. What you are about to read is a true story.
Willie “Boxcar” Mendez
Pleasant Valley State Prison, CA
CHAPTER 1
You’re Going Where Charles Manson’s At
“The Journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”
Lao-tzu
“You’re going where Charles Manson’s at,” my escorting guard said to me. I didn’t recognize this officer, hadn’t seen him around, and already I didn’t like him. I didn’t know how he felt about me, and I didn’t care. Was he trying to disrespect me by telling me I belonged in the ranks of a serial killer? The sooner I could get away from this jerk, the better.
Most guards are decent people. They have families and a job to do. In all things, I side with the inmates, but I can empathize with the good prison guards for all the abuse they take. Day after day, they suffer the indignities of disrespect, criticism, even having shit thrown at them. They get five minutes to wash up, and then they’re back on the tier to do it all over again. Not all guards are good, though.
It’s pretty easy to pick out the ones who are on the job just to bring home a paycheck. They don’t care and it shows. The really difficult officers to deal with are the ones who get off on a power trip. This guy was a pure power tripper. When he wasn’t barking orders at me, telling me to speed up, he was ignoring me as if I wasn’t even there.
Everyone knew that Charles Manson was housed in Building Four. So I would be in the same building as he, would I? Big deal. Nothing surprised me anymore; I’ve seen it all. I’ve met notorious criminals and I’ve beaten up many inmates who thought they were big stuff.
I continued the effort of carefully stepping along, constrained by belly chains and locked to ankle chains that chaffed my legs if I walked too quickly. I pushed a steel kitchen cart that contained all my worldly possessions: several changes of clothes, my radio, some letters I had received from friends and family, and a few loose toiletries. The wheels of the cart kept scraping the wheel housings producing a God-awful screeching sound. I was getting frustrated at the slowness of our pace. The oppressive sun blurred my view of the oak trees and the scorched grass fields. I was eager to be out of the heat of the day.
As we edged closer to the building in which I would be housed, I noticed to my right a fenced-in rectangular area with a table and four chairs cemented in place, a pull-up bar, a black weight bag suspended from a gray pole, and a small patch of flowers in the center of some tilled soil. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the flowers were dead. It was apparent that they had been overwhelmed by the heat until they could function no more. The grass was sunburned to a dull shade of brown. I could see the weight bag radiate heat at it hung motionless and unprotected from the sun. You would have to be a masochist to punch that right now, I mused. I knew I would never get the chance to take swings at this equipment. In my building, I would be lucky to get out of my cell for a couple of showers a week.
I was guided toward the door of the building that had a massive “4” painted on the side of it. There will be no confusion for the SWAT team if it is ever required to assemble and put down a disturbance in this building, I thought. Perhaps the large number signified a previous mishap where guards stormed the wrong building or an inmate had been escorted to the wrong cell. It takes a huge blunder for any large-scale action to occur here. When something does go wrong, the over-reaction can be humorous. It would be funnier if it didn’t mean a loss of privileges and many more restrictions on us, the guests of the institution.
As I continued to shuffle, I wondered about the other inmates who would be housed with me. Would they be as big or as dangerous as me? I doubted it. At six feet tall and 230 pounds, I face few people who pose a threat to me by virtue of their size. I have been working out for years so my bulked up arms and solid legs would cause all sane inmates to at least hesitate before attempting an assault on me.
As we reached the door, the keys hanging from the guard’s belt stopped jingling. The guard tapped the door with his baton. After a momentary pause, the lock released a clink from inside and the door started to open. “Mendez, P-96079, is going to SHU,” my guard relayed to the guards hidden inside the darkness of the building.
“Yes, Mendez, P-96079, is going to 4-A-4-R, section B, cell 28,” one of the receiving guards said. I heard dull voices in the distance when I crossed the door jam. For a moment, I could see nothing. Slowly, shapes began to appear before me, and then colors. I soon was able to see the large open room into which I had been ushered. It had the feel of a dungeon as I took in the dampness that smelled like old laundry or dank pools of rain. As my eyes became accustomed to the interior lighting, I noticed the gray floor and walls. There was dirt and dust everywhere.
My guard yelled, “ESCORT.” He was required to notify the officers in the building of my arrival to prepare for the transfer of custody. Failure to follow the transfer procedures to the letter could
mean suspension, even termination, for the inattentive guard. It is understood by staff and inmate alike that prison transfers are the most dangerous time in a prison’s routine. It is easier to surprise a guard, easier to assault a guard, and easier to make an escape during a transfer than at any other time. Suddenly, another door opened leading toward an office-like room, which was actually a hallway for prison guards to observe anyone who was entering and exiting the building. There were a few desks with chairs haphazardly strewn around.
Two guards, one very tall and one just short of average height loomed behind a large window observing our entrance.
My escorting officer said, “This is Mendez. Here is his paperwork and his property.” He handed over a clip-board and the cloth sack. He pulled the cart away from me and set it to the side of the hallway. “He’s cool.” He added to put the other officers at ease. Maybe he was not such a bad officer, I considered.
“He’s going to B-section, cell number 28,” the tall guard indicated to his partner. He then yelled up to the tower, “Open up B-section, cell 28, one to one.” I recognized the lingo from all the California institutions I had visited. It meant that they were going to escort one prisoner to the first floor of B-section.
There are three sections in our building, designated by the first three letters of the alphabet: A, B, and C. All three are classified as security housing units (SHUs), special sections designed to keep particular inmates away from the general population for a variety of reasons. They provide the highest level of security anywhere in the California prison system. Not only are the cells more securely locked with additional safeguards not present in the general population, but the building itself is a veritable fortress with additional armed guards both inside and outside. The most violent criminals and the extreme anti-social personalities all find residence here. A felony infraction and a conviction will get you to a prison; it takes repeated, heinous crimes to get a ticket to this building.
Some regions within the three sections are designated protective housing units (PHUs). These designated areas are for high-profile criminals and those who are in imminent danger from the prison population. These high-security areas within the overly fortified building are home to those who have testified against gang-members, and are therefore subject to retaliation, and high profile convicts who need to protect themselves from anyone who may want to make a name for himself. Sirhan Sirhan, the man convicted of assassinating Robert Kennedy, is a resident of a PHU; as is Juan Corona, the schizophrenic known as, “the machete murderer,” who killed twenty-five people; and, the notorious cult leading, serial killer, Charles Manson. High profile criminal cases, where famous people are being tried for serious crimes, always peak the interest of the residents of Building Four. If convicted of felonies, the guilty celebrities almost always end up in a PHU in Building Four of Corcoran State Prison. Had Michael Jackson been convicted of the child-abuse charges level against him, he almost certainly would have been assigned to this building. You can only imagine how closely we followed his trial.
Lyle and Eric Menendez, the infamous brothers who were convicted of murdering their parents for insurance and inheritance proceeds, could have been assigned to PHU units. Instead, they chose to take their chances in a protective custody setting within the general population, called a “sensitive needs yard.” As far as I know, they have been free from attacks against their persons. But no security is foolproof.
In 1999, a guard failed to securely lock a door in Building Four’s PHU, allowing three inmates from the SHU to enter and assault Charles Manson and Juan Corona. This was an exception to this normally violence-free area within Building Four. It is nearly impossible to physically harm another inmate when the inmates are rarely able to be in the same room at the same time as another person.
Because the residents of a PHU have contracts on their heads (either implicitly or explicitly), there are two added features of security. Each cell has a separate padlock that will prevent entrance or exit from the cell. It takes longer, therefore, to open and close these cells, but it protects the inmates from unwanted visitors or from attacks during a power outage or gate malfunction. It also enables the prison to lock off an empty cell while a crime is being investigated. The cells also have tubes, similar in size and shape to fire hoses, filled with sand and placed along the floor in front of each cell. These protect inmates from anything that could be slid under the door into the cell, such as a bomb, poison, or a harmful chemical.
The door indicating “B-Section” opened with a loud buzz and a click. I saw the expanse beyond the doorway, a hallway that opened up to a large cavernous area. As I left the entry room, I noted some cages with heavy-gauge steel bars. The cages were too small for cells or for any permanent residence, but too big to be easily moved from one location to another. I wondered what circumstances would require these spaces to be occupied. To one side, I observed a small pile of discarded human hair. Some inmate must have given himself a haircut, I concluded. No, at least two, I corrected myself when I noticed two distinct colors of hair. A sign on the wall declared, “Handcuffs must be used at all times.” I shuffled along the tier and took note of the three inmates I passed on my way to my new cell. One inmate nodded at me then looked away. It was either a begrudging, hello, or a muted, welcome to hell.
In the distance, I could hear my cell, number twenty-eight, click and open, controlled by a large guard in the tower. I could see that this guard was carrying a long sniper rifle, nothing I hadn’t seen before. I made my way along the tier. Outside of my new cell, I paused to allow my accompanying guard to direct me into the cell. Once I kneeled on the cement block, the guard removed my leg irons and belly chains. He commanded me to remain exactly as I was until he left the cell. He placed my belongings on the bed next to me as a mother would arrange her child’s clothing for the next day. Once he was satisfied that everything was in place, he stepped out of my cell.
“Close 28. Two-Eight,” he shouted loudly enough for the tower to hear him. With a thud, the door shut behind me. I backed up to the tray slot in the cell’s door, slid my arms through the opening, and waited to have my cuffs removed.
“This is a good building,” the guard assured me. “Old guards. They’ll give you what you got coming. Just be cool.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time, you know. I’ll be cool,” I responded. I wanted to assure him and the rest of the staff that I would not be a problem. I did not need any more of their attention than was absolutely necessary.
I was given some fresh linen for the bed. I looked around at the place that would be my home for God-knows how long. It was as gray and bleak as my last three cells. I sat on the edge of the cold bed and surveyed my surroundings. My six-foot-by-nine-foot cell was an off-white that looked rather gray: gray walls, gray floor, and long, gray slabs of concrete on either side of the cell that were the beds. My bed had an old, dingy state-issue white mattress with a quarter-inch pin striping down its length. It appeared only thick enough to be barely comfortable. No luxury here, I noted.
I could look out of the windows if I got lonely. There were four of them. The one on the back of the cell was about 5 inches wide and 48 inches high. Dozens of substantial bolts held a two and a-half-inch thick pane of dense Plexiglass in place. Nothing but light would ever pass through that opening. The remaining three windows were opposite the back window, one at the front of the cell and two on the cell door. All were of similar size and shape, held firmly by the solid cinder block walls. If a human wanted to leave this room, he would have to do it through the doorway.
The shiny stainless-steel sink was a welcome visual change from the gray of the walls and floor. So was the stainless steel-toilet. Under the beds, two hollowed out square shapes provided a place for clothing and toiletries. The only other notable fixture in the cell was the one-foot-long tray slot. When unlocked, a steel plate fell outward, away from the cell, exposing an opening large enough that a breakfast or dinner tray could be passed to a face
less inmate without the guard having to open the door. The slot doubled as a handcuff facilitator. Every time I would enter or exit the room, I would back up to the door, extend my arms through the opening, and have cuffs put on or removed. It became a routine that I did, day after day, month after month, without thinking: back up to the door, insert hands, and wait for the application or removal of cuffs. Probably, the guards moved through the routine with the same absence of attention.
I pondered my future as I sat on the bed. Well, it was no worse than my last cell, I thought to myself. I had space to move around so my regimen of exercises, which could take me 90 minutes, would continue. I attempted, and usually succeeded, in cycling through my workout three times per day. I had room to write; therefore, my correspondence would also continue, as would my appeals to the courts. In the same space that I would use to write letters, I would also continue my artwork. I loved to draw and paint. Other inmates frequently commented on the quality and life-likeness of my creations. My situation seemed all right. The important parts of my incarcerated life appeared protected. If I remained free from rules violations and the accompanying write-ups, and the system did not institute some new draconian restrictions, my life would continue pretty much the same as it had during the previous twenty-one years of my confinement. Corcoran was going to be good for me.
Opened in 1988, California State Prison-Corcoran is California’s largest prison, located just outside of Corcoran, in Kings County in Northern California. Its capacity for inmates is just over 3,000, but it regularly holds more than 5,000 prisoners at a time. It employs over 1,700 guards and support staff. It is referred to as Corcoran I to distinguish it from Corcoran II, or California Substance Abuse Treatment Facility and State Prison-Corcoran, a newer facility built nearby. Because inmates are always considered residents of the nearest town, the inmates of the two facilities comprise more than half the population of the town of Corcoran.
