by Mark Hewitt
Corcoran, as it is routinely called, has the reputation of being the toughest correctional facility in the state, possibly the country. There have been more inmate killings at this facility than in any other penitentiary. Recently, investigations were initiated to determine whether the killings have been the result of systemic corruption, the type of criminals housed there, or something else.
The official prison website informs the reader of the following: “The California State Prison (CSP)-Corcoran is committed to ensuring and instilling the public and inmates' families with the confidence that CSP-Corcoran is committed to providing the best medical, mental health, education, vocational and self-help programs for all inmates confined to Corcoran.” Because of the size, the overcrowding, and the reputation of the institution, the experiences of many of the inmates housed here would not be described in terms so positive. I knew that I would see violence and death much more frequently than I would see the inside of any classroom.
I prepared to clean my cell, an important routine over which I had complete control. I always found it therapeutic to wipe down my home. It gave me something to do and helped me feel good about myself and my circumstances, as good as an inmate can feel about himself immured in solitary confinement at one of the toughest prisons the golden state could boast.
As I was cleaning, I heard the voice of someone calling me. It was the elderly inmate I had passed on the journey to my cell. I remembered seeing him and thinking, Well, he will be no threat to my safety and me. If only all the inmates here would seem so benign. He was just over five feet tall, and no more than 140 pounds. His yellow, state-issue jumpsuit was creased with wrinkles. The old man reminded me of my own mortality. Is this how I will look when parole is granted to me? Will I look like that while I am still waiting to be released? With the exception of his pasty-white skin, he could easily have passed for my tiny grandfather.
I responded to his call. This man, being no threat, might even help me. You never can tell when you need a friend. In my state, disrupted from my previous cell and alone in a new setting, I could use a few. We began to converse in hushed whispers around the gray, cold, cinderblock wall that separated us.
“You settled?” The man continued.
“I’m cleaning my cell.” I replied as I pushed a soapy sock across the floor of my new home.
“Well, I’ll give you a holler when you’re done,” he said.
“Okay,” I agreed. Once I had completed my cleaning and had settled down to eat my bag lunch, I heard a tapping. The sound was coming from the entrance of my cell, from the same side that the voice had emanated.
“What’s your name?” the voice asked.
“Wino.” I shared “Where you from?” I was still chewing my sandwich. The old man told me that he was from Virginia. I responded that I was from Hayward, just outside of San Francisco. He knew where it was. This innocuous exchange seemed innocent enough. It could have been shared by two college students or by a child with some kid new to the neighborhood. This conversation, however, changed my life forever because the old man who addressed me was none other than Charles Manson, one of the most notorious criminals in the world: a serial killer, cult leader, and icon of California in the 1960s.
In 1969, the year I turned four, momentous events were occurring across our country and beyond our world. The baby-boomers were coming of age and throwing off the shackles of their parent’s society. Long-haired hippies used that summer to converge on a music festival to dwarf all music festivals: Woodstock in upstate New York. NASA had responded to President Kennedy’s challenge to put a man on the moon by successfully sending astronauts aboard Apollo 11, to the moon and back. In northern California, an unidentified serial killer calling himself the Zodiac killed numerous young people in lover’s lane locations around the Bay Area, and threatened to kill many more. Richard Nixon, a polemic president who would eventually be forced to resign from office in disgrace, occupied the White House.
It was in this highly charged atmosphere that a housekeeper showing up for work at a large Los Angeles estate found five people butchered in and around the property. Words were written on the walls with the victims’ blood. The dead included eight-month pregnant movie star Sharon Tate, the wife of world-renowned movie director Roman Polanski. The very next night, an older couple, who were successful business people, were found in their home, several miles away, similarly stabbed to death. More words in victim blood were scrawled across the walls.
The murders sent Los Angeles into a tizzy. Handguns flew out of gun shops; the wealthy fled to vacation homes or far away cities. The police did not receive a break in the case until a woman arrested on unrelated charges began to talk to her cellmates about the killings. It was soon realized that these killings were perpetrated by a commune-living group that called themselves “the Manson family,” led by career criminal Charles Manson. Manson and the family members who participated in the two-night killing spree were convicted in the then-longest trial in California history–the OJ Simpson trial of the era. The death penalty meted out against the killers was commuted to life in prison when California temporarily rescinded the death penalty in 1972. I knew the story, but had never met any of its principles and I never expected to meet them.
When I asked my neighbor to tell me his name, he responded, “Charles Manson.”
“Is that right?” I was stunned. Most inmates will give you a nickname on first meeting. We are often too ashamed of ourselves and the mess in which we find ourselves, or we do not want to get too close to anyone. Either way, the names given to us by our parents are not utilized much behind bars. A nickname, a profanity, or simply, “Dude,” are the preferred tags for inmates. Apparently, this did not apply to Charles Manson.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I tried not to sound like a preteen girl with a childhood crush. I was fascinated to have a famous neighbor, but I was not going to fawn over him. He was probably sick of others treating him with false flattery, doing all they could to impress or please him. The other celebrities I had met told me that they were tired of phoniness and wished to be treated like the guy next door. I would be myself, I decided. He could take me or leave me. His choice. I didn’t really care who he thought he was.
This was the beginning of our deep and turbulent relationship.
I committed myself to checking the man’s forehead on my next trip past his cell. I knew that if this really was Charles Manson, he would have a swastika or scars to prove that a swastika once graced his face. For all I knew, this was some imposter and the whole tier was laughing at my gullibility. Perhaps there were a dozen men who all posed as Charles Manson for the benefit of new arrivals to Building Four. There was going to be no punking of Wino at this facility, I resolved.
Soon enough, I saw the legendary symbol. During my first trip to the shower, I scanned for the swastika on the old man’s head. There was a faint ink and white scar outline on the forehead, just above the bridge of the nose that made it perfectly clear that he was the murderer he claimed to be.
Charles would tell me about his life, during our many chats. I would get to know him, from his point of view. Our discussions would proceed without the sensationalized media reports, the biased or fabricated tales, or the focus on the horror and death of crimes committed a long time ago. I would, over time, get to know the real person. He liked to talk and I presented a willing listener. It took many weeks, however, until he felt comfortable sharing his more closely held secrets. I listened, without judgment, and soon he was telling me things he had shared with no one else.
At this point in my life, I already knew about Charles Manson. At least, I thought I did. I remembered hearing the stories about the southern California killings in the 1960s that were linked to hippies. I knew that the events were inspired by the Beatles’ song, “Helter Skelter,” and that an anticipated race war had played a part. I knew that the band of young people who were accused, and later convicted of the murders of a half dozen people, was led by
a cult leader named Charles Manson. I knew that the leader was a musician and that his songs had been recorded by the Beach Boys and some other groups. I knew that the counter-culture singer, Marilyn Manson, took his stage name in part from Charles Manson. I think I even saw parts of the movie, “Helter Skelter,” the story of his crimes. He was huge in my mind and in the mind of our society. Talking with him face-to-face, I realized how little I really knew about him. It appeared that I had more questions about him than I had answers.
I would use this opportunity, I decided. Being housed next to the most notorious criminal in California just might open some doors for me. At the same time, I resolved to be wary of this man. No one was going to make a follower out of me. I was not much into religion and I certainly had no intension of being told what to do. Many guards and inmates had tried to manipulate me in the past, some for good, most for bad. None of them had ever had much effect on the decisions I made for myself. My own mother even commented on my stubbornness when I was three years of age. This man would not be a boss to me. I had no intension of revering and following him. I would be cautious with him as I am with everyone in prison. I am no rookie and not easily persuaded. There was no way he would have any influence over me, no matter what he did to a group of young kids forty years ago.
Charles Manson’s best days had come and gone, I could tell when I was escorted past his cell. To look at him, you might wonder why Rolling Stone Magazine dubbed him, “the most dangerous man alive.” In appearance, he was more an affable grandfather than a physical threat. If he were intentionally blocking a doorway, he would not even slow me down. One swing and he would be stretched out on the floor. A knife probably wouldn’t give him any advantage over me, not even an exceedingly large knife.
In his seventies, Charlie is no longer the imposing figure that he once may have been. Gone was the erect posture, the wiry musculature. When I met him, he wore his hair long and shaggy with a long, grey beard to match. This would change as so much about him seemed to change from week to week. Over the next few years, he would braid his beard, trim his beard and hair much shorter, and then cut off all hair from his entire face and head.
As I came to know him in his later years, I learned that despite his age and his graying, Manson’s power was anything but gone. Rather than being impotent, he revealed himself to be a person of great inner constitution and determination. His eyes gleamed with a focus that was piercing. His stance always demanded respect and fear: he carried himself with a strong presence, yet remained coiled like a rattlesnake giving the impression that he could strike out at any moment.
I continued to wipe down my new home, hoping to rid it of all the dust, toothpaste and semen stains of its former inhabitants. The cell was in pretty good shape when I first entered, but you can never be sure. Even as I scrubbed, I knew that it would get dusty again and often. There would be spilled food and the unavoidable grime of living so close to the more than 250 men in the building. There were nearly 5,000 inmates in the entire prison complex. Even though no one else would enter my cell, apart from some guards during the unavoidable, periodic shakedowns, the mere proximity of people would necessitate frequent cleanings. I am a neat freak, unlike many other inmates, so I could and would spend hours perfecting the cleanliness of my surroundings.
There was another bang on the wall next to me. I maneuvered over to the front of the cell to see who was making the noise. When I put my face by the cell door, I heard the old man speak again.
“You got a fish line?” He asked me.
“No.” I responded.
“Here, I’ll give you one. Just a minute.” Manson moved away from the front of his cell where he could speak with me, and then I heard him return.
A small wooden stick emerged from the front of his cell. I could see that it had been fabricated entirely out of newsprint. Gently, it nudged the long fire hose filled with sand that guarded the bottom of my cell. Once an end of the hose was pulled away from my cell, just a few inches from where it had been placed, Manson threw a weight over to me. Attached to the weight was a long string that he retained. When I had grasped the weight, he ordered me to pull. Attached to the other end of the string was a collection of food items that slowly made their way into my cell. There were pouches of coffee powder, a package of sugar donuts, and a couple of instant soup mixes.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely.
“Don’t say, ‘thank you,’” Charles insisted. “I only do what a brother is supposed to do.”
“Yeah, but I say it out of gratitude and respect.” I objected. No inmate was going to have the final word in a conversation with me. It didn’t matter if he gave me things or not. He probably had some angle, anyway. Like most people in this world, he likely gave first, and then asked for repayment later. I was ready for this guy. I made a mental note to always be ready with this guy.
At the time of the last count, I boarded up my window. “Boarding up” means to cover the cell window with soap, water and paper so the prison guards cannot complete their count. A guard came to attempt the count. He stopped at my door and I said that I did not have any blankets. I had asked for a rag earlier to clean the cell. I used one of my socks, instead, when no rag became immediately available.
“I just want some blankets and I’m cool.” I explained.
The guard told me not to worry, “I’ll bring you some blankets before I leave my shift.” After forty-five minutes, he came back with two state-issued, wool blankets. I spread out my sheet over the bed. Before climbing onto the mattress, I banged on the wall that separated me from Charles Manson.
The old man responded, “Yeah?”
“Hey, Charles, see you tomorrow,” I promised.
He replied, “All right. Good night, Soul!”
I lay on bed for a while just thinking. Here I was settled into my new home. Everything seemed to be going as well as could be expected. In the cell right next to me, not five feet away, was the worst serial killer in California, possibly the world. This should be interesting, I thought.
What? Was there no empty cell available next to Adolph Hitler? I laughed to myself. Will Joseph Stalin be in the cell on my other side?
The darkness closed in around me. How did I end up here? I wondered. Am I really that bad of a person?
CHAPTER 2
Willie’s Journey to Corcoran
“What’s past is prologue”
The Tempest, Act II Scene 1, William Shakespeare
I am housed alone in a Security Housing Unit (SHU) because I nearly killed a cellmate at my previous prison. It’s not that he was undeserving. He was lucky to get off as easy as he did. As a result of my actions, however, I languish, at least for the foreseeable future, in a solitary cell. The prison administration wants to ensure that what happened to him never occurs to another man.
The cellmate was a child rapist, a predator and a pervert. I have no use for people like him. There is no place on Earth for them, as far as I am concerned. When he and I were first placed together in the same cell, he told me all about his arrest and trial. He assured me that he had no interest in kids, never had, and that he had been falsely accused and imprisoned. He told me that there was a girl who lived near him who constantly attempted to get his attention. When he refused her advances, she got revenge by accusing him of rape. I offered a sympathetic ear, since I know full well that not everyone in the prison system is guilty of the crimes for which they are incarcerated—or any crimes for that matter.
Two months into our cellmate roles, I began to see a different side of my cellie. I noticed that he watched many shows on television that featured adolescent girls. He loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer, among other programming designed for the younger viewer. It became clear to me that he was paying undue attention to preteen girls on the tube, making inappropriate comments and staring intently. I then began to doubt his claims of innocence.
Please understand: I am not against graphic humor or the ribald joke. I can cast my wit as well as
the next inmate. I enjoy a good laugh to ease any tension I am experiencing. Not having access to women makes the humor all the more necessary. Naked women and sexual conquests are a major staple of inmate conversations. However, jokes and humor behind bars never include the abuse of innocent children. All of us have daughters, nieces, sisters, and mothers, who we will protect to the death. Any threat to a young child is a threat to all of us. Consequently, child rapists are the most hated group in prison, far beyond rival gang-members, terrorists, and even imprisoned police officers. There might as well be a price on the head of each sex offender that touched children. Most convicts will harm or kill such an inmate, should the opportunity arise. For me, the opportunity presented itself.
One night, as my cellmate staggered around in a drunken fog, my rage erupted. I rushed him and struck him in the chest with my prison-crafted knife, slashing at him with the shank I concealed in my other hand. I flailed at him until I knocked him out. I continued wailing on him for an eternity that was likely less than five minutes.
“I told you motherfucker, not to fuck with me!” I blurted out, drunk and high on some pills I had taken. “Huh? Huh? Huh? Huh? I told you, motherfucker, didn’t I, you stupid son of a bitch? Huh? Huh? Huh?”
I dropped his head in the toilet and flushed it. He belonged there, I thought. Piece of shit! The toilet flushed again and again as the water level rose around my victim’s head. I was only mildly aware that I was the one causing the flushes. I pinned my cellmate’s face deep in the toilet bowl. Knocked out cold, my victim would not know what happened to him until the next morning—if there was a next morning for him. I pushed him away from me in disgust and watched as he crumpled in a heap beside the shit hole.
