by Mark Hewitt
I asked him numerous times whether he was Jesus or Satan. My questioning was usually prompted by an unusual statement from Charlie in which he implied that he was one or the other of the two (sometimes even both). He had this way of implying it, without actually saying it, in his stories and in his words. In response to each of my queries, he would always reply, “That’s who people say I am.” I came to hear that response from Charlie again and again, “That’s who people say I am.”
I have come to see him as intelligent, creative, and God-only-knows-how patient. He has endured a lot of ridicule for the crimes, the murder of seven people. I never believed that he committed them. Even though he has never denounced the slayings done those two fateful nights, I didn’t think that they should be held against him. Refusing to denounce doesn’t make him guilty. The law states that he has the right to remain silent.
He has chosen to hold his peace even as society made him the scapegoat of all if its ills: the hippies, the draft dodgers, the public protestors across America, and the Viet Nam war. It’s easier to blame him than expect society to take responsibility for its own problems. In fact, Charlie has only been convicted for being the oldest and most influential member of the Manson family. He repeatedly denied ever committing or condoning a murder.
Nevertheless, every year, Manson is convicted all over again in the media. If he were ever retried, he would be found not guilty, and would likely come away with a large settlement for judicial misconduct. I asked him once why he didn’t seek to have his case retried. “Even if my case were to be retried,” he confided, “I might end up back on death row for some other murder they would pin on me.” He told me that he had chosen to live a humble life, living each day to the fullest knowing that his time might be short. Not only was he given a life sentence, but his health was not that great.
He was acutely aware of his physical challenges. On various occasions, he told me about his heart problems, his colon cancer, and his emphysema. In addition to his physical ailments, he was also threatened with death every day from the many inmates who would love to make a name for themselves by “offing” the most notorious convict in America.
Parole did not appear to be a likely possibility to Charlie. He told me that many members of the victim’s families sit on, or control, parole boards, which have a major influence on the Board of Prison Term, the committee tasked with the responsibility to decide whether an inmate is paroled or not. These victim advocates see to it that Manson is not granted parole. It would be nice to think that this kind of activity was rare; however, it happens to inmates all the time. I have seen it.
I have a friend who is serving “seven to life.” In other words, he has to serve at least seven years of incarceration, but his sentence could continue for his whole, natural life. The actual length depended on what the parole board would decide. No matter how many AA meetings this friend attended, no matter what he did to reform his life, he never made it out. After sixteen years, the Board of Prison Term recommended him for parole. When the governor’s office caught wind of the plan, it made sure that he was once again denied parole. That was in 1991. Today, he languishes in prison still.
In the years since the early 1990s, the prison system has steadily taken away prisoner’s rights and privileges. Under California Governor Pete Wilson, rehabilitation programs were stripped away from the inmates, sugar was replaced by cancer-causing sugar substitutes, and rules for possessions have been tightened. It seems that politicians would rather build a new prison than a new elementary school in the ghetto. Charlie helped me see this. It is more profitable and politically beneficial to provide money to richer counties and wealthy communities, than to provide funds where they are needed most.
It is better, in some people’s estimation, to buy a pair of handcuffs than to purchase a school book for a kindergarten student, a book would ensure that a child will turn out successful. Currently, there are more prisons in California than in any other state. That doesn’t even include hospitals, federal prisons, camps, or county lock-ups. When you realize the huge business that the prison system is, and consider the people making money off of it, the job security and profits for investors through state bonds or affiliated companies, it gets kind of scary for the powerless inmate. I have only come to understand this lately. I was never much into politics until Charlie explained to me how so much of our world works. Instead of using its power to gain more power and money, the prison system should be about helping others.
When Charlie and I spoke, our discussion was often about how to help other people. Charlie would say, “Love your brother, help your brother, and help one another.” He would also say, “To love your brother is to love yourself. To love yourself is to love your brother.” He would even sing this from time to time.
His main objective in teaching others was to get everyone to help one another like it used to be. “Everyone in and out of prison is your brother or your sister,” he would tell me. “The true convicts were the ones in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s, when inmates were there for those in need. At that time, it didn’t matter if you went to a county jail or a federal institution, if you had a need, others would help you. It didn’t matter whether the other person was wealthy or couldn’t scratch two cents together: whatever you needed would be provided. People helped each other with hygiene items, writing paper, and food. No questions asked.”
We do not see this much anymore, we lamented.
Charlie told me, “If we help one another, we make this world a better place to live. How do we say we are for peace in the world when we are trying to sell a rifle that can kill at 300 yards? How do we say we are for better air when we seek huge profits in our oil stocks?” These are subjects I discussed with Charlie. We would go on for hours.
One time, he really made me laugh. He said, “Tell that cowboy he has to stop driving that pick-up truck because it’s causing pollution in the air. It’s causing birth defects, and the cowboy will say that he needs the truck to drive, feed the cows, and go to the rodeo. He reasons that he won’t be around in 50 years so why should he worry. What does he care about the ozone? Or, what the ozone is, anyway?” We would laugh out loud because it is so true--how easy it is for people to be ignorant and selfish, pretending that it does not matter or that problems don’t exist. He may have been referring to President George W. Bush, but I suspect he meant any cowboy. Charlie was not much into politics, except to point out the enticing trap of power that exists in every part of our society.
One night at about 10:00 in the evening, I had prepared and consumed a large quantity of pruno and was feeling pretty good. I called to Charlie to ask him some questions. Probably, I did not have the nerve to ask him these questions while I was sober.
“Hey, Soul. You over there?” I inquired while banging on the wall.
“How are you, Boxcar? I could smell the vapors when you broke the wine down,” Manson said to me.
“Yeah, I knew you would smell it over there,” I continued. “Charlie, there are some questions I’d like to ask you. Do you mind me asking them? They are kind of personal, but I’m sure you won’t mind.”
“What do you want to know, Soul?” He knew I was drunk from the slurring of my words.
“Charlie, have you ever sucked dick?” I dared to ask.
“Yeah,” he replied without elaborating.
“Charlie, have you ever had sex with a man who was, you know, who was behind you?” I think I stumbled over my words from fear and from pruno.
“Yeah, but I didn’t like it too much,” was his reply.
Charlie answered those questions very calmly, but then snapped at me for my timidity, “Why didn’t you just ask me if I was a homosexual instead of beating around the bush and asking about specific acts?”
“I didn’t know if I should ask you like that and have you feel offended,” I defended myself.
“I said it was all right to ask me some questions, didn’t I?” Charlie asked. “Well, then, it’s okay to ask. Yo
u dig?” Charlie was raising his voice by this time, but I doubted that anyone else could hear him.
“In that case, I have a couple more questions for you, Charlie.” The pruno was providing me with great boldness. “What is your favorite flavor of ice-cream and what is your favorite color?” He replied that Vanilla was his favorite flavor of ice-cream; red and black, his two favorite colors.
“Have you ever been to Hayward, Charlie? It’s near Oakland.” I was feeling talkative so I kept up my questioning.
“No, I don’t think so,” he told me. “I’ve been to Oakland.”
“Is that right, Charlie?”
“Yes, it is. Now I’m going to get back to what I was doing before you called me over to ask all your crazy questions, all drunk on pulky.” He was getting testy, but I did not care. I still wanted to talk.
“I wanted to know your favorite color because that chick from Hollywood, whose letter you gave me, wanted to know.” I continued. “I wanted to know your favorite flavor of ice-cream so I could give you my ice-cream next time we have that flavor on the tier.
“Hey, Charlie, guess what?” I was entering dangerous territory and I knew it.
“What?” He replied gruffly.
“I’ve always wanted to get my dick sucked by someone who had no teeth,” I taunted.
“Boxcar,” he said more annoyed than angered. “You are drunk. Go lie down and get some sleep.”
“Charlie, you got a real, real pretty mouth.” I was laughing and feeling very relaxed. I went back to my radio to listen to my oldies station. From time to time, I would call him over if there was a song on that I thought he would enjoy.
I knew he had false teeth. When he took them out, he sounded really old. I would tease him and ask him to take his teeth out so I could hear what a really old man sounds like. He was good natured about my teasing as a mother dog would be with the playfulness of her litter.
I gathered up my courage and finally asked him that night, “Are you gay?” I guessed that I would not dare ask once the alcohol wore off. I was already taunting him playfully and he was not getting upset. What did I have to lose by asking?
“Yes,” was his only reply.
I was surprised at his answer, probably more surprised at his candor than his confession. I knew he had been portrayed on television and in movies as a womanizing pimp. He was surrounded by his family that consisted mostly of young women. As I got to know him, I suspected that the aura was more about his power in controlling others than in any sexual magnetism. The women were mere prostitutes to him, people who could make him some money and who were open to his manipulations.
Wow, I thought. I was right. Charlie is gay!
Charlie and I were never sexually involved, but we did have a playful relationship nonetheless. Sometimes, when I was out of my cell, I would wiggle the padlock on his door. I only did this when I knew he was awake so that I didn’t disrespect him. Like a tiger in the grass, he would whip his head around to see who was there and whether there was a threat to him. In retrospect, perhaps I was cruel in doing this, but it was so funny to see him jump into action.
He would get me, too, though. He would never let one of my pranks go unanswered. He would ask a guard to cut my shower short so I would be left with soap in my hair when the water stopped prematurely. He would ask a guard to slam my tray slot closed after a meal was delivered, or after I had received a book or my mail. Guards generally would not do that kind of bidding for an inmate. For Charlie, they made an exception. I would get startled or annoyed by the sound of the crashing metal as the guard fulfilled Charlie’s request.
I knew that Charlie was behind it, paying me back for my insolence. The actions had Charlie’s name written all over them. The guards would not cut my shower short or bang my tray slot unnecessarily. Charlie did these and many other pranks to remind me and everyone else that this was HIS “bandstand.” He made sure than no one on the tier would ever steal his “bandstand.”
CHAPTER 5
Charlie’s Early Years
“I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.”
- Sigmund Freud
As one long day led to another, and we got accustomed to hearing each other’s voices, Charlie and I began to trust one another. When the interpersonal risk level reached a certain threshold, he began to share with me some of the childhood experiences that made him the person he became. I wasn’t always sure whether he was telling me the truth, however. I have always had a tough time accepting at face value what anyone said. By that time in my life, I had concluded that most people tell lies most of the time. The truth will get you in trouble. It is better to shade the truth, or make up stories and facts that are useful. I know I’m not alone. In jail, a story is as likely to be as phony as a three dollar bill as it is to be an accurate accounting of events. With good reason, all people who have done time in prison tend not to trust others. If you take people at their word, the prison system would have to be full of innocent, wrongfully convicted, people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or happened to be on the receiving end of some police or political vendetta. Charlie, however, seemed very sincere when he shared with me. He spoke from the heart, and I could tell that it was painful for him to describe his early years. He demanded the truth from me and was never satisfied with partial truths or manufactured facts. In time, I learned to accept as truth the things he told me, and to reciprocate an honest presentation of reality.
Charlie was born in 1934, under the same sign as me: the Scorpio. He arrived in Ohio to an irresponsible, unmarried girl who had just turned 16. Neither Charlie nor his mother ever knew for certain who his father was, though his mom suspected a certain encounter was responsible for him. In Charlie’s words, “everyone in town was doing my mother.” Much of his first few years were spent at the home of the parent’s of Charlie’s mother. Charlie’s mom was not one to be tied down so the two moved frequently. He acquired a couple of half-sisters later in life.
Charlie had some happy memories of his days in Virginia, one of the many places that he called home. Nothing is left of his childhood residence, he told me. It had been demolished so that a large dam could be erected. “You used to be able to drop in a fishing line and pull out all sorts of fish,” he lamented to me. “You could see deer walking in the area. Now, everyone says that it’s all gone. The dam is more important because it makes money and fills the rich people’s pockets, rich people who don’t even live in Virginia. All they want to do is build dams, kill the deer, dry up the creeks, pollute the air, dump chemicals and run all the small people out of town.”
His grandfather being a veteran of WWI, Charlie enjoyed playing with the medals, knives, and guns that were stored in a locked box in the attic. He had two uncles that he remembered from his early years: one who died in prison of tuberculosis and another who worked for the railroad. Charlie vividly recalled visits he made with his mother to see his incarcerated uncle. On one occasion, he observed his uncle working at something in the toilet of his cell. At the time, Charlie concluded that the man was attempting to escape. Only years later did he realize that his uncle was washing his clothes in the time-honored tradition of plugging up the cell latrine, putting soap in the toilet bowl, and scrubbing (often followed by a cleaning of the whole cell with the same soapy water). Charlie laughed and laughed when he recalled his early misunderstanding.
In addition to these uncles by blood, Charlie was introduced to many, many other men, always called, “Uncle John,” whom he later concluded were prostitution “Johns.” Frequently, Charlie was told to play in the yard, even if it was cold, even if was dark, so that his mother could have time alone in with the current “Uncle John.” It was confusing and alienating for young Charlie. The one person who provided any sort of consistency in his life frequently rejected and abandoned him.
The men came and went in Charlie’s early life. Some stayed for a few days or even months. Always, they l
eft. Some of them were friendly to the boy; others were hostile and openly resentful of him.
Prostitution was not the only source of income for Charlie’s mom. The mother and son family was sometimes supported by her occasional jobs, none very steady or lucrative. It seemed to Charlie that he and his mother were always moving. They lived in numerous states, in countless cities, as she flitted from one job and living location to the next.
Charlie’s mom sent him to live with an uncle at one point. She would sometimes leave him with a neighbor or relative and not return for many days, but this was different. The uncle, who may not have even been a relative, agreed to take care of and raise Charlie until his mom got her life in order.
Charlie told me that when he was eight years of age he was forced by this uncle to wear a dress to school. Charlie had come running home because some of the other kids were picking on him because he was the smallest child in his grade. Other children had started to tease him after school. When he ignored them, hoping that the passive response would put an end to the taunting, one large bully approached and hit him in the face. Charlie had run all the way home full of dirt, tears, and fear that the boy would follow him to continue what he had started. Charlie was crying when his uncle found him.
“Charlie, what are you crying for?” the uncle demanded.
“A kid hit me up so I ran home,” Charlie replied between sobs.
“You did what, boy?” The uncle was not pleased with the cowardice. He slapped Charlie on the side of the head so hard that the young boy felt a tingling in his ear and could not hear out of that ear for days.
The next morning, the uncle insisted that Charlie put on a red dress and attend school dressed as a girl. “After school,” the man instructed, “I want you to find that bully and hit him as hard as you can. Don’t come home until the guy is bleeding or on the ground.”
