Charles Manson Behind Bars: The Crazy Antics and Amazing Revelations Of America’s Icon of Evil

by Mark Hewitt

  I had half expected him to behave like a raving lunatic outside of his cell. It had been so long since he had left it that I didn’t know how he might act. He was not affected by his long stay in his cell, it appeared to me: he was calm, walking with a flat-footed shuffle. He had told me he practiced his ability to always be alert and always be nimble on his feet. He knew after so many attempts on his life that he could be attacked at any time. He had also told me about how he practiced every movement. “In prison, you can’t take anything for granted,” he had warned me. “The only certainty for an inmate is death.” Charlie worked hard each day to postpone that inevitability.

  It was common knowledge that whoever killed Charles Manson, if someone were able to reach him and carry out that act, would be recorded in history. The murderer’s name would be entwined with Charlie’s forever and ever. Some no-named lifer who has nothing to look forward to could instantly make a name for himself by bringing about the death of Charles Manson. Because the prison system knew this about Charlie, guards took extra precautions to keep him alive. Yet, they provide no bodyguard service. They have a prison to run and costs to contain. They do what they can to keep each prisoner safe without any guarantees. Sometimes, what they do proves insufficient.

  With Charlie, there is more incentive to keep him alive than with other, typical inmates. No prison official, guard or administrator, wants to be responsible for the death of such a high profile inmate. Not on their watch! The staff also does not want their prison to be the location of his murder. That would not bode well for the politics of prison funding or the institution’s reputation. Daily, the conflict played out between the no-name inmates desiring to gain historical significance and vigilant guards attempting to uphold the prison’s safety record. In the center of this storm of conflict, Charlie’s life hung in the balance.

  When Charlie was back in his cell, he asked me, out of the guard’s earshot, “Did anyone come in my cell while I was gone?”

  “No, Charlie.” I responded. “It’s all good. They know better than to lie to you like that!” I wasn’t sure if he asked out of paranoia or out of a sense of protection of his turf. Probably both.

  “Did you see any birds out there?” I changed the subject.

  “Yes, I seen some birds flying around, some ants walking around, and I seen a black widow, too!” He was referring to a black widow spider that had been spotted in the Section-A Yard, or Yard One as it is frequently called. It lived in a crack in the cement at the far end of the lot. In the shelter provided by the crack, in a pile of leaves above a dirt floor, it had built a three-foot web. It would gracefully emerge from its hole to capture and eat any unfortunate insects that got entangled in the web. It could manage a grasshopper if it had to, even one that was ten times its weight. Charlie was particularly eager to talk that day and filled me in on all the events of his trip outside.

  Two days later, it was my turn to go out. “Mendez, you want to go out to the yard, today?” A young guard queried me.

  “Yeah,” I replied. I was in need of some fresh air and different scenery.

  “OK, be ready in five minutes.” He commanded as he left the section. He appeared less sure of himself than the veteran guards.

  Five minutes later, he returned and unlocked my tray slot. I slid my hands through the opening and waited as I was cuffed. The door opened as the guard yelled, “B-Section, twenty eight! Two! Eight! ” I turned around and walked toward the yard. Because it was still a little chilly, I requested and received a jean jacket to be used only in the yard. I glanced toward Charlie’s cell as I walked passed it, and noticed him wearing his state-issued, black reading glasses. I tipped my head back in greeting. He returned the gesture.

  Once outside, I drew in the cool fresh air. The sky was clear. The birds had apparently fled for shelter from the strong breeze. You cannot prepare for this cold when you are confined to a cell all day, every day. You can think about it and attempt to prepare your mind for the experience, but the reality is too palpable for the imagination. I shuddered against the stiff wind, quickening my pace to provide some warmth.

  When my allotted three hours had elapsed, I stood waiting for my escorting officer. Another guard noticed me and asked whether I would like some books. I asked him what he had. He listed a few different titles, including a murder mystery and a military book. I said, “I will take those two,” indicating two books to his left.

  He handed them to me and added, “Charlie really likes you. He don’t like most people.” I agreed, pointing out that most people judge him by what they hear in the news.

  “I accept him for who he is,” I boasted.

  “Yeah, well, I like the old man, too,” the guard assured me. He smiled. “He can sure tell stories, can’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s been around a while.” I turned to walk away. When I got to my section block, I noticed that Charlie was at his window. He smiled at me while he did something with his hands. It occurred to me that he was weaving something, not unlike the spider in the yard. That was an interesting metaphor, I thought: Charlie was just like the spider, weaving a web and attempting to catch something. I wondered what he was creating and what he meant to catch.

  I had to drop the books on the floor once I arrived at my cell. The tray slot was only six inches by eighteen inches. I always had to carefully maneuver my six-foot, 230-pound frame so I could slide my hands through. After I was uncuffed, I washed my hands and wiped down the books. The cuffs were always dirty and God only knew where the books had been. I like to keep myself clean and a prison cell offers no protection from germs.

  Soon Charlie was banging on the wall. “Boxcar!”

  “Yeah, Charlie. What’s up?” I replied.

  “How was your yard?” He was as interested in my time outside as I was in his.

  “Oh, it was really nice, Charlie. It was a little too cold, but it was okay.” I elaborated. “I saw some bugs and a moth. The birds weren’t out. The moth was the biggest one I’d ever seen.”

  “What did you do with it?” He wanted to know. His tone of voice was firmer and more serious than I had heard from him before.

  “I watched it fly over the wall,” I lied. I had no interest in arousing his anger.

  “Oh, that’s good. That’s good.” The old man said in a tone that resonated of a child’s fascination mixed with that of an approving parent.

  I knew that he considered all animals, even moths, sacred. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the moth was dying and I fed it to some ants. I figured it made no difference to the moth. The ants would have found it eventually. I felt bad for lying to my friend, but not bad enough to incur his wrath. I didn’t want to have to sit and explain it to him either. I rationalized that I had helped the ants, not killed the moth. I’m not sure that Charlie would interpret events that way, and I didn’t mean to find out.

  Later in the day, I came to see how profound Charlie’s concern was for the natural world. He asked me about the moth again: “It went over the wall?”

  “Yes, Charlie. It did go over the wall.” I said, repeating my lie.

  Perhaps picking up on my falsehood, he growled, “Because anyone who messes with the bugs will be cursed and what they do to the bugs will be done to them!”

  For a long time afterwards, I stopped killing bugs. Not so much out of fear, but out of the love and respect that I had toward Charlie. I cared about nature, but no one could care as deeply as Charlie.

  CHAPTER 7

  Keep it Real

  “In poverty and other misfortunes of life, true friends are a sure refuge.”

  Aristotle

  Charlie often talked to me about friendship, not just our relationship but the concept in general. He insisted that I understand what it was, what it looked like, and what it took to be a true friend. It seemed like such a simple topic, since everyone learns about friendship about the same time he or she learns to walk, but to Charlie it was much more complex than I thought—and very personal. He
spoke of our friendship in the most intimate terms.

  “People will hate you as they’ve hated me all of these years,” he said. He seemed to be quoting Jesus. “You are famous just by being around me because I have spoken things to you that I never have to any one else.

  “Boxcar,” he continued. “You are famous now. You’re in history.” Since I was locked up next to him, since I had furthered a relationship with such a celebrated and feared icon, I guessed he was right. I was not sure what it meant for me, though.

  “I don’t like people,” he went on, “because they are a lot of problems, and they’ve brought me a lot of problems. I don’t need any friends because friends are a responsibility.

  “There was this Hawaiian guy.” Charlie’s tone changed as he began to recount a story he had heard. “He wanted to take his friends with him when he died. He dug a big hole and put a long pole inside of it. He called his friends over and asked them to climb down in the hole and hold up the pole for him. They did what he requested because they were his friends. He pulled out a gun and killed all of them before taking his own life.”

  “That’s what a real friend is about.” I said to show Charlie that I had understood his message. “He will lay down his life for his friend. He will do whatever it takes to serve him without thinking twice about whether he’ll live or die. A true friend gives to protect those he cares about most: his friends and family members.

  “There’s no honorable way to die in this fucked up world, Charlie.” I added.

  “You got that right, Boxcar,” Charlie agreed. “I knew there was some reason why I liked you. You’re very smart!”

  “Thanks, Charlie. You’re very smart too, you old man.” I laughed at my joke, “ha ha ha.” Charlie joined my laughter.

  When I had been living next to Charlie for about ten months, I decided that I would show him the depth of my devotion to him and to our friendship. We had been through much together, most of it positive, some of it trying. Despite the tough times, and maybe even because of them, we really did care for one another.

  One day, when a guard passed my cell, one with whom I got along reasonably well, I asked him if I could come out of my cell to sweep and mop the tier. He gave me a suspicious look. I could see that he was reviewing in his mind my previous violent acts. He was weighing a decision, while considering whether I was trying to pull something over on him or not. I explained that I wanted to sweep and mop the floor correctly, to make the area a better place in which to live. He acquiesced with a shout to the tower guard. “Close B-section. Then open cell door twenty-six.” He must have reasoned that a better living area for me would mean a better work environment for him. I am sure he concluded that if we were happier, his life would be, too.

  As I stepped out of my cell, I determined that this was my time to shine. I felt an emotion like no other I had ever experienced. By this time, I cherished Charlie as a father figure and a brother, and I knew the project I was carrying out would make him as proud of me as any father is of his son. I wanted to be successful and have him admire and enjoy my success. The guard who had momentarily left me alone returned with a broom, mop, and pail of hot water. I took the broom from his outstretched hands and began to sweep.

  Once I had completed the first tier, I surveyed the pile of dust, dead bugs, tiny rocks, and old food items that I had collected. I knew that there had to be billions of dust mites and germs in my pile. I cringed as I thought about it. The second tier was not as dirty, but I was able to gather another similar pile that nearly turned my stomach.

  I lifted the mop the guard had brought out for me. Dipping it in the still scalding water, the first place I set to work was the area of dried soap right in front of Charlie’s cell. I looked across at Charlie as I labored over the floor. He smiled a broad, toothless smile which I quickly returned. With each thrust of the mop, I could feel my relationship with Charlie growing. We were getting closer and closer. We knew we had done it: we had stolen the floor. This was our tier. We alone had bragging rights to the entire area, the only piece of the planet over which we had any claim. And we staked our claim.

  My job of cleaning the floors only took me about forty-five minutes. The guards were so appreciative of my efforts that they offered me seven lunches that were left over from earlier in the day. They also provided me with extra items from breakfast and dinner. The guards regularly collected these items and used them to reward positive behavior. It was an inexpensive way for them to manage our actions. Their eagerness in providing for me showed me how thankful they were, but I was more interested in pleasing Charlie than in collecting more food.

  I had done this for Charlie. I cared about the other guys on the tier and wanted them to have a better living space, but mostly I cared about how it would affect Charlie. The soap was gone; the dust was gone. I knew he could breathe easier now that our floor was immaculate. The bare tier lights reflected off the shiny gray paint of the floor. Gone were the scraps of paper that had once clogged up the drains. Gone also were any last traces of Strawberry from our lives.

  I sensed how appreciative Charlie was, even if he didn’t put his feelings into words. He showed me a lot of love over the next weeks. Our arguments of the past were no more than distant history. He now knew how deeply I cared about him--and appeared to reciprocate my emotions.

  In our friendship, Charlie could be very blunt. He taught me many things, but I didn’t always like how he talked to me—not at first. His tone seemed to suggest that he didn’t respect me. Over time, I came to see how he really did have my best interests in mind. He was blunt and forthright in order to teach me things I needed to learn. At times, I must admit, I require direct confrontation to accept something I have previously rejected or to learn something new. When I explained to Charlie how I arrived at Corcoran in the SHU, for instance, and detailed how I stabbed my child-molesting cellie, I expected to be praised. I was mistaken.

  “You stabbed yourself,” Charlie blurted out.

  Thinking that he may not have heard me or understood me, I repeated that I stabbed my cell-mate because of what he had done and because of his disrespect for me.

  “You stabbed yourself,” he said again. He explained that whenever we do acts of violence toward others, we are doing more damage to ourselves. “We might as well stab ourselves as stab someone else,” he told me. The results for us are the same.

  He had a point, I had to admit. It made me consider my actions and the effect that they were having upon me. I had never stopped to think about my behavior in that way before. Charlie may have saved me from many future violent acts, may have saved me from further episodes of stabbing “myself.” I came to appreciate his boldness with me.

  Charlie would often say to me, “We are one. There is no you, me, him, they, or them. There is only one!” I heard it over and over until I was sick of hearing it. It became a kind of mantra for him. Whenever I would get angry at someone and vow revenge, whenever someone else’s actions irked me, whenever I spoke of an enemy, Charlie tried to get me to see things a different way, “We are one. There is no you, me, him, they, or them. There is only one!” Hearing that phrase impressed upon me the foolishness of all anger I harbored toward others. Over time, Charlie helped soften my rage. As the months went by, whether due to my maturing or the instruction I was receiving from my friend, I felt the urge to strike back and hurt others less and less.

  I expressed my love for Charlie in many pranks, often doing things to him just to see what made him tick. He knew I was testing him. I wanted to know the real Charlie. I knew he could talk a good game, but I didn’t know whether he backed up his talk in his actions and in his heart of hearts. I wanted to know whether he was as tough as he portrayed himself to be. Before I was incarcerated, I often put others to the test. I especially enjoyed it if some little guy was pretended to be tough. Since I am bulked up to 230 pounds in my 6-foot frame, it is easy for me to stand up to a smaller person. Only those who truly carry street smarts and a mental tou
ghness can impress me.

  I liked to fiddle with the lock on Charlie’s tray slot as I walked past his cell. I would never do this if he was sleeping. That would violate a cardinal rule in prisons. To wake a sleeping inmate is to disrespect him. Only a truly angry, vengeful inmate will wake another inmate—and he had better be prepared for the consequences. I never wanted to show even the least amount of disrespect to Charlie.

  If he was awake, however, and I was feeling mischievous, I would jiggle his lock on the way to my shower. When he would hear it, he would show an immediate and profound fear. He had the look of an animal trapped in a corner. I felt bad for giving him such a fright, especially knowing that his hold on life was so fragile. He had already been the brunt of many attacks, and never knew who wanted to do him harm. Still, by teasing him this way, I had a front row seat to the show of his reaction. He demonstrated fear, but he still was one of the boldest, toughest, and mentally strongest people I have ever met. I could tell that Charlie was never unraveled by fear.

  He spoke to me often about fear, not about what made him afraid, but about the need to overcome the fears in our lives. He claimed to fear nothing. “Boxcar,” he once said. “I’m the man who will go and face the fear I have. I’d do that instead of running from it. To overcome my fear is to challenge my fear, whatever fear is, or whatever it means. I’ll eat fear for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’ll make fear my friend instead of my enemy. I digest it and conquer it.” He spoke in the soft and philosophical tone of John Lennon.

  Once, he told me that you have to keep the fear level up. “Fear is life.” He said. “If others don’t fear you, they won’t respect you. But if they fear you and are afraid of what you might do to them, they will give you all the respect in the world!”