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

by Mark Hewitt

  These were no mere words to Charlie. I saw firsthand how that played out around the prison. I saw so many inmates or guards with fear in their eyes, or fear in their body language, as they spoke to, or about, Charles Manson. If they had the chance to talk with him and get to know him, I have no doubt that they would mellow out. They acted on edge, as if something could happen at any moment, simply by hearing the name Charles Manson or seeing him pass by.

  I saw Charlie build up that fear level in others in some pretty crazy ways, too. He could stare down an inmate or guard, put on a silly smile, or if he was overly tired, he could growl like a hungry junkyard dog. I saw guards leave the building after hearing one of Charlie’s growls. Others have quickly offered Charlie something or asked him to show them his artwork in an effort to diffuse the situation. It seems that everyone walked on egg shells around Charlie. “Keep the fear level up,” Charlie would tell me. It was a game to him.

  Once, he made a voodoo doll that resembled a guard that he despised. He said some evil words, played on his bongos, and pricked it with some pins. As far as I know, the guard never knew about it—fortunately for the both of them.

  “I want to teach you things, too, Charlie,” I confided one day, “but how can I teach something to someone who knows everything already?”

  “We are all babies,” Charlie opined, “and we learn when we are willing to learn, or we don’t learn. Whether we have learned something already or not, we will pick up something out of whatever lesson comes our way.”

  When he spoke this, it became clear to me that Charlie was a born leader. He had confidence and charisma. He was always talking about something new and interesting. He knew what made people tick. Even here, he would not put me down, even though I claimed to know nothing that he didn’t already comprehend. He was a brilliant leader who protected those he led.

  Occasionally, I would nitpick at Charlie to gauge his reaction and better understand him. He did not get mad at me very often. It would take a lot of abuse before he would yell at me. Usually, he would just laugh at me or mock me for trying to get his goad.

  I learned to never underestimate him, however. He always had some game going. Either he was trying to get the guards to do something or convince one of the other inmates to carry out a project for him. It was funny to see him dance the dance of manipulating others. I began to see him as a “con-troller.” He was a convict, or “con,” and he was always trying to control others, so I coined the term “con-troller.” Being around him was like watching a wrestling match. I never knew what the next moves would be, but I knew it would be fun to watch. It was always entertaining to be housed right next to Charlie.

  I got to see a lot of the different faces of Charles Manson, too. He seemed to have different personalities that he was able to call upon at will. Depending on who he was speaking with, he could be coy, aggressive, witty, dangerous, insane, and even demure. I began to see how he often role-played simply to get someone to do something for him.

  Charlie and I didn’t always get along. We had our share of disagreements, often annoying each other in one way or another. If anyone tells you that they always get along very well with their cell-mate or friend in neighboring cell, call him or her a liar. No one can live in such confined quarters and not erupt from time to time. All inmates, whether they are male, female, adult, juvenile, or whatever, no matter where they are held, at a federal institution, local holding cell, or state prison, are treated like cages animals. Even zoos provide more living space for their residents.

  Inmates come in all shapes and sizes, backgrounds, religious beliefs, and bad habits. Putting them in close proximity doesn’t remove these differences; indeed, it magnifies them. Generally, the toughest part of prison time is handling the diversity of humanity that is found behind bars. It would be hard enough to cope with so many “normal” people confined to tiny rooms. An average population would probably be easier to survive. Behind bars, you do not find typical people or a cross section of society. You encounter men who through circumstances or bad choices find themselves on the wrong side of the law. Not only are there a variety of personalities, nationalities, and religious persuasion, in prison there are multiple personalities, dominators, manipulators, and those who prey on others. As it is, it’s amazing that there aren’t more fights and greater animosities.

  When Charlie and I got into it, when we would really have a row, he would go to the guards and ask them to do things to bother me. It really got under my skin when he would talk to a guard to whom he was close and have that guard dog me. Some guards would deny me yard privileges, serve me a small tray at breakfast or dinner, cut my shower short, or lose my canteen slip. I always knew that it was Charlie behind it; it had his name written all over it. I can handle some harassment from guards. That is to be expected behind bars. Convicts learn pretty quickly to swing with the punches. What annoyed me most was the fact that Charlie went to the guards in the first place. How cowardly is that? He is supposed to be so strong, so fearless, and instead of dealing with me directly, he goes to the authorities to exact revenge. I can only wonder about the cost to Charlie. What did he have to do to repay the guards for my harassment? Did he promise to comply with that guard at a later date? Charlie must have been making deals with the devil. He was playing off both sides of the law.

  I saw Charlie cozy up to guards more than once. During the first weeks next to me, he got so obnoxious that I began to suspect that he had put LSD in my food. I didn’t know how he could have done that, but the visions that ran through my mind left me no other conclusion. Later, when we weren’t talking to each other, I saw him get revenge on me through the guards. He was able to convince them to shortchange me out of food items and throw my mail around the cell (rather than handing it to me). It angered me that he had such power over the guards and the ability to disturb me; it hurt me that he would do those things to me. Fortunately, our disagreements never lasted longer than a day or two. I was glad to work things out with him after each argument. As we discussed our grievances with one another, I reminded myself that in such an unnatural situation as prison, friends are critical for survival.

  There are some inmates who will do the laundry for another in exchange for some kind of payment such as coffee, food, or whatever. I could never do that. I was raised to be self-sufficient and to encourage others to be that way too. I wouldn’t allow someone else to clean my clothes, nor would I want to clean another’s. However, I would have cleaned Charlie’s clothes, even his cell, if I had the chance. That is how much I cared for the man. I didn’t view him as just another inmate. To me, he was my father, my brother, my guide and guru, a person more important to me than my own family.

  There were times I felt obliged to protect Charlie due to his advancing years. It was apparent to me that senility was setting in. The predators behind bars will prey on the weak, all of the weak, including the aged and infirmed. Like many elderly people, Charlie had been abandoned by family, and denied care that he dearly needed.

  He was still very alert and very cautious, often overly suspicious and paranoid. I couldn’t blame him because of all that he has had to endure. I observed that almost every day someone was talking “shit” about him. If it wasn’t an inmate on the tier, or someone from another building passing a note, it was a person from the media communicating through the radio or newspaper. The worst were the comedians who often invoked his name as a synonym for pure evil before hitting a punch line that was never respectful of him. I learned to keep any negative information away from him.

  At first, when I told him that I had heard or seen something about him, he would always say, “Yeah? What did they say?” I could tell that it hurt him and infuriated him when I recounted the slight. Over time, I stopped passing on information that I knew would upset him. He didn’t need to hear the latest joke or the false bravado of some rookie inmate who had never even met Charlie. On anniversaries of the Tate and La Bianca killings, the number of references to Charlie would
always peak. It was especially important at these times for me to remain silent.

  I felt very close to Charlie because of the depth of his sharing with me. He had a way of opening himself that at one and the same time revealed him to be vulnerable, yet very, very strong. He could be open, extremely open, sharing some of the disappointments of his life: how others had let him down, how he was abused as a child, and how he never had the support, supervision, and direction he needed as a young boy. Yet, I found out quickly that this sharing couldn’t be equated with weakness. Charlie refused to show any form of weakness. “Kindness is not weakness,” he often told me. And, to me, he was very, very kind—and generous.

  Charlie made it clear to me that if I ever double-crossed him or brought harm to any of his friends, he would be sure to exact his revenge. He never detailed what he would do to me, the same way he seldom fleshed out his threats to others. However, it was impressed upon me that I didn’t want to even know what his revenge would look like. He never threatened me directly; he was able to couch his words in hypothetical instances where other people would be the ones who stepped out of line and others would be the recipients of revenge. He seldom took responsibility for violence or threats, but no thinking person could come away from his warnings without the clear message that to bring harm to Charlie was a punishable offense.

  Even with the threats looming over me, our friendship could proceed. He had three rules for close friendship that he regularly shared. Friends of Charlie had to:

  1) Keep it real

  2) Never tell lies, and

  3) Be a friend to his friends.

  It was almost a gang code, the way he explained it.

  By keeping it real, I was never to act phony around him. He wanted to know what was going on, exactly. He forbad me from playing games with him, falsely flattering him, or deceiving him. I’m not sure that he obeyed his own rule. In retrospect, it is possible that this code was part of the grooming to which he subjected others. He had no qualms about playing mind games with me. He had no problems with deceiving others, although not usually directly. By insisting that I keep it real, more than likely he was setting me up to be manipulated by him. At the very least, he was informing me that he was in control of the relationship.

  He also never wanted me to lie to him directly. He told me that to lie was to disrespect. He noted that when you lie, you damage your own reputation. “Lies always get revealed sooner or later,” he explained.

  Charlie’s third requirement ensured that his friends were friends with each other. Not that he had all that many close contacts in jail: he didn’t. Nevertheless, he insisted that those who were in his inner circle commanded the same respect and deference that he did. I never had any difficulty abiding by this demand. Generally, I don’t cross anyone’s path unless I must. I’m not well connected enough to afford to be on the wrong side of anyone, especially a powerful icon such as Charlie. If Charlie wanted me to befriend his friends, I was happy to oblige.

  Charlie’s friends consisted mostly of those celled around him. He spent almost his entire week in his cell. He could if he wanted to, and sometimes did, send messages to other parts of the tier by means of a fish line or relayed message. Most of his communication was to the neighboring cells where he could converse quickly and in some privacy, however. His mail contacts were much more spread out, obviously. He corresponded for months or years with people on the outside. I had no doubt, ever, that he was strongly protected by his friends, whoever they were or wherever they happened to be; therefore, I never sought to harm him or allow any harm to be done to him. I knew my safety depended upon it. With his worldwide contacts, and his media presence, I could not risk being out of his favor. I learned that I would have to be loyal to him until death, even when we were in the throes of disagreement and not talking to one another. Because I cared for him so much, it was not hard labor for me to be committed.

  I was educated about political movements through my relationship with Charlie, even though it was not a formal education. Through our friendship, he taught me how the world works. He impressed upon me the need for a revolutionary movement to correct the problems in our world. It is necessary for each and every voice is to cry out against injustice and wrong. We are witnessing injustice all around us, and we have observed it down through history. Yet changes are happening, too.

  “It is a revolution that started a long time ago and continues to this day,” he elaborated one evening. “Every person who is a rebel against our democracy is labeled. It doesn’t matter if they are protesting our government’s exploitation around the world, or its oppression of the poor. They will be criticized and minimized. If you try to help young, lost children, teens, and young adults, you will be rejected, called ‘bad for society.’

  “The revolution has leaders in every country in every generation,” Charlie continued. “They go by different names, but the message is the same, whether they were called Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara, Hugo Chavez, Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, Luis Farrakhan, Chairman Mao, Fidel Castro, Pancho Villa, Benito Juarez, or Emiliano Zapata. The list of people goes on and on. The faces are many, but the cause is the same. The establishment has always exploited the poor,” he went on, “and thrived off the blood, sweat, and lives of the old and young. The powerful springboard their careers, lacing their pockets with the money better spent to help the poor get a decent education, or help the farmer to modernize his farming equipment. If they choose, they could build better hospitals, schools, houses, roads and bridges. They could clean up our rivers, beaches, air, and soil. Instead, the politicians elected into office do nothing, even though they could make some difference because they have the platform to do so.

  “Where the politician has failed, you and I could take a stand.” By this time, Charlie was animated and passionate as he preached. I could visualize his arms waving about, punctuating his words and emphasizing the cadence of his ideas. “This, my brothers and sisters, is the medium that I, Charlie Manson, have chosen to use to change the world.” I was the only one listening to him, but in his mind he was orating to some large crowd. I don’t necessarily agree with every aspect of what Charlie said to me. At the time, I did accept everything he said, unquestioningly. I am now somewhat removed from his words and can think more independently.

  Still, I believe that changes are needed. The world will continue to deteriorate until someone does something to grasp our attention. Now I’m not saying that anyone should go blow up a car or building. Rather, I would prefer that everyone take a non-violent stance and utilize the writing of books as a way to reach people all over the world. Inspiring others can be accomplished through music, art, and writing, whatever medium that can be utilized to help spread the word so that it benefits people. Charlie chose art and music. For others, political discussions with their neighbors are probably the fastest, cheapest means of propagating a positive message of change.

  Thankfully, today, because of the World Wide Web, it has become possible to help victims all over the world. Those with diseases require medicines and proper care, the poor need food and sustainable jobs, and the orphaned need security and a sense of belonging. All people need the basic building blocks of life and health and purpose. All of us need to help each other, or as Charles Manson would sing on the tier, “Love one another, help your brother.” One person at a time, we can make a difference. That is the revolutionary movement that is needed to correct our world’s problems.

  I would never have understood this if it weren’t for my friendship with Charles Manson, and his words reverberate in all areas of my mind: “We are one. There is no you, me, him, they, or them. There is only one!”

  CHAPTER 8

  Charlie’s Sanity

  “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.”

  Edgar Allan Poe

  Many people ask me whether Charles Manson is insane. My answer is always, “well, yes and no.” By the legal definition of sanity, in my presence, Charlie was as s
ane as you and me. He knows the difference between right and wrong. He was in full awareness of what he was doing and how it was affecting others. In fact, it’s this awareness that enables him to act the way he does. He is so sensitive to the actions and thought patterns of others that he is able to manipulate people for his own ends. He studies others to learn their weaknesses, and then uses these weaknesses against them. Acting crazy, and inviting others to conclude that he is in fact crazy, is one way he gets what he wants from other people.

  Indeed, many of his actions appeared crazy. They were designed to be this way. He was always very intentional in the moves he made. Charlie did many bizarre things in my presence, and these served to keep others confused and perplexed. Who is the most feared adversary, according to any military strategist? Certainly, it is the insane opponent who may do anything at anytime and whose actions defy rationality. Charlie embraced the identity of the lunatic adversary, and he kept his opponents (and his friends) on edge with a deep sense of unease.

  On one occasion, Charlie told another inmate and me to start talking with each other, yelling at the top of our lungs when he said the word, “go.” There was no warning, nor prior discussion of this bizarre charade. He simply commanded and expected us to carry out his orders. We didn’t know why we should do this or what purpose Charlie had in mind. We also didn’t know why we should not participate, so we each for our own reasons decided to comply with Charlie. Perhaps, it was easier to go along with his scheme than to object to it. It might lead to some fun, too. It doesn’t take much to amuse an inmate.

  When he said, “Go.” We began to shout at one another:

  “HI, MY NAME IS WILLIE.” I could not talk any louder.

  “HELLO, BROTHER,” yelled Bill. “YOU KNOW WHAT I’D LIKE TO DO?” Bill was talking at the same time as me.