Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars

by Edward George

Charlie had consorted with all his girls, yet somehow managed to keep them from becoming jealous. This always intrigued me. He treated them as one in his “truth.” And yet, in this socialistic world, Squeaky stood out as something special. “I married her in a dark prison cell,” he said once after reading a particularly moving letter. “I was alone, and I never gave her up.”

  Squeaky, in turn, fed on the fact that a man who belonged to no one was hers alone on a mystical, higher plane. “I love him and all his instincts you find so dirty.… Day by day, we became more aware of Charlie, who was ever aware of us, and each tree, each branch and each leaf.… The reason I love Charlie is he lets me be myself. Simple. My parents never let me be myself. The harder they pushed me, the farther I went from their reality.… A pair of hands, a feeling, the silent shadows of a lonely, quiet ocean rolls, the sun on my tears and a smile only you can see.”

  She called a few days after Charlie’s violent tantrum. Her voice quivered as she fought to control her emotions. “Let me talk with Charlie,” she begged. “Please, I have to. He’s all I got.” It didn’t appear that something traumatic had occurred or that there was an emergency of some kind, but that Squeaky was coming unglued and needed a word or two from her master to keep from falling apart, “Please,” she continued. “I have to. Don’t you understand? He’s all I’ve got! Please let me talk to him. Why do you do this to us? Why? You hope the spell will be broken and I’ll forget him like the others. Well I won’t. I’ll never forget!”

  I let her go on like that for an hour, using me as a whipping boy to purge her soul of whatever demons were haunting her. She even reiterated that she had gone after President Ford because of me, an accusation that always made me feel creepy. “I was desperate. No one would let me see Charlie. They kept sending me away, one prison after another. You were my last hope. After you refused to let me see him at San Quentin, that was it. That’s why I am where I am today. That’s why all this happened to me! It’s your fault!”

  When she finally wore out, I updated her on Charlie’s day-to-day life, then gently explained that I couldn’t bring him to the phone. He was in isolation at the time, being punished for his latest hissy fit, and I couldn’t spring him even if I’d wanted to. She eventually accepted it and said goodbye, her spirit calm.

  Not long afterward, a letter came in that spoke directly to Charlie. “You are my life.… How real you are since people have lost nobility and understand so few things about love being all that you put into it. And you put all.”

  Meddling, I wrote back: “You say you know yourself and what you’re doing, but nobody else does. For fantasy’s sake, I’d like to see you two give up your ‘truths,’ escape to the mountains, raise a family and live a harmonious life with the environment until death does you part. You’d probably be so damn happy, you couldn’t stand it! It’s too bad you have so big a world mission.”

  “I don’t care what you say to my mind,” she scolded in her next call. “He’s my Charlie too. We’re married in case you didn’t understand. You don’t need a contract to get married. Stop trying to control us or force your ideas on me. I resent your interference. I’m mad, and you could make me madder.… I want to be calm and do my time.… But please don’t try to take care of me with your conception of help. I’m not going to try to convince you of anything. I’m not going to ask you to understand. I’m just asking you to maintain your dignity between us that transcends opinion.

  Squeaky’s unbreakable devotion to Manson can best be described by quoting Saint Paul in his letter to the Galatians (chapter 2, verses 20-21). Substituting Manson for Christ—a horribly blasphemous thought, but applicable from Squeaky’s perspective—one begins to understand the level of her worship. “With Christ I am nailed to the cross. It is no longer that I live, but Christ lives in me. And the life that I know lives in the flesh, but I live in faith of the Son of Man who loved me and gave himself up for me.”

  With all this, it’s no surprise that Charlie was especially protective of Squeaky—and furiously hated my interference. “There are things you’ve done that you will have to pay for,” he snarled that afternoon, eyes on fire with hate and anger. “Don’t think I don’t know. And don’t think I’ll ever forget! It’s time I sent my people to pay you a visit!”

  Charlie had aired similar threats before. I generally ignored them, realizing his mood would change and all would be forgotten the next day. This time, however, the words carried an edge I’d never felt before, an edge that caused my subconscious fight-or-flight instincts to come alive. Goose bumps swelled on my arms. My body hair stood on end as if electrified. Considering Manson’s lingering foul disposition and festering rage, I had to take this threat seriously.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, another incident occurred later that same day that resulted in a new series of threats. I was walking down a mainline corridor, lost in thought about Manson’s threat, when I noticed a violent con named Barns strolling down the hall with Dr. Dean Morgan, a staff psychiatrist. Barns was an armed robber who had killed two people in Nevada shortly after being paroled. He was at CMF under a life sentence with no possibility of ever getting out again.

  “What the hell is this man doing on the mainline?” I demanded in a loud voice, my irritation with Manson showing through. “He should be locked up in Willis Unit!”

  Dr. Morgan was shocked by my confrontational approach and angry tone. “He’s close B custody, Ed. He doesn’t have to lock up until the four-thirty count.”

  “Hell, Doc, I figured that, but I looked at his file this morning. Nevada’s got him for life without. In my book, he’s a high escape risk. I know I’d be.”

  “Can’t we lock him up tomorrow?” the doctor countered. “I’ve been his therapist for years. He’s having trouble dealing with his life sentence and I can help him.”

  Oh? Was the poor murderer having problems with the punishment he so richly deserved? How about the people he had slaughtered? Think they’re having problems adjusting to being dead, Doc? I was about to express those exact thoughts when I caught myself. “That’s his problem,” I snapped instead, sounding like a San Quentin gooner. “You’re never going to help him. I want him locked up now!”

  The doctor continued to plead his case as I looked around for a custody officer to drag this SOB to lockup. Barns stared at me with intense hatred, but said nothing.

  “Okay, Doc,” I relented, unable to find an escort guard. “Go do your thing. But tomorrow morning, I’m ordering him locked up until they transfer his sorry ass back to Nevada!”

  That evening, I paced the hallways of my home, worrying about Manson’s threat. Had he finally given the word? Were the assassins on the way? Would they be a drugged, bloodthirsty gang of sociopaths intent on cutting up my entire family and smearing words from Van Halen albums on the walls with our blood? The phone interrupted my anxiety. It was Dr. Morgan. His voice betrayed his fear. “Barns missed the four-thirty count. They can’t find him anywhere. They think he escaped.”

  “Damn it, Doc, I knew it! Do you know how?”

  “They’re not sure, but an inmate told custody that Barns hid in a garbage can and went out the back of the garbage truck.”

  “The garbage truck! That old trick? I can’t believe it. The way they check those trucks is a joke. I knew somebody would get out that way. So he left from the dump?”

  “Probably.”

  “Well, thanks for the call. Not much we can do now.”

  “Uh, Ed, there’s something else.”

  “Yes?”

  “Uh, in our interview today, Barns expressed a real rage toward you for ordering him locked up. He said, ‘If I ever get out of here, I’m going to kill that fuckin’ son of a bitch.’”

  “He threatened to kill me and you didn’t lock him up?”

  “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I can say. But I must warn you. My professional opinion is that he meant it. He has nothing to lose.”

  “The guy threatens to kill me if he escape
s, remains in population, then promptly rides the garbage truck out a half hour later? Hell, he must be walking up my sidewalk right now! Thanks Doc!” I yelled, slamming down the receiver. Great. Now it had become a race to see who’d kill me first, Barns the enraged psycho, or a drug-crazed neo-Manson mob. My money was on Barns. He was out, close, and had the most intense immediate motivation. Plus, my home was set on a pasture three miles from the prison. The only thing that stood between the garbage dump and my back door was hilly rangeland. The single obstacle was Highway 80, and that could easily be crossed by scurrying under the bridge at Alamo Creek.

  For the first time in my life, I felt unsafe in my home. The odds of somebody trying to take me out that night had suddenly doubled, making me tense and agitated. For once, I felt it was necessary to share the bad news with my family. I wanted everybody to hang tight that evening and be on their toes. I called the local police, explained both threats, and asked them to make frequent patrols. Meanwhile, my daughter Susan went outside and jumbled our address numbers around, which was pretty clever.

  As my wife and children began to feed on the increasing fear, I tried to calm them down. “If Barns has any brains, he wouldn’t risk hanging around Vacaville and getting caught. He’s free, and that’s more important than petty vengeance. If it were me, I’d be halfway to Mexico. As for Manson, he’s just in a bad mood. He probably hasn’t even given the order.

  That eased everyone’s mind a bit. At eleven, we broke for our individual rooms to try to get some sleep. Just in case, I loaded a .22 caliber rifle and slipped it under my bed.

  At 1:00 A.M., I woke with a start. Terror pumped through my veins as I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. They stopped outside the bedroom door. I reached under the bed, grabbed the rifle, and slowly raised it. I pointed it toward the door as it swung open, my finger ready to squeeze the trigger. Suddenly, a voice startled me. “Dad? Dad, are you awake?” It was my son, David. I’d forgot that he’d been out on a date. I lowered the barrel, horrified at what I’d almost done. My body started to tremble.

  “My God, I could have killed him!”

  Beth put her arms around me. “It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”

  It wasn’t all right. Beth didn’t know how close I had come to pulling that trigger. Had David said the wrong thing, or nothing at all, I would have fired. If I hadn’t immediately recognized his voice, I would have killed my own son. “Damn you, Charlie!” I muttered to myself. “This is on you. If you hadn’t gotten me all agitated today, this wouldn’t have happened. This is the second time you caused me to hurt, or nearly hurt, one of my children. Never again!”

  As far as I know—unless my daughter’s number shuffle fooled him—Barns didn’t try to come after me that night. He was captured in Hayward, California, within the month and resumed his life sentence in Nevada. As for Manson, his followers didn’t come that night, or for years afterward. But they were destined to eventually pay me a visit.

  Manson himself could have easily wandered into my yard a few weeks later had he chosen to. Working as the tier tender, he came across a set of top security “red keys,” scooped them off a foyer table, and dropped them into his pocket. The keys were Manson’s proverbial ticket out, enabling him to open every single door and gate that stood between him and the outside. Incredibly, instead of hiding the one-in-a-million find in his cell and taking off for the hills that evening, Manson walked over to the unit sergeant and handed the keys to him. “Here,” he said. “I’m not supposed to have these.”

  The stunned sergeant took the keys, discovered which officer had left them on the table, and did some major ass chewing. Manson, in turn, scored big points with the guards. When I pestered him about why he didn’t make a break for it, he went into his Frankenstein rap, claiming it was more dangerous for him on the outside than in the prison. Actually, it was the second time Manson had gotten hold of a critical set of keys. The previous year, he picked a guard clean as the unwary officer passed by his cell. As with this incident, Charlie promptly called out to the guy and gave the keys back.

  To kick Charlie and me out of our collective funk, I mended fences and asked if he wanted to set up another media interview. This time he chose to go voice only, selecting reporter Susan Kennedy of KGO radio in San Francisco. Without the cameras to play to, Manson was pretty mellow. The May 11, 1983, interview was mostly unremarkable, but did include a new admission. For the first time, he confessed to sending “the girls” to the Polanski residence under the instructions to do whatever Tex Watson told them to. That was as close as he got. Climbing back inside his unbreakable shell, he denied telling Tex or anyone else to murder the occupants. Interestingly enough, the distinction is more personal than legal. By acknowledging what he had, Manson indicted himself in a criminal conspiracy that led to multiple murders—which is basically what he was doing time for. Either way, it didn’t mean a hill of beans. He’d long ago had his day in court, and despite the best efforts of bumbling guards, was destined to spend the rest of his life in prison.

  One of my duties at CMF—aside from baby-sitting Manson—was to handle prisoner complaints and appeals. This often took me to other wings. I’d usually hear the inmate out and make an on-the-spot ruling. If the guy was semisane and had a legitimate beef, I’d try to correct it. One of these routine appeals took me to S-wing, the dungeon where the most acutely psychotic inmates are housed in enclosed cells. (Manson had spent a lot of penalty time there.) Most of the S-wing interviews were carried out through the food slot. That required the staffer to bend over and talk in an awkward, backbreaking position. I’m tall, six three, so it was even more uncomfortable. Instead of suffering through that hassle, I borrowed the tier officer’s key and opened the door to the specific inmate’s cell a crack, bracing my foot against it to prevent the door from opening further. The inmate appeared rational and presented his concerns in great detail. He insisted that Manson was going to kill him and wanted to be moved to another cell.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I assured him. “I talked to Charlie and he can’t even remember who you are. He has nothing against you and says he has no intention of causing you any harm. You have nothing to worry about.” It was an effective argument. The only trouble was, the guy I was giving it too was a paranoid schizophrenic. He remained stone-faced. “No, I don’t feel your situation warrants a move,” I ruled.

  Without realizing it, my foot slipped and the door opened wider. Glancing away from the con, I spotted an officer and two trusties coming down the hall with trays of food. “Well, here comes your—” I never finished the sentence. Out of nowhere, a thundering blow crashed into my face, driving me back against the far wall and stunning me into a brief period of unconsciousness. As I began to slide down the wall to the floor, I caught myself and struggled, rubber-legged, to my feet. Blood gushed from my nose, covering my mouth and chin. When my head cleared, I noticed that the lunch-crew officer and trustees had subdued the attacker. I took a step forward, intent on kicking the shit out of the son of a bitch, but caught myself. The guy’s just sick, I thought, but he sure packs a wallop.

  My nose was shattered and folded over my cheek. Three teeth were chipped. As I walked to the hospital, I realized that it had been my own stupid fault. I’d failed to check the inmate’s file before doing the cracked-door number. Had I taken that precaution, I would have realized that the guy had tried to stab a guard with a fork two weeks before. I was lucky to come away with nothing more than a busted snout and some painful dental work.

  It was the first and only time in my quarter century of walking among the cons and crazies that I’d ever been injured. I’d sat face-to-face with Manson hundreds of times and never got a scratch, and here I’d gotten waylaid by a nameless schizo in the proverbial padded cell.

  “Get out of your paper-bag world,” Manson chided when he saw my battered mug. “It’s going to get you killed!” He turned, then tossed me something through the bars. I instinctively caught it
. It was a little voodoo doll that vaguely resembled me. There was a single pin in the center of its face.

  “That was for Squeaky,” he announced.

  14.

  MY CAREER IN corrections pretty much ended when I decided to testify in favor of an officer who sued to fight the abuses in the affirmative action program. Not wanting to appear like Manson, I’d tempered my views on the subject for years, enduring in silence as qualified candidates were passed over for far inferior minorities. Later, when it was discovered that officials were rigging test scores to give minority candidates the upper hand, my anger reawakened. The officer won his lawsuit in a ruling that helped even the playing field for everyone, but my career was shot. I was treated like a pariah by the central office staff. Whenever they came to the prison, I was either ignored, or subjected to cold, angry stares. I figured it would pass, but it didn’t. What did I expect? I told myself. Snitch out the bigwigs and how can you expect to survive?

  Afterward, I fell into a “Manson’s right” depression. The corrections “system,” i.e., the bureaucracy, preyed on anyone with half a brain who tried to make things better. Innovative programs were tossed aside, their creators soon to follow. As affirmative action took hold, the quality of my underlings diminished to the point where they could hardly read or write. Then, when these poorly trained, poorly educated employees made tragic mistakes, I’d get the blame.

  Of course, Manson wasn’t really right. He was on the other extreme. He would have eliminated the problem of unqualified minorities by eradicating the minorities themselves. The question was, is either extreme the answer? Do you lift the races up by giving them jobs they haven’t earned, or does that just foster the something-for-nothing attitude that keeps them from striving to better themselves to begin with? By fighting abuses in affirmative action, are you trying to save a system and keep it operating at peak efficiency, or are you a Manson-like racist? Those and similar questions haunt me to this day.