which personality I would be dealing with: the young, soft-eyed, not-very-aggressive kid I remembered in prison, or the hard, wild-eyed villain the media always seemed to capture. But for all the thinking, I signed in at the institution with a complete blank on a line of conversation. Hell, I was wondering if I was in my right mind for even being there.
Signing in was an experience for me. Being at a prison again, even as a visitor, stirred memories of my days in confinement. My heart beat rapidly, and my hands trembled so badly I could hardly fill out the necessary visitor forms. Once inside, I had the urge to retrieve my pass, to head back out the gate and forget anything that was even remotely connected with a prison. Instead, I took a deep breath and took a seat among other waiting visitors.
After about forty-five minutes, the guard announced, “Visitor for Charles Manson.” At the mention of Manson, heads turned. I started toward the visiting room. Those that weren’t looking at me were craning their necks for the appearance of Manson himself. As I neared the door a guard intercepted me, saying, “No, you’ll have to come this way.” He escorted me to an area known as “between gates.” On the way, he allowed me to stop at a vending machine for some cigarettes, cokes and candy bars.
Between gates is a highly secured area that separates the front of the institution and the administrative offices from where the convicts are housed. Two electronically controlled, barred gates face each other at either end of a twenty-five foot corridor. On one side of the corridor is a room enclosed with bullet-proof glass where at least two officers control the operation of the gates and check the identification of every individual who enters or departs. Never are the two gates open at the same time. Across the corridor from the control room are two or three rooms with barred fronts. Each room is about eight feet by eight feet with a table and four stools bolted to the center of the room.
Manson had already been escorted to and locked in the room we were to use for our visit, and while the guard unlocked the door to let me in, Manson peered out, looking me over carefully. He was dressed in standard, loose-fitting blue denim prison garb with a blue and white bandana tied around his forehead to keep his long hair in place. He had a full, Christ-like beard. At that time he was forty-four years old, but other than a strand or two of grey in his beard and hair, he didn’t look much older than when I had last seen him in 1964. As the guard locked the door behind me, Manson backtracked to the far corner of the room. He looked like a frightened, distrustful animal. With his body in a slight crouch, head a little bit forward and cocked to one side, he gave me a nod and said, “What’s up, man?” “Nothing,” I said, “I’m just here like my letter said I’d be.” With that, I placed the soft drinks and candy on the table and extended my hand for a greeting. Manson straightened his slight body, stepped toward me and took my hand. A faint smile was visible through his beard. “Yeah, Emmons,” he said, “I’d have recognized you anywhere. How’s your handball game?” “Hell, I haven’t played since I left McNeil. How’s yours?” “Fuck, are you kiddin’, that Mizz Winters [then chief psychiatrist at Vacaville] and her black boyfriends have had me locked down so tight, I don’t get to do nothin’. It took me nine years to get out of S Wing.” S Wing is a segregated unit that confines those who are still under intensive psychological observation. “They got me in W Wing now,” he added, “and that ain’t much better.”
The ice had been broken, but the room was filled with tension. Manson wouldn’t allow me within arm’s length of him, and never placed himself in a vulnerable position. He was always geared to defend himself instantly. His paranoia was even more evident when I first offered him a cigarette. “You light it!” he said. I handed him the lit cigarette, but before taking a drag, he carefully fingered the entire length of it and asked, “How far down is the bomb?” He wouldn’t touch the soft drinks or candy bars I had placed in front of him until I drank from one or took a bite of candy. He would then reach for the one I had tasted, eating or drinking only after my example had assured him that it wasn’t poisoned. “Are you putting on an act,” I asked, “or are you really so paranoid you think I’m here to poison you?” His eyes met mine in an unblinking stare as he said, “Hey look, I ain’t seen you in fifteen or twenty years. When we were in the joint together, you didn’t have the time of day for me. Now all of a sudden you show up. How do I know what you got in mind? I been alive this long ’cause I’m on top of people’s thoughts. You don’t know how bad these motherfuckers want to get rid of me. I been livin’ in their shit for ten years, and every day they send in somebody to do a number on me. I been alive this long ’cause I’m aware. I don’t trust you or anyone!”
At that moment, trying to change his opinion of me would have been wasted effort, but I did feel it necessary to explain why I hadn’t had the time of day for him when we were doing time together. “You were eight years younger than me; I had already been through all you were going through. You and the guys you lined up with in the joint were playing games and trying to impress everyone. All I wanted was to do my time and get out. It wasn’t a question of liking or disliking you.” My words seemed to calm him. The intimidating anger that had been mounting in his voice vanished and he began asking about some of our former mutual friends. As it turned out, he was much more up-to-date on their lives and whereabouts than I was. Jails have a hell of a grapevine on alumni, especially if the guy has taken another fall or is still wheeling and dealing. On the other hand, if he straightens himself out, it seems the line ends and the person might as well be dead as far as other convicts are concerned.
After about thirty minutes, the guard informed us we had five minutes remaining. During that five minutes Manson brought up what I had decided not to mention on this first visit. He said, “So you’re a writer now, huh? You know I’ve been burned by all you bastards, and I don’t trust any of you fuckers to tell the truth. Whatta you think about that?” I didn’t know if he was telling me to get lost, or if it was just his way of checking out my reaction. I answered, “That’s all right, Charlie, I don’t trust a lot of writers either. So forget I came over here looking for a story—I’m here because we’ve done some time together, and if a visit or two breaks up the monotony for you, I’ll come back. If you’d rather I didn’t, I won’t.” He didn’t give me a direct answer, but said, “Hey, I could use some stamps and writing pads, can you handle that?” “Sure,” I told him, “and if you need a few dollars on the books, I can do that too.”
Our time was up, and as we said our goodbyes he stood closer to me. We exchanged a parting handshake that held a little warmth. Neither of us had mentioned the crimes. Though he hadn’t said so, I felt he wanted me to continue visiting. Given time, I thought, some trust and confidence could develop between us.
I sent the writing material he asked for, along with some money for commissary items. We exchanged a letter or two and I began visiting almost weekly. The next couple of visits were pretty much like the first. He didn’t talk much about the outside or the past, but had plenty to say about how the prisons had changed. For a sentence or two he would be coherent—if not logical—but then he would suddenly switch subjects without completing the thought.
I wasn’t aware during the six or seven visits that first couple of months that Manson had been receiving medication until one day he said, “Maybe you’re some kind of therapy for me, ’cause they are cutting down on jabbing me with that needle.” After that, our visits became more constructive. We began talking more about the crimes. He was evasive in response to direct questions about his actual involvement, but talked freely about “his girls,” life at the Spahn Ranch, the Mojave Desert and his dune buggies. He volunteered some information about Lynette (Squeaky) Fromme and the assassination attempt on President Ford. One day, he unexpectedly asked, “You heard about Red being in Alderson, didn’t you?” (”Red” was his “color name” for Fromme; several of the main girls in the family were identified by various colors.) “I have to carry that load too. I didn’t tell her to take no shot at Ford. That was her trip, but like everything else, it’s Charlie’s fault. Hey, Charlie’s Angels on TV is even a take-off on me and my girls. By the way, do you think I sent those kids to Melcher’s house?” It was the first time he had
