Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars (20 page)

When Crazy John heard what Red was saying, he became furious and immediately began to investigate. Crazy John was such a familiar sight on the yard, nobody paid any attention to him. Plus, everyone figured he was a nutcase, so he was totally ignored. Yet, far from being the drooling loon everyone suspected, John was pretty clever. He managed to sneak into the records and pull Red’s files, confirming his suspicions that his target was a mean woman-hater with a violent past. Before acting on the information, Crazy John wanted to get it from the horse’s mouth. Sidling up to Red on a bench in the yard, he baited the Irishman into telling him all about how he was going to rape, torture, and kill Dr. Sutton the moment he was paroled. After hearing that, Crazy John traded for a shank and stalked his target until the opportunity came.

“I know Dr. Sutton is going to be upset with me for this,” he told me. “Will you tell her I’m sorry?”

I turned, closed my door, and locked it. “You may think I’m the crazy one for telling you this, but I’m pretty damn proud of you,” I said. Crazy John sat with a puzzled look on his face, wondering if he’d heard me right. “You’re going to the third-floor AC with our best guys. You’ll be safer, away from the gangs.”

Once John was situated, I told Pin and Manson to make sure nobody bothered him. “What for?” Manson asked. I just shook my head and walked away.

There wasn’t enough evidence for the DA, so the charges were dropped. Disciplinary hearings took place, and Crazy John was found guilty of stabbing Red. At a classification hearing, thirty days after the incident, I released him back to the general population because I felt he was no threat to the security of the institution.

Red was not so lucky. While recovering from the deep but unfortunately nonfatal wound, he lost his parole date—thanks to a detailed confidential memo I sent to the Board of Prison Terms. He was transferred to Folsom and forced to do another year. But, as is typical with obsessive psychos, he continued his vicious campaign. The following year, he gave the parole board a graphic account of his affair with Dr. Sutton and convinced them to launch a full investigation into his charges. His story could be proven, he said, by a distinctive scar Dr. Sutton had in a private area, a scar he saw on many occasions. Although she no longer worked for the correctional department, Dr. Sutton was asked to subject herself to a humiliating strip search and body examination. No such scar was found. She had agreed to the dehumanizing procedure, she told me later, to keep Red from being paroled and hunting her down.

The final kicker came with the birth of her child. Red was a fair-haired Irishman. As only I knew, Dr. Sutton’s husband was an Asian. The black-haired, dark-skinned baby boy clearly resembled his pop.

Unfortunately, the story didn’t end there. Despite his aborted attempt on Dr. Sutton’s life, Red was paroled two years later. Dr. Sutton wasn’t even notified. She learned of his release from Red himself! He promptly began calling and threatening her. She immediately contacted the Special Services Unit for protection. They investigated and determined not only that Red was indeed harassing her, but that he’d jumped parole. Their only advice was for Dr. Sutton to purchase and wear a bulletproof vest, and to learn how to use a firearm.

As is typical with violent women-haters, before he got around to stalking, raping, and murdering Dr. Sutton, a lady in Reno caught Red’s eye and he went after her inside a casino. He was arrested and sent back to prison.

All in all, aside from Crazy John’s unexpected heroics, it was a very ugly affair.

After that bit of madness, things began looking up for a while. On August 12, 1976, the verdicts came down in the San Quentin Six trial. It had been five years since the brutal riots, and everyone was ready to finally put an end to it. The jury found three of the inmates guilty and three innocent, a split that promised bad blood between the two groups. Instead of closure, we now had to deal with the possibility that the guilty group suspected the innocents of ratting them out and planned to kill them out of revenge. Would it ever end?

Good and bad news tends to come in bunches. Apparently, so does the less black-and-white, more confusing kind. The next big event to hit San Quentin was equally unsettling. Charles Manson was summarily transferred back to Folsom. San Quentin was generally designated for violent cons thirty-five and under. Folsom was set up for the middle-aged and old folks. Manson was forty-two, so he was overdue to join the seniors tour, so to speak. I should have been happy, but I wasn’t. He was a creep. There was no doubt about that. He made me so paranoid that he temporarily turned me into a monster, ruining my relationship with my daughter. And when it came time for him to finally step forward and do something decent like protect his doctor, the thought never entered his sick and twisted little brain. Instead, he left the job to the village idiot.

Despite all that, and everything else, I couldn’t deny that he had made the job more interesting. I still enjoyed arguing with him, and listening to his garbled yet passionate speeches. The media attention was also fun at times. I was definitely going to miss him.

Yeah, like I’d miss a toothache, I told myself, coming to my senses. Instead of melancholy, I should have been jumping for joy. Charles Manson was finally out of my life—or so I thought.

9.

W
ITH THE TRIAL
over, death row emptied after yet another court ruling, Dr. Sutton gone, and Manson fuming at Folsom, San Quentin suddenly became a major drag. Even Rinker transferred out, robbing me of the amusement quotient he provided. Warden Rees, my last line of support, was a short-timer who would soon take the helm of the Duel Vocational Institute in Tracy. The graffiti on the barbed-wire wall was clear. It was time for me to leave.

I knew exactly where I wanted to go—right back from whence I came. After all I’d been through, the forests of the Sierra Conservation Center in Northern California would be just the ticket. As I waited for the word, I started feeling that odd homesick sensation people sometimes experience when they know they’re about to leave a place. That was strange. I was getting all warm and fuzzy about a savage stink hole that I hadn’t even left yet. The reason wasn’t a mystery. Deep in my subconscious, in the chained caverns where my ancient instincts lay, there was a perverse pleasure in associating with these wild, uninhibited individuals. They were a different breed of human beings, throwbacks whose activities and thoughts were more base and animalistic than civilized. They fought, attacked, and killed as an expression of emotion, a matter of demented pride, or for pure survival. Some, like Manson and his followers, descended to a more horrible level, committing crimes beyond the imagination. Studying such deviance is strangely exhilarating. To be so close to evil treachery without touching it or letting it touch you can be a rush. It was voyeurism in a sense, like going to a zoo and edging up to the gorilla cage. At San Quentin, I felt the thrill of seeing the beast—the beast that lurks inside us all—from a relatively safe emotional distance.

Sometimes, I didn’t know if I should hate these men for unleashing their inner monsters, or view them with a tiny measure of admiration. They acted upon their primitive desires beyond conscience or moral restraints. They hated or loved, but were never lukewarm. It frustrated me at times because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t really understand them. Especially Charlie. Convincing as he could be at times, I couldn’t get inside his head. I never had that brief flicker of enlightenment that would unlock the mystery of where he was coming from. Even more important, I wondered whether a man like Manson could feed upon my undeniable curiosity and suck me into the fold. How close had he really come to doing that? Given more time, would he eventually have gotten to me?

Whoa, I thought, shaking the crazy questions from my mind. It was definitely time to leave this place. That, however, wasn’t going to be as easy as I had initially thought. An affirmative action program was sweeping the corrections department, making options scarce for white males like myself. After losing position after position to less qualified minority applicants, I grew bitter, railing against the injustice of it all. During one heated exchange, I caught myself and stopped in midsentence. Wasn’t my argument exactly what Manson and the Aryan Brothers preached? Minorities taking jobs they didn’t deserve, polluting the gene pool, destroying America? Were my logical, well-thought-out protests against affirmative action merely a high-level affirmation of the low-level hate Manson and the ABs preached? That was heavy, and scary. After that, I groused a bit, but tempered my opinions.

Finally, after pulling some strings, I was given three options. There were program administrator positions available at Folsom, Soledad, and the Correctional Medical Facility (formerly known as the California Medical Facility—CMF). Folsom was just like San Quentin, and Manson was there, so that was out. Soledad was another brutal snake pit a hundred miles away, making it doubly undesirable. CMF showed promise. It was only fifty miles from my home, and was a treatment-oriented institution, more like a hospital. If I couldn’t be in the pristine forests, a semihospital setting was the next best thing.

I reported to work at CMF on November 1, 1976. The warden, Dr. Larry Clanon, noted my experience and assigned me to Willis Unit, a three-story building that housed mostly maximum-security inmates. At CMF, these were men who were too emotionally or mentally unstable to be released into the general population—i.e., the “Cuckoo’s Nest” set, only more dangerous and violent. They defied placement into any specific program in the system, so they were warehoused at Willis until the doctors could get a better read on their specific mental deficiencies.

Inmates sent to Willis were designated category D’s. They were in for a ninety-day psychiatric and psychological evaluation, then were reviewed by the unit classification committee, which recommended either a specific treatment program or a return to their original prison. The difficult and more complex cases remained in the unit for extended observation and evaluation. This group included people like Pin Cushion, mass murderers Ed Kemper and Juan Corona, and Richard Allen Davis (who later murdered Polly Klass). In addition, every time the death penalty was nixed, the death row inmates were usually sent to Willis before being filtered into other institutions.

In general, CMF was created to treat mental and physical problems among the prison population. Since mental problems go hand in hand with criminal behavior, a hefty percentage of the inmates were head cases. They included sexual deviants, rapists, bizarre killers, psychotics, psychotics in remission, and other less than solid citizens. The staff, naturally, was heavy on doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists, and counselors. By law, the CMF warden had to be a medical doctor. That in itself made for a treatment-oriented environment, but also created conflicts between the punitive-minded custody officers and the medical professionals. The custody gang secretly referred to the place as “Disneyland North,” not so much because of the easier environment for the prisoners, but because some of the doctors and therapists were weirder than the inmates.

The differences between my prior warden, Bob Rees, and Dr. Clanon were infinite. Dr. Clanon was a soft-spoken, gentle man whose personality seemed totally wrong for a prison czar. However, if viewed in terms of a hospital administrator, then he fit perfectly. He was respected by his medical staff and strongly supported their treatment programs. He was also smart enough to delegate. Whenever there was a serious threat to the safety of the institution, he was not afraid to turn over all authority to the militaristic guards, sometimes bowing to them unreasonably.

Personally, I wasn’t real happy about toiling in another lockup unit. Instead of spending my days designing and implementing innovative rehabilitation programs, I’d have to direct the bulk of my energy into the simple task of keeping the crazies from killing each other. On the plus side, the gang presence at CMF was minimal, so that eased tensions considerably. The gangbangers we did receive were usually ex-members trying to get out.

Overall, the numbers at CMF were more manageable. At San Quentin, the three lockup units housed 500 vicious cutthroats. At CMF, the place maxed out at 120. Yet, despite the lower numbers, the staff was stronger. Assigned to the unit were a full-time psychiatrist, a psychologist, two journeymen counselors, a unit lieutenant, a sergeant on every watch, and a healthy contingent of guards.

After getting the basic briefing on the joint, I decided to go on a walkthrough inspection with some of the staff. Turning a corner, I absent-mindedly glanced into a cell and stopped dead. “What the fuck do you want?” the familiar voice growled, playing tough guy. I was stunned. No, it couldn’t be! What the hell was Charles Manson doing here on my watch? The little creep should have been at Folsom! How was I going to explain this to Beth?

“I’m just following you around, Charlie,” I cracked, composing myself. I moved on, as if it were no big deal. The moment we were out of earshot, I grilled the unit shrink, Dr. Al Rotella. “What’s Manson doing here?”

“Folsom transferred him a few weeks ago. They couldn’t handle his bullshit up there, so they psyched him and sent him here,” the doc explained, dispensing with precise medical terminology. “Dr. Hyberg cleared him, so now we got him as a category D. That’s a ninety-day evaluation. That’s what we do here.”

“Do you think he’s crazy?”

“If you mean psychotic, no. Charlie manipulates. He’s a sociopath. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

I immediately liked and respected Dr. Rotella. From my vantage point, his diagnosis of Manson was dead on. Dr. Rotella, a chubby, upbeat man, was a straight shooter with a good sense of humor who didn’t try to impress people with incomprehensible medical jargon. That was a plus because prisons are noted for flaky shrinks with bizarre ideas. Dr. Rotella’s no-nonsense attitude contrasted sharply with a roundtable discussion I’d participated in at San Quentin with five of his peers. “Do you think Manson’s crazy?” I opened. Naturally, their first response was, “What do you mean by crazy?” I rolled my eyes and elaborated. “You know, insane, psychotic, out of touch with reality.” They chattered among themselves, dropped twenty-dollar words, redefined “crazy” a dozen times, then concluded that Manson had never been diagnosed as psychotic. Curious about that, I went to the CMF records office and pulled Manson’s jacket from Folsom. The Folsom shrink had cleverly skirted the issue by making the most recent referral based upon Manson’s “psychotic behavior.” That was Manson all the way. He could effect “psychotic behavior” at will, usually to get his way.