Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars by George Edward & Matera Dary

Author:George, Edward & Matera, Dary [George, Edward]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 1999-07-15T16:00:00+00:00

12.

CHARLIE SPENT A great deal of time at CMF unraveling socks, shirts, and sweaters and using the yarn to weave mobiles, cockroach cages, and those annoying little voodoo dolls. At San Quentin, where the hard-ass guards were bitter and cynical, nobody really cared about his creations. At CMF, it was a different story. The treatment-oriented staff, heavy on New Age shrinks and counselors, were more fearful of the occult. Every month or so, someone would wander by my office, pace around for a while, then nervously enter. After some small talk, he’d get to the point.

“Uh, Ed, you know those, uh, dolls Manson makes? Do you think…”

“No way,” I’d assure him. “He’s got power, but not that kind of power.”

“Are you sure? One of those dolls looks a lot like me.”

“That’s what everybody says,” I’d laugh. “It’s an illusion. You’re seeing things through your own fears. He’s playing with your head. That’s what he lives for. Just ignore it.”

Even a few members of CMF’s tougher-minded custody staff were unnerved by Charlie’s dolls. The rumor spread that he was reproducing images of guards he didn’t like, casting evil spells, and puncturing them with needles taken from new shirt packages late at night. A couple of officers came to my office, asking if there was anything they could do about it. I brushed them off. “You guys have been watching too much television.”

The day before I left for a much needed vacation, Charlie and I had a big pissing match. He resented the fact that I could have vacations and he couldn’t, and spared no effort telling me about it. The argument ended with his standard threats. I thought nothing of it, too busy thinking about my upcoming days languishing on the beautiful beaches of Hawaii. Near the end of the splendid trip, I was swimming off Waikiki when I was caught in a powerful undertow known as the “Molokai Express” after the train that used to travel into the heart of Hawaii’s famous leper colony. For me, the ominous analogy was an understatement. I fought for my life, swimming to the point of exhaustion to keep from being sucked all the way to Japan. Weakening, my only option was to cling to some coral until the rushing water eased. Thankfully, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, enabling me to flop my way to the beach. When I tried to stand, I felt a sharp pain in my right leg. Somehow, I’d injured it during the struggle.

A noticeable limp remained when I arrived back at CMF. The moment Manson saw me, he renewed his prevacation tirade. “You better shape up or I’ll take the other leg,” he bellowed.

“What?”

“I put a curse on you to scare you, but I didn’t use enough needles to kill you,” he explained, affecting his most sinister look. “A few more pins and you’d be dead.”

“Well, if that’s true, you almost got me there,” I said, half serious. After that incident, I was far more sympathetic to the guards and doctors who knocked on my door worrying about Charlie’s dolls.

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