Read Online Charles Manson Behind Bars by Mark Hewitt - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Hewitt
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eyes.
“I’m all right. He just wanted to rattle my cage,” Charlie replied.
That morning, we had to get ready for shift change. We knew it would be a difficult day for all of us. The guard we named, “Strawberry,” was coming on the tier. No one ever spoke with Strawberry unless he absolutely had to. We all knew that there was bad blood between Strawberry and Charlie. Charlie truly hated the guard and the rest of us understood why. We all witnessed the things the guard did to get Charlie riled up. The last thing we wanted was Charlie angry at us for cooperating with such an imbecile.
After Strawberry made his initial round, Charlie called to me. “Strawberry is the reason that I’ve lost so many privileges. He went into my cell and searched my pants and found two shives.”
“Is that right?” I asked as I listened.
“He could have just flushed them down and warned me not to have stuff like that in my pockets. Yeah, well, he only hurt himself when he did that to me. His wife and kids probably hate him because he is an asshole.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “He knew you don’t like chemicals and that you have bad lungs, and still that bitch dumps all that soap there and leaves it on the floor. Fuck that motherfucker, Charlie. That’s all I got to say. Fuck him: he’s a bitch-ass motherfucker.”
Charlie replied in a way that told me that I had successfully calmed him down, “Boxcar, shoot me your line so I can show you something.” I threw my car over to his cell. “Pull it,” he shouted after he had affixed something to it. I slowly pulled and looked at the sheet of paper he had sent me. It was a rules violation report. It explained why Charlie was in segregated status. In painstaking detail, the paper outlined Strawberry’s routine search of Charlie’s cell and the discovery of two weapons each about four to five inches in length, one being a piece of cyclone fence, the other, a large sewing needle. Both had yarn woven around them.
I asked if I could keep the report. “Sure.” He agreed.
“Charlie, will you put your John Hancock on it for me?” I requested.
“Send it back.” He commanded sharply.
I put it back on the fish line and invite him to pull. He dutifully signed it and then pounded on the wall. When I had received it back, complete with his signature, I thanked him.
“It ain’t nothing, Boxcar.”
Strawberry was eventually moved to a different unit. He was given a yard to watch over. Why he was transferred, whether he requested it or whether he was forced into the change, I never knew. I was just very happy to have him go. All of us were tired of his “by-the-book” attitude. Charlie was an old man, a senior citizen: why could Strawberry not just overlook the violation, flush the shives down the toilet and give him a warning? We knew that Strawberry would be an asshole wherever he went, in the prison or anywhere else.
Fortunately for Charlie, the charges relating to the violation were eventually dropped. There were some inaccuracies in the report so it had to be re-issued. Originally, the report stated that Charlie wasn’t a mental health inmate and didn’t need assistance in understanding the charges. However, even though he was not on medication, he was still considered a “J-Cat.” By the time the paperwork was corrected and processed, several months had passed. Because this would have violated Charlie’s due process rights, the prison decided to let the issue, and the charges, drop. The administration may also have considered Strawberry’s inflexible attitude. This may have been the only time in Charlie’s life that the legal system gave him the benefit of the doubt.
Other times in his life, undoubtedly, he was not so fortunate, and may have even been the victim of railroading. For a person with the reputation of Charlie, I would expect no grace and no second chance was given for anything he ever did or was suspected of doing.
One day, I was curious about Charlie
“I’m all right. He just wanted to rattle my cage,” Charlie replied.
That morning, we had to get ready for shift change. We knew it would be a difficult day for all of us. The guard we named, “Strawberry,” was coming on the tier. No one ever spoke with Strawberry unless he absolutely had to. We all knew that there was bad blood between Strawberry and Charlie. Charlie truly hated the guard and the rest of us understood why. We all witnessed the things the guard did to get Charlie riled up. The last thing we wanted was Charlie angry at us for cooperating with such an imbecile.
After Strawberry made his initial round, Charlie called to me. “Strawberry is the reason that I’ve lost so many privileges. He went into my cell and searched my pants and found two shives.”
“Is that right?” I asked as I listened.
“He could have just flushed them down and warned me not to have stuff like that in my pockets. Yeah, well, he only hurt himself when he did that to me. His wife and kids probably hate him because he is an asshole.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “He knew you don’t like chemicals and that you have bad lungs, and still that bitch dumps all that soap there and leaves it on the floor. Fuck that motherfucker, Charlie. That’s all I got to say. Fuck him: he’s a bitch-ass motherfucker.”
Charlie replied in a way that told me that I had successfully calmed him down, “Boxcar, shoot me your line so I can show you something.” I threw my car over to his cell. “Pull it,” he shouted after he had affixed something to it. I slowly pulled and looked at the sheet of paper he had sent me. It was a rules violation report. It explained why Charlie was in segregated status. In painstaking detail, the paper outlined Strawberry’s routine search of Charlie’s cell and the discovery of two weapons each about four to five inches in length, one being a piece of cyclone fence, the other, a large sewing needle. Both had yarn woven around them.
I asked if I could keep the report. “Sure.” He agreed.
“Charlie, will you put your John Hancock on it for me?” I requested.
“Send it back.” He commanded sharply.
I put it back on the fish line and invite him to pull. He dutifully signed it and then pounded on the wall. When I had received it back, complete with his signature, I thanked him.
“It ain’t nothing, Boxcar.”
Strawberry was eventually moved to a different unit. He was given a yard to watch over. Why he was transferred, whether he requested it or whether he was forced into the change, I never knew. I was just very happy to have him go. All of us were tired of his “by-the-book” attitude. Charlie was an old man, a senior citizen: why could Strawberry not just overlook the violation, flush the shives down the toilet and give him a warning? We knew that Strawberry would be an asshole wherever he went, in the prison or anywhere else.
Fortunately for Charlie, the charges relating to the violation were eventually dropped. There were some inaccuracies in the report so it had to be re-issued. Originally, the report stated that Charlie wasn’t a mental health inmate and didn’t need assistance in understanding the charges. However, even though he was not on medication, he was still considered a “J-Cat.” By the time the paperwork was corrected and processed, several months had passed. Because this would have violated Charlie’s due process rights, the prison decided to let the issue, and the charges, drop. The administration may also have considered Strawberry’s inflexible attitude. This may have been the only time in Charlie’s life that the legal system gave him the benefit of the doubt.
Other times in his life, undoubtedly, he was not so fortunate, and may have even been the victim of railroading. For a person with the reputation of Charlie, I would expect no grace and no second chance was given for anything he ever did or was suspected of doing.
One day, I was curious about Charlie