Cruel and Unusual

 

I got up, walked to the door and the Correctional Officer motioned me through. I opened the door and stepped inside. She stood perfectly still a few feet away in the middle of the room.

I'm not sure what I expected, but it was a relief to see what appeared to be a normal human being in front of me ­ a small woman with graying, well-groomed hair, cut short just below the ears. Her face was round and pleasant with no trace of makeup. Her eyes narrowed when she smiled, which was often. Best of all, her countenance was open and inviting. She wore a longsleeve, gray sweatshirt, dark blue jeans and white cotton slippers over white socks ­ no prison garb. No evidences of nonconformity or a pallid complexion from being locked up for 30 years. No tics or unusual behavior. She looked like any middle-aged woman one would encounter in a grocery store, casually browsing through bins of fruits and vegetables.

I don't know why, but I walked over and hugged her. Although it was spontaneous, it felt awkward and contrived. She hugged me back. It wasn't the type of embrace old friends or family members give each other ­ it just happened and it seemed right.

Never one to let dead air prevail, I spoke first. "I want to tell you something you probably already know. You're in the middle of nowhere out here."

"Yeah, it's remote, but years ago when I first came here, you almost never saw a car," she said, staring off into space, as if the mention of it took her back in time. "Now, you see them everyday ­ lots of them."

The California Institution for Women is isolated ­ more like a farm than a prison. No imposing multi-story buildings with bars on the windows, or tall, foreboding watchtowers manned with guards. No miles of barbed wire ­ just wide-open fields with one-story brick buildings situated behind chain link fences.

I was here to visit Patricia Krenwinkel, one of the convicted killers in the infamous Manson Family trial of the late 1960s.

* * *

It was an ordinary day in the mid-1990s ­ nothing special. I was home, watching television. I stopped short to catch what seemed to be a documentary program already in progress. Two long tables faced each other. There were four or five men and women seated behind one, and a woman and two men at the other.

I could tell by their expressions that the mood was serious. The camera switched to a close-up of a woman who seemed to be the target of an interview. She had dark hair, wasn't particularly pretty, but was nonetheless well-dressed and reasonably attractive. She wore a dark suit and looked to be in her early 40s. I soon learned she was Patricia Krenwinkel.

The docudrama seemed to be a parole hearing, but in spite of its compelling nature, my mind wandered back in time to the 60s and I recalled bits and pieces of the Manson case. Sharon Tate came to mind ­ and a prosecutor named Bugliosi.

When I re-focused on the hearing, the proceedings were deliberate. Two men, who I assumed were Krenwinkel's lawyers, were shuffling papers, answering questions about what Krenwinkel had been doing with her life these past 25 years.

Twenty-five years? Had it been that long?

It was the late 60s ­ 1969 to be precise. These were crimes so horrendous that they not only shocked Los Angeles, they startled and stunned the entire country. It was the sheer brutality and senselessness of them that shook everyone to their cores.

One wonders how an itinerant band of hippies can be led and profoundly influenced by a dysfunctional, 34-year-old ex-con, ex-musician, ex-husband, and certifiable sociopath. By any measure, Charles Manson was thoroughly pernicious and unattractive ­ short, stoop-shouldered and scruffy ­ a man who, apparently, had no redeeming qualities.

Why would these people plan and carry out the murders of complete strangers? As one of the killers casually stated later, "We wanted to do something that would shock the world ­ that the world would stand up and take notice."

On a warm August evening, Tex Watson, Patricia Krenwinkel, Susan Atkins and Linda Kasabian drove to a house in the Benedict Canyon section of Los Angeles, chosen at random. High on LSD and bent on destruction, they literally invaded the house and grounds armed with guns and knives.

In less than an hour, five people were dead, including actress Sharon Tate, the pregnant wife of film director Roman Polanski who happened to be away in Europe. When it was over, the killers drove away undetected.

Manson ordered them out the very next night to repeat the carnage. The same four from the night before volunteered, plus another member of the Family, Leslie Van Houton. Once again, a house was chosen arbitrarily ­ the home of Leno and Rosemary LaBianca. The LaBiancas were home alone. They were captured, like animals in an abattoir, and slaughtered.

The LAPD (Los Angeles Police Department) and the LASO (Los Angeles Sheriff's Office) spent the next several months investigating the murders before the case was broken. Linda Kasabian agreed to become a witness for the prosecution.

Watson, Atkins, Krenwinkel, Van Houton, and Manson went on trial for first-degree murder. What followed in the next five months was bizarre and surreal. Nothing before or since, with the possible exception of the O.J. Simpson trial, had caught the macabre attention of the entire nation like this case. While people were mesmerized by the proceedings, they were more intrigued by Manson himself and the specter of his Family.

In spite of the circus-like atmosphere, the jury found the five guilty of murder in the first degree and sentenced them to death. But in 1972, the California State Supreme Court rendered a decision effectively abolishing the death penalty in the state. Automatically, all persons awaiting execution had their sentences reduced to life imprisonment.

Krenwinkel, along with Atkins and Van Houton, were transferred to a special

security unit at the California Institution for Women at Frontera, where they remain today.

The atmosphere of the parole hearing was changing. Krenwinkel was about to speak. In a steady and unemotional voice, she said, "Every day I wake up and know that I am a destroyer of the most precious thing ­ which is life. To live with that is the most difficult thing of all. But, that's what I deserve ­ to wake up every morning knowing that."

As I watched, it was difficult to connect this woman to the events of 25 years ago. As she continued, I heard no talk of miraculous religious conversions or voices from God. No excuses for past behavior. She seemed sincere and contrite.

But as I watched and listened, I had the feeling that the die had been cast. It seemed there was no way that this board was going to release Patricia Krenwinkel. Not today ­ maybe never. The political and social implications of her being paroled would probably be too much to overcome. Predictably, her parole was denied.

For days I couldn't forget what I had seen and heard. But why? Patricia Krenwinkel meant nothing to me. Like most of the nation, I had completely forgotten that she existed. I thought about it off and on for days and concluded that the program had forced me to examine more closely a fundamental issue in our penal system ­ punishment versus rehabilitation.

For reasons I can't explain, I felt compelled to contact her. Perhaps it was simply to find out more about this woman. Or maybe, just maybe, it was morbid curiosity. Here was an opportunity to have a personal connection with one of the most publicized and infamous murder cases in history.

Whatever my motive, I decided to write her a letter. But what would I say? Would she question my motives when I wasn't sure of them myself? I decided to keep the letter short and simple ­ tell her that I had seen the program on television and, on some level, I tried to understand her predicament. It wasn't a long letter, just three or four paragraphs. I really didn't expect a response, but deep down, I wanted one.

The weeks turned into months and I heard nothing from her. Eventually, I put the entire incident out of my mind. A year later, unexpectedly, I received a letter from her.

After an entire year, she had answered a letter from a complete stranger. The content of her letter surprised me. It was filled with personal feelings, philosophical observations, and detailed day-to-day activities. It was as if we already knew each other and this was just one of many letters we had exchanged. I didn't know what to make of it, but I was convinced of one thing ­ I wanted to continue the correspondence and see where it would lead.

At the outset, I decided not to ask questions about the crimes because I wanted her to feel comfortable with our communications. What she chose to reveal to me would have to come from her voluntarily.

After months of correspondence by mail, we discussed the possibility of telephone calls. She told me that no incoming calls are allowed, and that the inmate must make calls from a pay phone at the prison, with the charges reversed. I invited her to call me collect at anytime.

When we were finally able to connect, it was interesting to hear her voice. It was bright, enthusiastic and devoid of any perceptible accent. She sounded young, even though she must have been close to 50 years old. And with the exception of recorded reminders of the time left on the call, the first telephone exchange was interesting. It's one thing to communicate through letters and quite another to actually speak with someone you've never met. It seems only natural to form mental images that often change when a voice is heard ­ or when a person is met face-to-face.

Over the ensuing years, her letters and calls have been both revealing and predictably prosaic. After all, her day-to-day existence is programmed and routine. But in spite of this, she seems to have an extremely inquisitive manner ­ one that probes and investigates everything she reads and observes. It makes for a fertile mind, full of information that stimulates the senses. And in a very important way, I suspect this is the ammunition she uses to remove herself, spiritually and intellectually, from her surroundings ­ in a sense, transcending the physical with a mind that is energized.

After exchanging well over 50 letters and phone calls, I decided to move to the next level in our relationship. A personal visit was in order. She readily agreed.

* * *

It was a Thursday in September when I arrived in Los Angeles. I rented a car, and after a good night's rest, drove to the prison. As I drove into the crack-filled asphalt parking lot, it seemed I had arrived at a sprawling farm, not a prison. I parked the car and stepped out. The acrid smell of animal manure and fertilizer filled my nostrils. As I looked around, there seemed to be a working farm in the distance and a variety of single-story buildings behind wire fences in the foreground.

A long sidewalk next to the parking lot led around a fence to a small wooden building with a breezeway. A few feet away was the entrance to the prison ­ a gate behind which was a guard shack in its own small, fenced enclosure. There, an attractive female guard let me in, had me fill out a one-page form, and had me go through a metal detector. Afterwards, she opened the gate and let me proceed to a close-by building where I entered a small waiting room.

After a very few minutes, I glanced through a wall of windows that separated the waiting room from the visiting area and saw Patricia standing there. The Correctional Officer led me through and we were face-to-face for the first time. After a brief embrace, we chatted aimlessly for a few minutes, getting accustomed to each other. As the awkwardness of the situation wore off, she seemed genuinely pleased to see me. She looked me in the eye and smiled.

"You know why I like corresponding with you?" she said rhetorically. "Because we talk about lots of different things out there in the real world and not so much about my situation here. That's nice."

In spite of the compliment, I had lots of questions, but I decided to wait for a more opportune time to broach the subjects.

It was a pleasant day, so Pat suggested we walk outside where several couples were seated at picnic tables. It was a small fenced-in area, not particularly private, but we managed to find a semi-secluded grassy spot in one corner near the fence. She pointed past the fence toward the modest, cinder block buildings. "That's where I live. A hallway runs down the center of each building with cells on either side. Mine has two bunk beds, two lockers, one desk, a small john, and a sink."

She seemed almost proud of her surroundings, like a college student showing off the campus to a visiting relative. Although I couldn't see it, Pat indicated that off in the distance behind the buildings was a track where she walked everyday and sometimes played volleyball.

"You've mentioned that you have a job," I said.

"Yes, I work everyday ­ except on weekends. I think I told you that I'm working in arts and crafts and I really like it, but they make you change jobs every two years."

"Why is that?"

"They don't want inmates to get too comfortable or set in their ways."

That comment opened a rush of criticism of the California Department of Corrections. She pointed out that it was the largest organized union in the state, and alleged that it was a bureaucratic nightmare ­ more concerned with punishment than rehabilitation. She was particularly hard on the Correctional Officers, charging that they were overpaid and under-trained, with annual salaries beginning at $40,000 and quickly increasing to $60,000.

"It's really sad," she added. "They're paid more than teachers and they get no proper training to do anything. At least in the military, the training has a purpose. These people aren't taught to do anything but punish ­ to make us feel inferior ­ like scum."

A pretty serious indictment, I thought. Was her true persona beginning to emerge? But then, these were the comments of one whose very existence is lived as a perpetually caged creature, subject to the rules and possible prejudices of her keepers. Would any of us feel differently?

She seemed anxious to let an outsider understand the inside situation, so she continued in an animated fashion. "When I first arrived, this facility was for long-term inmates and the treatment was humane. On weekends, married women could be with their children and family in cottages. But those days are gone, probably forever. The sad thing is that the children are the ones who suffer and they haven't done anything. They're the real victims. When they're separated from their mothers and have less and less contact, they drift away and end up being institutionalized themselves."

She looked away, pensively, then continued, "It's changed completely. Now they're in a punitive mode, and old heads like me aren't being sent here anymore. Most inmates here are short-timers ­ you know, drug related crimes ­ or for women who've been abused and end up killing their boyfriends or husbands.

"You should hear some of the stories. Most of these women are not criminals. They're forced into situations where they have no choice but to defend themselves and their children. They are stalked, threatened, and beaten. What's really pathetic is there are no laws to protect these women until it's too late. Either they kill or they get killed. In my mind, they shouldn't be locked up ­ they ought to be given medals."

She stared into space, then continued. "For the most part, women are model prisoners, but we're forgotten." She looked back at me in a serious mood. "Our

warden is a good person and tries hard to do the right thing. But when she goes to Sacramento and tries to get things done, she hits a brick wall."

"What do you mean?"

"All of the attention is given to men's facilities. They have all these issues to do with gang problems, race and drugs ­ things that don't even exist here. They think our issues are trivial. Get this ­ we can't wear makeup or paint our nails. Seems ridiculous, doesn't it? But when she brings up a small issue like this, they laugh in her face. See what we're up against?"

Now she was wound up and more demonstrative, so I decided to ask more personal questions ­ ones we had not discussed before ­ not in letters or in telephone conversations.

"Are you a religious person?" I asked.

She hesitated momentarily, smiled, then answered. "There are a lot of born again Christians in here and I suspect they're trying to affect their chances of parole. But I'm not one of them. I do believe Jesus was a remarkable man, fully human, who loved everyone ­ but he would probably have been assassinated in today's society ­ like Martin Luther King." She hesitated a moment, then continued. "And another thing ­ I don't buy the traditional concept of a God that watches over us. One that rewards and punishes us."

"You don't believe in a personal God?" I asked.

"Not really," she said smiling. "If I did, I'd be pretty upset with him for keeping me locked up all this time."

She seemed to enjoy the banter, so I pressed on with to other personal matters.

"What about your family?" I asked.

With no hesitation, she answered matter-of-factly. "They visit when they can, but they've been divorced for years, so they don't come together. If they did, they would be at each other's throat," she said with a grin.

I asked if she had been raised in California.

"Yes, in LA ­ middle-class family. My dad was an insurance agent with State Farm. I had a sister ­ seven years older than me, but she died young of an overdose. She had been married a short time and had a son."

More pieces of her puzzled life were fitting together.

"I recently saw Leslie Van Houton on television either before or after a parole hearing," I remarked, "and from what I heard from the commentary, there is a chance she may eventually be released."

"Yes, Leslie has a chance because of her excellent behavior. We're all watching to see what happens to her. If she's released, it will be a beginning. Then maybe I might have a chance."

"Are you in touch with her?" I asked.

"Oh yes. We see each other and talk everyday. I love Leslie. If it hadn't been for her in the early years, I never would have made it. She's helped me in so many ways. For example, we rehearse and plan our hearing strategies together. We do everything we can to be released. Even if the door is slammed in our faces, we drop the disappointment, release our emotions, and start planning for the next hearing. It's the only way to survive."

"During your hearings, do they ­ the parole board ­ ask you whether you would ever again fall under the influence of someone like Manson?" I asked.

"Yes, my primary position is that I will never be 'conned' again. Manson is a sociopath who preyed on other people ­ me included." Her tone suggested that she wasn't about to allow another Svengali into her life. Or at least, that's her position now. What will happen if she is eventually released is conjecture.

But for me, a crucial question remained. What was going through her mind on those two fateful nights in August 1969? I didn't bring up the subject because I felt I had probed enough in our first face-to-face encounter.

When I returned home, we continued to correspond, and in one of my letters, I decided to confront the issue. I told her I was curious about her state of mind on the nights of the killings. I invited her to share those feelings with me if she chose to do so. Over the next few months, she called several times and wrote a couple of times, but never acknowledged my request. In fact, she simply ignored it.

I was keenly disappointed, feeling that a gap in the story still remained. Her case and her possibility of parole may well hinge on two circumstances: her state of mind during those two terrible nights in 1969, and her behavior over the past 30 years. Against the inevitable backdrop of public opinion, her parole board must decide whether her crimes were too cruel and unusual to be forgiven, or whether her continued incarceration is almost as cruel.

In the meantime, we are left to speculate. If Krenwinkel is truly remorseful, and has sought some kind of inner peace in order to survive, day after day, year after year, wasn't she compelled to rid herself of the evil that prompted her to do what she did? Or have the years simply dulled, or even erased, a memory that was scrambled from the beginning by drugs?

Maybe Patricia Krenwinkel is the only one who knows the truth ­ and she isn't talking. *