The Search for the Motive 9 page

Aaron then quoted Manson’s own statement, made in Judge Dell’s court, that Kanarek was the worst man he could pick.

Kanarek objected so strongly to the proceedings that Judge Older remarked, “Now the things that Mr. Stovitz and Mr. Bugliosi said about you, Mr. Kanarek, while they might appear to be unfair, there certainly is, as a matter of common knowledge among the judges in this court, a good deal of truth in what they say. I am not impugning your personal motives, but you do have a reputation for taking an inordinately long time to do what someone else can do in a much shorter period…”

However, Older said, the only reason he was considering the matter was that he wanted to be absolutely sure Manson wanted Kanarek as his attorney. His remarks before Judge Dell had injected some doubt on that point.

In one respect, Manson replied, Kanarek would be the best attorney in town; “in a lot of respects, he would be the worst attorney that I could take.” But, Manson continued, “I don’t think there is any attorney that can represent me as well as I can myself. I am smart enough to realize that I am not an attorney, and I will sit behind these men and I won’t make a scene. I am not here to make trouble…

“There is a lot involved here that does not meet the eye. A person is born, he goes to school, he learns what he is told in a book, and he lives his life by what he knows. The only thing he knows is what someone has told him. He is educated; he does what an educated person does.

“But go out of this realm, you go into a generation gap, a free-love society, you get into insane drugs or smoking marijuana.” And in this other world the reality differs, Manson noted. Here experience alone is the teacher; here you discover “there is no way that you can know the taste of water unless you drink it or unless it has rained on you or unless you jump in the river.”

THE COURT “All I want to do, Mr. Manson, is find out if you are happy with Mr. Kanarek or if you have second thoughts.”

MANSON “I thought I explained that. I would not be happy with anyone but myself. No man can represent me.”

I asked the Court’s permission to question Manson. Though Kanarek objected, Charlie was agreeable. I asked him if he had consulted the other defense attorneys as to whether he should be represented by Kanarek. I had heard that two of them, Fitzgerald and Reiner, were very unhappy about Kanarek’s entry into the case.

MANSON “I don’t ask other men’s opinions. I have my own.”

BUGLIOSI “Do you feel Mr. Kanarek can give you a fair trial?”

MANSON “I do. I feel you can give me a fair trial. You showed me your fairness already.”

BUGLIOSI “I will give you a fair trial, Charlie, but I am out to convict you.”

MANSON “What’s a fair trial?”

BUGLIOSI “That’s when the truth comes out.”

Declaring, “It would be a miscarriage of justice to permit you to represent yourself in a case having the complications this case has,” Older again asked Manson, “Are you affirming Mr. Kanarek as your attorney?”

“I am forced into a situation,” Manson replied. “My second alternative is to cause you as much trouble as possible.”

A little over a week later we’d get our first sample of what he had in mind.

O n being taken to Patton State Hospital in January, sixteen-year-old Dianne Lake had been labeled “schizophrenic” by a staff psychologist. Though I knew the defense would probably try to use this to discredit her testimony, I wasn’t too worried, since psychologists are not doctors and are not qualified to make medical diagnoses. The staff psychiatrists, who were doctors, said her problems were emotional, not mental: behavioral disorders of adolescence plus possible drug dependence. They also felt she had made excellent progress and were now sure she would be able to testify at the trial.

With Sergeant Patchett, I visited Patton in early June. The little ragamuffin I’d first seen in the jail in Independence now looked like any teenager. She was getting straight A’s in school, Dianne told me proudly; not until getting away from the Family, she said, had she realized how good life was. Now, looking back, she felt she had been in a “pit of death.”

In interviewing Dianne, I learned a number of things which hadn’t come out in her earlier interviews. While they were in the desert together, at Willow Springs, Patricia Krenwinkel had told her that she had dragged Abigail Folger from the bedroom into the living room of the Tate residence. And Leslie Van Houten, after admitting to her that she had stabbed someone, had commented that at first she had been reluctant to do so, but then she’d discovered the more you stabbed, the more fun it was.

Dianne also said that on numerous occasions, in June, July, and August of 1969, Manson had told the Family, “We have to be willing to kill pigs in order to help the black man start Helter Skelter.”

And several times—she believed it was in July, about a month before the Tate-LaBianca murders—Manson had also told them, “I’m going to have to start the revolution.”

The interview lasted several hours. One thing Dianne said struck me as very sad. Squeaky, Sandy, and the other girls in the Family could never love anyone else, not even their parents, she told me. “Why not?” I asked. “Because,” she replied, “they’ve given all their love to Charlie.”

I left Patton with the very strong feeling that Dianne Lake had now escaped that fate.

I n court on June 9, Manson suddenly turned in his chair so his back was to the judge. “The Court has shown me no respect,” Manson said, “so I am going to show the Court the same thing.” When Manson refused to face the Court, Judge Older, after several warnings, had the bailiffs remove him from the courtroom. He was taken to the lockup adjoining the court, which was equipped with a speaker system so he could hear, though not participate in, the proceedings.

Although Older gave him several opportunities to return, on the understanding that he would agree to conduct himself properly, Manson rejected them.

W e had not given up in our attempt to have Irving Kanarek taken off the case. On June 10, I filed a motion requesting an evidentiary hearing on the Kanarek-Hughes substitution. The thrust of my motion: Manson did not have the constitutional right to have Kanarek as his lawyer.

The right of counsel of one’s choice, I argued, was not an unlimited, unqualified, absolute right. This right was given to defendants seeking a favorable verdict for themselves. It was obvious from Manson’s statements that he wasn’t picking Kanarek for this reason, but rather to subvert, thwart, and paralyze the due and proper administration of justice. “And we submit that he cannot use the right to counsel of his choice in such an ignoble fashion.”

Kanarek responded that he would be glad to let the Court read the transcripts of his cases, to see if he used dilatory tactics. I thought I saw Judge Older wince at this, but I wasn’t sure. Older’s somber expression rarely changed. It was very difficult to guess what he was thinking.

In researching Kanarek’s record, I had learned something which was not part of my hour-long argument. For all his filibustering, disconnected ramblings, senseless motions, and wild, irresponsible charges, Irving Kanarek frequently scored points. He noted, for example, that our office hadn’t tried to challenge Ronald Hughes, who had never tried a case before, on the grounds that his representation might hurt Manson. And, in conclusion, Kanarek, very much to the point, asked that the prosecution’s motion be struck “on the basis there is no basis for it in law.”

I’d frankly admitted this in my argument, but had noted that this was “a situation so aggravated that it literally cries out to the Court to take a pioneer stand.”

Judge Older disagreed. My motion for an evidentiary hearing was denied.

Although District Attorney Younger had Older’s ruling appealed to the California Supreme Court, it was let stand. Though we had tried to save the taxpayers perhaps several million dollars and everyone involved a great deal of time and unnecessary effort, Irving Kanarek would remain on the Tate-LaBianca cases just as long as Charles Manson wanted him.

“I f Your Honor does not respect Mr. Manson’s rights, you need not respect mine,” Susan Atkins said, rising and turning her back to the Court. Leslie Van Houten and Patricia Krenwinkel followed suit. When Older suggested that the defense attorneys confer with their clients, Fitzgerald admitted that would do little good, “because there is a minimum of client control in this case.” After several warnings, Older had the girls removed to one of the vacant jury rooms upstairs, and a speaker was placed there also.

I had mixed feelings about all this. If the girls parroted Manson’s actions during the trial, it would be additional evidence of his domination. However, their removal from the courtroom might also be considered reversible error on appeal, and the last thing we wanted was to have to try the whole case over again.

Under the current law, Allen vs. Illinois , defendants can be removed from a courtroom if they engage in disruptive conduct. Another case, however, People vs. Zamora , raised a subtler point. In that case, in which there were twenty-two defendants, the counsel tables were so situated that it was extremely difficult for the attorneys to communicate with their clients while court was in session. This led to a reversal by the Appellate Court, which ruled that the right of counsel implies the right of consultation between a defendant and his lawyer during the trial.

I mentioned this to Older, suggesting that some type of telephonic communication be set up. Older felt it unnecessary.

After the noon recess the girls professed a willingness to return. Speaking for all three, Patricia Krenwinkel told Older, “We should be able to be present at this play here.”

To Krenwinkel it was just that—a play. Remaining standing, she turned her back to the bench. Atkins and Van Houten immediately mimicked her. Older again ordered all three removed.

B ringing all the defendants back into court the next day, Judge Older warned them that if they persisted in their conduct before a jury, they could badly jeopardize their cases. “So I would ask you to seriously reconsider what you are doing, because I think you are hurting yourselves.” After again attempting to revert to pro per status, Manson said, “O.K., then you leave me nothing. You can kill me now.”

Still standing, Manson bowed his head and stretched out his arms in a crucifixion pose. The girls quickly emulated him. When the deputies attempted to seat them, all resisted, Manson ending up scuffling with a deputy on the floor. Two deputies bodily carried him to the lockup, while the matrons took the girls out.

KANAREK “I would ask medical assistance for Mr. Manson, Your Honor.”

THE COURT “I will ask the bailiff to check and see if he needs any. If he does, he will get it.”

He didn’t. Once in the lockup, out of sight of the press and spectators, Manson became an entirely different person. He donned another mask, that of the complaisant prisoner. Having spent more than half his life in reformatories and prisons, he knew the role all too well. Thoroughly “institutionalized,” he played by the rules, rarely causing trouble in the jail itself.

A fter the noon recess we had several examples of Kanarek in action. Arguing a search-and-seizure motion, he said that Manson’s arrest was illegal because “Mr. Caballero and Mr. Bugliosi conspired to have Miss Atkins make certain statements” and that “the District Attorney’s Office suborned the perjury.”

As ridiculous as this was, subornation of perjury is an extremely serious charge, and since Kanarek was making it in open court, in front of the press, I reacted accordingly.

BUGLIOSI “Your Honor, if Mr. Kanarek is going to have diarrhea of the mouth, I think he should make an offer of proof back in chambers. This man is totally irresponsible. I urgently request the Court we go back in chambers. God knows what this man is going to say next.”

THE COURT “Confine yourself to the argument, Mr. Kanarek.”

The argument, when Kanarek did eventually get around to making it, left even the other defense attorneys looking stunned. Kanarek stated that since “the warrant of arrest for the defendant Manson was based on illegally obtained and perjured testimony, therefore the seizure of the person of Mr. Manson was illegal. The person of Mr. Manson must, therefore, be suppressed from evidence.”

While I was wondering how you could suppress a person, Kanarek provided an answer: he asked that “that piece of physical evidence which is Mr. Manson’s physical body” not “be before the Court conceptually to be used in evidence.” Presumably, by Kanarek’s convoluted logic, witnesses shouldn’t even be allowed to identify Manson.

Older denied the motion.

Another aspect of Irving Kanarek was exhibited that day: a suspicious distrust that at times bordered on paranoia. The prosecution had told the Court that we would not introduce Susan Atkins’ grand jury testimony in the trial. One would think the introduction of this testimony—in which Susan stated that Charles Manson ordered the Tate-LaBianca murders—would have been the last thing Manson’s attorney would want in evidence. But Kanarek, suddenly wary, charged that if we weren’t using those statements, “they must be tainted in some way.”

Older recessed court for the weekend. The preliminaries were over. The trial would begin the following Monday—June 15, 1970.

PART 6

The Trial

“If the tale that is unfolding were not so monstrous, aspects of it would break the heart.”

JEAN STAFFORD

JUNE 15–JULY 23, 1970

Judge Charles Older’s court, Department 104, was located on the eighth floor of the Hall of Justice. As the first panel of sixty prospective jurors was escorted into the crowded courtroom, their expressions changed from boredom to curiosity. Then, as eyes alighted on the defendants, mouths dropped open in abrupt shock.

One man gasped, loud enough for those around him to hear, “My God, it’s the Manson trial! ”

I n chambers the chief topic was sequestration. Judge Older had decided that once jury selection was completed, the jurors would be locked up until the end of the trial—“to protect them from harassment and to prevent their being exposed to trial publicity.” Arrangements had already been made for them to occupy part of a floor at the Ambassador Hotel. Although spouses could visit on weekends, at their own expense, bailiffs would take all necessary precautions to see that the jury remained isolated from both outsiders and any news about the case. No one was sure how long this would be—estimates of the trial’s length ranged from three to six months and up—but obviously it would be severe hardship for those chosen.

STOVITZ “Your Honor has—and I don’t say this in comedy—sentenced some felons for less than three months in custody.”

THE COURT “No doubt about it.”

FITZGERALD “Not at the Ambassador, though.”

Although all the attorneys had some reservations about sequestration, only one strongly opposed it: Irving Kanarek. Since Kanarek had screamed the loudest about the taint of publicity adverse to his client, I concluded that Manson, not Kanarek, must have been behind the motion. And I had my own opinion as to why Charlie didn’t want the jury locked up.

Rumor had it that Judge Older himself had already received several threats. A secret memo he’d sent the sheriff, outlining courtroom security measures, ended with the following paragraph:

“The sheriff shall provide the trial judge with a driver-bodyguard, and security shall be provided at the trial judge’s residence on a 24-hour basis, until such time as all trial and post-trial proceedings have been concluded.”

T welve names were drawn by lot. When the prospective jurors were seated in the jury box, Older explained that the sequestration could last “as much as six months.” Asked if any felt this would constitute undue hardship, eight of the twelve raised their hands.[62]

Envisioning a mass exodus from the courtroom, Older was very strict when it came to excuses for cause. However, anyone who stated that he or she could not vote the death penalty under any circumstances was automatically excused, as was anyone who had read Susan Atkins’ confession. This was usually approached obliquely, the prospective juror being asked something like “Have you read where any defendant has made any type of incriminating statement or confession?” to which several answered on the order of “Yes, that thing in the L.A. Times .” Questioning on this and other issues dealing with pre-trial publicity was done individually and in chambers, to avoid contaminating the whole panel.

After Older finished the initial questioning, the attorneys began their individual voir dire (examination). I was disappointed in Fitzgerald, who led off. His questions were largely conversational, and quite often showed no sign of prior thought. For example: “Have you or any member of your family ever been the unfortunate victim of a homicide?” Fitzgerald asked this not once but twice, before one of his fellow lawyers nudged him and suggested that if the prospective juror was a homicide victim he wouldn’t be of much use on a jury.

Reiner was much better. It was obvious that he was doing his best to separate his client, Leslie Van Houten, from the other defendants. It was also obvious that in doing so he was incurring Manson’s wrath. Kanarek objected to Reiner’s questions almost as often as did the prosecution.

Shinn asked the first prospective juror only eleven questions, seven of which Older ruled improper. His entire voir dire, including objections and arguments, took only thirteen pages of transcript.

Kanarek began by reading a number of questions obviously written by Manson. This apparently didn’t satisfy Charlie, as he asked Older if he could ask the jurors “a few simple, tiny, childlike questions that are real to me in my reality.” Refused permission, Manson instructed Kanarek: “You will not say another word in court.”

Manson contended, Kanarek later told the Court, that he was already presumed guilty; therefore there was no need to question the jurors, since it didn’t matter who was selected.

To my amazement, Kanarek, usually a very independent sort, actually followed Manson’s instructions and declined to ask further questions.

L awyers are not supposed to “educate” jurors during voir dire, but every lawyer worth his salt tries to predispose a jury to his side. For example, Reiner asked: “Have you read anything in the press, or heard anything on TV, to the effect that Charles Manson has a kind of ‘hypnotic power’ over the female defendants?” Obviously Reiner was less interested in the answer than in implanting this suggestion in the minds of the jurors. Similarly, walking the thin line between inquiry and instruction, I asked each juror: “Do you understand that the People only have the burden of proving a defendant guilty beyond a reasonable doubt; we do not have the burden of proving his guilt beyond all doubt—only a reasonable doubt?”

Initially, Older would not permit the attorneys to instruct the prospective jurors in the law. I had a number of heated discussions with him about this before he let us couch such questions in general terms. This was, I felt, an important victory. For example, I didn’t want to go through the whole trial only to have some juror decide, “We can’t convict Manson of the five Tate murders because he wasn’t there. He was back at Spahn Ranch.”

The heart of our case against Manson was the “vicarious liability” rule of conspiracy—each conspirator is criminally responsible for all the crimes committed by his co-conspirators if said crimes were committed to further the object of the conspiracy. This rule applies even if the conspirator was not present at the scene of the crime. For example: A, B, and C decide to rob a bank. A plans the robbery, B and C carry it out. Under the law, A, though he never entered the bank, is as responsible as B and C, I pointed out to the jury.

From the prosecution’s point of view, it was important that each juror understand such gut issues as reasonable doubt, conspiracy, motive, direct and circumstantial evidence, and the accomplice rule.

We hoped Judge Older would not declare Linda Kasabian an accomplice. But we were fairly sure he would,[63]in which case the defense would make much of the fact that no defendant can be convicted of any crime on the uncorroborated testimony of an accomplice. In researching the law, I found a California Supreme Court case, People vs. Wayne, in which the Court said only “slight” evidence was needed to constitute corroboration. After I brought this to Older’s attention, he permitted me to use the word “slight” in my questioning. This, too, I considered a significant victory.

Though Older had ascertained that each prospective juror could, if the evidence warranted it, vote a verdict of death, I went beyond this, asking each if he could conceive of circumstances wherein he would be willing to vote such a verdict against (1) a young person; (2) a female defendant; or (3) a particular defendant even though the evidence showed that he himself did not do any actual killing. Obviously I wanted to eliminate anyone who answered any of these questions negatively.

M anson and the girls caused no disruptions during jury selection. In chambers during the individual voir dire, however, Manson would often stare at Judge Older for literally hours. I could only surmise that he had developed his incredible concentration while in prison. Older totally ignored him.

One day Manson tried it with me. I stared right back, holding his gaze until his hands started shaking. During the recess, I slid my chair over next to his and asked, “What are you trembling about, Charlie? Are you afraid of me?”

“Bugliosi,” he said, “you think I’m bad and I’m not.”

“I don’t think you’re all bad, Charlie. For instance, I understand you love animals.”

“Then you know I wouldn’t hurt anyone,” he said.

“Hitler loved animals too, Charlie. He had a dog named Blondie, and from what I’ve read, Adolf was very kind to Blondie.”

Usually a prosecutor and a defendant won’t exchange two words during an entire trial. But Manson was no ordinary defendant. And he loved to rap. In this, the first of many strange, often highly revealing conversations we had, Manson asked me why I thought he was behind these murders. “Because both Linda and Sadie told me you were,” I replied. “Now, Sadie doesn’t like me, Charlie, and she thinks you’re Jesus Christ. So why would she tell me this if it wasn’t true?”

“Sadie’s just a stupid little bitch,” Manson said. “You know, I only made love to her two or three times. After she had her baby and lost her shape, I couldn’t have cared less about her. That’s why she told that story, to get attention. I would never personally harm anyone.”

“Don’t give me that crap, Charlie, because I won’t buy it! What about Lotsapoppa? You put a bullet in his stomach.”

“Well, yeah, I shot that guy,” Manson admitted. “He was going to come up to Spahn Ranch and get all of us. That was kinda in self-defense.”

Manson was enough of a jailhouse lawyer to know that I couldn’t use anything he told me unless I’d first informed him of his constitutional rights. Yet this, and many subsequent admissions, surprised me. There was a strange sort of honesty about him. It was devious, it was never direct, but it was there. Whenever I pinned him down, he might evade, but not once in this, or the numerous other conversations we had, did he flatly deny that he had ordered the murders.

An innocent man protests his innocence. Instead, Manson played word games. If he took the stand and did this, I felt sure the jury would see through him.

Would Manson take the stand? The general consensus was that Manson’s prodigious ego, plus the opportunity to use the witness stand as a forum to expound his philosophy before the world press, would impel him to testify. But—though I had already put in many hours preparing my cross-examination—no one but Manson really knew what he would do.

Toward the end of the recess, I told him, “I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Charlie, but it would be much more interesting if we did it with you on the stand. I have lots and lots of things I’m curious about.”

“For instance?”

“For instance,” I replied, “where in the world—Terminal Island, Haight-Ashbury, Spahn Ranch—did you get the crazy idea that other people don’t like to live?”

He didn’t answer. Then he began to smile. He’d been challenged. And knew it. Whether he’d decide to accept the challenge remained to be seen.

T hough silent in court, Manson remained active behind the scenes.

On June 24, Patricia Krenwinkel interrupted Fitzgerald’s voir dire to ask that he be relieved as her attorney. “I have talked with him about the way I wish this to be handled right now, and he doesn’t do as I ask,” she told the Court. “He is to be my voice, which he is not…” Older denied her request.

Later the defense attorneys had a meeting with their clients. Fitzgerald, who had given up his Public Defender’s job to represent Krenwinkel, emerged with tears in his eyes. I felt very badly about this and, putting my arm around his shoulder, told him, “Paul, don’t let it get you down. She’ll probably keep you. And if she doesn’t, so what? They’re just a bunch of murderers.”

“They’re savages, ingrates,” Fitzgerald said bitterly. “Their only allegiance is to Manson.”

Fitzgerald didn’t tell me what had occurred during the meeting, but it wasn’t hard to guess. Directly, or through the girls, Manson had probably told the attorneys: Do it my way or you’re off the case. Fitzgerald and Reiner told Los Angeles Times reporter John Kendall that all the attorneys had been instructed to “remain silent” and not question prospective jurors.

When, the following day, Reiner disobeyed this order and continued his voir dire, Leslie Van Houten tried to fire him, repeating almost verbatim the words Krenwinkel had used. Older denied her request also.

What Reiner was going through could be gleaned from some of his questions. For example, he asked one prospective juror: “Even if it appears that Leslie Van Houten desired to stand or fall with the other defendants, could you nevertheless acquit her if the evidence against her was insufficient?”

O n July 14 both the prosecution and the defense agreed to accept the jury. The twelve were then sworn. The jury consisted of seven men and five women, ranging in age from twenty-five to seventy-three, in occupation from an electronics technician to a mortician.[64]

It was very much a mixed jury, neither side getting exactly what it wanted.

Almost automatically, the defense will challenge anyone connected with law enforcement. Yet Alva Dawson, the oldest member of the jury, had worked sixteen years as a deputy sheriff with LASO, while Walter Vitzelio had been a plant security guard for twenty years, and had a brother who was a deputy sheriff.

On the other hand, Herman Tubick, the mortician, and Mrs. Jean Roseland, a secretary with TWA, each had two daughters in approximately the same age group as the three female defendants.

Studying the jurors’ faces as they were sworn, I felt that most appeared pleased to have been selected. After all, they had been chosen to serve on one of the most famous trials of all time.

Older was quick to bring them back to earth. He instructed them that when they came to court the following morning they should bring their suitcases, clothing, and personal items, as from that point on they would be sequestered.

T here remained the selection of the alternate jurors. Because of the anticipated length of the trial, Older decided to pick six, an unusually large number. Again we went through the whole voir dire.

Only this time it was without Ira Reiner. On July 17, Leslie Van Houten formally requested that Reiner be relieved as her attorney and Ronald Hughes appointed instead.

After questioning Hughes, Manson, and Van Houten on the possibility of a conflict of interest, Judge Older granted the substitution. Reiner was out, receiving not even so much as a thank-you for the eight months he had devoted to the case. Manson’s former attorney, the “hippie lawyer” Ronald Hughes, with his Santa Claus beard and Walter Slezak suits, became Leslie Van Houten’s attorney of record.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 706