Chiaramonte - No Journeys End: My Tragic Romance with Ex-Manson Girl, Leslie Van Houten

This is a true story based on actual persons and real events. The names of some secondary characters have been changed, several of whom are, in fact, composites.

Copyright 2015. Peter Chiaramonte.

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 0986420204

ISBN 13: 9780986420207

Cover and interior by Publish Pros (www.publishpros.com)

Acknowledgments

Primary source material comes from personal diaries, letters, and original tape recordings. Newspaper accounts were taken from the Los Angeles Times and Toronto Star archives and databases. For additional background information and confirmation, I am indebted to: Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry, Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders (W.W. Norton, 1974); Karlene Faith, The Long Prison Journey of Leslie Van Houten: Life Beyond the Cult (Northeastern U. Press, 2001); John Gilmore and Ron Kenner, The Garbage People (Omega, 1971); Jonathan Gould, Cant Buy Me Love: The Beatles, Britain, and America (Three Rivers Press, 2007); Jeff Guinn, Manson: The Life and Times of Charles Manson (Simon and Schuster, 2013); Roman Polanski, Roman by Polanski (Ballantine, 1985); Ed Sanders, The Family (Da Capo, 2002); Christopher Sandford, Polanski (Arrow, 2009); Alisa Statman and Brie Tate, Restless Souls: The Sharon Tate Familys Account of Stardom, the Manson Murders, and a Crusade for Justice (HarperCollins, 2012); and John Waters, Role Models (Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 2010.)

As my friend and co-conspirator, Don Levin, often reminds me, authorship is far more a team sport than is often imagined. Sincerest thanks to Mia Anna, Albert J. Mills, George Root, Andy Higgins, Mike Flynn, Marco Adria, Evelina Talevi, Brian Edwards, Brian Skleryk, David Grierson, Rylee and Harland Doige, John Grant, Paul Barreca, Todd Chapman, Nadine Segal, Vera Dolan, Karri Verno, Rick Nason, Bob Timko, Cathy Vassallo, M.J. Jones, Mark Federman, Heather Smith, Maher Khanafer, Rich Carnahan, Mackenzie Barrett, Tim Sampson, Susan and David Caruana-Dingli, and John Birr.

I would like to also thank Leslie Van Houten, her family, and friends for accepting me into their homesthough I recognize that their memories of the events described in this book may be different than my own records. I have relayed these events to the best of my knowledge.

CONTENTS

Prologue vii

1 A Certain World 1

2 Lovers and Lesser Men 13

3 The Diablos Caf 27

4 Cupid Introduces Leslie to Manson 39

5 Leslie in the Sky With Diamonds 51

6 Waiting for the Sirens Call 65

7 Please tell me youve missed me 85

8 Los Angeles Times 113

9 Cul-de-Sac 141

10 Just Ask Roman Polanski 171

11 No Verdict in Double Murder 191

12 Death of a Ladies Man 203

13 Au Pays de Cocaine 211

14 Prose and Cons 227

15 Scar Tissue 243

16 An Academic Prepares 265

17 O Desdemon! 289

18 Jurors Debate Fate 307

19 Heaven Can Wait 319

20 Aftermath 327

21 La Grande Illusion 345

Epilogue 363

Prologue

Monrovia, California, Independence Day, 1978. We had been celebrating a revolutionary declaration of freedom and other noble causes. Complete with a modest, but earnest, fireworks display put on by friends and neighbors of her brother David Van Houten. Les and I spent all day and half the night at a family picnic. We had a busy week planned, so we didnt stay late. And since Leslies mother Jane was staying overnight at a neighbors, we had her place in Monterey Park to ourselves for the evening.

In front of 429 Sefton Avenue, Leslie got out of our old MGB and asked me, Will we have time to stop by Judys and pick up more of my things tomorrow?

We can get some of that on the way back from Glendale, I said. Or we can grab it on Sunday. You and David can take Milos van, and Ill break in the bike on my own.

So youve made up your mind?

Thats what were doing first thing tomorrow. You keep the car, and I buy the motorcycle u nless you and one of your beaus have made other plans for what to do with the money?

Dont be smart, Leslie said. Just as long as its something we need , not just something you want to play with. We have to be prudent, mister.

Placing a gentle kiss over her heart, I said, How prudent is that?

* * *

The sun was already up when I opened my eyes. The air was warm and dry and the skies were clear and unclouded, except for the smog and the smudge. Morning birds were making a racket. I could hear shower taps running, and Leslie was humming some old R&B song. I thought, what were the odds she might consent to another shakedown in the shower if I hurried to put my request in? It only seemed right to take chances.

After we climbed out from the tub and dried off, Leslie put on a bright summer print dress. I put on jeans and a sweatshirt. I laced up my old leather Pumas, no socks, and said, If we do bring a bike home today honey, youll have to change into something rougher and tougher. Leather and spurs ought to do it.

Most of my things are still at Judys or in suitcases I left at LindasWhat spurs?

Well gather the rest of your gear on the way up to Isla Vista. We can stop by Judys later today on the way back from Glendale.

I zipped up the back of her dress, wrapped both arms around her, sieged the nape of her neck and shoulders with kisses, and instructed, This is how I want you to hold on to me when youre on the back of the bike, okay?

Whatever you say, fella. Ill make tea while you shave. Just look how chafed my chin is, you monster. She covered her face with her hands, made a face and asked no one in particular, Where does my mom keep the cold cream?

When I was done washing up, I came outside to the patio where Leslie was reading about herself in an old Los Angeles Times and casually smoking a cigarette. I rolled a joint and smoked it alone while she tidied the kitchen. I could tell she had other things on her mind besides caf racers. I knew it was selfish of me to impose reckless habits on her.

Time to get this show on the road, I said, once again hungry for substance.

Leslie locked up the house, and we drove straight through the heart of LA to Glendale. It took us nearly an hour in freeway traffic. Once we arrived at the motorcycle shop, Leslie put her hand on my forearm and tried one last time to appeal to my conscience.

We dont need a lot of things Peter, you know that.

Bikes are much cheaper to run, I said, sensing my bluff might be working.

Then, pointing over her shoulder at two rows of Italian motorcycles lined up in the showroom, I pleaded, Come on, darlin, lets straddle that awful beast and go for a skate on the highway.

Not in this dress, Im not! Leslie said.

At least now she was smiling.

They had one Ducati 900 Super Sport on the floorbut it was way out of our price range. There were, however, four or five new and used Benellis and Moto Guzzis all spiffed up and polished. Two or three were brand-spanking new Le Mans I thought we might afford with a loan. One was fire engine red and had custom gold trim on the fuel tank and fairing.

Leslie asked the salesman if she could use the telephone. She needed to check in every few hours during the jurys deliberations. Meanwhile, I climbed on the Moto Guzzi 850 V2. It wasnt like any bike I was used to. I couldnt wait to turn her on and twist open the throttle. I was anxious to hear how she sounded and feel how she handled.

Get off the phone Leslie, will ya? I said, showing off. I want you to see this.

She was still out of reach, checking in on the phone with Dante, her bondsman.

The salesman kept smiling. He could see I was a serious buyer. He was eager to help push the bike out to the curb for a test ride. I was just about to switch on the engine whenlooking ashen and paleLeslie swiftly came walking towards us.