![]() “I don’t remember what I told her,” Whitehouse recalls one recent afternoon, sitting on the porch of a San Juan Capistrano mobile home that doubles as his law office. Now here was this confused 22-year-old wanting advice from her, a 37-year-old convict. ![]() One writer had to be barred from the prison another, to whom she was briefly married, turned out to be a con man. Occasionally, the exchanges turned disastrously romantic. The decision to correspond hadn’t been easy, she said. In the 14 years since her conviction, both as one of the despised Manson girls and a legend among born-again inmates, Atkins received more than her share of mail from crackpots. “He wrote to me and offered friendship,” the convicted murderer told parole officials years later, “and I was at a place emotionally where I thought maybe I could offer friendship back.” ![]() In her book, she wrote that she had found God and conquered her demons. ![]() He was partying too hard, hanging out with bad people. In 1985, long after the crimes that would bind her forever to Charles Manson, Susan Atkins received a letter in the prison mail.A young man named James Whitehouse had read her autobiography and wanted guidance. ![]()
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