DISGRACELAND - Mama Cass Elliot (Pt. 2): Rape, Murder, and Taking Secrets to the Grave

Episode Date: December 13, 2022

Mama Cass’ role as Hollywood’s hippie den mother pulled her into the orbit of troubling company during the “Summer of Love.” The former singer of The Mamas and the Papas thrived in Laurel Canyon's social circles, which included her close friend Sharon Tate and Sharon’s husband, filmmaker Roman Polanski. But Cass’ alleged involvement in some of the long rumored-hedonistic events put her at the center of a counter-narrative that explosively disrupts the supposed motive for the Manson family murders. Decades later, there’s plenty to debunk about the final years of Mama Cass’ life— including a silly, fat-shaming myth surrounding her death that has persisted for nearly 50 years. This episode contains themes that may be disturbing to some listeners, including domestic violence and graphic descriptions of violence and sexual assault.   Do you believe the accepted narrative around Helter Skelter as put forth by Vincent Bugliosi?? Let Jake know at 617-906-6638, [e-mail], or on socials @disgracelandpod.     To see the full list of contributors see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. This episode was originally published on December 13, 2022. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTokSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. Mama Cass Elliott's life, career, both with and without the Mamas and the Pappas, her complex relationship with both the victims of the Manson family murders and with the murderers themselves, both alleged and convicted.

is so complex that we needed two episodes to properly tell this story. If you're just getting hip to this now, I suggest you hit pause and go back to the previous episode of Disgraceland, part one of the Mama Cass Elliott story, where we get into Cass's skyrocketing fame and mold-breaking pop stardom, her challenging solo career, her romantic relationship with not one but two international drug dealers. Her role is Hollywood's hippie denmother, her connections to the Manson family and her arrest in Hollywood.

In this episode, we further explore Cass's entanglement with Charles Manson, her close friend Sharon Tate and Sharon's husband filmmaker Roman Polansky, as well as Cass's alleged involvement in some of the long-rumored hedonistic events at Sharon and Roman's home on Cello Drive, events that put Mama Cass at the center of a counter-narrative that explosively disrupts the supposed motive for the Manson family murders. And we debunk the silly, fat-shaming myth surrounding Cass Elliott's own death that has persisted for nearly 50 years. We, of course, hit upon Cass' solo music career,

great music made by one of the last century's most unique stars. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my mouth. Melotron called Play You, Play Me, MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Annie's song by John Denver. And why would I play you that specific slice of senses filling cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on July 29, 1974.

And that was the day that Mama Cass Elliott died, kicking off one of the more ridiculous myths in rock role history and burying perhaps forever, one of Hollywood's darkest secrets. On this episode, Sharon Tate, Charles Manson, the helter-skelter motive in flames and Mama Cass's secret dead next to a ham sandwich. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Boytek Frykowski, the big Polish dude Michael Kane had met at Cass Elliott's house. Turned J.C. brings Black Porsche 9-11 onto Hollywood Boulevard and dropped the German-engineered sports car down to gear. The engine sounded barely containable.

It hummed low, almost a growl. The sound was an attention-getter for sure. Young hustlers on the corner of Vine took notice. Voitech cruised. He was looking for a particular type. Young, clean, almost pretty. That's how she liked them. how he liked them too. Not unlike Jay, not unlike Roman.

Voitek spotted what he was looking for. Curbed the Porsche, proffered, popped the passenger side door. The strange hopped in and Voitek headed back up into the Hollywood Hills. Not Laurel Canyon. Tonight's action wasn't at Cass Elliott's place. It was at Roman Polanski's Cielo Drive home. But Cass would be there because Sharon, Roman's wife, would be there and Sharon and Cass were thickest thieves, especially when Roman was out of town. Cass kept Sharon company. Cass was the one, of course, who introduced her boyfriend's Pick and Billy to Sharon and Roman, and to Vortex for that matter. Pick and Billy made sure the parties at 10050 Cello Drive never ran out of steam. Pick and Billy supplied Sharon and Roman's friends with whatever drugs

they needed. Pick and Billy were bringing more than party favors, though. Pick and Billy were supposedly setting Voytech up with enough product to keep him going well beyond the summer, and to make sure he would not have to subsist on the allowance his tight-wad American heiress girlfriend Abigail Gibby Folger kept him on. Gibby wasn't going to be there tonight. She was too straight for tonight. Tonight was for professionals. Tonight was black hoods.

Tonight was young strange. Tonight was whips, chains, wax, and whatever was freaky. Tonight, the dancing would be, as they said, different. Tonight was inspired by the satanic dream sequence from Roman's Rosemary's baby. Roman would approve. They were going to film it to show Roman when he returned from London. He did get it the most. Sick fuck that he was.

Roman loved his tapes. Roman loved young girls. There would be plenty. Charlie was bringing his dirty desert hippie harem. Charlie would share. As long as there was an angle, Charlie liked to share. So did Roman. Roman shared his home, his drugs, his money.

Word was. Roman even shared the tan skin on the blonde glistened in the candlelight. She moved in motion with the Rayman-Zeric organ. It blasted from the home stereo system at ear-shattering volume. She was the only one not in a black hood or a mask. She wore red panties, and that was it. Bodies were everywhere, all twisted up together on the furniture, the carpeted floor, up against the walls. The blonde worked on the broad-shouldered bald dude with the Zoro mask.

Behind him, a handsome young man waited his turn patiently. His beautiful brown cloth needlessly hidden into the hood of his open robe. The pro noticed. The pro thought it a waste. How hard we work for things only to squander them in the heat of the moment. It proved what mattered in life. What was carnal? That was it.

The rest was just window dressing. When you got right down to it, this whole hippie Hollywood dream was about one thing and one thing only. Getting off. All roads led to hear hedonism. The chanting grew louder. In rhythm with Ray's Venice pump, it forced a sort of mass come on.

The room itself seemed to elevate. Everywhere anyone looked, there was nothing but beautiful hedonism. All of it orchestrated. for mass satisfaction. Young, old, male, female, bald, blonde, skinny, fat. Yes, even the big girl wasn't on the action. Though if one looked closer, beyond the half-ass pomp and feigned satanic circumstance, one could tell that the big girl's heart wasn't in it.

Her heart was with another, and he was lost, gone. Pick Dawson wasn't due at Cello Drive that night, so Cass Elliott would have to do with Picks' friend. Her other love, Billy Doyle. And if Billy wouldn't show, a word was, Cowboy was on her way. And Cowboy would most definitely entertain Cass if her two loves weren't around to do so. Cowboy was like that. It was the post party at Cello Drive.

Everyone was invited. But again, Pick wouldn't be there. Pick knew Voitek was too pissed. Pissed that he caught a bad stash off Pick. A stash he couldn't sell. Voitek would handle Pick eventually. And in the meantime, if his shit he had little frills, friend Cass Elliott's other boyfriend, Billy Doyle, had the balls to show up. Then Voitek would take

care of him, too. But to Voitek and Cass's dismay for different reasons, like Pick, Billy never showed either. Not that night anyway. But for Billy Doyle, Cello Drive was a hard call not to heed. There were too many parties, too many women, too many customers to lay off his MDA, his LSD, his Coke, his grass. Months passed during that summer of 16th. and Cass Elliott's boyfriend, Billy Doyle, eventually found his way back to Roman Polanski's house. Roman was still out of town. Roman's friend, Vytec, and Vytec's girlfriend had the run of the place, even with Roman's pregnant wife, Sharon, there. Sharon was no match for Vytec.

Voitek ran the show. It was still the celebrity haunt it always was. Sharon made sure of that, but the home was also a catch-all for Sunset Strip Seekers, 60 charlatans, Hollywood Hills hippie rabble and of course lots and lots of underage sexual action. Young girls, young men, they were practically bussed in. In some cases, they literally were. By Charlie from his place up in the desert in his barely operable school bus painted all black. Billy nearly salivated at the thought.

Cass wouldn't be there. Not tonight. She was back in the hospital. Her crash diet had crashed and Mama Cass was in need of an IV, some rest and a short spell off the drugs and the drink. But Billy was a freeborn man in a world gone mad and set to shake some action at Cello Drive on that night. It was a risk with Roman out of town. The parties were always a bit rougher when Roman was away and when Voytec was left in charge, but Billy bet Vitech would welcome him and forget about the bad stash pick had sold him because Billy had a brand new bag of the good stuff.

Billy bet bygones would be bygones, but Voytek wasn't having any of them. it. Billy entered the pristine white panel door at Cello Drive into a party in full swing. Voytec spied him immediately. He could practically smell the sleaze on him. Voytec played nice. At least he seemed to. He welcomed Billy with open arms, and a drink laced into an evil cocktail of vodka, punch, mescaline, LSD, and speed. Billy gulped it down. Billy's head went blotto. The party swung. Where was Cass, Billy wondered. She'd center him. She always did, but Cass wasn't there. Billy felt his heart jump into his throat and his stomach turned upside down.

He fumbled to the bathroom to vomit, but nothing came up. He stood, stumbled into the living room. Someone placed a lit joint into his lips. He drew from it, coughed up a mouth full of smoke, and the room closed in on him. The wall squeezed. Billy knew it. He was about to be fucked. Revenge fucked.

Voitek appeared flat in front of him and placed his big pole. Mitch Mitz on Billy's shoulders. Voitex smiled. Billy swore Voitek's eyes went black. The next thing Billy knew, he was sucking on carpet, face down, his wrists bound behind his back. The pain was unbelievable. Where was that coming from?

In blunt, thrusts over and over again. Billy heard the partygoers laughing, cheering, hanging on someone, something, someone from behind him. The pain. It hit him in time with the cheering from the backside. Over and over again, Billy's head ballooned, the pain burst, and Billy blacked out. When Billy Doyle came to, his pants were around his ankles. His head was woozy and his asshole throbbed with a hurt he'd never felt before.

The looks from the celebrity and scenester partygoers burned. The smirks, the outright laughter, the fucking judgment. Billy stood in a rage with one thing on his mind, killing Voitech-fright. But just then, before he could pounce, Billy himself was wrapped up in a bear hug and physically speeded outside of the Cello Drive home. The embrace was tight but not angry. It was that of a friend. It was cowboy. Still, Billy fumed. He screamed bloody murder. He was going to fucking end the big pole who did this to him. But Billy was no match for cowboy who was physically much bigger and stronger than he. For the second time that night, Billy Doyle was tied up. Cowboy threw him in her car

and tore ass away from Sharon Tate's home in the Hollywood Hills and straight toward Sharon's friend's home in Laurel Canyon. Straight toward Mama Cass's house. What happened next, Cass Elliott would never forget. She wasn't there, per se, not in person, but once Cowboy safely chained and irate Billy Doyle to the tree outside Cass's home, Cowboy led herself into Cass' place and phone Cass in the hospital. Cowboy wanted Cass to know what was going on at her place in case any of the neighbors were to complain, freaked out by the dangerous hippie chained to the tree in the front yard, screaming bloody murder. It was for Billy's own good. Cass, Cowboy explained in that throaty rasp of a drawl she had, Billy's going to kill him unless I force him to cool out. Cass at the time

found it all to be hysterical, knowing full well the reason Billy was enraged, because he was just forcibly sodomized in front of a party of cheering onlookers, and now with her B-team boyfriend chained to a tree outside of her house to keep him from killing his attacker, Cass screamed through her laughter into the phone at Cowboy to get the Polaroid, get the Polaroid. It seemed to be all fun in games at the time, but for Cass Elliott, remembering it all now as she was on stage, motioning through her latest set of solo material years later, It all seemed sad in addition to the sick and horrible sexual assault that it was, but still sad. Just sad.

Satter than her falling out with the mamas and the popas. Sadder than her bombing in Vegas. Sadder than her relationship with Billy and sadder than her relationship with Billy's friend, the real love of her life, Pick. The way he just seemed to take and never give. To show up and then disappear. Cass loved Pick. Pick didn't love Cass back. Sometimes, that's how it all felt.

Cass loved but the world didn't love back. Of course, that wasn't entirely true. Mama Cass was one of the most beloved personalities of the late 60s and early 70s, but that wasn't enough. Cass didn't want to just be a personality. Cass wanted to be accepted as an artist. On the level with her buddy Crosby, with Joni, with Jimmy, and as much as she hated to admit it, with Papa John.

But that acceptance was hard to come. come by when you didn't write your own material. And even if you packed them in at the London Palladium, as Cass currently was. July 26, 1974. Five years almost to the day from the Manson murders. Half a decade from losing her friend. Cass couldn't help but think about Sharon, a lot. Sharon lit up the room and now, now that light was forever burned out.

And for what? And why? Those rumors that wormed their way through Hollywood's elite circles after Sharon's death got to the truth of it all, and it was enough to make anyone remotely connected to Sharon Tate's sick with fear. But again, why? The how and the who, the movie stars, the rock stars, the so-called helter-skelter motive, the fucking beals and the ghoulish nature of the killings. That was for newspaper stands.

But the why of it all, that was the stuff that kept you up in night. Some came right out and pointed their fingers at Sharon, and at Cass's boyfriends, at Billy, and at Pick. In an interview with the Los Angeles Free Press, Dennis Hopper said the following about the inhabitants of CLO Drive. Sharon Tade included, quote, They had fallen into sadism and masochism and bestiality, and they recorded it all on videotape, too. The L.A. police told me this. I know that three days before they were killed, 25 people were invited to that house for a mass whipping of a dead. dealer from Sunset Strip who'd given them bad dough, unquote.

Even Candice Bergen, who, with her boyfriend, music producer Terry Melcher, lived in Sharon and Roman's house at Cello Drive prior to the two of them, said in an interview with LAPD two weeks after the murders that the motive was because, quote, it was a rape, unquote. A less than reputable source, Manson family member, the imprisoned Bobby Bolsalet, in a jailhouse interview to Truman Capote, said, quote, Who says they were innocent? They burned people on drug deals, Sharon Tate in that gang.

They picked up kids on the strip and took them home and whipped them, made movies of it. Asked the cops. They found the movies. Not that they tell you the truth. We'll be right back after this world, word, word. It's the videos, the goddamn videos. Perhaps that's the part that frightened Hollywood the most. Not the motives, but the movies.

made for Roman and made by Roman. Those rumors never quit. Those rumors were hard. The stories about what Roman forced Sharon to do on video, with what some called, quote, quite a few recognizable Hollywood faces, unquote, along with a supposed constant flow of underage girls who'd fallen into the cracks of the city of angels. Sharon's friend, photographer Sharak Katami, is on record saying of Roman Polanski, quote. He was bringing other girls to have threesomes with Sharon, and Sharon didn't like it when he was picking up girls on the sunset strip and bringing them home to have sex with her, unquote.

Sex tapes, orgies, sadism, pedophilia, the rape of a duplicitous drug-dealing boyfriend of Mama Cass. What consequence could any or all of this have? Who would have benefited from the gruesome murders at Cello Drive? Perhaps someone seeking revenge? for being humiliated in public, for being sodomized, raped, for burning Sharon's friends on a bad dope deal. But Cass knew Billy Doyle and Pick Dawson and even Cowboy were out of the country when the murders took place. But Hollywood knew better.

The word was, Billy and Pick were too smart to do the deed themselves. And that's where the weird little dude from the desert with the harem of crazy underage girls came back into the picture. Charlie Manson. Charles Manson hated the elite Hollywood scum up at Cello Drive as much as Mama Cass's boyfriends, Billy Doyle, and Pick Dawson now did. And it wasn't because of any public sodomization beef. Charlie had his own humiliation to contend with. Sharon Tate, Roman fucking Polansky, the whole lot of them, especially the hard-on music biz honcho, Terry Melcher,

and his hoity-to-to-dy girlfriend Candice Bergen who lived at Cello Prior. All of them, Voitek and his rich-bitch girlfriend included had what was coming to them. They looked down at Charlie, sneered at Charlie, dismissed Charlie. All Charlie was good for was his girls. At first, they loved Charlie. Charlie was on a different trip, man. Charlie took four hits of ass at his eyes went all googly in that weird way of his. He opened up his mouth and an entirely new dimension seemed to open up to anyone around him.

Charlie had it where it mattered. He had sold. Man, wait till Charlie got it down on record. That's what they said. Charlie was going to be a star, no, a prophet like Dylan. That's what Neil Young thought. Neil went as far as to tell Mo Austin head of Warner Brothers records the same. Neil gave Charlie a motorcycle to help him get around town. to replace that broke-down jalopy of a school bus he had. Dennis Wilson thought similarly of Charlie as well.

Dennis recorded one of Charlie's songs with his band, The Beach Boys. Dennis couldn't do anything, right, that didn't involve either his cock or an American-made engine, both sort of the same thing when you think about it, but I digress. So Dennis fucked up the recording of Charlie's song in a big way, butchered the title, changed it, futs the lyrics, didn't even credit Charlie. It was supposed to be Charlie's big break because Dennis' friend, Dar's Day's, dope-smoking, doll-faced son, the music industry golden boy penetrating along with Dennis, whichever of Charlie's girls he could get their slipped music industry hands on,

that dude, Terry Melcher, the one who lived up at the Ciello drive house before Roman, he wanted nothing to do with Charlie as a musician. Charlie auditioned for him, Charlie blew it, Terry blew Charlie off, Charlie burned. Dissed, heavily dosed, Charlie had murder on the mind. A drug burn, the rape of a drug dealer in retaliation, a revenge, plot, and a grieved cult leader with acid-induced scrambled eggs for brains. The fact that Charlie and his girls could get paid for killing them piggys that did him wrong like the did Billy and Pick made the whole trip all the more sweeter. Murder for hire in a world gone mad was righteous work if you could

get it, particularly if you were often rich establishment pigs in the process. Wasn't that what Charlie's girl Susan Atkins wrote on the door of Cello Drive and Sharon Tate's blood? Pig? Or was it something else? The word, Pig was hardly written clearly. It was blurry, bloodied. Some say it didn't say pig at all. Some, including Mama Cass Elliott's former Mamas and the Papa's band leader, John Phillips, told LAPD that no, it didn't say pig.

It said, not pig. John was crazy, not to mention an asshole, but so too was most of Hollywood on both accounts. Cass knew this then and she knew it now, on stage. trying her best to focus on the task at hand, entertaining the dwindling crowd of the London Palladium. But it was hard, too hard. It was all still a fresh wound. Cass introduced them to Sharon.

Mama Cass brought both boyfriends, both criminals, into Sharon Tate and Roman Polansky's world. This is recent, well-documented, thoroughly sourced information from the excellent 2019 book by Tom O'Neill and Dan Pipeenbring entitled Chaos, Charles Manson, the CIA, and the secret history of the 60s. But back in the days after the death of Sharon Tate, even though all this information was nothing more than whispers, it was enough to keep you up at night to make your stomach turn. Charles Manson's so-called helter-skelter motive, so expertly detailed by Los Angeles County Deputy

District Attorney Vincent Bouliosi, a take that kept the public riveted throughout Bouliosi's trial of Charles Manson, a take. that detailed Manson's fantastical plot to unleash a race war on the world via the murder of Sharon Tate and others. To those in the know, to those who visited CLO Drive before the murders, to those who partied there regularly, the helter-skelter motive of Vincent Bouliosi seemed way out of the bounds of reality compared to what was being whispered around town. That Pick and Billy did Sharon's and Roman's buddy Voytec wrong in a drug deal. Mother's a fucker.

I'm gonna fucking kill her. I swear to got him. That Voitek did Billy, drug, bound, and sodomized him in front of a live audience at Cielo. Live from Hollywood, it's the public rape and humiliation of Mama Cass' boyfriend, Billy. That Billy and Pick swore vengeance, hired Charlie Manson, who in turn cast his spell on his acid-drenched followers to conduct the murders on Charlie's command and on Pick and Billy's dime. Helter Skelter, Helter Skelter. Boliosi Bunk cooked up to clamp down a conviction, to sell the public, to sell papers, and to eventually sell books, to explain away the dwindling dream of the 60s, and perhaps to cover up something darker. The debauchrous hedonism of a blockbuster movie director and his A-list movie star friends at the Hollywood studio system, and perhaps other more powerful players, had a lot invested in, all of whom were rumored to be captured on video at Ciello Dron. in horrifying acts of illegal sexual depravity.

Hollywood had a history of covering up worse. In the wake of the murder of Sharon Tate, Hollywood went fully paranoid. Mia Farrell blew off Sharon's funeral, too afraid she was going to be taken out with a sniper's bullet. Frank Sinatra went into hiding. Jerry Lewis dropped Boku coin on a state-of-the-art security system. Sammy Davis looked to Anton LeVay for answers.

Steve McQueen stashed a gun. in his glove box. In the two days after the murders, one sporting goods store in Beverly Hills reported selling 200 guns. Mama Cass's bandmate, Michelle Phillips, was one of the Hollywood elite shopping for firearms and for good reason. On the piano at Sharon's house after the murders, they found the sheet music to the Mamas and the Papa's song, Straight Shooter. Creepy. But nothing compared to the worst of it. The death list. The death list from the Manson family. Elizabeth Taylor Richard Burton, Tom Jones, Frank Sinatra, and Steve McQueen, they were right to be paranoid. They were all on the list.

The ghosts of Errol Flynn, Jack Kennedy, and Marilyn Monroe slouched toward Gamora. Joan Didion reached for her pen. It was enough to make you bury your memories with alcohol, heroin, cocaine, tranquilizers, and endless amounts of unhealthy food, which is exactly what Cass Elliott had been doing since the murders. But despite it all, here she was. was in 1974, like so many others from those heady days of 1969, still standing, for the moment anyway, on stage, but going through the motions. She was tired. She knew it, and the London crowd knew it too. Cass Elliott couldn't wait to get back to the apartment she was staying at,

on loan from Harry Nelson, and to get some rest. This recent crash diet was one of the worst. She was fatigued and these shows were draining. But first, after the show, there was Mick Jagger's birthday party to attend in Chelsea. Cass chatted up Pete Townsend and Rod Stewart. They, along with other guests, noticed Cass's condition. Constant coughing, trouble with her breathing, but still she kept on drinking and smoking. Morning came and Cass made it back to her borrowed flat. She fixed herself a ham sandwich and a glass of Coca-Cola, placed both on her night. She placed both on her nightstand, plopped down to sleep. Her body was discovered the next afternoon. A doctor who made the scene, Dr. Greenberg, told the Daily Express that Mama Cass Elliott

appeared to have died from a case of asphyxia, saying, quote, from what I saw when I got to the flat, she appeared to have been eating a ham sandwich and drinking Coca-Cola while laying down. A very dangerous thing to do. This would be especially dangerous for someone like Cass who was overweight. She seemed to have choked on the ham sandwich. What the doctor didn't tell the press, prior to making his fat-shaming assessment of Cass Elliot's cause of death, was that a bottle of Tamazepam tranquilizers and a vial of liquid cocaine had been removed from the scene. Furthermore, the doctor neglected to tell the press that the ham sandwich, the supposed cause of death, had not even been touched.

Cass Elliott died, basically, of poor health, from a life of near constant drug and alcohol abuse throughout her adulthood, in addition to being overweight and in poor physical shape. Cass Elliott did not die choking on a ham sandwich. It seems false motives and explanations for Hollywood's so-called innocent were all the rage in 1974, just as they were back in 1969. Such a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Post-Script.

August, 1969. Roman Polansky is back at his home on Cello Drive, days after the murders. He is wandering through the crime scene where his pregnant wife and friends were just slaughtered. The salty smell of blood still fills the air within the walls of the Hollywood Hills home. Roman wanders dazed amongst the LAPD and investigative authorities. He is being trailed by a psychic whom he's hired to help track down the killers, and a photographer from Life magazine, whom he's also hired,

presumably to capture the moment for posterity? Roman is in shock. The scene is an unimaginable horror, a horror so realistic the filmmaker never in a million years could ever dream of capturing it in one of his films. Films like the one he was known the world over for, Rosemary's baby,

and like a lesser-known film, like the one in the box in the home's loft. The film that was filmed here at Ciello, the film that Hollywood whispered about, the film that witnesses say Roman Polanski quietly stashed away into his pocket and left Ciello Drive with on that day. In February of 1977, 43-year-old Roman Polansky is charged with the rape of a 13-year-old girl, nearly a year later in 1978 to escape what was believed to be an impending 50-year prison sentence for the rape of a minor,

Roman Polansky fled the United States to live in exile in Europe, where he remains to this day. In 1991, behind bars for the Tate La Bianca murders, Charles Manson gives an interview to Ron Reagan Jr., in which he says about Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski, quote, they were fucking pedophiles, and they weren't innocent.

All right, thanks for hanging out with me and Mama Cass, Apple Podcast listeners. Make sure you have automatic downloads turned on, so you don't miss any episodes. All right, this week's question of the week is, do you believe the accepted narrative around Helter Skelter as put forth by Vincent Bouliosi? 617-90666-6-36-338 to let me know via voicemail or text

at Disgraceland Pod to let me know via Instagram, Facebook, or X, and you'll be able to hear your answers on the after-party bonus episode coming up right after this one. If you want more stories for me like this one, but about actors and actresses and not about musicians, then check out Hollywoodland, our Hollywood and True Crime Spinoff podcast. Right now we have two episodes on Sharon Tate,

Mama Cass's friend, and those episodes tied directly to the episodes on Cass that you just heard. Search and follow Hollywoodland. Wherever you get your podcast, we're releasing episodes every week on John Waters, David Lynch, James Dean, Steve McQueen, Patty Hurst, and more. Leave a review for Discrace Land or Hollywoodland on Apple Podcasts or Spotify and win some free merch.

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