Timothy Leary wrote me from his jail cell. The adjoining cell contained Charles Manson. Shortly after I received the letter, I visited Timothy next to the vending machines.
I had spent months squiring around the beautiful, French speaking socialite Joanna Harcourt-Smith who was next to Timothy in Kabul, Afghanistan when G.Gordon Liddy, on urgent orders from Richard Nixon, arrested Timothy.
I regarded the interview as one last chance for Timothy to demonstrate that he was not a total and complete horse’s ass.
The only reason I had stayed around the Leary entourage was Joanna with whom I was head over heals in love.
Joanna and I had made love while peaking on Owsley’s LSD.
After that, there was no turning back. It was Timothy or me.
Foolishly, Joanna picked Timothy.