The Elderly "7-Ups" Enduring Indefinite Incarceration

Nearly 200 People Are Serving Indefinite Sentences in California. These Are Some of Their Stories. 

by Kevin Sawyer | August 7, 2026

The award-winning incarcerated journalist Kevin D. Sawyer wrote the following article with support from the Ridgeway Reporting Project, managed by Solitary Watch with funding from the Jacob and Valeria Langeloth Foundation and the Vital Projects Fund. The article was originally published in Inquest.

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In 1978 Steven Douglas Drown, a 28-year-old originally from Iowa, entered the California prison system to serve a sentence of seven years to life for murder. When Drown first entered prison, Jerry Brown was serving his first term as governor. Jimmy Carter was president of the United States, and the Bee Gees topped the pop music charts. Back then, Drown was fresh out of the Navy with an honorable discharge.

"I came out to California with an Iowa attitude," said Drown. "I never prepared myself for life. Everything was always given to me." He said his parents and the military did not teach him much responsibility, and he had no life experience. "I was arrogant. I cared only about myself."

Drown is one of 191 people serving a seven-years-to-life sentence for murder under the state's old Indeterminate Sentencing Law. We refer to them as "7-Ups." A public records request filed with the California Department of Corrections in 2024 revealed a number of previously unknown details about this cohort. The longest-serving 7-Up entered prison as a 14-year-old in 1958, when Dwight Eisenhower was president. The oldest 7-Up is now 93 years of age. About half of them have spent 50 or more years in the custody of the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR), at an estimated cost to taxpayers of about $6 million each. On average, they have each appeared before a parole board 14 times.

Academic research and the California parole board's own risk assessments agree that people who have served life terms have low risk of recidivism. Some may not have killed anyone; prior to 2019, California's felony-murder law allowed murder convictions for anyone who participated in a felony during which a death occurred, regardless of agency or intent. Others committed infamous assassinations or murder sprees as young adults. What they share in common are not their crimes, but the political decisions made by the state legislature, voters, parole boards, and governors that account for their lengthy incarceration.

In general, people given an indeterminate prison sentence must serve a base term, or a percentage of the total sentence, before their initial parole suitability hearing. From there on, they continue at routine intervals to appear before a parole board until such a time as the board deems to set them free.

In most cases, the board's decision seems predetermined: according to CDCR data, between 2018 and 2023 only about one in three people who appeared before the parole board got to walk out of prison. This is despite the parole board's own data, which shows that lifers who get out of prison almost always stay out. CDCR granted parole to 8,000 people with long sentences over a ten-year period; recidivism ranged from 2 to 4%, with fewer than 1% returning to prison for a felony crime against a person. Tracked over an equivalent nine-year period, the general recidivism rate in the United States is closer to 80%. Despite the fact that recidivism is therefore vanishingly small among those who have served long sentences, most parole boards, including California's, remain reluctant to give lifers a chance at freedom. As Bobbi Cobaugh has argued in Inquest, there is little hope when the original crime is allowed to trump all other considerations. It is a perspective held even by former members of California's parole board. In a July 2000 declaration, Albert M. Leddy, former chairman of the Board of Prison Terms (BPT, California's parole board), wrote:

"BPT panels find prisoners 'unsuitable' for parole based mainly or entirely on the facts and circumstances of their offense instead of their level of dangerousness, as reflected by performance, rehabilitation and expert evaluation in their prison records. Because the facts and circumstances of crimes do not change, the procedure effectively increases all such sentences from life with possibility of parole to life without any possibility of parole."

After spending more than half his life behind bars, Drown doesn't look like anyone's stereotype of a hardened criminal. He looks like the old man in line at the hardware store. When I first spoke with him last year, he had appeared before the parole board fifteen times. Despite having no record of violence in prison, he has never been found suitable for release.

"The last two I got were seven-year denials," said Drown. "My last disciplinary report was 31 years ago."

On June 27, 2024, Drown returned from his sixteenth parole hearing looking defeated. He had received another three-year denial. "I'm embarrassed to say they denied me again," he said, adding he felt "dejected." He said the board adds new requirements for release each time lifers attend a new parole hearing. "What else do I need to do?" he asked.

For people with high-profile convictions, going before the parole board can feel even more hopeless.

The only 7-Up woman, 78-year-old Patricia Krenwinkel, is a former member of the Manson Family. She was sent to prison in 1971 after her conviction for seven murders, according to CDCR records. (She was initially on California's death row, but the California Supreme Court's 1972 People v. Anderson case commuted all death sentences to life sentences.) In 2022, and again in 2025, the parole board finally decided in her favor, but both times Governor Gavin Newsom reversed their decision. The power to do so was granted by California voters to the governor in 1988, and governors have since used it freely.

Bruce Davis, who is now 83, was also a member of the Manson Family and entered prison in 1972 on a double murder conviction. He has appeared before the parole board 34 times—more than any other 7-Up. He has been recommended for parole seven times, but the findings have been rejected by three consecutive governors. This follows a national pattern of state governors growing ever-increasingly miserly with their powers to approve parole and grant clemency, seemingly acting on the assumption that no one ever lost an election for keeping someone in prison.

"We're in a system where the politics hinder us from getting out," Davis agreed. Asked if he wants justice, the octogenarian said, "I don't want justice. If I was given justice, they'd execute me. What I want is mercy."

It's not just high-profile cases like Krenwinkel's and Davis's that have had their parole process turned Sisyphean by law-and-order politics. Across the board, it has become nearly impossible for 7-Ups to receive a fair hearing before the parole board.

"Convicted murderers don't deserve any more breaks," California's then-governor Pete Wilson declared in his 1992 State of the State. The parole board listened. According to Keramet Reiter's book 23/7, the parole board held more than 18,000 hearings between 1992 and 2000. It only granted parole in 173 cases—a success rate of 0.96%. The next eight years weren't much better; between 2000 and 2008, the parole board denied release in nearly 98% of cases. And even in the rare case that the board did grant parole, the state governor (first Gray Davis, then Arnold Schwarzenegger) rejected the decision more than 60 percent of the time, Reiter wrote.

Since 2014 California has enacted reforms that have expanded parole eligibility, including for youth offender and the elderly. For the elderly, parole boards are now instructed to consider a prisoner's diminished physical capacity and underlying health issues to determine whether they would pose a risk to public safety. All 7-Ups are eligible for release under elderly parole legislation. These reforms have made parole a possibility for lifers once again. Last year, the board granted parole in 25% of the cases it heard.

Even with those changes, however, California has one of the lowest parole rates in the country, behind Alabama and South Carolina. Eligibility, in other words, is far from a guarantee, and for many lifers the reality is that their chance of receiving parole in California remains vanishingly small. And in the current political climate in California—perhaps most notably, saddled with a governor with presidential ambitions—routes to more sweeping changes are often foreclosed. For example, in 2023 California lawmakers introduced Senate Bill 81, which would have overturned a parole board denial if a court found evidence that a prisoner would not present a current, unreasonable risk of danger to others, thus modifying the judicial standard of review. But Governor Newsom vetoed it.

This chokehold on parole has contributed to a rapidly escalating crisis of aging in California's prisons. In 1999 the portion of the state's prison population over the age of 55 was 3%, according to the Prison Policy Initiative. Today, it's 22%. All of the people discussed in this article are elderly.

Gregory "White Eagle" Coates is another elderly 7-Up I spoke with. Now 68, he has been incarcerated for more than 50 years. "I came in as a juvenile," he said. "I became eligible [for parole] in 1981." Like many 7-Ups, he meets the requirements both for youth offender parole and elderly parole. CDCR records show he has appeared before the board ten times.

Coates said he was found suitable for release on parole in 2018. But a victims' rights organization convinced Governor Brown to reject the parole board's decision. "Instead of getting angry, I started doing more programs," Coates said. He has participated in many of the self-help programs offered at San Quentin, and at all the other prisons at which he has been kept. "Everywhere I've been, I've done nothing but programs."

Coates went before the parole board again in October 2024. Another denial. Unless something dramatic happens with the political winds or the will of California voters, he won't be eligible for another hearing until he's 70.

1971: Sharon Tate’s Parents Speak in Their First TV Interview

Incredibly rare footage of Sharon Tate’s parents, Doris (known affectionately as Gwen), and Paul Tate – then just 47 and 48 respectively – giving their thoughts about the outcome of the Tate/LaBianca trial, the defendants, and their lives after the loss of their daughter and grandson.

 

In Memory of Louise Labianca

There are some people who come into your life unexpectedly and leave a lasting impression on you. For me, Louise LaBianca was one of those people. 

I had not heard from Louise in a couple of months, so when I learned of her passing, I was devastated. It is difficult to put into words the sadness that comes along with with losing someone who was genuinely sweet, kind, and a thoughtful woman. Louise deserved far more time, far more happiness, and far more peace than life ultimately gave her. 

One of the things that first brought us together was something ordinary: music. 

Louise and I discovered that we shared a love for many of the same bands, and those conversations became something I always looked forward to. We could talk about music, trade opinions, reminisce about songs, and artists, and simply enjoy the fact that we had so much in common. Among her favorites were the B-52's, a band she genuinely loved. It might seem a small thing, especially compared with the tragedy that surrounded so much of her family's history. But those conversations allowed me to know Louise as Louise-not simply as the daughter of Leno LaBianca. 

That distinction is important. 

Louise carried a part of her father's story with her throughout her life, and we talked about Leno and the murder that changed her family forever. She spoke about her father and about the profound effect his murder had on her and those around her. What struck me the most was that, despite all the years that had passed, there were still questions and emotions that never completely went away.

Louise had never fully understood why her father had been killed. She wanted answers, she wanted the truth. More importantly she wanted people to know who her father really was rather than allowing myths, rumors, and sensationalized stories to define him. 

That meant a great deal to her. 

Leno LaBianca has often been reduced to a name in a book or a victim in a notorious crime. But to Louise, he wasn't a footnote. He was her father. He was a person she loved, remembered, and continued to grieve. She wanted to clear up the myths surrounding him and make sure the man behind the name was never forgotten. 

We also discussed Rosemany.

Louise did not have the same depth of memories of her step-mother that she did of her father, she did not know Rosemary well enough to have the kind of relationship that might have developed and circumstances been different. Yet the memories Louise did have of her step-mother were remarkably loving and motherly. Those small memories mattered. Even though they were limited, they represented a connection to someone who was taken from her far too violently and far too soon. 

There is something particularly heartbreaking about hearing someone speak about a parent they were never given the opportunity to know fully. 

Louise lived in that absence. 

But Louise was much more than the tragedy that happened to her family. 

She was funny, she was kind, she was passionate about music. She was someone who could sit and talk for hours about bands and songs, and forget, at least for a little while, about the darkness that had followed her family for decades. 

That is how I will remember her. 

I will remember the conversations about music. I will remember discovering how many of the same bands we liked. I will remember talking about the B-52's and how that I am a "southern boy" and tended to love those bands from Athens area of Georgia since it was just 2 hours away from where I lived in Chattanooga. Those conversations made her smile. I will remember our conversations about her father, her step-mother, and the complicated feelings she carried because of what happened to them. 

Most of all, I will remember Louise as a sweet woman who wanted nothing more than to understand the past and make sure the truth wasn't buried beneath decades of sensationalism. 

She deserved to be heard. 

She deserved to be remembered for who she was. 

And she deserved to have people see Louise-simply not as Leno LaBianca's daughter. but as a woman with her own memories, her own passions, her own personality, and her own story. 

I am deeply sorry that I didn't get the chance to speak to her again before she passed. Knowing that I hadn't heard from her in a couple of months makes the news even harder to process. There is always that feeling that perhaps there would have been another conversation, another discussion about music, another story about her father, another opportunity to tell her that what she was doing mattered. 

Unfortunately, there wasn't. 

Louise I hope you finally have the peace that you spent so much of your life searching. 

I hope your father is remembered not merely for the horrific circumstances of his death, but for the life that he lived and the daughter who never stopped caring about him. 

And I hope your memories of Rosemary remain a reminder that, despite everything that happened, there were moments of love and tenderness that belonged to you and cannot be taken away. 

Thank you for the conversations, the music, the memories, and the trust. 

You were genuinely a kind and sweet woman, Louise and I'm grateful our paths crossed. 

You will be missed. 

Rest Peacefully, Louise. 

The Price of Profit - Anthony DiMaria Speaks Out

 You can read Anthony's article here

For nearly sixty-years, The "Manson Family" murders have been more than just a historical tragedy; they have been transformed into a self-sustaining "Manson Industrial Complex", a genre of media that prioritizes entertainment over visceral reality of human loss. Recently the release of the Disney+ and Hulu documentary My Grandfather Charles Manson, this exploitation reached a new, disturbing low.  Anthony DiMaria-nephew of Jay Sebring and a tireless advocate for victims, has voiced a necessary and scathing critique of this production. Anthony is correct: these narratives are "parasitical cash grabs" that treat the brutal slaughter of human beings as "cotton candy entertainment for the masses". Having been approached to work on this very documentary, I can confirm that his assessment of the industry's cynical motivations is entirely accurate. 

When I was asked to participate in the production of My Grandfather Charles Manson, the underlying logic was made quite clear. I was told the more people involved-specifically the surviving members of the victims family members-the larger the production budget would be. This confirms Anthony's point that victims are not viewed as human beings with "true human dimension," but as "insignificant props" used to increase the market value of a production. The grief of a family is quite literally a line item in a production budget, while corporations like Disney+ and Smuggler Entertainment promote the "dark side" of Charles Manson as a curiosity to be discovered, they conveniently overlook the fact the victims were real people-flesh and blood- whom continue to be used as "insignificant props" in the peddling of their own deaths. 

The documentary tries to frame, as I said before,generational trauma, through the lens of Sophia Arguelles, whom discovered Charles Manson was her grandfather via a DNA test. But as Anthony DiMaria argues, the real trauma belongs to those that were butchered and their families. Anthony also argues that we must not let a "good story" overshadow the unflinching facts of what occurred to the victims. 

To pivot the conversation towards the emotional journey of a killers descendant while "the victims remain silent in their graves" is not just insensitive; it's a moral failure. Anthony highlights the evidence from Smuggler Entertainment, the production company, gaining access to Bruce Davis's parole hearing under the guise of "media attendance" only to have Sophia herself-the subject of the film-observe the hearing and "listen" to the victim's impact statements. 

Deb covered this in 2024 here

Anthony also point's out that Danny and Sophia attended Family Jams Day 6, where Anthony says is a day for Manson "apologists and groupies" to celebrate the anniversary of the killings with beer and live music. As Anthony asks, if the filmmakers were truly interested in the "human dimension" of this tragedy, why isn't the footage of them smiling and laughing with "Manson fans" included in the film? *NOTE* I personally do not believe Family Jams to be a day to celebrate the anniversary of the murders BUT I have also never attended Family Jams because it's not my "bag". This is merely my opinion and it in no way is discrediting Anthony's opinion. Anthony has every right to feel the way he does. 

Anthony also says Shame is the only appropriate response to those who continue to laugh all the way to the bank at the expense of the haunted and the grieving, and that we must always remember the names the "profiteers" often treat as secondary: Gary Hinman, Sharon Tate, her unborn child, Jay Sebring, Abigail Folger, Wojciech Frykowski, Leno Labianca, Rosemary Labianca, Donald Shea, Steven Parent.

How To Stop Worrying and Monetize My Meltdown - My Grandfather Charles Manson review

 Finding out you're biologically related to one of America's most infamous "cult leaders" is undeniably a bad day. But does discovering you share DNA with a "historical monster" you've never actually met warrant an entire feature-length documentary focused on your own emotional distress? according to the film-makers of My Grandfather Charles Manson, the answer is a resounding, tear-filled "yes."

 The result is a highly polarizing film that walks a wobbly tightrope between profound psychological exploration and a self-indulgent reality show. 

Therapy belongs behind closed doors, Not on screen

Let's start with the detractors, who have completely dog-piled this documentary with low scores. Critics and viewers alike are calling the documentary erratic, cringeworthy, and an over-dramatic public airing of family grievances. The main sticking point? The math of the emotional reaction simply doesn't add up to the reality of the situation. The main aspect that didn't work for me was the repeated comparisons between her father, Danny and his father, Charles Manson. I found those comparisons to be unnecessary, and frankly ridiculous. In several instances, they seemed to paint Danny as a villain by drawing parallels that I don't believe were warranted. Rather than letting the viewers understand Danny on his own terms, the documentary appeared to frame him through the lens of Charles Manson, and I don't think that was either fair or justified. 

This brings us to one of the most eye-rolling moments in the documentary: the therapy sessions. We watch Sophia earnestly explain to her therapist, Dr, Rose, what happened to her father, trying to frame the fact that she was "overprotected" as a severe case of, you guessed it, generational trauma. Let's clear something up right now: having what we call a "helicopter parent" who keeps a close eye on you might be annoying, but being overprotected is not generational trauma. 

To be fair, the documentary has it's defenders. For a select few, this was a raw, engrossing look at-you guessed it- generational trauma, and how ordinary people grapple with sudden earth-shattering family secrets.

These reviewers argue that the documentary accurately captures the dizzying, paralyzing "what ifs" that come with inheriting a "monsters" genetic legacy. If you can get past the melodrama, the erratic pacing isn't a flaw; it's just an honest reflection of how messy it is to suddenly realize your family has a massive, poisonous root. 

The Snake in the chair 

Whatever side of the fence you sit on regarding the filmmakers, we all need to unite to talk about the absolute circus act that is Nik Schreck. Frankly the man is a snake, and his interview is an unintentional comedy goldmine. 

Early on, Sophia sets the stage by telling us that Nik steadfastly defended Charles Manson over the years. Cut to Nik opening his mouth and immediately throwing Charlie so far under the bus he practically implies felony murder. Thanks, friend! 

If Schreck were a patient of mine, the alarm bells would be deafening. Just observing his body language is a masterclass in deception and anxiety. The nervousness of touching his face before the interview started, and the frantic swiveling in his chair act as a desperate, self-soothing physical reassurances to calm himself down. 

He looks like a guy trying to talk himself out of a parking ticket, not a stoic defender of the truth. 

Because of this deeply disingenuous vibe, the best part of the documentary is when Danny finally stands up to Nik, and flat-out tells him he doesn't believe a word he is saying. It's a beautifully cathartic moment of common sense. 

To top it all off, Nik shoots his "defense"  in the foot by casually admitting that while Charlie may have denied any role in the murders, that doesn't mean it's true. Gee, thanks for the hot tip, Nik! we really appreciate you going out of your way to clarify that absolutely nothing a "serial manipulative cult leader" said can be taken at face value. With friends like you, who needs enemies?

The other character of this circus is Nik's old pal, Ed Roach, The man who can't keep a story straight on how he met Charles Manson. Ed somehow managed to set the bar even lower. Watching Roach's interactions with Sophia is a masterclass in how to present yourself as a thoroughly disgusting human. The sheer perversion in the way he talks to her is beyond uncomfortable- it's repulsive. It leaves you wondering how anyone involved with the production let those exchanges fly without stepping in, adding an extra layer of grossness to a wildly inappropriate circus, which also includes a cell phone recorded argument between Sophia and Danny that appears to have happened after the Nik Schreck interview. There was no need for that dirty laundry to be aired like that. 

It was nice to see Stephanie Schram after all these years. Contrary to what Sophia called "anti-Manson" books when Stephanie showed Sophia her research material, I believe they are, in fact, essential reading.  Whether one agrees with their conclusions or not, understanding the full scope of the subject requires examining multiple resources and perspectives. 

My own view is similar to that of Lynette Fromme's comments regarding Manson In His Own Words. While the title suggests the book contains Charles Manson's own words, he did not actually write it. Even so I believe there is a thread of truth running though the book. Of course, Mel embellished much of the material-or, if he didn't the publisher likely did. But that is a topic for another time. 

I also have no personal issues with Diane Lake. She's a sweet lady. My disagreement is with the narrative, not Diane herself. Much like Stephen Kay, she was repeating the same old talking points. Even Diane has acknowledged that the publisher and her ghost writer took many liberties with her story. 

If I'm not mistaken, someone is welcome to correct me on this, but didn't Diane say that Charlie was not trying to start a race war in this documentary? I honestly can't bring myself to go back and watch it again to verify, I've already sat through it twice, and I just can't a third time. 

I also felt the interview with George Stimson was cut far too short. Given his depth of knowledge, it was a missed opportunity to provide more context and information. 

My Grandfather Charles Manson is a wild ride, but perhaps not for the reasons it intended to be. If you want a grounded deep-dive, skip this. But if you're in the mood for an over-the-top airing of grievances, questionable definitions of trauma, and the sheer comedic joy of watching Danny tell a swiveling Nik Schreck that he's full of it, grab some popcorn,