The Jeffrey MacDonald Information Site is a compendium of information about the Jeffrey MacDonald case. MacDonald was convicted in 1979 of the murders of his pregnant wife and two small daughters. He is serving three life sentences for that brutal crime.


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March 1970 Esquire magazine article: Princess Leda's Castle in the Air

The Jeffrey MacDonald Information Site: March 1970: Esquire cover

The Jeffrey MacDonald Information Site: March 1970: Esquire,  p 1

The Jeffrey MacDonald Information Site: March 1970: Esquire,  p 2

The Jeffrey MacDonald Information Site: March 1970: Esquire,  p 3

The Jeffrey MacDonald Information Site: March 1970: Esquire,  p 4

The Jeffrey MacDonald Information Site: March 1970: Esquire,  p 5

Note from Christina Masewicz: The above page is very difficult to read. I have used a magnifying glass to in order to transcript it. Translation of the above page as I read it to be.

(continued) to. I know it." And she has been here constantly since her death. She is not strong enough yet to speak, but I am transmitting strength to her. She is not at rest. Soon she will speak. Sebring's been here to. When he came, the room turned icy cold. I sent his soul onto ... Tom Jones. No, I don't know him, but he's beautiful, and I sense he is together enough to receive it, and to deal.

Isn't sending and receiving souls a witch like power?

She laughs only, and begins to dance. "A Godlike power. A godlike power." The fire is lit and she undulates toward it, as if to receive it's soul. When she notices me staring at the flaming model car, she suddenly says, "I have a son." Quite young. He comes here sometimes to play. I never see my husband now, and will tell you nothing about him. Except that he drinks. The young must be saved from such persons. I will emerge as their new spiritual leader. More and more the young are drawn here to the temple. I will lead an army of flower children against the free American savage whiten Anglo-Saxon Christians with a cross in one hand and a whip in the other! We will crush him with mind power!. Once the young was led by Mr. Timothy Leary. They thought of him as a pope. Some pope! A plastic messiah, misuser of sacred chemicals. I give acid to persons who have never dropped it without telling them. I think of this as the administering the Holy Communion.

The photographer arrives to take pictures of her, but it is late in the afternoon: Stone, flying, she announces abruptly that she has an appointment to pick up her new swan, and since her slave is busy burying her old one, could we just run her down in the car to get it! It is not far, in Arcadia; no baby, not the Grecian providence, just down by Santa Anita racetrack.

This sounds reasonable enough. After an hour of wandering on and off the freeways, during which time the Princess riding in state in the rear, recounts a convoluted acid drama, and goes in and out of three trances. We park by the Arcadia arboretum at Los Angles county wildlife preserve, acres of (illegible) primeval flora surrounding a rancid lake.

Well, uh, Leda, this is a public park.' You bought a swan from a public park? "Leda will have her swan." She is already out of the car, trailing white feathers. Sweeping past the security guards at the entrance gate carrying her enormous carpetbag. She walks briskly - we double-time to keep up through gardens self (illegible) arranged to simulate the dawn of time to the edge of the lake where (illegible) caution against feeding or touching of the swans. A dozen blond California children supervised by mothers with tired (illegible) eyes, throw scraps of cookies into the water. Without hesitation, Leda cuts through them, elbowing a little boy in a Dodger cap, dips gracefully, holds out her ivory arms and lifts a little black bird from the dirty water.

"What is she doing to that swan?" The mother, very young and quite pretty, pulls her boys from the lake's edge. A park guide lecturing to a bored tour group, stops dead in mid sentence. "Officer," the young mother calls to him, "they are torching that swan.

“I am Leda." Leda says struggling with the bird.

"I am Frank," says the old gentleman, tipping his straw hat in an obscene vaudevillian parody.

"I will conceive by this bird."

"They're uh, making a TV commercial," the guide announces, but the crowd refuses to move on. Frank is especially difficult. Leda get up, suddenly brisk and business, “go back to the car," she whispers cradling the swan in her arms. "Go on, we've got to get rid of the crowd. Just go, leave the rest to me. I'll be there in a minute.” We walked grimly to the parking lot, the photographer started the engine. There she is sooner than expected at the gate sailing past the guards. Her carpetbag now bulges hideously.

"Leda has her swan she shouts, as we pull very rapidly out of the parking lot onto the rush-hour freeway, she produces an acid capsule, tosses it into the air and catches it in her mouth, and unzips the bag. The bird's black neck rises like a charmed snake. A highway patrolman passes on a motorcycle, glances into the car, then stares. We listened for the siren, inexplicably, he over takes us and disappears into the traffic lanes. Leda's raccoon laugh shatters the tense silence.

"Relax baby! We are supper cool! Remember; can a dumb cop hassle a goddess?"

Hours later: Saturday night midnight. The same boy in the same white crepe jumpsuit makes the same menacing greeting. "No smoking ... No drinking of alcohol ... Neither Leda, nor the swan, nor the shades of Sharon or Jay are in site, but most of underground Hollywood is. Evidently, Leda has already made Holy Communion available. The choreography is by de Sade, the costumes by Bosch as usual. Various trios and quartets gyrate lewdly. Four people abuse a wide-eyed girl with soft insistence questions. The king relaxes on the throne, smiling, splendidly aloof. His presence is a relief; one senses that he is the only member of the company who has somehow remained untainted by this frenetic pursuit of evil.

I ask where Leda is. He grins amiably. "Don't know man." We have never really talked before, he does not sound especially regal, but he does sound sane. He rises, adjusting his red fur-trimmed cape, tossing his hair back into place determinedly, a stud horse shaking it mane. The music, Stravinsky, seems to annoy him. We go out the front door, and sit on the crumbing stone steps.

King what? I ask abruptly.

He smiles into the darkness "Amun Ra."


"Because Leda says so." His tone is gently (illegible). It turns out that his given name is Garrison, that he come from "the West", that he is an actor who actually has acted occasionally, bit parts; that he owns a horse that he rides each morning at dawn. He was married and has a son who he sees often. He had short hair and a nondescript job until he dropped acid. He believes in acid; it is his faith. He is vague about specifics, especially his astrological endeavors. Yes, he did read charts - meticulously, by studying the planets through a telescope. But wouldn't one have to be an astronomer to do this? Yes, that right;

The Jeffrey MacDonald Information Site: March 1970: Esquire,  p 6

The above article was entered into evidence as exhibit 139


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