From Newsweek, September 9, 1985:
Two Who Stalked Ford: 10 Years After
SAM SEIBERT with bureau reports
President Gerald Ford was behind schedule that Friday morning 10 years ago in Sacramento but couldn't resist taking a few extra minutes to shake hands with the crowd along the walk in Capitol Park. His other commitments could wait. Then, in mid-hello, he turned pale. A sad-eyed, red-haired young woman was standing less than a yard away. She had a Colt .45 automatic pistol. She was pointing it at him. A few seconds later the gun was on the ground, unfired, and the woman in Secret Service custody. Lynette Alice (Squeaky) Fromme, perhaps the most loyal member of mass murderer Charles Manson's "family," had become the first woman ever to directly threaten an American president's life. Fromme, now 36, lives in an 8-foot-by-14-foot room of her own in a brick dormitory at the Federal Correctional Institutior in Alderson, W.Va. All able-bodied "residents," as the inmates are called, are required to work; Fromme's job is with grounds crew outside the prison's industries (the products include pajamas used in veterans' hospitals). Now and then she telephones the newspapers and issues a declaration of Charlie Manson's innocence. Her caseworker, Dorothy Larew, describes her as "pleasant" and "very quiet." This week Fromme becomes eligible for parole, but she has decided not to seek release yet. Ford joked about the attack when he got back to Washington: "We're not going to schedule any more trips like that." But two weeks after Fromme's arrest, in San Francisco, a middle-aged accountant named Sara Jane Moore squeezed off one shot from a .38 before a bystander disarmed her. (It was, she said later, "kind of an ultimate protest against the system.") Moore, who claims to be 57 despite accounts that would make her two years younger, is now in the Federal Correctional Institution in Pleasanton, Calif. It is a place with wide lawns, well-tended roses and a children's center for family visits, but jail nonetheless: "When people ask me what prison is like, I tell them to shut themselves in a bathroom and to put a board over the tub to serve as a bed," says Moore. She works mornings in the carpentry shop for 27 cents an hour -- enough money to keep her in laundry detergent, toilet soap and deodorant. In the afternoon she studies tailoring. Since an inmate at Pleasanton is allowed only 20 pieces of clothing, she sends some of her creations to friends. She also volunteers at the children's center, teaching sewing, quilting and embroidery. For relaxation, she reads Shakespeare or listens to National Public Radio. She dislikes television ("I abhor violence").
Moore's application for parole was rejected last month, which "hurt like bloody hell." She had spent months preparing for her hearing, finding an outside job as an accountant and arranging to live with a roommate. "I'm ready to go back out," she insists. "You have this sense about yourself." The board wanted her to show more remorse, she claims, but "it's been 10 years. I'm not capable of weeping and wailing about it. This is something that happened."