It’s 2:00 in the afternoon, and I am standing in front of an apartment door in the middle of a barren complex which sits four miles from Corcoran State Prison. I hesitate to knock, because there is a sign asking me not to. And because inside is the woman who is about to marry Charles Manson. The door is unassuming, except for two things: there is a small star made out of tiny mirrors, pasted just below the peephole, and diagonal from that, a note: “Hello, no media please. Contact my publishing agent… This is the only way to get something started.” It seems a lot of media have been to the tan colored complex in the last few days, since Star Burton, the…