One was an ex-con, and he was really foul-mouthed. Kinda cute. He talked real rough, and kept asking if she wasn't worried that he and his buddy would take her up in the mountains, rape her, cut her throat. Nicole kind of laughed at them. Here she had this blade in her bra, all set to take care of the job herself.
Anyway, they dropped her off by the jail without further ado. Of course, when she told them she was going to visit her boy friend, and the ex-con recognized the name, he had to make a smart-ass remark. "Well," he said, "he's going to get a little lead poisoning." That cracked Nicole up. She didn't feel bad laughing about Gary. She knew he would have laughed over it too.
She went over to the back, and hollered a couple of times and somebody else finally answered her and said Gary was in another cell. Then she heard him, so faintly, trying to holler back. The cops came and threatened to arrest her. Of course, she didn't give a fuck.
This time, they took her around to the front and kept her inside for a half hour, and she made herself right at home, using the floor for an ashtray, laughing at their threats, she didn't give one shit. They could let her go, or lock her up. Without female cops they couldn't shake her down, and she still had the razor.
After a while, they let her go. On the way out she noticed a small cement tunnel that went under the freeway. It was just a few feet in width and dark enough so you couldn't see far. She crawled in, and it was sure dark. Her sleeves were rolled up over her biceps, but she pulled them up further, and then cut herself as hard as she could right across the vein and the artery. It was a good feeling. Really warm, really bleeding and splashing on the cement. She could feel blood running down her arm and it was hot, and good. She liked the way it felt, kind of soothing. There was so much going on. Like the ocean was coming into the tunnel. She could see the opening where she had come in, and all the light Nicole could see in the world was in the circle of that hole.
She sat there, and the nice warm feeling changed. She began getting sick. Then she was nauseated. Started shaking all over. She wasn't cold but she was shaking. There was blood all over the cement. Every nice long slow thought faded, and now she didn't feel as if she was slipping into something warm, but as if everything was getting colder. She didn't like that. But she made herself sit. Even made herself lie down and try to go to sleep. Then she tried to talk herself into not moving. Just stay there until it was over.
Finally, she thought, I got to get to a doctor. At least, I got to try. That's the best I can do, is give it a good try. Then I can handle dying.
She got up, and couldn't even walk straight, and kept feeling she was going to pass out. She would walk a few steps, and spots would come in front of her eyes, and she'd squat. But it was just a little way from the jail, and she made it back over, and there was a cop washing a truck, wasn't even in uniform. She told him she'd been climbing a chain-link fence and slipped and showed him how her shirt was bloody. He took her down to the Utah Valley Hospital.
The doctor didn't believe her shit about climbing a fence. He said, Looks like a pretty sharp thing did the job. Asked her how much she bled, was it a pint or a quart. She said, well, she didn't know what a pint or a quart was. Not when it was running out of you. They took her blood pressure, and she began to feel better, and hitchhiked home. By the time she got back, she was sick to her stomach again, couldn't really stand up without getting dizzy. Slept a lot. In the morning she found out they were mad out at the jail and had lifted her right to visit.
August 29
Fucked me up that I couldn't see you today—these chickenshit pricks. Give a motherfucker a little authority and they think they have to start taking privileges away from people . . . bunch of slack-jawed fizz-gurgling come-drunk punks.
Nicole went to bed with Cliff Bonnors the night after she got home from the hospital. Her arm was stitched and it hurt like hell. All the time she was making love she kept thinking that if she didn't watch out it would start bleeding again. Night after, she found herself in bed with Tom Dynamite. Same damned thing. Her arm hurt like a fucker, and it got to her. She had to stop making love.
Sometimes she was convinced Gary could hear her think. It wasn't that she thought it was right or wrong to be doing this while Gary was in jail, it's just that it came over her how it might seem peculiar to be in love with a man and still make it with guys on the outside. She had never experienced this feeling before. That it was important to be faithful. Something she had to ponder.
She finally decided to test the water, and say something in a letter. She decided to use Kip as an example. Kip, of all people, had dropped in on her almost a month ago. He had changed so much, she told Gary in the letter, that she couldn't believe it. Kip had become a Mormon. Now he would get naked and play with her, but he wouldn't go to bed. It was like he had become the cock-teaser, not her. That was really freaky.
One morning, for instance, Kip went to an LDS church right down the street, and came back all dressed up in his Sunday pants, all fired up with religion. He was planning to go to the evening services but she started fooling around with him. Before she was done she made Kip cream his pants. That messed him up. The pants were so wrinkled and wet, he couldn't go to church.
Well, she told Gary a little of that in her letter. Wanted to see what sort of reaction she would get. After all, it had happened weeks ago, and wasn't important. But Gary simply ignored it.
Sheriff Cahoon wasn't surprised when Gary asked if he could come out and talk. Cahoon even took him into the front room and they sat by the desk. Had a nice friendly conversation. Gary said he agreed with Sheriff Cahoon on the way the place should be run and to come to some agreement on what was expected from him and Nicole. Well, said Cahoon, he wanted Gary's lady to come and act ladylike, not create no problems. Come decently dressed. When he saw the spark in Gary's eye, he remarked that, of course, her dress wasn't that far out. Her attitude was creating the problem. Gary agreed they could arrive at an understanding. Cahoon said they were having a good one, and he would permit Gary a phone call to Brenda to notify Nicole she was reinstated.
On the next visit, she told Gary about using the razor blade in the underpass. She had tried and couldn't do it. Scared of dying. He told her it was very hard to bleed to death. Most people who tried it got sick. It was one of the hard ways to die.
She had a bandage on, but he finally asked her to show him the stitches. Then said, "That's a fucking deep cut," and the tone went through her like praise, as if he had said, "Baby, you did that for me."
He never did mention Kip.
Having agreed to these visits, Cahoon got concerned all over again. Gilmore and his girl friend were having the damnedest correspondence. One letter actually talked about how she cut her arm and felt the warm blood dripping. Heard it make a puddle on the ground. The guard who brought it to Sheriff Cahoon said, "What kind of message is this to be writing to a guy on First-Degree Murder?"
Cahoon sure read it carefully. Nicole kept talking about the silver sword and life after death. How they would have a better kind of life with the silver sword. She wrote about going up to the spot where she had been bleeding and the rain had washed most of the blood away. Since she was always bringing him books, Cahoon inspected one of them, and it was all about the hereafter. How to get jubilant.
It made the guards so nervous that next visit when Nicole turned around from talking to Gary and went to reach into her purse for a cigarette, the officer on watch was so jumpy he actually grabbed her wrist. It was that silver sword she kept talking about.
Cahoon was debating whether to stop her visits again, but all of a sudden, she stopped coming to the jail. Her letters also stopped.
Nicole had decided to take the plunge. At the end of a long letter to Gary that had been full of love, she put in a couple of sentences at the end to say how pointless it was that she spent so much time—and she wrote it right out—"getting fucked." Had to know what he thought.
September 5
I just read your letter.
It's a long and beautiful letter and full of love. But on page 5 you said "it's such an ugly thing to do. I spend so much time either getting drunk or getting fucked." I felt like I had been hit or something—a cold numbness moved thru me and I couldn't go on reading the letter for a few minutes. Nicole, don't ever tell me anything like that again unless you want to hurt me. I don't want anybody to fuck you and I try not to think of that—I do pretty good until you write and tell me.
She felt as if somebody had socked her right on the side of the head. She could hear his voice ringing in her brain. It spoke in a terrible anger, as if he was capable of biting his teeth clear through his tongue. He didn't want her ever to get with a guy again. Didn't want to have those thoughts in his head. "Everybody fucks Nicole,, said his voice in her head. "Don't fuck those cocksuckers. It makes me want to commit murder again. If I feel like murder it doesn't necessarily matter who gets murdered—don't you know that about me?" Way inside, a part of her felt extra-loving. It was that important to him.
After all, it had never been important to her. Easier to let things happen than tell a guy to leave you alone. It was kind of a relief now to have a reason for saying no. Of course, it wasn't that easy to turn away Cliff or Tom Dynamite. She would explain, "I'm not here with you anymore, I'm with somebody else." They understood, Cliff particularly. That didn't keep them from still trying to get it on. She did need company.
Once or twice it was really hard to tell them to go home. Besides, other people kept dropping over. Dudes out of the past. It wasn't that she couldn't say no, it was that they were expecting it to be like the last time. She didn't want to stand in front of them and scream, "Get out of my life." They hadn't done her any harm.
She had to figure it out. So she didn't visit the jail, or write. She wanted to wait until she could tell him she loved him enough to be able to do what he asked.
Chapter 22
Truth
Gary was so quiet over the next few days that it got ominous. Cahoon decided he was too morbid and needed company, so he moved over a prisoner named Gibbs from the main tank. They had both done so much time, they might get along.
Cahoon noticed that soon as he shut the bars, they started a conversation in jail talk. It was that gibberish talk. Use a word like rigger to say nigger. Show the other fellow how many years you put in by carrying on a whole conversation. Cahoon didn't try to get it all. If they said lady from Bristol, that meant pistol, and he would have to get concerned, but Gilmore was talking of ones and twos, and those were shoes. "Yeah," said Gilmore to Gibbs, "A nice pair to go with my fleas and ants."
"You still got to think," said Gibbs, "of your bunny and boat."
"Fuck the goat," said Gilmore, "let me stroll in with a dickery dick."
"That's right, it could juice the chick."
Cahoon left. They were just doing time. He thought they made a cute couple. Both had Fu Manchu goatees. It was just that Gilmore was a lot bigger than Gibbs. Like cat and mouse. Hell, like cat and rat.
There were only three things in the world Gibbs could honestly say he had any feeling for: children, kittens, and money. Been on his own since he was 4. When 17, he wrote and cashed $7,000 worth of checks in a month and bought himself a new car. Always had new cars.
By the time he was 4, Gilmore said, he'd broken into 50 houses. Maybe more.
First time Gibbs went to prison out here, he was behind a 2 1/2-million-dollar forgery. He took, Gibbs said, 21 counts. Next time he went back was when he blew up a cop's car in Salt Lake. Captain Haywood's car.
Gave him 15 years when he was 22, Gilmore said. Did them at Oregon and Marion. Gibbs nodded. Marion had the credentials. Flattened 11 years consecutively, Gilmore told him. Probably 4 years altogether in Solitary. Gilmore showed real pedigree.
He was in for rubber rafts, Gibbs told him. Stole forty of them in two weeks out of J.C. Penney's in Utah Valley, Salt Lake Valley, $39 apiece. Chain saws same way. Made two or three hundred bucks a day. Just couldn't manage his money, that's all.
My problem, too, allowed Gilmore. He had also done a little boosting at J.C. Penney's.
"Yeah," said Gibbs, "the only difference between you and me is when I do it, I have two shoulder men to run interference. If they come after, my big boys say, 'What are you chasing this guy for?' "
Gibbs could recognize that Gilmore didn't know any heavies out of Salt Lake. Didn't know the Barbaro brothers, Len Rafts, Ron Clout, Mardu, or Gus Latagapolos. "You're talking heavies, then," said Gibbs.
Gilmore spoke of the Aryan Brotherhood and his connections there. Gibbs could recognize some heavy names out of Oregon and Atlanta, Leavenworth and Marion. Not legends, but still heavies. Gilmore carried himself like he was well regarded. Of course, Murder One gives a man standing. When they ask you, "What do you get for killing?" the answer is "self-satisfaction." Clears the mind.
His ring, Gibbs told Gilmore, had done outboard motors, inboard motors, house trailers, and trailer homes. Don't get nervous when they see you carrying the stuff. They had a laugh over this. "Half a million dollars' worth," said Gibbs, "going right down the Interstate."
"If you get out before me," said Gilmore, "can you bring back some hacksaw blades?"
"Anybody would, I probably would," said Gibbs. In fact, thought Gibbs, he might. He had as much loyalty in one direction as in the other. He was the man in the old saying. "You got blue eyes, one blew north, one blew south," Except it was Gilmore had the blue eyes. He liked Gilmore. A lot of class.
"Hey," said Gilmore, "if you could figure a way to get me out of here, I'd pull any job you want. Just keep enough money for me and my old lady to leave the country, and I'll give you the rest."
"If I wanted out of this jail," said Gibbs, "I'd have people come take me out."
"Well, around here, I don't know people," said Gilmore.
"If anybody would, I would," repeated Gibbs.
The cell they were in was divided into two parts, a small dining area with a table and benches, and to the back, away from the bars, a toilet, a sink, a shower, and six bunks. On the other side of the bars was a corridor that led to the next tank. That was used as the women's cell. When no women were there, it was the pen for drunks. Their first night, they had a drunk next door who kept yelling.
Gilmore answered as if he were the jailer. "What do you want?" he bellowed. The drunk said he had to make a phone call. Had to get bond. Gilmore told him no Judge would give it. Why, the little boy he had hit in the trailer court died. What little boy, said the drunk? Those are your charges: drunk driving, auto homicide, hit and run. Gibbs loved it. The drunk believed Gilmore. Spent the rest of the night crying to himself, instead of yelling for the jailer.
Gilmore began to do his exercises. That was something, he told Gibbs, he did every night. Had to, in order to tire himself out enough to get a little sleep.
He did a hundred sit-ups, took a break, then did jumping jacks, clapping his hands over his head. Gibbs lay on his bunk and smoked and lost count. Gilmore must have done two or three hundred. Then he took another break and tried push-ups but could only get to twenty-five. His left hand was still weak, he explained.
Then he stood on his head for ten minutes. What's the purpose of that, asked Gibbs. Oh, said Gilmore, it gets the blood circulating in your head, good for your hair. He wanted, Gilmore added, to try to keep as much youthfulness in appearance as possible. Gibbs nodded. Every con he knew, including himself, had a complex about age. What the hell, the youthful years were all lost. "My personal opinion," Gibbs said, "is that you are a young-looking person for 35 old. I am five years younger, and look five years older than you."
"It's your coffin nails," said Gilmore, sniffing the smoke. He had picked a top bunk as far away as possible from Gibbs, who was sleeping in the bottom bed across.
"You don't smoke?" said Gibbs.
"I don't believe in supporting any habit you have to pay for," said Gary. "Not if you spend your time in lockup. They had a cell in Isolation named after m
e."
The drunk in the next tank was whimpering piteously. Gilmore said, "Yeah, the Gary M. Gilmore Room," and they both laughed. Listening to the drunk cry was as comfortable as lying in bed on a summer night hearing trees rustle. Yes, Gilmore told him, he had put in so much time in Segregation that he almost never earned money from a prison job. And there sure wasn't money coming from outside. Any luxuries allowed in the can, he had learned to do without. "Besides," he said, "smoking is bad for your health. Of course, speaking of health . . . " He looked at Gibbs.
Speaking of health, he expected the death sentence.
"A good lawyer could get you Second Degree. They parole Second Degree in Utah in six years. Six years, you're on the street."
"I can't afford a good lawyer," said Gilmore. "The State pays for my lawyers." He looked down at Gibbs from his bunk and said, "My lawyers work for the same people that are going to sentence me."
"They keep taking me," said Gilmore, "to be interviewed by psychiatrists. Shit, they come up with the stupidest questions. Why, they ask, did I park my car to the side of the gas station? 'If I parked in front,' I said to them, 'you'd ask me why I didn't park to the side.' " He snorted at that. "I could put on an act, have them saying, 'Yeah, he's crazy,' but I won't."
Gibbs understood. That offended a true man's idea of himself.