The Executioner's Song

  Over the years, he must have dropped a total of $500 to different lawyers for starting a divorce. She'd start bawling and say, "What am I going to do? Can't raise the kids by myself." He'd back out every time, say "Forget about it, you know," and lose his down payment to the lawyer. They were the kind of thoughts to put Charley in a thorough state of gloom. His luck was typical of his life. By the time they reached the hospital, he couldn't even bear to sit down. Kept thinking about Nicole and how much he used to love her. Damn if he wouldn't see Uncle Lee getting drunk. Felt ready to kill Lee, that greedy child-molesting bastard.

  They were no sooner in the door than Charley began to move around restlessly, and look at people as if he didn't know whether to glare, bust out, or bawl. Finally he had to leave, and Kathryne settled in for another vigil. Immediately a fellow came up and said he was from the National Enquirer, associated with Jeff Newman, and the paper needed a better picture of Nicole. All the stills they'd seen so far were terrible, and they wanted something complimentary to do her justice. Kathryne remembered a picture taken at Midway when Sissy was pregnant with Sunny, and said, "You can put the head in, but that's all." Nicole was in a swimsuit and real pregnant. Her face was pretty, but her big pregnant bod was the last thing Kathryne wanted shown right now. An hour after the first fellow took it, Jeff Newman came by and Kathryne found out the first fellow wasn't from the Enquirer at all. Some paper she'd never heard of. They got the picture for nothing.

  In the afternoon, Earl Dorius received word to be down at Judge Ritter's Court by four. The message had been from Don Holbrook, one attorney Earl respected immensely. Holbrook said that the Tribune which he represented was filing a suit in Federal Court for the right to enter Utah State Prison and interview Gary Gilmore. Earl had an hour to get ready to argue before Willis Ritter, the toughest Federal Judge in the State of Utah. Conceivably the toughest in the nation.

  At seventy-nine, he was certainly the oldest, and a choleric personality if ever, one crusty, portly old man with a huge bay window and a full head of white hair. Earl's stomach felt stuck to his spine when he thought of going in to plead before Ritter without proper preparation.

  He didn't even have time to call the Warden.

  Since Ritter's dislike for the Attorney General's office was about equal to his declared detestation of the Mormon Church, and since Ritter was bound to see Sam Smith as an agent of said Mormon Church and somebody therefore to give the shaft to, Earl did not have vast hopes for this coming encounter. People on the outside tended to see LDS church members as part of one huge well-organized Mormon conspiracy, when in fact it wasn't like that. But don't try to tell Judge Ritter. Earl just grabbed his law books and quickly reread old trusty Pell v. Procunier, trying to get himself psyched up to expect anything around Ritter. Kept reminding himself to present his argument quickly.

  Judge Ritter did not allow you to expound your case at great length. It was wise to conclude a presentation in five minutes that you would normally do in thirty. "Don't get that mane of white hair bobbing," was the general wisdom of his legal colleagues.

  In Court, Earl began with the simple statement that the case might be moot because Gilmore did not necessarily want an interview.

  Nobody knew. The Salt Lake Tribune had made no effort to find out. Not even by sending the convict a letter. Judge Ritter, to Earl's amazement, seemed to agree. Since Gilmore was unconscious in the medical center, he said he didn't see any urgency to issue a temporary restraining order against prison rules and regulations. He would deny the Tribune's request for now. When the man recovered, they could take the case up again. Earl went back to his office feeling drained from all the adrenalin he had generated.

  Larry Schiller's meeting with Vern took place in the Damico living room. Schiller had come prepared to make an offer. He knew Damico was not Gary's representative, but he still liked the idea. By delivering the offer, he would make Damico a representative, de facto. Gary would have to deal with him. A better approach than by way of Boaz.

  So Schiller wanted to strike the right effect at this meeting.

  Under his dark brown winter overcoat, he was wearing a safari suit the color of a camel's hair coat, and a brown tie with a stripe in it.

  Ever since his days on Life, he always went out on a job with one set of colors, that is, all brown, or all blue, so he wouldn't have to worry about matchups. Today, brown was perfect. Blues would have been too cold, too much like Court. The brown was somber, warm, businesslike.

  The photographer in Schiller wanted himself placed in a field of colors reminiscent of family gatherings and cigars.

  Soon as they got down to business, he told Vern he would offer a total of $75,000 for all the rights, and Nicole was worth a third of that, since without her, there was no story. In effect, he said, he was offering Gary $50,000. He added that he would not offer a penny more. This was a firm offer, he said, not a bargaining stance.

  Schiller knew, of course, that this was way beyond the $40,000 ABC had given him to deal with. But, you couldn't come in with forty on this market. He would get around to telling ABC later.

  Schiller proceeded to underline why the figure was $75,000. "It is," he said to Vern, "the economics of motion pictures that dictate this offer." He had brought ammunition with him: Xeroxes of Francis Gary Powers's contract, the Gus Grissom story contract, and Marina Oswald's. These were his samples and he spread them out in front of Vern and said, "Pick whichever one you want and take a good look at it. These contracts have been negotiated by the best lawyers in the country. Certainly," said Schiller, "Marina Oswald had the best lawyer available. So did Francis Gary Powers. This is not to put you down, Mr. Damico, but the lawyers writing these contracts for Grissom and Powers and Oswald were people who knew more about profit-sharing, more about percentages, and more about how much money can be made with a given film than people like yourself, or for that matter, Dennis Boaz. What I am trying to tell you is that no matter what anybody offers, you take a look at the figures in these contracts right here. These are the real prices available. Susskind may be telling you the property is worth fifteen million dollars eventually, but I say you will never see a piece of that. He is offering a small amount now and talking about the big piece down the road. The likelihood is that the big piece will never be seen. I, on the other hand, am willing to pay money right away. I am not offering it on the commencement of principal photography two or three or four years from now. I'm ready to gamble right this minute. I am taking the chance, not you."

  When he saw that Vern Damico had picked up one of the contracts and was studying it somberly in his big hands, Schiller added, "I've come today with three monumental things to offer. The first, as I have stated, is, my cash on the barrelhead. The second is that I will make you my promise to stay in this town, and work on the story from here. I am not going to buy the rights and then vanish to New York. I'm not wealthy yet. I'm not like David Susskind who has already got it made. No," said Larry Schiller, "I'm still climbing the ladder, so I'll be here to work and give you advice, and the day I don't deliver is the very day you have reason not to trust me."

  "What is the third thing?" asked Vern.

  "The third," said Larry Schiller, "is whether you are really going to allow 50 percent of this money to go to a stranger. Blood, I should think," he said, "is thicker than water. I don't know how Gary is thinking of providing for his mother, but if half of this money is to go to Boaz, then Gary's mother will be getting a percentage that is half the amount she's entitled to. Besides, I think there should be money to provide for the families of the victims."

  All the while Schiller had been talking to Vern Damico, he had been changing his impression of Gary Gilmore. It was as if he had been given another look at the fellow. As Vern started reflecting on Gary's days in the shoe shop and said wistfully, "He was a good hard worker, but I never knew how to get the best out of him," Schiller was cheered. It would make for a better story if Gilmore was not just some clever con who used and
abused everyone. Then about the time he realized that Vern had his own sense of humor, Schiller got even happier. He had to obtain this story. That was fundamental. He wanted this story from his spinal cord out. But that he might even like it was a most agreeable bonus. Every minute he sat with Vern, he could feel Boaz losing the marbles. "If I were you," said Schiller in conclusion, "I'd get a lawyer. In fact," he said, "I don't want to make this offer in formal terms until you have a lawyer. Then I will lay it out with him. If you take my advice, you will pay the man by the hour. I've seen," said Schiller, "where lawyers get all the money in these things."

  On the way out, Schiller left his number. He did not say that it was only a phone booth in Walgreen's Drugstore at the main intersection of Provo, and that the girl behind the soda fountain was his local secretary pro tem. He had made an arrangement with her to take his messages. He could, of course, have used his number at the Hilton in Salt Lake, but such messages were left in your box and you never knew which of a hundred reporters might rip it off. He could have had people contact him through his secretary in Los Angeles, but that meant they'd have to tackle long distance. Using Walgreen's made it easy for local people to reach him with a local call. Some of these were simple folk who might hesitate to go through the complications of area codes, operators and calling collect.

  DESERET NEWS

  Nov. 18—Gary Mark Gilmore, having recovered from his suicide attempt, was returned to the Utah State Prison today to await the outcome of his plea for death . . .

  More than 3 dozen reporters and a dozen hospital workers were on hand to watch the handcuffed man with tousled hair get out of the wheel chair and into the brown prison car.

  Gilmore, looking weak with an ashen face, scowled at his audience as he got into the vehicle's back seat.

  He made an obscene gesture at the reporters.

  A protective motorcade of 3 prison cars and 2 law enforcement vehicles escorted Gilmore back to the Utah State Prison in Draper.

  There, the arrival was greeted with cheers and whistles from other inmates behind the prison walls.

  Gilmore was taken directly to the prison infirmary where he will be watched constantly.

  Schiller was present when they moved Gary. After the motorcade drove away, reporters rushed to their cars and chased them down the highway to prison. Schiller didn't follow. There would be very little at the other end, and he had gotten what he wanted.

  He had seen Gilmore face to face. Of course, at a distance of twenty feet, but close enough to increase his interest. Seen in news flashes on television, Gary did not look like a killer, but coming out of the hospital this morning, sunken and gaunt in his wheelchair, his face had been full of hate. It was the livid, vindictive look of a cripple who could kill you for sheer outrage at how life had ruined his chances. In fact, as Gilmore got into the car, he turned around, looked out the window and gave a wide thin-lipped grin at the press, a mean and merciless look, and raised his middle finger slowly in the air as if to implant it forever in each witness's ass. Schiller said to himself, That man could stick his knife in you and keep a smile while doing it.

  Now that Gary was back in prison, Cline Campbell visited him in the infirmary and found him sitting on the floor, going through mail.

  Said in greeting "Help me," and tossed over some letters. He was sitting cross-legged with his white prison clothes on, and as soon as he could, Campbell remarked, "In a way, I'm sorry it didn't work, because it would end this great trial for you. But I'm glad you're here."

  Gilmore said, "I'll do it sooner or later."

  Campbell answered, "Yes, I know you're serious. Still, it's better not to kill yourself."

  "Why?" asked Gilmore.

  "Because," said Campbell, "you can test the law. If you kill yourself, nothing's been solved. Force them to the issue."

  "The law means nothing to me, Preach."

  "Well, then," said Campbell, "there's two families in Provo that are not taken care of, and if you do it right you're going to have enough money to make some contribution to the children."

  Gilmore nodded. Campbell couldn't tell whether he agreed for Gary changed the subject. "Hey," he said, "if there is a God, and I believe there is, I'm going to have to face Him." He nodded again. "I know this creation we live in doesn't end up for nothing. There's got to be something over there." Then he added, "I'll come back on a higher plane."

  Campbell said, "What if you come back as a prison guard?"

  Gilmore said, "Oh, you dirty son of a bitch."

  They began to laugh. In the middle of it, Campbell thought, "I laugh more with this guy than anybody."

  The prison had been in touch with Earl constantly about who passed the drugs to Gary. Their present belief was it pretty much had to be Nicole Barrett. For that reason they were going to let the matter lie. Hard to prosecute a girl who had almost died herself and would probably be sent to a mental hospital. On the other hand, since the prison had no concrete information, there was no particular reason to terminate the inquiry. So long as they could keep it open, they could also keep the pressure on Boaz, and isolate Gilmore from visits with physical contact.

  Nicole felt as if she were completely surrounded by beautiful soft darkness. Didn't even know she had a body. Everything was blackness.

  Then a hole came in, a little hole. She tried to close it, but the hole kept opening. It was whiter than white. Now she could see doctors' faces with the little mirrors they had over their foreheads. As if she were in a dream, she kept fighting to close that fucking hole.

  Kathryne and Rikki had gone out to get something to eat, and Sue Baker was drowsing in the waiting room of Intensive Care, when she heard Nicole screaming, "I don't want to be here. I'm not supposed to be here!"

  The door swung open and an intern shouted down the hall.

  Nurses and doctors were going back and forth from Nicole's room for maybe an hour and Sue felt like she was listening outside a delivery room for a baby's first cry.

  Then she could hear Nicole shout, "Fuck you, I want my cigarettes."

  It was a lot of babble. She heard the intern trying to talk to Nicole, but he finally came out, and said to Sue, "see if you can do something."

  Nicole said to her, "I'm supposed to be dead, I'm not supposed to be here." Before Sue could even grab her hand the intern was back with help, and they were ushering Sue out.

  By the time she got in again, they must have told Nicole that Gary was alive. She was in a different mood. Said to Sue, "Let's talk about happier things." "Right," said Sue. Now Nicole wanted to walk, and the intern agreed. So Sue paraded her up and down the halls.

  Nicole was wobbly and her legs acted so tired she could hardly make it, but she said, "Doesn't this remind you of the night I was drunk, Sue?" They thought back to that couple of nights when they were both drinking, and Sue felt beautiful that Nicole was up and talking and said, "Listen, lady, how could you do this? I need you too much, you know."

  Nicole said, "I need you, too, but I wanted to be with Gary." Sue said, "Well, you're here now. You're not getting away again." Nicole sighed. "Aw, I'm not," she said. Then she walked a little and kind of winked, and said, "I'll try again if I have to."

  By the time her mother got back to the hospital, Nicole was asleep once more. The next time she opened her eyes, however, Kathryne was there, and Nicole said, "I didn't give him enough. I knew I didn't give him enough." "He's just fine, Sissy," said Kathryne. Nicole started to pound the covers. "I knew it wasn't enough for such a big man. Why didn't I think?"

  "Look, Sissy," said Kathryne, "if God wanted you, you'd be gone. You know, it just isn't your time. He doesn't want you yet." "I don't want to live," said Nicole. "Listen, baby," said Kathryne, "God has too much left for you to do before you can go." Nicole just laughed, and then she began to cry, and she said, "Oh, Mama."

  Gibbs received a letter from the Salt Lake detective who was in charge of his case. When he opened the envelope, there was nothing inside but a newspaper car
toon of a man lying in a hospital bed. The nurse was saying, "Mr. Gilmore, wake up. It's time for your shot." At the foot of the hospital bed was a five-man firing squad.

  Knowing Gary's sense of humor, Gibbs decided to send the cartoon.

  Just then, the radio announced: "Dr. L. Grant Christensen said Gilmore can leave the hospital and return to Death Row if he continues to improve."

  Gibbs laughed so hard he almost emptied his works. It sure made him wish Gary was right there laughing with him.

  In the prison infirmary, Vern and Gary talked through a telephone and sat on opposite sides of a plate glass window. It was unusual speaking to a man that way, but with Vern's bad leg, it beat walking all the way out to Maximum Security.

  Straight out, Gary said, "Vern, would you take care of things if I discharge Boaz?"

  Vern said, "I'm a shoemaker. I don't know as I can do it. I'm not an attorney."

  Gary said, "With your business ability and my brains"—he gave a big smile as he said this—"we can do it."

  That was all they said about it. As Vern was getting ready to go, Gary said, "Know how to shake hands through the glass?" and put his open palm on the window. Vern touched the other side with his palm, and they wiggled fingers back and forth. A prison handshake.

  Brenda was also there for that visit, and it was emotional for her.

  Gary was looking weak, she thought, like a lot of the fight was out.