The Executioner's Song

  After the lawyers and Schiller had left, Gary asked Vern, "In your opinion, is he the right fellow?" Vern said, "I don't know just exactly yet, but I think he is."

  "What about Susskind?" asked Gary, and answered himself. "I feel like Mr. Schiller is the one. I like his way of doing business."

  That Saturday night and Sunday morning, Schiller worked with Moody and Stanger doing the contracts, making the changes, bringing in secretaries, working the goddamn computer typewriters. The lawyers didn't go to church, and there was a lot of kidding about that.

  But by Sunday afternoon, the contracts were drawn, and Schiller went back in his motel to wait for the signing.

  About then, Boaz called Susskind collect. He always called collect.

  Susskind said, "Don't you even have a phone?" Dennis giggled.

  "No, look," said Susskind, "you've gone too far. I don't know what you've done, but you're out and other men are in. You have no more rights in this matter." "Oh, yes," said Boaz, "it can't be done without me."

  "Oh," said Susskind, "it can, and it will. But it isn't going to be done by me." "Listen," said Dennis, "maybe I'm no longer the lawyer in the case, but I have a few documents and I got . . ." Susskind decided he was raving. "You are a poseur," he said, "and a liar and a flaky man. I think you're a very nasty person. Don't ever call me again, collect or otherwise." Things had certainly ended up on an extremely sour note, rancid.

  Moody and Stanger got a little rest, and then went up to the prison late Sunday afternoon. Talking on the telephone across the hall, they went through the terms of the contract. Gary didn't want many changes and it was only when they discussed access to his letters that he became angry. He scratched out the clause with his pen and wrote on the contract that no such access was granted until he had spoken to Nicole. The attorneys tried to argue. "You don't have anything to say about it," Moody told him, "they're Nicole's letters now."

  "Well, goddammit," said Gary, "they are not going to be read until I give my consent."

  All the while, Schiller was waiting in his room. He sat in that motel until 3 A.M. Monday morning, waiting for them to call. Even phoned the prison to discover they were not there. So, he called Moody's home and woke him up. They'd been back for hours. Back, in fact, since eight-thirty in the evening. It just never occurred to them that he was waiting. All the while he'd been going through desperate scenarios in his head.

  Big Jake came back to the tank with a large jar of instant coffee, a large jar of Tang, and a carton of Gibbs's brand of cigarettes, Viceroy Super Longs. He told Gibbs that Gary had asked Vern Damico to drop them off at the jail. Also a message: Geebs, all of a sudden, i've become rather rich if you need anything, you just have to ask. Gibbs figured Gary had sold his life story to somebody. He sat down and made a cup of Tang.

  Boaz called Susskind one last time. It wasn't collect. "I told you," said Susskind, "I don't want to talk to you." Boaz said, "I got a whole new angle, I want to do my story." "Boaz," said Susskind, "you're crazy." "No," said Dennis, "the real great story is my own. It's a great story," Dennis repeated. "I've kept notes." "Please, please," said Susskind, "go see Mr. Schiller. I'm sure he'd love to do it."

  Next day, Gibbs received an index card in an envelope.

  On it, Gary had written an invitation:

  BANG!

  BANG!

  A real live Shoot'em up!

  Mrs. Bessie Gilmore of Milwaukie, Ore cordially invites you to the execution of her son: Gary Mark Gilmore, 36

  Place: Utah State Prison. Draper, Utah Time: Sunrise

  EARPLUGS AND BULLETS WILL BE FURNISHED

  With the card, came a letter.

  I'm going to be giving away a lot of money shortly. Would like to give you about (2000) two thousand. Please don't say no. Accept it in the manner I give it to you, as a friend. I might as well give some of my money to you, cause if I don't, I'll just give it to someone else.

  PART THREE

  The Hunger Strike

  Chapter 11

  THE PARDON

  Earl Dorius was into an awfully tricky matter. The prison wanted to know whether they could break Gilmore's hunger strike and make him eat. These days, force-feeding was considered equal, legally, to forced medication, and there had been a Supreme Court decision in 1973 that said you had to have the consent of the prisoner.

  There were, however, recognized exceptions. Earl wrote a letter to Warden Smith which emphasized that prisons had to preserve order and could not be a part of any suicide attempt. "It would be a serious abuse of discretion to allow an inmate to starve to death" Earl concluded that the prison physician had "legal authority to order the force-feeding."

  Earl contacted the press and some of the local news stations to tell them he was issuing the opinion. Fully expected it would be the big Gilmore story of the day and was frankly looking forward to it. His letter to Sam Smith had involved considerable research which he felt had good reasoning attached, but it all got swallowed. Holbrook, from the Salt Lake Tribune, called on this same afternoon to give an hour's notice: the Trib was going back to Judge Ritter to try again for a temporary restraining order against the no-interview rule for Gilmore.

  Earl was frustrated. He had fully intended to find fresher material than good old Pell v. Procunier. However, the force-feeding issue had taken up his working hours. Whereas, the Trib came in well prepared. Judge Ritter granted the temporary restraining order. The Tribune would be able to send a journalist out to talk to Gilmore this very day.

  Schiller was at the prison when the reporter got there, and it all came as a surprise. He was in the middle of interviewing Gary, and had just started to talk about the cover story in Newsweek. By that route, Schiller figured he could learn whether Gilmore had a real interest in publicity. So he mentioned a couple of verses Newsweek had quoted Gary as writing, and remarked that the poetry was pretty good. Gary laughed. "It's a poem by Shelley called 'The Sensitive Plant,' " he said. "Dammit, Schiller, that's real stupidity on the part of Newsweek. Anyone who recognizes the poem is going to think I was pretending to write it myself."

  Later, Schiller thought he must have sensed he would not be able to talk to Gary much longer, because he brought up a touchy subject even though it was his principle to save hardnosed matters for last. No use cutting off an interview by an impertinent question.

  Schiller's temper, however, was not always to be controlled and so he found himself saying, "Why did you stipulate in the contract that I can't have your letters to Nicole? She's in the hospital. You know I can't reach her."

  "Schiller," said Gary, "that goddamned Dr. Woods is keeping me from calling her. Won't even let me write a letter. I've gone on a hunger strike to dramatize that I am being kept away from the one person in the world who I truly care about. So I put that clause into our contract." He looked right at Schiller. "I can see you're a go-getter. You are going to get Woods to allow me to communicate with Nicole. I don't care if you bribe him, but, man, until I talk to her, you get no letters, okay? Let's say I'm putting the hook into you."

  It wasn't altogether surprising to Schiller. He had thought from the beginning that Gilmore's hunger strike was not begun in despair, but as a way to make Gilmore the dealer. He had been adept, Schiller had heard, at getting convicts to riot over at Oregon State Penitentiary, and did it on more than one occasion. Of course, he had been in that joint for twelve years, more than long enough to belong to one or another convict clique. Whereas here he might be a celebrity, but the question was whether he could extend his strike from himself to ten men or fifty. Gary could be a killer, and even considered crazy, but who would fear him on Death Row when he had no contacts or loyal friends in the place? Schiller wondered if money and publicity were spoiling Gary's judgment. So far, nobody had joined the strike.

  Just then the guards came in with the news. Gus Sorensen of the Salt Lake Tribune was outside, holding Judge Ritter's order. The prison had to let him in. Sorensen could interview Gary Gilmore.

&nbs
p; A rocket went off in Schiller's head but he never blinked. "All right," he said to Moody and Stanger, "let Gary talk. Maybe it can help our public posture. Our stance is that we are not here to watch a man die, but to come to understand him." He walked down the hall and met Sorensen as soon as the man emerged from the gate, introduced himself, said, "Mr. Sorensen, I can tell Gilmore not to talk to you, but that's not my interest." It certainly wasn't. Schiller was not looking to alienate the Salt Lake Tribune. A pipeline into the biggest local paper could enable him to affect the output on the AP and UP stories. Besides, Sorensen was considered the leading crime reporter in the State of Utah. He could be useful for background on the prison.

  Still, Schiller wanted to avoid certain hazards. How could he know what Gilmore would choose to give away? If the fellow decided to commit suicide, any casual interview could end up being Gary Gilmore's last words. So it was a matter of setting up some ground rules.

  He could hear Sorensen on the phone saying, "The guy bought Gilmore's rights. He's not letting me talk unless he's there." All the while, Schiller was sweating. That morning he had delivered a check for $52,000 to Vern. If Gary felt like double-crossing him this afternoon and telling all to Sorensen, there would not be much he could do. Schiller was gambling that Gilmore would not throw over the situation for the sheer pleasure of it. Meanwhile, he could hear Sorensen saying, "Well, I don't know. Heard good things and bad about Schiller." Larry got on the phone and said to Sorensen's editor, "Look, I'm not interested in stopping the press. I have no objection to Mr. Sorensen speaking to Gary. I just want, since we hold the rights, to make sure your copyright to Mr. Sorensen's interview reverts back to us." That meant the editor had to call the Tribune's lawyer. While that was going on, Schiller spoke to Gary, and said, "This can work to our advantage. When you talk to Sorensen, don't get into the murder. Talk about the prison the way it is now, day to day, or the reasons for your hunger strike. If I think you're giving away something of great value to you, I'll rub my chin. So long as I don't, it's okay to answer the question. Mainly, don't give a lot about your personal life. That's what the world is interested in, Gary."

  Schiller sat next to Sorensen during the interview, but there was only one phone. He couldn't hear what Gilmore was saying. After Sorensen asked his first few questions, however, Schiller decided the man was a classic newspaper reporter. Not looking for insight about Gary's inner life. Just a few paragraphs that the headline writer in the newsroom could clap intriguing words on. Besides, you could probably trust Gary. The fellow was looking for his cues.

  After Sorensen finished, he and Schiller went out through the barred gates from Medium Security to the administration foyer, and there, in the small cramped dirty lobby, under the fluorescent lights, it seemed as if every fucking journalist in Salt Lake had crammed into the place. They were all screaming at once. Sorensen, they knew, Sorensen had just interviewed Gilmore. But Schiller was giving them a hard-on. "Who are you, who are you?" they kept asking, and Gus Sorensen—Schiller could bless him—didn't say a word, payment of loyalty right on the spot. Schiller understood, however, that he was in real trouble. There had to be people in the crowd who knew him. He could feel whispers circulating. Finally, one reporter said, "Come on, Larry, you bought Gilmore's story, didn't you?"

  Schiller was trying to figure the angles. If he kept denying it, by tomorrow, he would be nailed. Don't get journalists cocked like hunting dogs. In twenty-four hours, they would have the story, and never forgive him. It looked like a toe dance of pure evasion was called for.

  Dumbo the elephant, high on his toes, said Schiller to himself, and side-stepped to the left, side-stepped to the right. "What are you here for?" they asked, and he said, "I'm a consultant for estate affairs." Journalists who knew him hooted.

  He'd have to give some version of the truth, Schiller decided.

  Something vague and dull, not eminently printable. "Oh," he said finally, "I've acquired the rights for a potential four-wall motion picture production." Maybe that was far enough over the horizon so they wouldn't see him as the man getting exclusive stories from Gilmore.

  But the voice in his head remarked, "Should have told them 'No comment,' "The computer back of his eyes was ringing every alarm bell.

  Moody and Stanger were aghast. "Well," whispered Moody, "Schiller just blew us out of the saddle." "Estate Consultant" next to "Hollywood producer" was going to baste their goose right here at the prison. Stanger said, "That son of a bitch double-crossed us. He wants to get his own story across."

  DESERET NEWS

  Carnival Atmosphere Surrounds Gilmore Movie Deal Weighed

  Nov, 29—In a circus-like atmosphere at the Utah State Prison, Monday, night, the news media, lawyers, literary agents and movie producers milled about discussing interviews, and movie and story deals.

  When he saw Schiller on the TV news that night, Dorius was outraged. He called Utah State and gave one of the Deputy Wardens hell. "I've been working my fanny off to keep the Tribune out: Here," he said, "you let a Hollywood producer in."

  Earl saw nothing but endless cases ahead. One newspaper after another, TV stations, radio stations all bringing lawsuits. Ritter would probably open the prison to everybody. Even if Dorius appealed each of his decisions to the Tenth Circuit in Denver, it was time-consuming to get litigation up to the next tier. Could take as long as a year. All the while, reporters would be running rife through the prison. There was no telling what Gilmore would say once he found himself able to talk to the press.

  Dorius started asking through the office if anybody had experience in overturning Ritter in a hurry. Petition for Writ of Mandamus, he was told. That would call for an immediate review by the Tenth Circuit. Dorius wasn't the type to gulp, but filing a Writ of Mandamus against Judge Ritter was where push certainly came to shove.

  It would be equal to saying that Ritter, who doubtless prided himself on being the finest jurist in the State of Utah, Ritter, who had served on the bench with Judge Learned Hand, had in this case proved so ignorant of well-established principles of law that the only redress was exceptional: a suit brought by Dorius against the Judge. That was one slam-bang of a drastic move—a young lawyer like himself suing a Federal Judge. Ritter might not forgive in a hurry.

  DESERET NEWS

  Point of the Mountain, Utah, Nov. 28—Condemned killer Gary Gilmore in a letter to the Utah Board of Pardons said, "Let's do it, you cowards."

  Gilmore asked for immediate execution before a firing squad. "I do not seek or desire your clemency," he wrote, underscoring "not" three times.

  During the Board of Pardons Hearing, Schiller wondered who the neat well-built little fellow with the trim mustache might be.

  Looked like a young prep-school instructor, a respectable package tied with the right string. Who might he actually be? The fellow kept glaring at him.

  He was the kind of young establishment lawyer, or young Utah bureaucrat, who didn't glare often. But when he did, watch it, liquid fire came out. Schiller shrugged. He was used to people blasting him with their thoughts. At times like that, fat felt comfortable—one more layer of asbestos against the flames.

  Still the fellow disliked him so intensely, Schiller had to ask about him. It took several newsmen before one could say, "That's Earl Dorius. Attorney General's office." Later, Schiller saw him talking to Sam Smith, and that was another sight. Sam Smith was ten inches taller.

  Schiller was finding the prison difficult to understand. They kept saying they wanted no publicity, but were holding the Board of Pardons Hearing in a conference room off the main hallway of the Administration Building. The press had been invited. That was like throwing a little meat to a lot of lions. There were TV cameras, microphones, still cameramen, flashbulbs, lights on tripods, overhead lights on stands. The perfect definition of a circus. The hottest room he had been in for a long tame.

  Everybody was standing on chairs to get a better look as they brought Gilmore through the door in leg shackles. It was
like a movie Schiller saw once about the Middle Ages where a fellow in a white smock trudged in to be burned at the stake. Here, it was loose white pants and a long white shirt, but the effect was similar. Made the prisoner look like an actor playing a saint.

  Schiller was changing his mind about Gilmore's looks again.

  It was as if he could take off one mask, hang it on the wall, pick up another. Today Gary did not look like a janitor, a door-to-door salesman, or an ice-cold killer. The hunger strike was ten days old and it had left him pale. The pits in his face showed, and the scars. He appeared good looking, but frail. Eaten away at. Didn't look like Bob Mitchum or Gary Cooper, but Robert DeNiro. Same deadness coming off. Same strength in back of the deadness.

  All around, CBS and NBC crews were talking, and Schiller was not comfortable with how much they despised Gilmore. They spoke as if he were some low jailhouse lawyer who had enough tricks to get this far. One fellow from the local press muttered: "Can you believe the attention this cheap punk is getting?"

  Schiller remembered that the Head of the Pardons Board, George Latimer, was once the defense attorney when Lieutenant Calley went to trial for machine-gunning Vietnamese villagers at My Lai. To Schiller, Latimer was one more red-faced Mormon with a big bulldog head and eyeglasses. A pompous self-satisfied look. Fever and bilious emotions. What a room. The only pleasant face he could see was Stanger. Schiller didn't know if they were going to get along, for Ron Stanger impressed him as too lippy on one side, and too casual about important details on the other, but right now Ron's boyish middle-aged fraternity man's face was loaded with expression. He was acting very solicitous toward Gary.