"Goddammit, yes," said Gary. "I don't want to hear any fucking bullshit that she was mean to me. She never hit me."
At that moment there was an interruption on the phone. "Hello," said a voice. "Hello," said Gary. "Is this Mr. Fagan?" said the voice.
"Who's this?" asked Gary.
"This is the Warden."
"This is Mr. Gilmore," said Gary modestly, "I'm making a phone call that Mr. Fagan approved."
"Okay, thank you," said Sam Smith, "pardon me," and he hung up. There was something in the Warden's voice that sounded like he was just about holding on to himself. It gave Schiller the feeling he had better hurry.
Next to Schiller, lying on the floor under the table, was Barry Farrell listening to the conversation through an earpiece attached by a short wire to the tape recorder. Schiller wanted to see Barry's face and get his reactions, but all he could manage from the angle at which he sat was the occasional sight of Barry's hand writing on a 3 x 5 card.
Schiller took his last crack at the question they could not get Gilmore to respond to. "I believe you had rough breaks," said Schiller. "You got into trouble, and had a temper and were impatient, but you weren't a killer. Something happened. Something turned you into a man who could kill Jensen and Bushnell, some feeling, or emotion, or event."
"I was always capable of murder," said Gilmore. "There's a side of me that I don't like. I can become totally devoid of feelings for others, unemotional. I know I'm doing something grossly fucking wrong. I can still go ahead and do it."
It wasn't exactly the answer Schiller was hoping to hear. He wanted an episode. "I still," he said, "don't understand what goes on in a person's mind who decides to kill."
"Hey, look," said Gilmore, "listen. One time I was driving down the street in Portland. I was just fucking around, about half high, and I seen two guys walk out of a bar. I was just a youngster, man, 19, 20, something like that, and one of these dudes is a young Chicano about my age and the other's about 40, an older dude. So I said, Hey, you guys want to see some girls? Get in. And they got in the back. I had a '49 Chevrolet, two door, you know, fastback? And they got in.
And I drove out to Clackamas County, a very dark . . . now I'm telling you the truth, I ain't making this up, I'm not dramatizing, I'm going to be blasted out of my fucking boots, and I swear to Jesus Christ on everything that's holy that I'm telling you the truth verfuckingbatim. This is a strange story."
"Okay."
"They got back there," said Gary, "and I got to telling them about these broads, I was just embroidering how they had big tits and liked to fuck and had a party going and how I left the party to get some guys to bring out there because they were short on dudes, and these two were about half drunk, and I drove 'em down this pitch-black fucking road, it had gravel on it, you know, not a rough road, black, smooth, flat, chipped fucking concrete, that's how I remember it, and I reached down under the seat—I always kept a baseball bat or a pipe, you know—and I reached down under the seat . . . just a minute."
Schiller was not following the story. He knew they were getting it on tape, and so he leaned over the table to see if Barry had a question for Gilmore, and as he did, he was listening to something about a pipe, a baseball bat, or whatever it was, and then he heard Gary say, "Jesus fucking Christ."
Schiller could feel a shift in the silence.
"Lieutenant Fagan just told me that Ritter issued a Stay," said Gary. "Son of a bitch. Goddamn foul motherfucker."
"Okay," said Schiller, "let's just hold this shit together. You can hold it. You've held it together before, man." Now, he wanted to hear the story.
Instead, he had to listen to Gary talking to Fagan. "Ritter definitely issued a Stay," Gary said to Larry finally. "Says it's illegal to use taxpayers' money to shoot me."
"Yeah," said Schiller softly. There was a long pause and then he declared, "You couldn't define what the roughest torture is. What Ritter just did, is." "Yeah," said Gilmore, "Ritter's a bumbling, fumbling fool. Yeah, yeah," he said, "yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Foul cocksuckers. A taxpayers' suit. I'll pay for it myself. I'll buy the bullets, rifles, pay the riflemen. JesusfuckinggoddamnedChrist, man, I want it to be over." He sounded like he was close to crying.
"You have a right for it to be over," said Schiller, "an inalienable right."
"Get ahold of Hansen," said Gilmore.
"Get on the fucking phones, girls," shouted Schiller to Lucinda and Debbie. "Get an attorney in Salt Lake City named Hansen."
Gilmore said, "He's the fucking Attorney General of the State of Utah."
"Attorney General of the State of Utah, okay?" Schiller repeated to the girls.
"Tell him to go to the next highest Judge, and get Ritter's bullshit thrown out."
"Maybe," Schiller thought, "I've seen too many movies myself."
He could hear his voice exhorting Gary to live. It was the kind of pep talk he had heard in many a flick.
"Gary," Schiller was saying, "maybe you're not meant to die. Maybe there's something so phenomenal, so deep, in the depths of your story, that maybe you're not meant to die right now. Maybe there are things left to do. We may not know what they are. Maybe by not dying you may be doing a hell of a lot for the whole fucking world, Maybe the suffering that you're doing now is the way you're giving back those two lives. Maybe you're laying a foundation for the way society and our civilization should proceed in the future. Maybe the punishment you're going through now is a greater punishment than death, and maybe a lot of fucking good's gonna come from it."
Abruptly, he realized he was affecting himself a good deal more than he was moving Gilmore, "Oh, am I going to sound like a schmuck in the transcript," thought Schiller, and aloud he said, "You're not listening to me, are you?"
"What?" said Gary. "Yeah," he said, "I'm listening."
"Let's look at the other side of it," said Schiller, "Let's get through the next hour together. You know they're making you suffer like nobody's suffered."
Gary's voice sounded like it was close to snapping. "Do me a favor," he said. "I got to get off this fucking phone. Because Mr. Fagan wants to use it. Get ahold of your girls."
"Right."
"Give 'em each a kiss for me. Tell 'em to get ahold of Mr. Hansen. Find out what the fuck can be done to overcome that guy immediately. That fool Ritter. He'll do any given thing on any fucking given day. And call me back."
"You gotta call me," said Schiller. "I can't call you."
"I'll call you back in a half hour."
"In one-half hour. Keep your shit together."
"Yeah."
"It's shit," said Larry, "but keep it together."
"Jesus Christ," Gary replied. "Shit. Piss. Gawd!"
It had taken until 1 A.M. for Judge Ritter to come back to the Bench.
"The Utah death penalty statute," he read aloud to everyone in the courtroom, "has not been held constitutional by any courts . . . Until doubts are resolved . . . there can be no lawful executions. Consent of the defendant gives no power to the State to execute." It went on, and Judith Wolbach began to breathe again, and happiness went through her. The terror she liked to keep away went back to its far-off place. She could have embraced Judge Ritter. In his resonant old voice, he concluded, "There is too much uncertainty in the law and too much haste to execute the man." God, that voice sounded as good to her as old newsreels of Franklin Delano Roosevelt! Then the Judge signed the Temporary Restraining Order for Dabney and Wolbach, and set January 7th, ten days later, at 10 A.M., for a hearing on these questions.
It was a dejected gang that went back to the Attorney General's office, although Bill Barrett, Bill Evans, and Mike Deamer were trying to decide on the next step. They had all about concluded the best approach was to file a Writ of Mandamus in the morning and rush it to Denver. If they could obtain a delay from Judge Bullock, the execution could still take place tomorrow, although twelve or fourteen hours late.
Judge Bullock had been in Salt Lake to a social affair. On
his return, before he went to sleep, he turned on the radio and heard about the Stay. To himself, he thought, "That's it." There was an unmarked Sheriff's car parked outside, and Judge Bullock went out to the street and told the fellow, "No need to hang around now. Might as well go home."
The Sheriff's office had called earlier that night to inform Judge Bullock there might be demonstrations by people opposed to the execution.
They wanted to watch his house. The Judge thought, "Well, I don't have fear for my own safety, but who knows, maybe these groups might burn a cross on my lawn or something." He did not anticipate real violence, but just to protect the property, he thought he would accept the Sheriff's offer. A little surveillance might protect his wife and children from being disturbed.
Judge Bullock wasn't worried about local people. But when somebody got executed, hundreds of. thousands of persons all over the country became incensed, and some might have come to town.
They'd be pacifists, and not disposed to real violence, but they did have an interest in demonstrating. The Judge thought: There could be a cross on the lawn.
Now that Judge Ritter issued the Stay, however, there was no question of trouble. Bullock went to sleep thinking there would be an appeal to the United States Tenth Circuit Court, then it would go on to the Supreme Court. They would eventually debate different issues from the ones being decided now. Through his drowsiness, he told himself, "It is in the stream, and I may not live that long to have to worry about the end." Some cases went for twenty-five years.
Judge Bullock fell asleep.
Julie Jacoby had gone home from the vigil to get a little rest before returning to the prison for the rest of the night, but she turned on the TV for a few minutes, and learned of the delay. Her husband called her right then from where he was staying at Sanibel in Florida. Said he'd seen her on television earlier. She had been filmed in the vigil. Then she got a call from an ACLU member who was planning to go out with her to the prison early next morning. This woman said, "Did you hear the news? I guess we won't be getting up so early." Julie's understanding was that Judge Ritter's ruling could not be tampered with. She, too, went to sleep.
In the visiting room, Stanger heard a great groan come up from the inmates in Maximum Security. It rolled down the long corridor which went from cell row to row. Stanger had completely forgotten there were all those men back in Maximum listening to the radio on their earphones. All of a sudden, you could hear the sound. He couldn't tell if they were clapping or cheering, or moaning. Some deep confused sound, like earth shifting. He could hear, "There's a Stay!" being yelled through the cell rows, and he turned on the television. At that moment, Gary came back from making a phone call and almost charged into the set. Stanger thought he was going to put his fist through it.
Cline Campbell had seen Gary get angry once or twice before. He took on wrath in a different way than most people. Gilmore's anger, Campbell had long ago decided, came from very far inside.
Other men might slam a wall or grab a book and throw it down, but Gilmore would only grit his teeth and give a low growl. Then he would hold his hands and press them together as if to crush the anger. This night, when the news came through about Ritter, it looked like Gary was going to break his hands. Campbell had never seen him as angry as this.
Bob Moody had what he considered an inappropriate leap of the heart. There could have been nothing more impermissible for him to say to his client at the moment than, "Wait a second, excuse me, Gary, they don't have to kill!" But, then Bob saw the look on his face.
Gary had prepared himself to receive the sentence. By what method, Moody did not know, whether by whipping his will into line, or pulling off his fears, like leaves. No matter how he had done it, the Judge had just consigned him to hell. Something began to collapse in Gary. He was more sullen, more threatening, and he had less stature.
Went around saying, "I'll hang myself before eight in the morning. I'll be dead. Those shoelaces will be used." Moody had heard of the shoelaces. Stanger told him of an occasion when he and Gary had been alone in Fagan's office for twenty seconds. Fagan had had to go out for a moment. Call it less than twenty seconds, ten seconds. In that time, Gary stole a pair of shoelaces out of Fagan's desk drawer.
They kept him under such guard it was not easy to steal anything nor keep it, but he had held the shoelaces these last two weeks. Now he was talking of using them.
Moody and Stanger couldn't take it anymore. They went out of Maximum Detention and over to the parking lot where they mingled with the press. Suddenly, a roar went up. A lot of TV lights started to shine on a particular car that was leaving the prison grounds. Just then, Stanger and Moody heard from a reporter that Judge Ritter had driven up to the prison with a Federal Marshal to make certain the Stay would be delivered in person to the Warden. It seemed Ritter, large and old as he was, had gotten down on the floor of the car when it passed the parking lot in order not to be visible to the press. That was typical of the Judge. Deliver the paper himself. Probably expected the Writ to slip between the floorboards if he didn't.
Now that he had just driven out of the gate, Moody and Stanger could hear the press grumbling. Furious to have been cheated of the interview of the night. Yet they were roaring at the possibilities for headlines. "Ritter Delivers the Writ," said one. "Writ Rides with Ritter," came back another. There was a funny bad taste in the back of everyone's mouth. They had been waking up in the cold to start the motors of their vans, then drinking some more, and falling asleep again. The Stay of Execution, if it held, would make this add up to one long night of suffering.
Back in the visitors' room, Moody could see that the prison, in effect, had decided, Okay, Gary, no more speed. You couldn't give it out to a man who was an ordinary resident on Death Row again. He might be around for thirty more days. So there was Gary full of anger and speed, obliged to start coming down from his high.
After a while, he went off by himself. Father Meersman had brought a recorder, and Gary had been planning all night to make a tape for Nicole to be given to her after his execution. Stanger couldn't imagine what would be on it, but didn't have long to wonder. Not a half hour later, Gary sat down close to Ron, and said, "I'll let you listen to it."
"Baby, I love you," the tape began. "You're a part of me, and a long time ago, we made in the month of May, vows to each other, to teachers, masters and loved ones of Nicole and Gary, because we've known each other for so long."
"This may be awfully personal," Stanger said to him.
"Just listen to it," said Gary.
He told Stanger, "You know Nicole and I talked about more personal things together than you could think of. I've discussed every personal thought I've ever had with her." He nodded. "I'd like you to have an idea of what it's like when we speak to one another."
So Stanger started listening. But the tape really got personal and sexy. About the time Gary started to talk about kissing her private parts, it entered the area of the very personal and very crude. Stanger began to protest again. "Gary, you know, it is very personal." "Well, what do you think?" Gary said. Stanger said, "I think, Gary, it's very, very personal."
The voice in this recording was unlike anything Ron had heard coming out of Gary before, a funny voice, fancy and phony and slurred.
Every now and then it would be highly enunciated. It was as if each of his personalities took a turn, and Ron thought it was like an actor putting on one mask, taking it off, putting on another for a new voice. Sometimes Gary would sound pompous, sometimes weak and close to crying. All in all, Stanger wished he did not have to listen.
Whenever Gary walked away, Ron kept turning the Fast Forward so he would not have to hear it all. Yet, it surprised him. The speech was more eloquent than you'd expect. Stanger did not know if he could ever address anyone he loved in such words.
"In the early morning when your mind is clear, that's the best time to know, but you're in a place like I am, you don't want to be part of ringing bells and hollering
get up, get up, or we'll come in and take your bedding. I have to listen to the clanging and banging of steel and concrete and it's bullshit and I wake up and I can't, you know, think pure thoughts, these need quiet and relaxation. Hey, Elf, I love you," he said, "I want to suck your little cunt. God-fucking-damn, I was ready to die. Ohhh, the fuckers. Just remember that I love you, and like any foolish man, my head stays sort of funky and all the girls write to me, girls from Honolulu wrote to me, they're fourteen, their names are Stacy and Rory and they was just talking about fucking, smoking dope, but you know they come from good families, and one of 'em wrote, Man, tell me about Nicole. I want to know about her, and I told her, Man, she's the most beautiful, sexy girl in the world and I kept her naked most of the time 'cause she's such an elf, and a cute little elf, the elf, the elf, my elf." His voice trailed off, and then he seemed to collect himself, and told Nicole, "She wrote back and she says, Well, I got red hair, and freckles, too. It was just before Christmas and I sent 'em each a hundred dollars, a Christmas gift from Gary and Nicole, they didn't ask for it, they weren't looking for nothing—it's just I like to do things like that," and he stammered a little and said, "I sent 'em each a Gary Gilmore T-shirt, and I asked 'em to wear it, or whatever, I told 'em they could wear it with nothing on underneath. A lot of girls write to me and they say different things, and love, they don't know me, if they knew me, they wouldn't love me. They're in love with the motherfucker that's got his name in the paper every day. You know, I flirt with them a little bit, but I always tell them, Ah, look, I got a girl, I didn't mean to fucking mislead your ass, but I got the most terrific girl in the world, she's part of me, nobody but you, Nicole, never, ever, ever . . . I love you with all that I am, I give you my heart and my soul." He sighed "I read things in the paper . . . they say this evil son of a bitch with his hypnotic, charismatic, fucking personality talked this girl into suicide . . . whew, whew . . . I'm not going to tell you what to think. Like you said, you're on that fucking forensic ward, you're watched by the posse, I think most posses, man, are shooting on you. You got some money. Baby, I took sixty fucking phenobarbital. I laid there for twelve hours. I have this pretty strong body, you know, I haven't ruined it with too much drink and smoking 'cause I've been in this ole prison so long. If they do stay my execution, I'm going to hang myself, fuck 'em in their goddamn rosy red asses." He took a breath and began to sing. He had one of the worst singing voices Stanger had ever heard, never on pitch, and Gary had no idea when he was off. When he thought to croon, he groaned. The groans strangled. When he came near a note, he was sour. Still, he began to sing "Rock of Ages." "While I draw this fleeting breath, when my eyelids close in bed . . . when I soar to worlds unknown, see Thee on my judgment throne, rock of ages, let me hide myself in Thee." He stopped singing. "Oh, man, I told you I talked to Johnny Cash, goddamn."