Chapter 17

I AM THE LAND LORD HERE

1

Gibbs wrote to Gary and said he was coming up for trial around the twentieth of December. He figured he’d be released, and wanted to know if there was anything Gary wanted done before he left the state, because he wouldn’t be hanging around. He was going, he wrote, to show Utah what Mae West had showed Tennessee. Her ass, as she was leaving.

On December 11th, Big Jake brought Gibbs out to the front desk where an older fellow with a mustache was waiting. He walked with a cane and carried a briefcase. This gentleman introduced himself as Gary’s uncle, Vern Damico, and said Gary had asked him to deliver a token of his friendship. Then he opened his briefcase and handed over a check made out by a local law firm for two thousand bucks.

Gibbs asked if Gary’s mother was financially taken care of, and when Mr. Damico said she was, they shook hands. Gibbs introduced Mr. Damico to Big Jake, and said here was the only jailer Gary had any respect for. Mr. Damico replied, “Yes, Gary has spoken well of you, Big Jake.” Damico then said he had some other appointments to keep, wished him good luck and left. Big Jake said, “We should have asked him if Gary would invite me to the execution.”

A couple of guards had been standing in the doorway and they were gawking with envy. Gibbs laughed and made a call to Salt Lake, and had a friend come down for the check and put it in the bank. That evening, Gibbs wrote to Gary again, thanked him for the money, and mentioned how Maximum was filled now, six prisoners altogether, including Powers. Gary answered, “If I were there, we’d keep all of them lying on their bunks like little church mice and we’d put Powers in charge of licking out the Open Pit Sulphur Mine with his tongue.” In the letter he also said he was still on the hunger strike and wasn’t going to eat “until they let me talk to my sweet lady Nicole.”

“I’ve been trying,” Gary wrote, “to keep my thoughts and my mood pretty constant, but lately I’ve been growing increasingly irritated and angry. I don’t like the idea they got Nicole down there brainwashing her.”

“Just as a matter of my personal curiosity,” Moody said, “is there any way you will stop this hunger strike other than the phone call to Nicole?”

“Nothing,” said Gary, “that’s it.” He paused to indicate that he knew the price of the remark. “I’m awful goddamned hungry, man,” he whispered over the phone.

“I admire you for your courage,” said Moody.

“It,” said Gilmore, “is just goddamned stubbornness.”

“Not very many guys,” Moody told him, “have the strength of their convictions like you do.”

“I spent eighteen straight months in the hole one time,” said Gilmore. “I don’t think this even compares.”

Ron felt that Gary was putting on a show of strength. Each day, he made a point of going through his exercises, and he would do a head-stand on a chair to show he wasn’t suffering. He was, however, not only losing a considerable amount of weight, but it seemed lately to have an effect on his thinking. He would stumble on words. His cheeks started to sink in. For the first time, Ron became conscious of Gary’s false teeth. His loss of weight seemed to change their placement on his gums, and he said everything slowly and deliberately, as if working around a marble in his mouth, sort of a tongue-tied orator.

2

At this point, Gary told Vern he definitely wanted Ida and him to go visit his mother. Bring her the thousand dollars. Vern talked to Schiller, who latched on immediately. Bessie, once she got talking to Vern, might allow an interview.

So Moody drew up the papers. Schiller said, “I’ll pay for the airplane fare, the phone calls, and put a thousand dollars on the top for her release. If you need more, just call.” Vern said, “I think I’ll need more. Come on, Schiller, you know you can give it to Gary’s mother.” And Larry knew he would, but a thousand might be right for starters.

So Vern and Ida took the plane from Salt Lake to Portland, rented a little Pinto hatchback, found the trailer park on McLaughlin Boulevard, and knocked on Bessie’s door.

At first, it looked like they wouldn’t get in. They stood on a little half porch for the longest time with no answer. It was cold, and Vern’s leg was aching again from the operation. Bessie’s first words were, “Go away. I can’t let you in. I’m not presentable.”

They had to talk pretty loud to be heard through the door. Finally they identified themselves. Said they’d come clear from Provo. Had things to talk over. Things Gary wanted to tell. Finally Bessie let them in.

They hadn’t seen her since the funeral of Grandpa Brown almost eighteen years ago. She had certainly changed. She was no longer beautiful. She had the washed-out, unhealthy look of someone who was in a great deal of pain and rarely saw fresh air. Ida couldn’t get over it. Bessie’s green eyes had been bright as gems. Now there seemed to be a dull gray film on them.

Ida knew why she hadn’t wanted to let them in. With her arthritis she could hardly clean up the litter. When Bessie had lived in Provo, waiting for Frank Sr. to get out of prison, her little house had been immaculate. Ida thought of tidying up a little, but could tell by the expression on Bessie’s face that she better not do a thing.

Vern, however, did look in the cupboards and refrigerator, and Bessie was certainly short of food. So he drove down to a grocery store, and brought back about fifty dollars’ worth of stuff. After the groceries were laid away, he told Bessie he had some legal papers, and explained there was also a thousand dollars he would leave as a gift from Gary. When she started to thank him, Vern said, “I’m just the mailman. I deliver, that’s all.” He added there was another thousand she could have by signing papers Larry Schiller had sent up.

Bessie looked at the release, thought about it, said, “I don’t think I’ll do it right now.”

Vern had promised Larry he would try hard. When they came back next day, he brought up the subject again. He could feel how wary she was in business affairs. Like a deer downwind. Didn’t matter if you were approaching with a rifle in your hands, or a carrot, there wasn’t much talking to the deer. “At this time, Vern,” she said, “I’ll just hold off.” He didn’t press her too hard. He said, “My opinion is, you should sign. To help out matters, let’s all stick together. See if we can’t make something out of the whole thing. I believe Schiller’s a good, reputable man.”

Bessie just said, “No, I want to wait and see.” Vern let it go. No way you could drag something out of Bessie against her will. Just as soon try it with Gary.

As they got up to leave, Vern took out a thousand dollars in cash and laid it on the table. It was the closest Gary came to being there. Bessie broke down and wept. She and Ida embraced, and Bessie said, “Well, I can certainly use that.” They also left a red handknit shawl with her, and fluffy house slippers to keep her feet warm. Somehow, they had never got around to talking of Bessie’s case in the Supreme Court. It wasn’t until they got back to Provo on December 13th, that Vern heard of the decision in Washington, D.C.

3

Ten days after the stay, Stanger got a call from the Clerk of the U.S. Supreme Court, who said, “I just want to let you know we’re going to have a decision today. They’re in hand-twisting right now,” and Ron got a picture of nine Supreme Court Justices wringing their mitts. The thought that the Supreme Court was breathing the same legal air on this day as everybody in Utah was exciting.

At the Attorney General’s office, word arrived from the Clerk that the vote was being taken, and all the staff got around a large table and listened on a conference call, tallying feverishly as the Clerk read the decision of each Justice. They were so excited they had to add it up a second time to discover they had won 5–4. Bill Evans, Bill Barrett, Mike Deamer, and Earl Dorius were ecstatic. The Stay of Execution had been lifted. It was GO again.

DESERET NEWS

No More Delays Gilmore Says

Salt Lake, Dec. 13th—In an order Monday, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that Gary Mark Gilmore had made a knowing and intelligent waiver of his rights.

On hearing the decision, Gilmore ended a 25 day hunger strike.

Coming into the prison, Moody and Stanger noticed that the guards in the front lobby looked happy. The mood permeated right out to the gate. There was a lot of pressure lifted now that Gary was done with his strike.

When Bob and Ron saw him, they just said, “We understand you came off,” and he gave a nod of his head, said, “It was my decision.” It was as if he had been the one controlling the situation. They were careful not to mention that he never did get his telephone call to Nicole. Since they had failed to get it through, they were in no hurry to tease him. Besides, he was in an awful good mood about the Supreme Court.

Actually, it was a relief to the attorneys as well.

4

Talking about the end of the hunger strike, Stanger said to Schiller, “Gary proved his point.” Schiller couldn’t resist saying, “What point?” “Everybody knows he was serious now,” said Stanger. It all struck Schiller as a little fuzzy. The truth, obviously, was that nothing was working. Gilmore had expected a lot of results from his hunger strike, got none, and had enough sense of public relations to go back to eating on a day when there was a bigger story to interest the public.

What made Schiller’s day, however, was that Gary informed Stanger he would answer the second batch of written questions and was willing to look at a new set that Larry had prepared.

The second set of answers proved, however, disappointing. It was as if the longer the hunger strike had gone on, the more Gary had had to play the con. So many questions were left blank. Invariably, the best ones.

It threw a scare into Schiller. He would have to move quickly on getting Vern and the lawyers to agree to sell the letters overseas. If he waited much longer, Gary might begin to make a large issue of these letters.

Schiller put the problem out of mind and went on to the next batch of answers. Gary had done those on the day he began to eat again and thankfully, there was more to his replies.

Yes, he did care, thought Schiller. It gave one more reason the letters should be sold and printed. The public would be less completely hostile to Gilmore.

As a sign of friendship, or was it an indication of Gilmore’s own interest in presenting some better picture of himself, he had also sent along a poem he had written several years back. Schiller wasn’t sure what to make of it, but thought he could pull some lines to give Time or Newsweek when they got desperate for copy.