Chapter 24

WAITING FOR THE DAY

1

Brenda had had some worrisome hemorrhages. Going in for a checkup, she said to her doctor, “God, give me something for this pain. I don’t know if I can keep going.” Waitressing at La Cosa there were nights when she was ready to cry out. The doctor had been giving her pills, but on this day he said, “Brenda, it’s not getting any better. You’ve got to come into the hospital and get it taken care of.”

“Not now,” said Brenda.

He shook his head. “I have one opening. Then I’ll be jammed for three months. You can’t wait that long. We’ll have to bring you out on an emergency basis, and it’s no good that way. Too high a risk.”

“Oh,” said Brenda, “shit on you. I’ll call you back.”

In the meantime, Johnny talked to the doctor and made arrangements. Brenda couldn’t fight it. She was so tense from withstanding her twinges that she seemed to be tearing more. She said to herself, “Am I trying to get out of going to the execution?” Then thought, “No, I want to be there.” She had been talking to Gary on the phone, and feelings had improved. Their last conversation she had said, “Gary, I’m just hoping you’re as intelligent as you keep telling me you are, and so you will, at least, try to look at my point of view.” God, he was single-minded, but she had the feeling he was softening.

In fact, when Gary got word that Brenda was going to the hospital, he asked Cline Campbell to see the Warden about letting her in for a last visit, but Sam Smith said, “He’s had a disciplinary write-up for throwing a tray at a guard, and I will not bend the rules.”

“Hell, Warden,” said Campbell, “the man’s going to die.”

Sam Smith shook his head. “I can’t do it without permission from Ernie Wright,” he said.

Gary was drinking a cup of coffee when he heard the news. In one motion the cup and coffee went flying past Campbell’s head and smashed on the wall. It was not right next to his head, but not that far away either. Campbell didn’t jump. It had shocked and surprised him, but he didn’t want to show fear. Gilmore now cursed, turned around, said, “I’m sorry,” and walked away. In thirty seconds, he came back and said to the guard, “Where ya been? I want to clean this mess up.” It was gone, like that.

After Brenda checked in, they put a white mini around her that stayed open in the back, and she felt safe in bed. She began to think about Gary a lot. He had been born in December and would be killed in January and she thought back to the night he came over with April and made a joke of calling her January, and then, Brenda began to count how long it was since Gary was out, nine months to the day from April 9th until this day on January 9th that she was entering the hospital. If they did execute him on the 17th, his death would come nine months and nine days from the time he first came out of prison. By God, she thought, that is just about the term of pregnancy. Hardly knew what caused it, but she began to cry.

2

3

SALT LAKE TRIBUNE

Salt Lake, Jan. 10—Officers guarding Gilmore indicate he is starting to get nervous as the date for execution draws near.

Nicole, some guards said in the newspaper that I’m nervous. I’ve never been nervous in my life and I ain’t now.

They are.

I’m just pissed off because I hate being watched—

Sam Smith called Earl Dorius to discuss the execution one more time. There was still the question of whether to carry out the death sentence on the prison grounds. That could have an adverse effect upon the convicts. On the other hand, if they took it outside, there would be problems of security and demonstrators. They would also have to locate some suitable facility on State land. Dorius and Smith both came back to the conclusion it was better to face the unpleasant consequences of having it take place within the prison.

Sam returned to another crucial question. In November, in December, and now again there had been popular talk of employing volunteers from the general public as executioners. A few people had even sent letters. From the beginning, however, it had been Dorius’s flat-out recommendation to use peace officers. The statute was silent on the matter, but Earl thought any system set up for screening possible kooks among the volunteers would be expensive, and the legalities a tangle. Like it or not, Earl didn’t see it as a viable choice. It came down, as it always had, to using peace officers. Earl thought it was important, however, not to use anyone from the prison. Sam agreed it could only get a guard labeled a convict-killer, and thereby make him a future risk if he wanted to continue working inside. He would be an affront to the inmate population. So, they agreed: peace officers. From either the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office or the Utah County Sheriff’s Office. Sam would keep the names secret.

It was Earl Dorius’s view that the ACLU would have to file some action by Wednesday, January 12. Otherwise, should they lose in the lower Courts, they would not have allowed themselves time to appeal. Bob Hansen, however, made Earl a bet. The ACLU would save Judge Ritter, their ace in the hole, for the very end so there might not be time to obtain an override from a higher Court. “They’ll wait until Friday the fourteenth, just before closing.”

Hansen was ready to tell you his opinion of Ritter. “The law can be bent,” he would say, “we all twist the law, a little. But Ritter tortures it.” And he would go on to speak of the Judge’s habits.

One of Ritter’s most unendurable characteristics, according to Hansen, was that he might have a list of forty trials and, on one day, call in all the attorneys in all forty cases. Then he would go down the list asking, “Are you ready? Are you ready?” He’d let them know, “All right, you’re number two, you’re number three,” so forth, but when the first trial would end, he would call everybody back in, and say, “I’ve decided on number twenty next instead of number two.” It sounded like a bad joke, but that was the way he ran things. Number twenty had to start a trial in five minutes. It was crazy. You never knew when you were going to be on. You’d have to have your witnesses ready four or five trials ahead. If they came from out of town, you had to put them up in motels. It was a disaster.

Of course, as a practical matter, give Ritter forty trials, and thirty-eight got settled out of Court. Nobody could stand the goddamned suspense. That might be all right for some, but if you were working for the government, and didn’t have a budget to keep your witnesses indefinitely available, and so they weren’t there, Ritter simply dismissed the case. It could be a major felony, or a securities fraud, even an indictment the government had been working on for twenty years, Ritter would dismiss. You had to go up on appeal to get a reverse. That would usually be won, but then the government had to rearrest the parties all over again. A horrible waste of time. He just tortured the law.

4

By January 10, one week to go, there were press people in and out of the ACLU office all day. Cameras and microphones were always cocked. One didn’t have to get prepared for them, they were there. Shirley Pedler felt as if she was always on. It had her up the wall that her hair needed to be constantly combed. She never knew when someone was going to be pointing another lens. And her clothes had become a problem. She could no longer come to work in dungarees and a T-shirt. Shirley decided to keep the Levi’s, but wear a good shirt and a nice blazer. Since you were photographed from the waist up, it worked.

At least she began to lose that awful awareness of “Hey, you’re on TV. A lot of people are going to see this!” It was a relief. She’d been going for a long time with the feeling they were going to lose, so it gave her a heavy sense of responsibility when she didn’t do things right with the media. She was so wound up that even when she managed to leave the office at seven or eight at night, she would just pace at home and smoke. She’d always been a smoker, but now she never quit. On a chain from morning to night.

That morning, January 10, Shirley and some of the attorneys were discussing final legal operations and when she stepped out of the conference room into the hall, she was almost knocked down by press people. Didn’t even have a statement. The conference had been called to determine which group could do what, but the lawyers hadn’t come to any conclusions. Shirley started to say, “I have nothing to say,” and dropped her papers. The haste with which she stooped to pick them up got some of the press laughing, as if she was trying to conceal dark deeds. Shirley couldn’t get over how the media thought the ACLU was the center of a lot of legal action coming up. In fact, they had about decided there were good reasons for the ACLU to stay out. In the Utah community they were seen as such a radical group, that they hurt a cause by coming in.

So, it was one glum conference. They felt they had no real standing. Their best hope was with Richard Giauque who had informed them that Mikal Gilmore was arriving in Salt Lake tomorrow. If Giauque could bring in a suit by the brother, or Gil Athay come in with one for the hi-fi killers, then the ACLU could enter as Friends of the Court. But the only real shot they could fire on their own was a taxpayers’ suit. That was on the shakiest ground. They had such slim pickings that the best idea proposed this morning was for somebody to go out to the hospital and try to see Nicole. Maybe she could get Gary to change his mind about dying. Dabney said he would give Stanger a ring.

5

Schiller decided it was time to set up an office in Utah for the big push. Told his secretary in L.A. to call some agencies and hire a couple of hard workers to type the transcripts. Single girls who could make the move to Provo and be able to work twenty hours a day, if necessary. Keep their mouths shut. Under the circumstances, Schiller wasn’t about to look for local Provo talent. He arranged to have phones put in at the Orem TraveLodge and began making as many as two trips a day between Salt Lake and Los Angeles. With better than a week to go, the new hired girls, Debbie and Lucinda, came to Utah, and set up his office in the motel. First thing he told Debbie was, “I want the night phone numbers of two Xerox repairmen.” When she said, “Can’t we always get a repairman?” he told her, “Debbie, I may need a guy at three in the morning. Get that number. Give him a twenty-dollar bill. If he goes out to dinner. I want to know. I want him to call us. That’s the way it has to operate.” Wanted to break her in right.

In the meantime, he was making plans to sneak a tape recorder into the execution. It had to be small enough to fit inside a package of cigarettes. He didn’t know whether he’d use it or not, but had to have the tool. Psychologically, he told himself, he would spend thousands for things he might never use, just to feel secure.

Of course, he wasn’t really spending thousands. Schiller had made a deal with a private investigator in Las Vegas who would sell him this minuscule tape recorder for $1,500 and buy it back for $1,300. Schiller would have to advance the entire amount up front and there’d be the cost of airfare to Vegas and back. Even so, he’d have an extra implement that might prove crucial for no more than a few hundred dollars.

All the same, he was getting in deep, but deep. The last week was shaping up, no question about it, as an $11,000 week. Off-duty policemen had to be hired as guards. He wanted Vern’s home protected for the last three or four days, and talked Kathryne Baker into moving out of her house with her kids. Then he set up his office in the motel practically like a fortress. Was obliged to. Now that ABC had pulled out, NBC would have their hounds running. They had staked him out as if he was Mrs. Onassis. Frantic. NBC knew Schiller had given Moyers material for CBS. Another guy might have double-crossed the first commitment and given a couple of minutes on Gilmore to NBC to get them off his back. Otherwise, they would, he knew, begin to harass him. In fact, one night, staying over in Salt Lake at the Hilton, he actually had to call the police at 4:30 A.M. in order to have a couple of NBC reporters removed from the hall outside the room he was occupying. Afterward, Gordon Manning, NBC Executive Producer for Special Broadcasts, kept describing him to media people as a lizard. That was television. When you didn’t cooperate, they did their best to squash your nuts.

All the while he was trying to stay on top of his options. What if Gary did change his mind? What if the story became “Gilmore Takes His Appeal”? He and Barry discussed it. They were not sitting there hoping Gary would be executed. They were prepared to go either way. With Gilmore alive, the story would not be as obviously dramatic, but it could be good. You could show the slow subsidence of a man’s hour in the great light of publicity. Gary’s return to the shadows. The thing was not to panic, and never to try to influence history, never force the results. He would realize the story potential whatever it was. They might call him a carrion bird, but he knew from deep inside that he could live with Gilmore’s life. He did not have to profit from his death.

6

All the same, temptations were commencing for Schiller. No sooner had he set up the office than some crazy offers started to come in. Before they were even settled at the TraveLodge in Orem, Sterling Lord, acting as Jimmy Breslin’s literary agent, was on the phone. He had heard that Schiller might be one of Gilmore’s five guests to the execution, and Lord wanted to see about switching that invitation to Jimmy. It wasn’t clear whether the Daily News or the column’s syndicate was going to pick up the check, but the offer started at $5,000.

Schiller said, “It’s not for me to sell. I can’t even swear to you, Sterling, that I’m going to be there.” Lord called back and said, “I might be able to get as much as thirty-five or even fifty thousand.” “It’s not for sale,” said Schiller. Breslin called. “I’ll give you a carbon of my story,” he growled. That meant Breslin would own it on Headline Day, and Schiller could have it for the rest of time.

Schiller decided Jimmy Breslin did not understand where Larry Schiller was really at. Of course, he had a lot of old friends these days. All of a sudden, Sterling Lord was his old friend. Jimmy Breslin was his old friend. “Where should I stay?” Breslin asked Schiller, and Larry answered, “Well, you can be a monkey and go to the Hilton, or come out here and slum with me.” Breslin took a room right next to them in the motel. He had great instincts that way.

Barry got upset. “Why Breslin?” he asked. “I’m sorry,” said Schiller to Farrell, “I can’t do it all alone.”

“While we’re at it,” said Farrell, “why did you invite Johnston here from the L.A. Times?”

“Don’t you realize,” said Schiller, “I want to give these fellows a little piece of the story, so at least I won’t have the L.A. Times and the New York Daily News against me. I got to get some people on our side, you know.” Couldn’t Barry understand how alone he was now that ABC had pulled out? The umbilical cord had certainly been cut.

“Yes,” thought Farrell, “he does everything with a motive. He’s always got a good reason. It’s never that he’s drunk or horny.”

Schiller, decided Barry, was getting awful close to giving the goods away. He simply did not understand that each piece, no matter how small, still belonged to one potentially beautiful structure now being put together, and so were not separate chunks of wampum to be traded off at forest clearings to propitiate media dragons.

Farrell told himself that he should have been prepared. All the precautions had been going too well. From the time they moved into the seven rooms Larry had taken at the Orem TraveLodge, complete with their own rented typewriters, tables, two secretaries, guards, office room, writing room for Barry, archive room, Barry’s bedroom, Schiller’s bedroom, each girl’s room, plus direct telephone lines so they only had to use the switchboard for standard incoming calls, and no motel employee could listen in on them, Larry had been dodging the media. Dodging them well. In the middle of all that heat, with everybody trying to get to him, Schiller had been careful to leak only the right stories through Gus Sorensen and Tamera, thereby coloring Salt Lake news, and so indirectly shaping the wire service output. Still, after all that hard-achieved control, Barry had only to walk into the main office to Xerox a page, and there was Jimmy Breslin, notebook in hand, twenty days late on the story, nicely driven down, thank you, in a hired Lincoln with a chauffeur. There was Schiller telling Jimmy Breslin about the eyes. The eyes.

Well, Farrell liked Jimmy. Breslin had done some nice things for him over the years. When Farrell was doing his column for Life back in ’69 and ’70 and got into a large dispute one time with his editors, a make-or-break conflict, Breslin did him the favor of talking it over for an evening. Farrell came to the conclusion that Breslin was very smart. “You know, Barry,” Jimmy had said, “your column is your real estate,” a phrase to stick in Farrell’s mind. “Never give up your real estate,” Breslin said, “fight and fuck around, patch it up, spackle it, make compromises, but don’t give up the real estate.” Farrell had followed his advice and thought it was right, so he had a soft spot for Jimmy Breslin.

The soft spot vanished, however, in one hot minute when he walked into the room and there was Schiller with this idiotic blissful smile on his face, rapping away to Breslin about the eyes. He could have been selling a new kind of floor polish on TV. And there was Breslin sitting on the couch, fat as a wild boar, taking notes three weeks late. One monument of bulk accepting tribute from another.

For weeks, trying to push these interviews uphill, Farrell had felt like he was searching in a dark room for a somber object. So when the story about the eyes came through, Farrell felt as if, finally, a little light was being generated. Living with Gilmore’s rap sheet, going through his long prison record and petty busts, Farrell had about decided that Gary’s life, by the measurement of its criminal accomplishment, would not rank high on any self-respecting convict’s scale. He would be looked upon not as a heavy, but a ding. Sufficiently unpredictable for other convicts to give him a wide berth, but not a convict with real clout on the inside. In fact, close to a total loner. The kind of guy police terminology referred to as a germ. On human scale, a weed. Yet, just yesterday, coming toward the day of his death, talking about his eyes, Gilmore had said something fine as far as Farrell was concerned.

The fact that Gilmore could come up with that kind of thinking moved Farrell right down to the gut. The interview had come in the day before, and after he and Schiller had listened to it, Farrell played it again when alone in his room. It was late at night. He had been working for a long time that day. Gilmore’s voice got to him. Barry was crying and laughing and felt half triumphant that the man could talk with such clarity. Farrell’s own eyes were good, and he always thought of them as precious cargo. While he would sign a card giving any part of his body to anybody, willingly, cock included, it would be after he died his normal death. Here was a fellow who had an execution date—imagine that, Barry said to himself after twenty hours of work, alone in a room at three in the morning—an execution date, and everybody wants a piece of him. Everybody is writing to ask for this part of his body or that, yet, he could think clearly about it. Sure there were people who carried cards in their wallets that said, “If you find me dead, you can have my kidney,” but that was not the same as knowing you were going to be gone on the 17th of January, and applicants were coming around now, one week before, asking for your liver, your spleen, your left nut. Why a small-minded man could see it all as cannibalism, and cry out, “For Christ’s sakes, leave me in peace. I want my eyes.”

By God, was Gary like Harry Truman, mediocrity enlarged by history? Christ, he had even become the owner of a cottage industry: the precise remains of Gary Gilmore. That, to Farrell, was more impressive than any ability to steer a firm course toward execution. Farrell had not been much impressed by that bravery. Gilmore, he thought, had a total contempt for life, his life, your life, anyone’s life. Waived his own away because it was a boss thing to do, showdown shit, pure pathology that came out of long years of playing chicken with prison authorities. Yet, now, overnight new celebrity, movie star without portfolio, Gilmore was responding humanely to all the attention, actually functioning like a decent man. Those eyes redeemed the scene. Farrell was feeling very protective about this story.

So when he saw Schiller and Breslin on the couch, he went into a tantrum. Barry liked to keep his cool, but twenty-hour work sessions had certainly heated him up. “You have a cop,” he said to Schiller, “sitting up all night across the corridor to make sure nobody breaks into this office, but you ought to have that cop sitting on your upper lip.” He was mad enough to smash a table. “Schiller, you’re not handing this over to Breslin.”

Before the fight could even develop, however, Jimmy took out his pad, pulled the page he had been writing on, tore it in little pieces, and threw them up in the air. Beautiful, thought Farrell. He was very pleased with Breslin.