The Executioner's Song

by Norman Mailer

  "Do you think," asked one reporter, "that your experience as a Deputy District Attorney has given you a certain lust for Gilmore's blood?"

  "Get it straight," replied Dennis, "working in the D.A.'s office gave me more power to help people than being a Public Defender. I could reduce charges, take pleas. I cleared nine people in a row on the polygraph before I left the office. That, you see, is part of the game too." With it all, they listened to him. Dennis had had this concept for years that the media was restless and didn't really want to be surfeited with handouts and crap. One honest man with no impediment between his impulses and his tongue could turn. the world around.

  "I'm into this in part because of numerology," Dennis would say.

  "I'm not a numerology nut, of course. I believe in free will too much for that. But numerology can keep you sensitive to patterns. Every spiritual discipline reveals a pattern, after all, Then you choose your route through the patterns. That's where free will comes in."

  "You say you have a great many debts?"

  "I announce my debts," said Boaz. "I also owe $2,100 to Master Charge, but I won't pay that. A friend embezzled them with my Master Charge card. That's Master Charge's affair, not mine."

  They wanted to know what he had published. He had not published yet, he said. Did he write under his own name? He wrote under K. V. Kitty, under Lejohn Marz. Another pen name was S. L. Y. Fox. Fox, he told them, meant 666, the sign of the beast. Of course they had never heard of Aleister Crowley.

  They brought him back to the subject. What did he think of Governor Rampton's decision? Monstrous. They could quote him. He was always surprised at how little they quoted him.

  Nor would they print what he said next, but he would tell them.

  "Gary lives," he said, "in a cell so narrow he can touch both walls. The light is on 24 hours a day. Guards beat on the bars. The noise confounds a man's last thoughts. Gary puts a towel on the bars to keep the light out. 'Take it down,' they tell him, 'or we'll come in and remove your mattress.' "

  It did not matter if they got a tenth of what he said. Let them miss the ironies. When you start to open a door, the pressure has to be greatest in the beginning, yet the door moves the least. "Gary is cramped in his cell," he said. "That's why they have to give him Fiorinal. Most prisoners take drugs to survive. It lifts some of the oppression." They asked him if the officials knew. "Of course. The officials want convicts to be on dope. That way they don't riot."

  Dennis could sense the reactions. He heard a reporter whisper, "The guy is totally hyper."

  He was not here to defend himself. The opportunity was to attack.

  "The Warden," he said, "wants to close this execution down. We want it open. In the Middle East, at an Arabian execution, crowds are welcomed. The crowd gives the victim a lift. It makes him feel like they are there together in a ceremony. It reminds everybody that we are all sacrifices to the gods. Whereas here, at a condemned man's last moment, there is nobody but executioners. I think that's wrong, really."

  "What do you and Gary talk about?"

  "We talk," said Boaz, "of the evolution of the soul. Gary knows a lot about Edgar Cayce and the Akashic Register. We discuss karma and the need to take responsibility for our deeds. Gods and goddesses have total freedom because they have total responsibility." They never printed any of this.

  A reporter read aloud a statement by Craig Snyder: "Boaz never contacted us. I was in Utah Supreme Court, and we argued opposing viewpoints, but I was not introduced, and I've never spoken to the man. To my knowledge he has never examined the record or found out what happened at the trial. His publishing agreement with Gilmore flies right in the face of the Canon of Ethics." "Where did he give the statement?" asked Dennis.

  "At the Adelphi Building, where his office is, in Provo."

  "That's a place with yellow shag carpets and brown and yellow walls, right?" asked Dennis.

  "You ever see it?" asked the reporter.

  "No," said Boaz, "but I know crypto-corporate vibes."

  "Come on, Dennis," said the reporter, "why didn't you get in touch with Esplin and Snyder?"

  "Gilmore doesn't want to appeal, do you understand that? I'm representing Gilmore, not the fucking appeals system."

  "But, what if you read the transcript?"

  "There is no transcript."

  "That," said a reporter, "is because nobody ever asked for one. A transcript is easily obtained."

  "There is," said Dennis, "no money to pay for a transcript. Besides," added Dennis, "it wouldn't do any good. Gilmore doesn't want his sentence reduced to life."

  "But what," asked the reporter, "if it turned out he didn't get a Miranda warning, or the Judge's instructions were wrong? If he had a chance for a new trial, that would be another thing, right?"

  "No," said Dennis. "Gary's dead on the facts. He'd be convicted again. Look, you have to understand Gilmore," said Dennis. "He may be a vicious killer, but he's just."

  "He wasn't," said the reporter, "very just with those two guys he killed."

  "No, definitely," said Dennis, "really, he's just."

  That was how his interviews went. Now, on this day, on these steps, fresh with the rumor that Warden Smith had gone hog wild with rage, the reporters wanted to know what Dennis had done to get him that way. Dennis had an impromptu press conference right on the steps of the prison.

  Well, he said, Sam Smith was mad because he had sold two interviews.

  One had gone for $500 to the London Daily Express, and another for $500 to a Swedish labor-union newspaper. The Swedes were probably attracted by the historical coincidence, Dennis suggested.

  Joe Hill, the famous Swedish immigrant who organized the Wobblies, was executed in Utah in 1915. Didn't they remember, "I dreamt I saw Joe Hill last night, alive as you and me?" Why, Joe Hill had even asked his best buddy to carry his remains across the state line into Wyoming. "I don't care," said Joe Hill, "to ever spend another night in Utah."

  "What was the other sale?" they asked.

  "Bryan Vine for the Daily Express. 'I Talked With A Killer' is what he's going to call it. He was the first to offer me money," said Dennis. "Came right out front with it."

  "What did you get?"

  "I told you, $500!"

  "Don't you think it was cheap?"

  "I didn't want to make too much and look like I was greedy. $500 for a ten-minute interview! That's good money for your time." So he would talk, and they would write, and then the news stories would come out. They made him look relatively responsible in the newspaper stories, like a controlled nut, Dennis thought.

  Tamera had gone to work at 5 A.M. and spent six hours Xeroxing Gary's letters. She knew some of the reporters were raising their eyebrows at how she protected the stuff, but Tamera didn't want anyone reading over her shoulder, and making the sort of cynical nonchalant comments newspaper people could make. Still, nobody seemed that excited.

  In fact, at Friday afternoon meeting, the Executive Editor said, "I don't think we're interested in love letters." Just brushed it off like that.

  The paper was famous, of course, for being the leading Mormon daily in the world, and was owned by the Church, so it tended to be a little starchy. Tammy had certainly heard enough complaints from the non-Mormons on staff. The Deseret News had rules you wouldn't believe for a paper. Since it was located in a Church-owned building, you couldn't smoke in the newsroom, or drink coffee at your desk.

  Had to go to the lunchroom. A lot of the reporters would make frantic trips all day to the bathroom. It wasn't like the Deseret News, therefore, to get excited about having these love letters in the house. Except, two days ago, they'd been frantic to obtain them. Now, the story was on the back burner. Even Tamera had to feel skeptical. The whole thing could end up being just another account of a con and his girl. With the execution being put off again, Gary's death could be in the distance.

  November 12

  Boaz was all excited 'cause a movie producer and famous news man named Dav
id Susskind had just offered him 15 to 20 thousand dollars cash as a down payment for rights to this fuckin story—plus 5 percent of the gross on movie rights and shit—could run to hundreds of thousands, says Boaz.

  Baby, I don't like that—it's getting way outa hand.

  Boaz is my lawyer but he's acting now more in the role of an agent, press agent.

  Its all become like a circus.

  Oh baby wish we was just back in Spanish Fork tending your little garden, making love.

  Nicole arrived at her grandfather's funeral a little late. Kathryne thought she looked real sad, standing in the front with the family, and noticed that she didn't go up to the coffin for a last look.

  Kathryne kept thinking, "Oh, God, she's brooding about Gary and his turn." Afterward, Nicole asked if she could take Kathryne's car.

  Wanted to run down and visit Gary once more. Kathryne tried to complain that Nicole had already been up there today, and didn't have a driver's license but kept getting no for an answer, "I won't get in no accident," until Kathryne finally said, "Oh, my God, take it."

  Nicole didn't get home until evening, and by then Kathryne jumped on her. Said, "You didn't even go to the prison." Nicole said, "I know. I called, and they said I couldn't come in, so I just drove around. It felt good looking at everything."

  Now David Susskind was on the phone to Dennis and really talking contract. Dennis liked Susskind's approach. The flow was suave and stimulating. A lot of energy running around but well schooled.

  Then there was this fellow Larry Schiller who called and said he was a former photographer for Life magazine and now a producer of motion pictures for theatre and television release. Dennis didn't like his voice. Too intent on the importance of getting his point across.

  A super hard-sell salesman. Very professional sounding. Dennis was uneasy.

  When they met downstairs in the coffee shop of the Hotel Utah, they didn't get along too well. Dennis just felt distrustful. The coffee shop was in the basement and big and empty and gloomy.

  Schiller had a full black beard and a mustache that grew into the beard, vigorous curly black hair, handsome head. He could have looked something like Fidel Castro, but much too overweight, Dennis thought. It was as if you'd taken the head of Fidel Castro and plugged it into a wide body. While he didn't know much about Schiller in advance, he'd asked a couple of reporters and heard that the man had picked up the rights to Susan Atkins's life in the Charlie Manson case, plus the last interview Jack Ruby ever gave. A guy to watch yourself with, somebody warned Boaz. Gets in when people are dying.

  Still, Boaz was entertained by the conversation. For one thing, Schiller was offering more money than Susskind. He kept talking about all the projects he'd brought off. Boaz made a point of being flippant in return. "Gary isn't Susan Atkins," he would say. He really enjoyed being arrogant these days. What did he care if Schiller disliked his guts? It wouldn't cut down the bid for Gary.

  "You better get an agent," Schiller said in conclusion.

  It brought Dennis short. He had to admit he was enjoying the feeling of going back to Susskind with a higher offer. How did this relate to his nature as The Emperor and The Juggler? Could he handle all the bones that would be thrown in the air?

  Saturday morning, Nicole called and said she needed the letters back. Sounded distrustful. Tamera couldn't understand. They'd left on such friendly terms. She wondered if Gary or Boaz had told her to get them returned. Anyway, Tamera informed Nicole it was no problem.

  It wasn't. She had her Xerox. So, she asked the fellow she was dating to drive her to Springville that night and by the time they arrived, Nicole was apologetic at the trouble it caused.

  They stayed a couple of hours and had a real good time. The boy Tamera brought along was from Philadelphia and Italian, not Mormon, a real character at BYU. His last name was Millebambini and nobody ever got to hear his first name, since he translated Millebambini as A Thousand Bastards, said that was the true meaning, and they just rolled on the floor with shock out at school.

  Some student started calling him Milly from Philly. Just wild. That was his name thereafter. Milly from Philly. He was an intense person and had so many funny stories to tell, and was into so many weird things. Tamera really liked him.

  Nicole was fascinated with Milly that night. Tamera had told him, Don't talk about Gilmore, but try to cheer Nicole up. Milly really had her laughing. Tamera began to realize that Nicole, in a funny way, was kind of sheltered and didn't know a lot about certain aspects of life like music and backpacking in Oregon, or even rap sessions like this. She just listened all night as if they were feeding her, and Tamera left with an optimistic feeling. Told Milly on the way back, "Maybe if we keep hanging around, we can change her attitude about life a little bit." Tamera felt it was going to be a while before Gilmore was executed, if he ever was. She had about concluded they could discount a suicide.

  Chapter 5

  TESTAMENTS

  SALT LAKE TRIBUNE

  Church Leaders Air Capital Punishment Views

  Nov. 13, 1976—Msgr. McDougall said the majority of modern theologians oppose capital punishment, believing the death penalty tends to work against the socially and economically disadvantaged.

  The Rev. Jay H. Confair, pastor of Wasatch Presbyterian Church, 1626 17th East, said "The Old Testament idea of 'an eye for an eye' was replaced by the New Testament concepts of love and rehabilitation."

  But the Gilmore case presents a different problem, Pastor Confair said. "The man wants to die. He doesn't want to be rehabilitated," and pointed out it is similar to the case of a person being kept alive by machines in a hospital who wants the "plug pulled."

  Many here, although saying they believe in the death penalty, especially for crimes as brutal as Gilmore's, say also that they cannot stomach taking part in the execution itself.

  "You couldn't drag me up there," said Noall T. Wootton, the county attorney who prosecuted Gilmore.

  "I've done my job, I asked for it and got the death penalty—and I believe in it. But execution is a dirty, messy job and I don't want to be part of it."

  SALT LAKE TRIBUNE

  Old Rifle Ready Again If Needed

  Nov. 13, 1976—A gun at present in a rifle shop, and used in previous Utah executions, will be among the five loaned to the Salt Lake County Sheriff's office if and when convicted murderer Gary Mark Gilmore is executed.

  Leo Gallenson, one of the corporate managers of the shop, estimated that the unsold rifle has been used in 6 to 12 executions..

  LOS ANGELES TIMES

  Former Boss of Utah Killer Would Serve on his Firing Squad

  Nov. 14, 1976 Provo, Utah . . . Spencer McGrath gave Gary Mark Gilmore a good job and an extra $10 to $20 a week out of his own pocket. He fixed Gilmore's car and kept Gilmore on the payroll even when the ex-convict took to drinking and showed up late for work.

  Now McGrath, a kindly sort of man who runs an insulation factory and who has helped many former convicts, says he would willingly serve on the firing squad Gilmore wants to have execute him, "just to show Gary that laws do apply to him."

  November 14

  Honey, I'm becoming very famous.

  I don't like it not like this, it's not right.

  Sometimes I think I know about fame and how it feels because I was famous in a previous life. I seem to understand it. But l don't want to get to the point where we're enjoying fame and not being ourselves anymore. We are just GARY AND NICOLE and we've got to remember that.

  November 4

  Hey Geebs

  He was just-a-heed.

  Nice to hear from you you know you got a little class yourself.

  If at some time you are flush and have a few dollars to spare, I'm sure my mother could use it. She's old, crippled, and on welfare. Or if even now you'd care to write her a letter to help ease this thing a bit.

  Thanks for the ten spot.

  A friend GARY

  Gibbs thought to himself, how do you write
to someone's mother you've never met?

  Dear Mrs. Gilmore, it's going to be alright. Only 4 of the 5 rifles are really loaded.

  He asked Big Jake to pick him up a nice card and Gibbs enclosed $30 and mailed it off to her.

  LOS ANGELES TIMES

  Death Lawyer's Lively Career

  Nov. 14—Only last January Boaz became a self-styled crusader against what he called the "hypocrisy of the system," as he unsuccessfully tried to get himself arrested for smoking marijuana in the lobby of the Federal Building here.

  Now he has turned up at Utah's state prison at Draper as both a lawyer for the condemned Gary Gilmore as well as his biographer.

  This double role is one he cannot play and still observe the canons of the Utah State Bar, Craig Snyder asserted. The canons demand a lawyer represent a client and not one's own pocketbook. "If that execution takes place," Snyder said, "Boaz stands to profit from it."

  Although Boaz has been criticized for exploiting his client in this manner, he is nevertheless remembered in a kindly way by the Assistant Dean of Boalt Hail, James Hill.

  "He's a shy, modest, tender guy, a hell of a good guy," recalls Hill who says he has seen Boaz occasionally since his graduation.

  SALT LAKE TRIBUNE

  Nov. 15, 1976. . . Utah—Condemned killer Gary Gilmore wanted to die at 8 A.M. today. Instead he breakfasted on sweet rolls, cereal, oranges, milk and coffee and returned to his cell on Death Row.

  Gilmore will be visited today by Nicole Barrett, a divorcee and mother of two.

  "He thought a lot of that girl and she must have thought something of him or she wouldn't be doing what she's doing now (visiting Gilmore)," his uncle Vern said.