The Executioner's Song

by Norman Mailer

  If Schiller was going to have a successful book and a successful film, he had to defuse the public animosity, and get across that there was a whole human quality about his man Gilmore. Every time he saw the reporters at the Hilton going monkey see, monkey do, and thought of the interviews he would have gone out to get if he had been on the job, he couldn't believe it. They just didn't do their work.

  Didn't try to get an insight into Gary by interviewing the people who might be accessible. Instead, they sat around, drank, swapped stories, worked up a consensus, and thereby put a common evaluation on the story the way an open market arrived at a price. They all used the same few stories in common. Yet if he, Larry Schiller, were to offer examples of interesting human qualities in Gilmore, no one would accept them. They would say he was painting that nice picture for his own financial benefit. Therefore, he had to have the portrait painted by somebody else. Right now, that was going to be Bill Moyers.

  Jan. 8 Sat.

  Hello my Love

  My Mother in Law Marie Barrett brought Sunny up to see me yesterday.

  She's gettin so damn pretty an sassy. An happy as a lark. Peabody too. Got himself some little levis an boots. Looks like a tuff little shit kicker, but hes sweet as pie . . .

  Guess i Kinda lost touch with my Love for them a little while before all this came about . . .

  Would you believe—i get strip shook after visiting with them.

  i got a bit of infection, an the doc ordered me a supository. But they insist on watchin me insert it so i said to hell with it—ill rot first, forgive my vulgarity Love . . .

  its a crazy life these days. i wonder what destiny we are waiting for. Entering.

  if you are shot Jan 17. . .

  What will be in me? will i be nothing if you go away . . .

  Will i be more? Will i be lost or be found? i don't want to be without you. i dont think i would continue to exist if i should be ever a day without Your Love in my soul.

  Jesus, Gary. Be with me.

  Larry asked Tamera if they could use a desk at the Deseret News for the interview, and what with the shooting being done on a Saturday night, she didn't have too hard a time getting permission. Hardly any of the staff was there.

  This setup was just what Schiller wanted. He had a big city newsroom behind him all the while he spoke. There he was sitting at a desk, then a shot of him listening to a tape of Gary, then going to work on the typewriter. Moyers's crew filmed away full blast.

  Schiller was sitting in front of the news desk when Tamera came up during a break, and said, "You got to look at something." Took him to a corner of the room and handed a tear of paper just come off the wire. ABC had pulled out. Fucking pulled out!

  There it was, right on a wire service teletype. The President of ABC, Frank Pierce, was not producing any entertainment stories on Gary Gilmore. Incredible It meant that ABC was writing off seventy grand already spent, and they were leaving Schiller up in the tree.

  Now, the game was to finish the interview before Moyers saw that news story. The moment he did, the questions would come.

  Schiller remembered a press conference in the Americana Hotel on the day he released the interview he had done with Jack Ruby.

  Right in the middle, a reporter had stood up and said, "Mr. Schiller, Jack Ruby just died. What do you have to say now?" He had had to give an extemporaneous answer in a hideously delicate situation.

  Awful. Now, he could practically hear Moyers: "Mr. Schiller, even though we both agree you are not an exploiter, ABC obviously thinks you are." This was being done on CBS. They could slap ABC right along with him.

  The moment there was a real break and they started moving the setup for a new angle, Schiller called a couple of ABC people in L.A.

  Nobody knew anything. "It's right from the top," said Schiller. "You guys better get prepared. Tomorrow morning they may be interviewing you." He laid it in how they hadn't been protecting his flanks.

  Moyers never brought it up. He interviewed Schiller twice after that, but didn't say a word. Schiller really respected him for that.

  By morning, Schiller decided he might be in a good position. At least he wouldn't have to deal with a TV show that would milk the real merits of the story. He still had the rights, and could do the book and the movie. All the same, he had to learn how it happened. It was too incredible. During the day, he found out that a top ABC executive's wife was attending Columbia School of Journalism and came back one night indignant that the network was doing the Gary Gilmore story. She said to her husband, "How can you get into this? Exploiting history." The top executive—they wouldn't tell Schiller his name—never spoke to anybody on the West Coast, just told the New York office, "We're not doing Gilmore as entertainment." Of course, he was probably worried the FCC would go all over ABC's ass. "Circus" was no word to face the government with.

  Holed up in the motel room, ready to go crazy with the pain, Gibbs was still trying to get his story connected with a paper. Trouble was everyone he called spoke to Schiller.

  Finally, he came to an agreement with the New York Post. For $7,500. Gibbs told them that he had a handwritten invitation from Gilmore to go to the execution, and lots of letters. The Post had a reporter out in Aspen covering the Claudine Longet trial, and wanted Gibbs to go there, but he was afraid of being recognized by Salt Lake reporters, so talked them into letting him stay at the Royal Inn in Boulder, Colorado. Said he would check in under the name Luciano.

  Chapter 24

  WAITING FOR THE DAY

  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 fr
om 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.

  GILMORE Have you ever heard of a guy named Zeke, Jinks or Pinkney, or some goddamn Dabney?

  STANGER Yea, he's the ACLU lawyer.

  GILMORE Listen to this shit. Mr. Dabney said that there's still a chance that Gilmore may flip-flop and change his mind about wanting to be executed. You know that term "flip-flop," man, has a certain jailhouse connotation. You guys don't know what it means, but I do.

  I'm pretty sure Dabney does. It means a guy who will fuck somebody in the ass and get fucked in the ass. Flip-flop. You can see what the term means. I'll read it to you, and I'd like you to release it Monday.

  V. Jinks Dabney of ACLU, what a phony-sounding name. You said in the Salt Lake Tribune there is still a chance that Gilmore may flip-flop and change his mind about wanting to be executed. No chance, V. Jinks Dabney, no way, never. You and ACLU are the flip-flops. You take one stand on abortion, which is actually execution. You are all for that. And then you take another stand on capital punishment. You're against that. Where are your convictions, V. Jinks Dabney? Do you and ACLU know where you really stand on anything? You have simply let this thing about me develop into a personal matter. You can't take losing. Well you've lost this one, V. Jinks Dabney. NAACP, look boy, I am a white man. Get that through your Brillo Pad heads, boy. I know a lot of black dudes, and I don't know any who respect the dumb niggers of NAACP. Giauque, Amsterdam, all you other nosy publicity-hunting lawyers, butt out, you punks.

  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 god damned 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.

  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.

  STANGER Jinks said, "How much influ
ence does Nicole have over Gary?" I said, "Why, what are you talking about?" He said, "Well, we were thinking that possibly we could get her to try to talk Gary into fighting."

  GILMORE They're clutching at straws, aren't they?

  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 into the execution. It had to be small enough to fit inside a pack 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 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 few hundred dollars.