Yet Farrell was just as glad it couldn't happen. He was saved thereby from having to muster that twinkle of the eye at which he had become so reassuring. Or that firm handshake which said, "I'm here to listen to you, man to man, buddy to buddy." All those things interviewers did, those up-front sympathies, those gut-grinder empathies. This way, there was no quickly-arrived-at brotherhood to betray.
He could sit at the typewriter and compose his questions, Moody and Stanger would truck them out, Debbie and Lucinda would type the tapes, and he could study it long enough to write new questions.
He and Gary were immunized from one another. No need to twist his face full of instant humanity in order to keep Gilmore talking.
Even more important, he would not have to run the risk of getting too friendly with Gary and so forgetting that some basic pieces might be missing in Gilmore, that he, Barry Farrell, as a brother of Max Jensen, ought not to forgive for too little. Yes, it was better this way.
Still, the tapes were endlessly irritating. Barry was developing quite a dislike for the lawyers. It was too cruel a demand on his nervous system not to know whether a serious question was going to be presented properly, or if Moody, or particularly Stanger, would giggle his ass off. To Farrell, straining to listen at the end of a tape, the lawyers seemed too cautious when they were not too flighty. Some of those Sisters at the Catholic school in Portland, Gilmore would confide to the lawyers, gave us real whippings. "They used to go insane with frustration," Gary said, "trying to make me conform. I got beat by nuns more than once. It wasn't like when they disciplined other children there. My father finally took me out of the school." Farrell was up on tiptoe for the development of this theme. The key to every violent criminal could be found in the file of his childhood beatings, but Gilmore claimed his mother never touched him, and his father never bothered to. So here, at last, might be the beginning of some nitty-gritty. Stanger, however, chose to say, "Oh, gee, those nuns always seemed so nice in the movies." Gilmore answered, "Yeah. In the movies." Stanger cackled.
To Farrell's ears at that moment, it went: Cackle, cackle, cackle.
He went wild listening to those tapes late at night in Orem, in the ice-cold middle of winter.
Sometimes he and Schiller would sit down with the lawyers and go over the questions. Moody and Stanger would seem to know what they were doing as they left for the prison. Then they would come back saying great, great, and leave the tape. Schiller would play it—oh, God. The lawyers were hopeless as journalists. All that stuff they didn't get around to.
GILMORE This kid come to me and asked if he could talk, and wanted to come out in the yard with me and asked if he could walk around with me. I asked him, "What's wrong?" and he said this, uh, nigger was trying to fuck him. He was going to turn himself in, you know, into the hole, to be locked up to get away from it. He didn't know how to handle it. I told him, "Well, listen, man, what do you want me to do?" and he says, "I'll be your kid if you'll protect me," you know. I says, "Well, I don't want a kid, I don't like punks, ya know, and I don't want you to be a punk anyway." I asked him if he was one. He said, "No," and he didn't want to be one. So I just went and got another guy and told him about it you know, and he said, Let's kill the motherfucker. As it turned out, we didn't kill him. Gibbs will say that we did, but we didn't. We just caught this guy coming up the stairs and we both had pieces of pipe in our hand, you know, and we beat him half to death and drug him down to another nigger's cell, and put him on the bunk. He was unconscious. We hit him so fast and so hard . . . he was a boxer, we didn't give him no chance, slammed the door, and left. He knew who did it, you know, and, uh, he never tried to do anything about it. He accepted it and, uh, that's the way it was.
That's the way it was. They never asked Gilmore another question.
He could have shouted in frustration. He would not have let Gilmore get away with that story. Farrell would have liked to learn if Gilmore had ever been turned out by some black guy. Maybe as far back as Reform School, maybe later. But there was something in the story that left Farrell suspicious. This big, black brute who aroused Gilmore sufficiently to defend a sweet white boy—it was like a girl calling you on the phone to say, "I have a friend who's pregnant. Do you know a doctor?" Gary was walking tall in the tale, but what if that little white kid had been Gary?
So there would be hours when Farrell would be seized with depression at how few were the answers they had located in the inner works of Gary Mark Gilmore, and the size of the questions that remained. How could they begin to explain things so basic, for example, as the way he had led Nicole into suicide? That was clammy.
Could you call such depths of lover's perfidy a product of environment?
Might you dare to explain it by saying that only an urban cowboy could pass through psychological machines that would stamp you out that badly? Could you say that you had to eat the wrong foods, sleep in the wrong places, take the wrong drugs, drive the wrong cars, make the wrong turns, do all that for an awful long time before you turned into a force who did horrible things to people who loved you?
Or did you put the blame on heredity, and say Gary Gilmore grew out of the evil seed of mystery in things itself? Why, there were thousands of people who could stick up a motel and shoot the motel owner. Afterward they would utter the same kind of half-stoned things Gilmore had testified to. Didn't quite know, didn't quite member, it was like a movie, man, no reason. A veil of water over the mind, you know. But planning for Nicole's suicide—that, to Farrell, had evil genius. "Little elf, how can you do this to me?" Gilmore would implore. Then, at the top of the next page, as if Gilmore had just swallowed a lightning bolt of rage, why, FUCK, SHIT, and PISS would be written in letters two inches high.
Farrell got formidably suspicious of those letters. The mood, he noticed, often changed at the beginning of a new page. In effect, each sheet was being worked on as a separate composition. Gilmore—good old Renaissance man—wasn't about to sully the calligraphy of a pretty page with obscenities, not if he was planning to finish the pretty page with a drawing of an elf.
GILMORE If I talk to Nicole before I'm executed, I'm not going to ask her to do any particular thing, and I may encourage her to go on living and to raise her kids. Uh, I don't want anybody else to be able to have her, though.
MOODY You're really on the horns of a dilemma.
GILMORE Yeah, you might say it's giving me a little pause.
MOODY She has a pretty heavy responsibility to those kids.
GILMORE Aw, no more responsibility than anybody has for their kids. Listen, your kids come through you but they're not really of you. I mean . . . everybody is an individual little soul. Those kids come through her but they are not a part of her.
MOODY Do you think they could get along as well without her as with her?
GILMORE I guess this sounds like a cold-blooded thing, but I'm not really over-concerned about them kids. They're not going to starve to death. (pause) I'm concerned about Nicole and myself.
MOODY Might it be kinder and more loving to instruct her to forget you, get over you, and find a man for herself and her children who would give them a chance for a better life than they've had?
GILMORE Kinder and more loving to who?
MOODY To her and the children.
GILMORE I'm not going to answer that.
Well, a coherent philosophy came no more easily to him than to anyone else.
All this while Schiller was having his own reaction to Farrell. He didn't like the way Barry tended to shape his questions upon conclusions he'd already made. In a way, very Catholic, thought Schiller.
Catholics were supposed to know what they thought. Sometimes the habit carried over from church to a lot of other things. Start with preformed conclusions, and your investigation would move on tracks.
In his own classy way, Barry could be as narrow-minded as an FBI man. He certainly wasn't exploring karma enough. Nor was Schiller certain that Barry had a good sense of Gilmore.
Chapter 26
NOTHING LEFT
In December, after the Supreme Court turned them down, Anthony Amsterdam called Mikal. The decision, he explained, had not said the State of Utah was right and they were wrong. Only that the request to have the case heard immediately was being refused. That was merely a setback. Bessie or Mikal could still file the same argument in a lower Federal Court. The case would go up again.
Mikal, however, replied that Gary had called his mother and asked her not to take any further steps.
Bessie's decision to stay out looked final. Any new action, therefore, would have to be brought, Mikal said, by himself. He also told Amsterdam that he did not know what conclusion he would come to.
Mikal thought he might have to go to Utah to decide. He confessed to Amsterdam that he hated the thought of such a trip,
Mikal ought to recognize, Amsterdam said, that the Damicos wouldn't necessarily want him to visit his brother. Amsterdam said he did not pretend to know Vern Damico, but the uncle and his attorneys could have a financial interest in Gary's death. They would hardly be unaware of the possibility that Mikal could change Gary's mind. They could believe themselves full of human decency and family love, yet still offer a lack of cooperation.
Mikal got ready to go.
On January 11, Richard Giauque met Mikal at the airport in Salt Lake, and drove him out to Point of the Mountain. Since Giauque's own car was being repaired, he showed up in his partner's limousine, a silver Rolls-Royce, and apologized for its gaudiness. Mikal, full of the tension of walking into an interview with a brother who might be hostile to him, was hardly observing in which car he traveled. In fact, once they passed the prison gate, and were escorted down the lane between the two high wire fences that led to Maximum, a long, one-story warehouse of a building, he was most surprised he was not searched. By way of Ron Stanger, Giauque had made arrangements for the visit, and been told that it would be a ninety-minute "one time only, no physical contact" affair. The Warden must have changed his mind, however, for Mikal was quickly passed through two sliding metal gates and brought into a chamber about 20 feet by 30, the visiting room for Maximum Security. In this room, everything was painted beige, a drab beige, old and grungy. There were cigarette butts on the floor, and, more than ten days after New Year's, a Christmas tree shedding its needles in the corner—an ill-kept dirty room.
Gary came strolling in through another sliding gate. He was wearing red, white and blue sneakers, and white coveralls. Like a juggler, he was wigwagging a comb through his fingers. He had a big smile. "Well," he said to Mikal, "you're as damn skinny as ever."
As soon as they began to speak, however, of the purpose of Mikal's visit, Gary said, "I don't want the family interfering." He stared into Mikal's eyes. "Amsterdam is out of this, I hope." Before he could reply, Vern and Ida came through the door. Mikal couldn't believe it. He had been promised a private visit.
Vern had brought along a large green T-shirt with a computerized photo of Gary on it. Below was printed: GILMORE—DEATH WISH. Mikal couldn't tell if they were serious, but they kept talking about Gary wearing one of these T-shirts on Execution Day so they could auction it off, bullet holes and all. "Take it to Sotheby's," said Gary, laughing. Such talk consumed a lot of time. Vern and Gary were like veterans talking over old capers in front of a rookie.
After the Damicos left, Mikal had a moment alone with Gary. He was promptly offered a shirt.
"It wouldn't be much use to me."
"Well," said Gary, "it is too big. Maybe you can grow into it."
Mikal couldn't keep from saying, "Are you really planning to sell it?" "Do you think," said Gary, "that I have no more class than that?"
Back in Salt Lake, Mikal settled in for a long talk with Richard Giauque. Like Amsterdam, this lawyer was confident, and seemed very concerned about the issues.
As Giauque presented it, Gary was being used by many people.
To help get elected, the new Attorney General, Bob Hansen, had gone all out for capital punishment. He, and a great many other conservatives obviously wanted to use Gary's willingness to die for their own political ends. While, eventually, Giauque allowed, this so-called right to die, this right to commit suicide, might have to be supported by people like himself—at least if one believed that self-determination applied as much to individuals as to nations—nonetheless, given the circumstances prevailing here, Gary had been taken over by many people. In Giauque's opinion, this outweighed his other rights. Personal freedom couldn't extend so far that it injured the very fabric of society. Right now, to recognize one man's right to die could have a deadly effect on four to five hundred lives in death row.
In Utah, public opinion was running 85 to 90 percent in favor of capital punishment already, and "Here is your brother expressing his own personal desire to die. He's walking right into the hands of every gang that's looking to join a posse."
Mikal spoke of his dilemma. He was worried that saving Gary's Life by legal methods would only guarantee his suicide. On the other hand, he certainly detested capital punishment.
Giauque nodded. It was always dangerous to assume the authorities had enough righteousness on their side to take a life. In the practice of law, Giauque said, you got a little suspicious about absolutes, particularly the power of the State. Too many smug people sat in powerful seats.
Nonetheless, the real question to Mikal was whether both sides did not wish to use Gary. Giauque had not said it, maybe—to do the man justice—he had not even thought it, but one logical conclusion you could take from his remarks was that people opposed to capital punishment would work to stop the execution, even if it brought on Gary's suicide. That way, at least, the State would be deprived of its body. Mikal did not know how to think this through. He recognized that he would have to stay a little longer in Salt Lake, and try to visit Gary again.
Later, he called Vern to find out if Moody and Stanger were available and learned that they could not meet him that night. Schiller, however, was flying in from Los Angeles and willing to talk, wanted to.
Larry didn't get to the hotel until midnight. There, in the lobby of the Hilton, a young fellow, somewhat taller than average, came over and introduced himself. Schiller was surprised. This young brother had long hair and was somewhat delicate and looked like an intellectual.
He was wearing slacks and a sweater and had a small pliable plastic briefcase under his arm. Was ready to talk right there in the middle of the lobby. After they sat down, one of the first things Mikal said was, "I have a lot of questions I want to ask," and he started taking notes even as Schiller embarked on the ten-minute version of the speech. Before it was over, something in the note-taking made Larry uneasy, and he joked, "With all the stuff you're taking down, you might have a book." Only weeks later did Schiller find out that Mikal was indeed writing an article for Rolling Stone.
There was a family resemblance, but Schiller found it hard to believe that Mikal was related to Gary. He had a very soft voice, a very calm young man with thin hands, very pleasant manner, considering the intensity of the situation, and he sat most properly in his place, not leaning back or putting his feet up, but forever taking papers out of his briefcase, consulting his notes, then replacing them. He seemed academic to Schiller. If not for the long hair he would have looked like a thin schola
rly Mormon, one of the more prissy BYU kids.
It was only when Mikal began to talk about himself that Schiller got it. Having to decide whether to go ahead with Amsterdam and Giauque was heavy shit. The boy wasn't in tears, but it was obvious he was feeling shaky.
Then, out of the blue, no preparation, zap! like Gary Gilmore, Mikal asked: Would Schiller rather see Gary dead, or alive? There it lay, the key question. Schiller looked Mikal in the eye and said, "I'm here to record history, not to make it." Mikal took down this answer, and asked more questions. He was not a very sharp or persistent questioner, Larry decided, just accepted Schiller's answers, did not persist, did not pursue, did not challenge. Just wrote it down, then looked at the page as if studying his own handwriting. It was late at night and Schiller was awfully tired. He had flown to L.A. that day and come back, and now he was wondering why Mikal wanted to see him rather than Vern or Ida or anyone else. "Do you intend to speak to the Damicos?" he asked. "I'm here," Mikal said, "to talk to Gary, and make the decision." There was, Schiller decided, no feeling of warmth in the man, or rapport. It was a cold meeting. "Why are you taking notes?" Schiller asked at last.
Mikal replied, "So I can analyze what you're saying."
Nevertheless, they agreed to contact one another again, and to keep secret their conversations. After Schiller dropped Mikal at his hotel, he went down the Interstate to Orem with the feeling that the evening had been a breakthrough. Mikal might have been distrustful, but Schiller felt their next meeting would take a turn for the good.
Through Mikal, he could get a glimpse of Gilmore's family, and intimate childhood things about him that were nice and not so nice.
Since Mikal was so different from Gary, it opened hope for an independent view. Schiller felt so good about it, he told Vern of the meeting. That would soon prove, from Schiller's point of view, a mistake.
The Executioner's Song Page 83