The Executioner's Song (118 page)

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 scholarly 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.

DESERET NEWS

Salt Lake, Jan. 2—Utah Atty. Gen. Robert B. Hansen today received a letter from Salt Lake City attorney Judith Wolbach saying she had talked with well-known lawyer Melvin Belli who estimates Gilmore's relatives could file claims for a wrongful death action. The family could ask $1 million in general damages and $1.5 million in punitive damages, against state officers . . . if Gilmore is executed and the U.S. Supreme Court later rules unconstitutional the State's death penalty statute . . .

Barry Golson from Playboy came in. Schiller had already received a first payment of close to $2,000. After two days of talking and haggling like crazy over the last details of the contract, they were getting on each other's nerves. Breslin's presence disturbed Golson.

                Was Schiller giving away Playboy material?

                "You can get the hell out of the office," Schiller said. "Try being a little more courteous," said Golson, "and I will." What an ego contest!

                Then Moody and Stanger started again. They came to the motel and told him they wanted a bonus. Otherwise, they wouldn't interview Gary anymore.

                Schiller did his best. "I have to tell Gary what you're trying to pull," he said. Wondered if he was right. "I'm just going to send," said Schiller, "a telegram." When he saw they weren't the least bit frightened, he took another line.

                "Look," he said, "you're falling prey to what every attorney falls prey to. You're holier than thou, until it comes to money." Finally, Schiller refused a bonus unless Vern agreed. "If he comes to me," Schiller said, "I'll give you what he OK's." It was a peculiar fight, because actually, it wasn't money out of Schiller's share, but Vern's, and so more a clash of personalities. They were definitely feeling frayed.

After dinner, Ian Calder of the National Enquirer called from Miami, to say that he had an idea that might be worth six figures.

                "Get Gary," said Calder, "to agree to submit two small personal objects that are at present in his possession, and have him write twenty-five words, whatever they are. We'll send a bonded messenger to pick up the sealed envelope and put it in a vault. Before Gary dies, we will tell our worldwide network of seers and clairvoyants to key in on the exact moment of his execution. Then we'll see how close they come to guessing what those two objects are, or what the words in Gary's message might be." Schiller said into the phone, "Ian, how deep into six figures are we talking?"

                "If it works, Larry," said Calder, "I mean, it's a hundred thousand idea. That's what I'm talking about. A hundred thousand dollars if it comes off."

                Larry said, "What if nobody's guess comes close?"

                Ian said, "Well, of course, then it would be worth much less."

                Schiller said, "Good night," and hung up.

In the left-hand corner of the visiting room was a booth with three seats, three phones, and three small windows. Next day, when Mikal went to visit Gary, he could see Moody and Stanger talking to his brother through the glass. There was Gary with two phones to his ear, the voice of Moody in one receiver, Stanger in the other. None of them was aware, however, that Mikal was also there behind them, and could have gone over to pick up the last phone. Instead, he sat in a corner, unobserved, and listened to Moody say, "Schiller met with him last night. He thinks Mikal is going to stop the execution." Then Moody added, "Did you know Giauque brought him out in a Rolls-Royce?"

                As he got up to leave, Moody must have taken a good look, for he seemed startled. Then Mikal heard him asking one of the guards who the visitor might be.

                Gary came into the visitors' room wearing a black sleeveless sweat shirt. He was twirling a Scotsman's cap on his finger.

                "Gary, I don't want to play games," Mikal said. "What your lawyer said is true. I may seek a Stay."

                Gary's face took on the expression of his newspaper photos. All jaw. Flared nostrils. "Is it also true," he asked, "that Giauque brought you out here in a Rolls?"

                Mikal saw how it looked to Gary. Wealthy liberals who never gave a damn about him in other years, were now gathering their wealth and power to frustrate him. "It's not important," Mikal tried to say.

                They fought over Amsterdam and Giauque. "Who do you think they are," asked Gary, "holy men? They're trying to use you."

                "Just recognize," said Mikal, "that I can take action without them. I can still go in and get a commutation of your sentence. They wouldn't be doing it, I would."

                "Could you really?" asked Gary.

                "I believe I could."

                Gary paced around. "Look," he said, "I've spent too much time in jail. I don't have anything left in me."

                A guard's voice came into the room. "Time's up."

                "Come back," said Gary. "Talk to me tomorrow."

                Even as Mikal was passing through the door, Gary called out. "Where were you, years ago, when I needed you?"

All the way back to Salt Lake, Mikal heard, "When were you when I needed you?" He had been ready to sign the paper for Giauque, but now he did not know if it was his choice or Gary's. His brother's voice kept saying, "I don't have anything left in me." Mikal wanted to disappear into a place when choices did not exist. After a bad night, he decided to write a letter to Gary.

                In it, he said that when he was face to face with his older brother's anger, he could never remember what he wanted to tell him. He wrote to Gary that he had always been frightened of him. Only in their last two meetings had he come to realize that, in fact, he loved him. Whatever choice he made would come from love. If Gary chose to live, he hoped they could take down the barriers between them. He ended by speaking of his belief: one's best chance for redemption was found through choosing life over death. In life was when one found redemption, not death.

That afternoon at the prison, a guard read Mikal's letter and delivered it to Gary on the other side of the glass.

                Gary looked it over quietly and began to cry. Just a tear or two.

                Then he wiped an eye with his finger and smiled. "Well put," he said over the phone. He asked Mikal, "Are you familiar with Nietzsche? He wrote that a time comes when a man should rise to meet the occasion. That's what I'm trying to do, Mikal."

                They sat then. Gary nodded, "Look, kid, I was thinking of what I said yesterday. That was unfair. I wasn't around when you were young. So get it straight. I don't hate you. I know you're my brother and I know what that means."

                Gary's hand might just as well have been laid on Mikal's heart. Mikal could feel himself being manipulated here, softened there. He obliged himself to say, "What would you do if I tried to stop this?"

                "Oh, you could have my sentence commuted," Gary said, "but you wouldn't have to live in prison. Do you know how strong you have to be, year after year, to keep yourself together in this place?" Gary asked.

                Mikal would have been ready to concede then. Yet on his first day in Salt Lake, he had met Bill Moyers. He had spent hours with him ever since. Moyers, he felt, had to be one of the wisest and most compassionate men he had ever met, and Moyers had said, "If we are confronted with a choice between life and death, and choose anything short of life, we're choosing short of humanity." Gary might listen to such an idea. It was so clear cut. Gary liked ideas that were logical propositions. Mikal did not really think it would make a difference. Yet before he left, he asked Gary to talk to Bill Moyers. "Not for an interview. Just for a meeting."