The Executioner's Song (91 page)

A couple of conversations followed with Susskind, who wanted to know if Bob had ever heard of Louis Nizer, and then mentioned a couple of other hotshot lawyers like Edward Bennett Williams. Hell, the next thing Moody knew, a voice was on the phone.

                "Mr. Moody, this is Louis Nizer. My friend David Susskind asked me to call to let you know that he's exactly who he says he is, and I think you'll enjoy dealing with him. I know. I've dealt with him."

                Bob replied, "It's nice to talk with you, Mr. Nizer, but, in fact, you hardly need sell me Mr. Susskind. We've seen his work and I'm aware he's a very talented, able person." It wasn't going to cut the mustard with Bob Moody. He didn't enjoy being treated as a hick.

Moody had had considerable dealings with San Francisco and Los Angeles lawyers and rarely were they patronizing. They lived near enough to Salt Lake to assume a few reasonably important things might be going on in Utah, but, dealing with lawyers from New York or Washington, D.C., you could feel them cultivating good old Provo.

Susskind got a call from Moody and Stanger. They told him that Dennis Boaz had been dismissed. To Susskind, these new lawyers seemed straight and very sound. Very small townish in a good sense.

                Virtuous men, he decided.

                The thing had been handled very badly indeed, they said. They didn't think they could get any cooperation from Boaz so they would like to learn first-hand of Susskind's offer. David wasn't about to raise his bid, but he did get into discussions about the money that might be realized, and pointed out how they could gross $150,000. Susskind felt interested again. The question was whether momentum could be gotten together this late.

                So Moody told Susskind that maybe he ought to think about coming out. Schiller was making a better and better impression with Vern Damico, Moody explained, and it was Vern who had the input to Gary.

                Susskind got real critical of Larry Schiller then. "Gentlemen," he said, "I don't want to brag, but the difference between Susskind and Schiller, producer to producer, is like the gap between the Dallas Cowboys and a high-school football team." Moody repeated that to Schiller, who smiled inside his black beard, a grin so big you could make it out through all that hair, and he said, "Susskind's right. He is the Dallas Cowboys, and I'm just a high-school football team. But here I am, all suited up, and ready to play. Where are the Dallas Cowboys? They're not even in the stadium."

                Moreover, Moody was finding Susskind all too firm on one point.

                Nobody would get any money from him until they'd sewn up the rights to Nicole, Bessie, and a number of other people. Susskind wanted the lawyers to deliver the package. Take on the headaches.

                He was making them, in essence, a Larry Schiller. Since Larry virtually had Nicole signed up, and Phil was handling that, Moody didn't look forward to a situation where he and his old partner might have to represent different people with highly conflicting interests.

In the middle of these calls, Schiller invited Ron and Phil and Bob to a suite at the Hotel Utah. They had a quiet party, no drinks, but lots of Mormon-type whipped-cream-and-pastry desserts, and were introduced to Stephanie. Most impressed with her. She was so beautiful. She was slim and had finely chiseled features and a look of being absolutely sensitive to what she felt, but ready to offer the resistance of stone to what she did not care to feel. "Lord Almighty," said Stanger afterward, "that girl's as fetching as Nefertiti." He began to kid Larry. "What's a beautiful girl like Stephanie doing in the company of a fat guy with a beard?" and added, "Say, Schiller, any guy who has a girl like that can't be all bad." Still, you had to be impressed. A real dog-and-pony show, thought Stanger.

Then Universal Pictures appeared on the scene. The same attorneys who were representing Melvin Dumar in the Howard Hughes will contestation, came down to Provo and chatted in Bob's office for a couple of hours. One of them was even a tax attorney who had been in law school with Bob. He offered his considerable expertise in working out powerfully advantageous contracts for Gilmore and Vern Moody was tempted. Along with everything else, these fellows were good Mormons. It looked all right. At the end of the day, however, they said, "We're embarrassed to tell you this, but the contract is only effective if the execution is carried out."

When Moody and Stanger told Gary, he laughed from his side of the window, and said through the phone, "You guys don't think that's a good contract, huh?" He took a sip of coffee—allowed himself coffee with sugar on his fast—and said, "Goddammit, the execution is going to take place." Moody replied, "Well, Gary, maybe that's beyond your control." At this point, Gary blew up, "Those sons of bitches, those sons of bitches," he kept saying. He looked awfully bleak.

Meanwhile, Larry Schiller was on the phone telling Stanley Greenberg that he had tied up Damico, and Nicole's mother, and the only element missing was the writer that Schiller wanted: Stanley Greenberg.

Then David Susskind called Stanley, and said, Schiller doesn't have it tied up. There are new Mormon lawyers in his place. Stanley got this picture of fourteen fire engines racing around Salt Lake and Provo. It looked like everybody was trying to make a buck off poor Gary Gilmore. Very distasteful. Stanley wasn't about to get into a competition for picking the bones. He wanted to do something about the effect of capital punishment on the public at large, rather than this scenario on ambulance chasing.

Schiller called back and Stanley Greenberg said no. Nothing against Mr. Schiller personally, but no, he had reached the point in a life's career where he wouldn't take a job with a producer he didn't know. He wouldn't. Stanley thought it was just too damned dangerous.

If Greenberg had agreed to do the script, Schiller could have hit ABC for more money. Now, they were bound to ask for a piece of the book rights. That was one thing he did not want to give up. He would have to figure out another way. Maybe sell Gary's letters to Nicole. The samples he had seen in Tamera Smith's story looked good. But for such a transaction he would need a cover. So, he called Scott Meredith in New York about being the agent.

                To his horror, Meredith said, "Larry, are you sure you're getting the rights? Susskind was in here today saying he had them."

                "No deal has been signed yet," said Schiller. "Not by me, not by Susskind. Scott, you have to decide who you're going to believe. I am telling you nobody has signed." "Well," Meredith said, "whose money are you using?" "I'm representing ABC," said Schiller, "but I own the magazine and book rights." Meredith sounded unhappy, "Susskind was just in here telling me he represents ABC."

                "WHAT?"

                "Yes," Meredith said, "he assures me he represents ABC."

Schiller called Lou Rudolph in L.A. "What are you doing," he shouted, "it's not fair." "Larry," said Rudolph, "I swear Susskind's not working for ABC." There was a pause and then Rudolph said, "Hold it. I'll call New York." Word came back fast. In fact, Susskind did have a deal with the New York office. New York never told L.A. L.A. never told New York. Oh, boy.

                Schiller was unwell. Susskind had just produced Eleanor and Franklin. Nobody could look prettier to ABC at this moment.

                He said to Lou Rudolph, "When did Susskind make the deal? What's the date? I want the date. Whoever made the deal with you first is the one who's got ABC's backing."

They came back with the dates. Susskind had not made contact with any studio guns until the 9th of November, the day after Gilmore's story first appeared on the front page of the New York Times.

                Schiller's input to the studio was on the 4th.

                "I applied first," said Schiller, "I want the backing." The studio refused. There were phone calls between New York, Los Angeles and Provo. Finally, a decision. ABC would withdraw its backing equally.

                Neither Susskind nor Schiller could now say it was an ABC project.

                On the other hand, whichever one of them brought the Gilmore contract in first would get the money. Schiller was near apoplexy. ABC had done nothing but protect itself. They simply didn't want to let it get out that they were consummate fuck-ups.

Now Susskind was calling him again. Schiller stood in the phone booth of Walgreen's Drugstore and listened to Susskind make an offer.

                "What are we fighting each other for? Why are we getting this price up?" Susskind asked. "You're in the field. I'm out here in New York. Let's become partners." Schiller sure listened. "I will be," Susskind said, "opening a production company in L.A. Let's use this project to see how our relationship goes. Afterwards, maybe you'll make films for us." "I would love to make films with you," said Schiller, "but that's a separate issue, David."

Schiller was so tempted he could feel his nostrils tingling. It was like the expectation of sex when you were young. But it would also mean that Susskind would do the TV show. Schiller might land the project, but it would never be his. Schiller stalled.

                After he hung up, it came clear. If Susskind wanted to join forces, then Susskind could not get the rights without him. That meant it was his. He could have it, if he was ready to take on the worries. Well, he wanted the rights to Gary Gilmore like he had never wanted anything in the economic and creative sphere before. Didn't know why. Just knew.

                That meant he would be worrying about money every minute from now on.

Schiller prepared to go back to the Coast with Stephanie for Thanksgiving weekend. He hadn't seen his kids in a while, and was going to take them to La Costa in San Diego. This would be the first Thanksgiving with his children where his wife, Judy, was not there, the first such. While the kids were now in the process, he felt, of getting to like Stephanie a lot—taking into account their loyalty to their mother—this would still be a Thanksgiving with ghosts. Ghosts plus his goddamned problems.

So he went to La Costa with square-edged economic concerns banging around like bricks in his head and wasn't there a day before on Friday, the 26th, in the evening, he got a phone call from Moody. "We think we can get you in to see Gary tomorrow afternoon," said the lawyer. "If there's ever going to be a chance, now's the time."

Geebs, you wouldn't believe the volume of mail I'm getting. 30 to 40 letters a day. A lot of young chicks, fifteen, sixteen, but of course I always was a handsome little devil. And you wouldn't believe how many Christians and religious fanatics there are in this world, l received so many bibles I could open a church—need a bible? One man wrote and said, if he could trade places with me he'd do it. l think I'll write him back and say, "Brother, they will be there to pick you up bright and early Monday morning." I'll bet they'd have a hard time finding his ass.

                Hey, I'm allowed to invite five witnesses to my execution, Would like to invite you so I can tell you goodbye in person. Let me know . . .

Gibbs thought: That has got to be a first. I have been invited to Weddings, Birthdays, and Graduations, but I never heard of being invited to an execution.

                He wrote back: "If you want me there, I'll be there."

Moody and Stanger were preparing the way for Schiller. To the authorities at the prison, they explained that they were dealing in technical matters out of their own ball field. Tax planning had to be done on Gary's potential earnings from his life story, and incorporated into a will, which made for many complicated factors in the contract.

                They were bringing a man named Schiller from California to discuss this with Gary. "He's going in as your consultant?" Moody and Stanger were asked. "Yes," they said, "our consultant." They were telling the truth. Just couching it carefully.

Schiller flew to Salt Lake and drove out to Point of the Mountain early Saturday afternoon. He was full of adrenalin, and scared of blowing it.

The guard picked up a phone and was on it for ten minutes before he let Larry in. To his astonishment, Schiller did no more than pass through two sets of sliding barred doors and there on the other side, not twenty feet down the hallway, in a locked room on the right, was Gilmore looking out a small window. Across the hall, on the other side, in a room with an open door, were Vern and Moody and Stanger, all grinning at him. Now, he could see that Gilmore was smiling, too. They had brought it off.

Vern made the introductions, and Larry sat down with his overcoat on, in the chair Vern had been using, and let the door stay open.

                He looked across the ten-foot width of the hall to the room where Gary stood behind a small window, and their eyes locked. Schiller recognized immediately that this man loved to stare into your head.