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birds. In town with all the others to see whether Gary Gilmore would die. Driving up and down the interstate, going from one newly built town to another, heading south down a smoke-filled valley, only to turn north again. Farewell Dennis. Barry Farrell couldn’t decide whether he liked him or thought he was an absolute outrage to the sort of exquisitely civilized behavior Gilmore was, under it all, demanding.
CONTRACT
Schiller decided to get out of Salt Lake and move down to the TraveLodge in Provo. From his room he could look out across University Avenue to the mountains, and each morning they showed more snow on the peaks, and the letter Y set out in white stone on one mountain began to be covered over.
Right away, he made appointments with Phil Christensen, Mrs. Baker’s attorney, and with Robert Moody. Christensen was at three, Moody at four. He supposed the first meeting would take a half hour and then he would walk over to the other’s office. They figured to be in the same area. Having scouted out the legal scene in Provo, he knew the law offices were clustered around the courthouse. Schiller didn’t even bother to look up Moody’s address. Bound to be around the corner. So when he walked into Christensen’s building, he had a surprise. The sign downstairs read: “Christensen, Taylor, and Moody.” Same fucking firm. Schiller was beaming.
This office had a small-town look. Even the veneer paneling and the yellow-orange carpet and small dark brown leather chairs, all fit. The kind of stuff you’d find in a prefurnished little vacation home. Perfect, When you had two partners in the same firm representing separate clients in the same case, these lawyers would take pains that they didn’t have to drop out for conflict of interest. Having already proposed that Gary get $5o,ooo and Nicole $:5,ooo, these two lawo yers were not likely to fight the suggestion and lose the kind of fees they could collect.
Phil Christensen turned out to be a distinguished senior party with white hair, but before five minutes were gone, Schiller felt as if he had begun to reach Christensen with his knowledge of law. Right off, he said, “I don’t want the legal expenses to be deducted from the money I’m offering Nicole Barrett, so I’ll ask you what would be ap propriate.” Christensen told him a thousand dollars might be right, and Schiller said, “Let’s make it $26,ooo to Nicole Barrett, but I want Mrs. Baker to pay your retainer out of that.” It was Schiller’s way of establishing that Christensen would be the lawyer for Nicole’s mother, not for Schiller. That really impressed Christensen. Then, Schil!er said, “Of course, it’s understood that all this has to be ap proved by the Court.” He didn’t want to move ahead until Christensen got a legally appointed guardian. Schiller said he thought Nicole’s mother ought to be appointed as guardian of the estate and the Court, of course, be guardian of the person. Christensen looked at him. “How’d you learn about that?” he asked. It was one more way to increase Christensen’s respect.
A little later, when Kathryne Baker came into the meeting, Christensen even said, “We haven’t settled all the financial ques tions, but I can tell you I feel very comfortable with Mr. Schiller.” In fact, Christensen did ask for more money. He wanted $5,o0o for April’s medical bills, and Schiller agreed to pay that in several install ments. Schiller also stipulated that he would want the rights to April’s story and the grandmother’s, Mrs. Strong. So it went, comfort able, professional. When it was time for Schiller’s appointment across the hall with Bob Moody, Christensen came into the meeting. Ron Stanger also popped over, and Schiller began to lay it out. He found himself talking a good bit to Stanger who was full of patter and quick enough on his feet to be the host on a television talk show.
Schiller started pulling out contracts and talking money. He did not tell them. he had been on the phone with ABC saying $4o,ooo wasn’t enough. It had to be fifty. All the while, the final figure he knew was going to be a lot more, but he had calculated that for now sixty thousand in cash would get him by. Gary would have to be paid his fifty up front, but Nicole being in a mental home, he could struc ture her contract to give ten now, ten when ready to be interviewed, and five when the film was produced. Just give him ABC’s fifty, and he could always find another ten.
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Next day, to get things advanced a little further, Larry said to Vern, “Look, I said to you that my signing of a contract is not contin gent on you getting any releases, and it isn’t, but let’s avoid future hang-ups. Will you go over and get Brenda to sign and her husband Johnny? I also need your signature, and Ida’s. Tell everybody I’m not going to ask for an exclusive contract where they can’t speak to any one else, just a simple release.” Vem was agreeable, got in his truck, and went around picking them up. The total would add to another $4,ooo.
Vern told him that Gary would not agree to any contract until he met the man. Schiller nodded. Right. That’s the way it should be. Vern said, “But, no way are you going to be able to meet Gary.”
“Look,” Schiller said, “tell me about the daily routine at the prison. I’ve been told before that I could not get into places and I got in.” Larry said, “Draw me a map. Tell me, do they search you? Does the time of day change things? Do they allow you to go day or night? What type of guards are there at different hours?” Schiller was think ing: Gary will have help on the inside. He hasn’t been a prisoner in this place for long, but, on the other hand, he has status among con victs and guards. “Vern,” said Schiller, “let Gary tell us how. He’ll know when the moment comes.”
Then the November 29th issue of Newsweek appeared on Tues day morning, November 23, with Gary Gilmore on the cover. DEATH WISH was printed in large letters across his chest. Moody felt it gave a big push to the bidding.
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 firsthand 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 $I5O,OOO. 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 Cow boys? They’re not even in the stadium.”
OHS.
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THE EXECUTIONER’S SONG
Moreover, Moody was finding Susskind a]] 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 vir tually 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 com pany 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 im pressed. A real dog-and-pony show, thought Stanger.
Then Universal Pictures appeared on the scene. The same attor neys 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 him self coffee with sugar on his fast — and said, “Goddammit, the ex ecution is going to take place.” Moody replied, “Well, Gary, maybe that’s beyond your control.” At this point, Gary blew up, “Those sons
CONTRACT
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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. Stan ley 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 danger-
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
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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.