The Executioner's Song (128 page)

                Howard must have been reading her thoughts because he said, "Come on, honey, I'll get you through the reporters." So, they left a note for Ida, and took off. It was close to ten by the time they reached the prison and they must have used up forty-five minutes getting through the gate. Security was tight by then. They were accustomed to her face, but Howard was new, and they wouldn't clear him. She had to go and talk to the Warden, and that did mean pushing through the reporters outside Administration by herself.

                Sam Smith wouldn't let Howard in. Toni had the feeling the Warden would relent if she kept pushing, but Howard didn't want to. He just kept saying, "How can you sit and talk to someone who is going to die in a few hours?"

                When they opened the double gate, there was Daddy and Gary sitting together on a cot. Vern was sleepy, and Gary was uptight, but they must have been used to people going in and out, because the first gate slammed behind her and they didn't even look up when the second gate opened. She was actually in the room before Gary saw her and jumped to his feet and held her in the air. He said, "I knew you'd come back. Thank God you came back."

                He whirled her around and hugged her and gave her another big kiss. Vern said, "What are you doing back here? It's a long way from morning," but he left them alone,

                They sat down and started to talk, and Gary just held on to her hands. He said, "I wish we had more time together." "I'm sorry, too," said Toni. "Well," he said, "maybe it's for a reason. Maybe if we'd developed a relationship earlier, tonight wouldn't mean so much." Then he asked if she wanted to see some pictures of Nicole, and got out a carton he had taped, and carefully unwrapped it, and showed Nicole as a child. "These," he added, "you don't have to look at, if you don't want to," but pulled out a couple of beautiful drawings of Nicole nude. Then a whole series of pictures taken on photo machines where you would get four shots for half a dollar. Nicole was showing her breasts. It was obvious these pictures meant a lot to Gary, and Toni thought they weren't foul. Really kind of meaningful. All the while, Gary kept bringing up more snapshots of Nicole when she was five, and eight, and ten, saying what a beautiful child she was.

                Toni said, "She's a beautiful woman now." What was all this carrying on about how she looked as a child?

                "I wish," said Gary, "I could have seen her one more time."

                Then he taped up the carton again, and opened another box full of photographs of prison friends, and told her which institution they'd been in. Some officials came in with medication, and handed him the cup and said, "Take them now," and Gary said, "You sure don't trust me, do you?" When they left, Toni was still alone with Gary. He took the plaque that Annette had given him that long time ago, and said, "I want this given to Nicole." That was when Toni decided Gary must truly have been innocent. Otherwise, he would hardly leave it to Nicole.

                The record player was going and Gary said, "Come on, I haven't danced in years." So, they got up. She had heard him sing once and he was a terrible singer, but she could see he was going to be even worse as a dancer. Yet, she enjoyed it. Sitting on the floor, looking through his things, she had felt so close. Like Brenda, Toni had been married four times, twice for only a few months. Her fourth marriage had been with Howard and that had lasted nine years. In less trouble now than ever, it was a good marriage, but Toni had never exactly felt the kind of special feeling she had now. It was like she'd known Gary for a lifetime in these couple of hours.

                The music was fast. Gary put his funny hat on Toni, fluffed her hair, and they danced. She did her best to follow. When they finished, Gary said, "I never really was very good, but I haven't had much chance to go to dances," and they laughed, and he told her that he had talked to Johnny Cash on the phone but it was a bad connection.

                Still he had asked, "Are you the real Johnny Cash?" and right after the answer, hollered back, "Well, this is the real Gary Gilmore."

                They sat down again, Gary said, "I have found something with you tonight that I knew with Brenda through all these years, and I wish I'd made things more equal between you and your sister."

                When Toni looked puzzled, he said, "I gave three thousand dollars for you and Howard, and five thousand to Brenda and Johnny. I'm sorry I did not make it equal. I never really knew you." She told him the money didn't mean anything.

                He said, "You're so many people to me tonight. You're Nicole, and you're Brenda, and in a way, you're like my mother in the way I remember when she was young." Toni didn't know if she was reading his mind, but she thought he was feeling a strong urge to put his arms once more around his mother, and Toni thought of Brenda who had wanted to be with him so bad tonight and was now in the hospital, and Toni felt as odd as if she were both Brenda and herself, both of them there, dancing and holding his arms.

                Every now and then a couple of guards would come in to shake hands with Gary, and he would say, "Do you want my autograph?" "Sure, Gary," they would tell him. So, he would borrow a pen and sign the pocket of their shirt or their cuffs and Toni thought they all acted like they really liked him. When the pharmacist came back, Gary said, "Here's this old boy who takes care of me," and the pharmacist grunted and said, "Yeah, you keep me pretty busy with all your shenanigans."

                All the while, Toni was reminding herself that Howard was out there shivering in the parking lot. Finally, she told Gary, "Look, I'll bring Mother back by five," and Gary said, "I want you here in the morning with me," and put his arms around her to give another big hug and said, "Thank you, for tonight." He held her one more time and said, "A cool, peaceful summer evening, a love-filled room. You just brightened my whole night, Toni, and filled it with love," and he cuddled her face in his hands, putting one hand on each cheek, and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "You brought my Nicole back to me tonight," he said. Then he gave her a big hug, and Toni said, "I'm going to have to go."

                Gary walked her toward the gate. "I'll see you in the morning," he said. "Go home and take care of Ida." Then he added, "Tell Howard hello. It's so great that Howard came to try to see me." Toni went out letting him think that the only reason Howard had not been there was that the Warden would not let him. When the first gate closed behind her, Gary held the bars to watch until they opened the other gate and when that closed behind her, she put her coat on, and left. She never got to see him again.

                Up till then, despite the pizza, it had really been a party and everybody was feeling good, and there were no problems, except one so large it removed all sense of the others. But, now, after Toni was gone, Gary started to get mad about the pizza all over again. He became very solemn, very upset. Ron remembered how Gary always said, "I don't want a last meal, because they'll play games with me."

                Ron knew he didn't want to talk to Gary now. Nor did Moody. A sense of death had come into the visitors' room. It had been there before, but it gave everyone strength. Now it was as if it came creeping like smoke beneath the door. It was getting late. Things had quieted. The record player was not going, and Vern had gone to sleep. Dick and Evelyn Gray were snoozing. Ron went to the kitchen to talk to the guards. It was then that Gary came over to Bob.

                "You wouldn't change clothes with me, would you?" he said, and Bob answered, "No, I wouldn't." Gary began to describe how he could get out, if Bob would just give him the clothes. The guards were paying no attention. He could walk through those twin gates as Bob Moody, be out the door of Maximum and over that barbed-wire fence faster than you could ever believe. He would just climb up the wire, then do a forward roll over the roll of barbed wire at the top, pick up a hole or two in his skin, nothing, and be running, man.

                They would not find him. It was a somber moment. "I know," said Gary, "that I can get out of here if you will do it." Bob just had to get his clothing from the locker and put it over in the corner. If Bob wanted, it would also help if he took Gary's crazy Robin Hood hat and wore it for a while. That would be about all a sleepy guard would look for in the way of Gary Gilmore. "No," said Bob Moody, "I can't do it, Gary, and I won't do it."

Cline Campbell had been in and out all night so he saw the change in mood. For the first couple of hours you would have thought it was Christmas morning. But Campbell had to leave by 7:30 that evening to give a lecture in Salt Lake, and didn't get back until close to midnight. By then it had all changed. Earlier, a guard had been sitting at the head of a cot, Gilmore in the middle, and Campbell at the foot. In the middle of talking away about nothing at all, Gilmore reached under the pillow and came up with a sample bottle of whiskey. "Oops," said Campbell and looked away. "I see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. But have at it, partner, just have at it." Gilmore laughed. That was earlier.

                After the speaking engagement, Campbell rushed back to the prison without stopping to eat, and discovered everybody had gone through the pizza. There was none left. He and Gilmore were the only two with empty bellies. When they were alone, Campbell said, "it looks like this time will be it,"

                "It'll go through," said Gary. "They can't stop it now."

                "You know," said Campbell, "we're to meet again. It will be the same for you and me, no matter what's on the other side." They were in Lieutenant Fagan's office and Gary was still wearing the hat with a feather that looked like it belonged to Chico Marx. "It doesn't matter," said Campbell, "whether what you feel, religiously, is right, or what I feel, either way, we're going to see each other again. In whatever form, Gary, I want you to know I think you're a good guy." It was awful, thought Campbell, the more time he spent with Gilmore the less he was able to remind himself that Gary was a man capable of murder. In fact, by now, most of the time, Gilmore looked not at all capable of that, at least not compared to most of the faces Cline Campbell saw every day in uniform and out.

Father Meersman said to Moody and Stanger that he had this advantage over almost everybody else that he'd been through two other executions. He explained to them how he succeeded in convincing the Warden and his staff that it was necessary to walk through the procedure on this night for every step ought to be taken equal to those steps which would be taken in the morning when the real execution took place, and they had done that. Some of the prison officials had agreed to a dry run and taken the steps so that it would be calm and dignified when they all participated. They had gone through the whole thing and somebody had a stopwatch and timed it, and that was a normal thing to do for such an important procedure. It was important to have a run-through of the whole mechanics of the execution.

Chapter 32

THE ANGELS AND THE DEMONS MEET THE DEVILS AND THE SAINTS

More than twelve hours earlier, before noon that Sunday, Earl Dorius had received a phone call from Michael Rodak that Gil Athay was seeking a Stay. A little more than an hour later, Rodak called again.

                Justice White had denied Athay's application. When no further word came from Washington, Earl felt confident Athay had used up his legal actions, and therefore went with his wife and children to her parents' house, and relaxed for the first time that day. Returning home, however, early in the evening, there was a phone call from Bob Hansen to say that Jinks Dabney wanted a hearing that night on a taxpayers' lawsuit. It would be in Ritter's Court.

                Nonetheless, Earl's initial reaction was not one of great alarm. Dabney couldn't show that any Federal tax monies at all were being spent on the execution. The whole thing had the dank smell of a last-ditch attempt.

                When Dorius and Bill Barrett walked into the lobby of the Newhouse Hotel Jinks Dabney was already there with his co-counsel, Judith Wolbach. Bob Hansen was present, and Bill Evans, and Dave Schwendiman, plus the bellcap. That was it. They sat around in the nineteenth-century decor of the Newhouse's lobby, real elegant Wild West. Halfway between a palace and a brothel. There was overstuffed furniture in bright red velvet, and red rugs and a double white stairway that fanned out in two half circles before coming together at the mezzanine level, a large and formal room, a little shabby now, but the hotel was famous for being the lair of Judge Ritter. After a couple of hours, however, it was no great place to wait.

                Ritter was up in his room and he must have known the ACLU and the Attorney General were downstairs, but no further word was coming. Bob Hansen, thinking what to do if Ritter gave the Stay, called Judge Lewis. As a member of the Tenth Circuit Court, he would be a tier above Ritter, and could override him. Hansen asked if the Judge would convene a special hearing later that evening in Salt Lake.

                Judge Lewis, however, said he would not hold such a hearing by himself. It was too great a responsibility for one Federal Judge to overrule another, especially when you were sending a man to death by such a decision.

                By nine o'clock, Dabney got up his nerve, and told the desk clerk to inform Judge Ritter once more that they were there, and he was sending his legal documents upstairs. In less time than Dabney expected, Judge Ritter telephoned down that everyone was to go across the street to the courtroom. A security guard would let them in.