The Executioner's Song (144 page)

On Wednesday, the 19th, there he was out at Provo Airport and they all got into this six-seater, the pilot and Stanger in the front two seats, Vern and Campbell behind, Meersman and himself in the rear.

                It all proved very simple. They had this cardboard container the size of a shoebox, and once they were in the air, Stanger opened it. Gary's ashes had been put into a plastic bag of the sort you sell bread in, a cellophane bag with the printing from the bread company clearly on it. That freaked Schiller out. Here, Stanger was holding this bag up next to the window, and it had colored printing all over it, not festive, but cheap, a 59¢ loaf of bread. Schiller imagined that the ashes would be black and somber and kind of dignified, but they were gray and white and had bits of bone in them, a seedy, used-up color.

                Gary had specified how he wanted those ashes deposited. He had picked a number of places in Spanish Fork and Springville and Provo, and so Stanger had to strew the ashes in four or five takes. He never even put his hand out the window, however, just tucked the opening of the bag next to where he cracked the vent. The pilot would bank to put Stanger on the down side, and the air would suck out the ashes. A slow business, not very dramatic. In the back seat Meersman started to talk to Schiller about the memorial service. It was obvious to Schiller that Meersman wanted to suggest that Gary had returned to the Catholic Church on his dying day, but it didn't ring right to Schiller. Gary had hated the name Mark, even crossed it out in his contracts. Of course, he could have been AC-DC about his middle name, but Schiller was only buying Meersman's story with a bag of salt.

                After they spread the ashes and came down, Barry Farrell was waiting at the airport. With him was a girl from the New York Times whom Schiller certainly did not want to be interviewed by. He had, however, neglected to inform Farrell of that little fact. So, right after disembarking, he had to face the Times girl. By the look on her face, it was obvious Barry had told her what they were all doing in the plane. Schiller was pinned against the wall, and did a horrible interview. The story got out. No longer a secret where Gilmore's ashes ended.

Later that day, he also did an interview for Time, and one for Newsweek, and took a jet to L.A. Both magazines had agreed to his conditions, but then, he had a grip on both. In November, Newsweek had been in collaboration with Schiller for a day or two, so he told them now that if they didn't mention that little fact in their article, he would inform Time. In turn, he told Time that if they didn't agree to the idea of a balanced portrait, he would inform Newsweek how Time had slipped him a Minox to give to an associate on execution night for taking photographs of Gary. Thereby, he had magazines giving him fair and decent treatment. Not preferred treatment, just fair and decent—that was all he ever asked for.

Chapter 42

IN THE EBB OF THE NEWS

TIME

What the warden called "the event" took just 18 minutes. Hearing the fusillade, prisoners in, three nearby cellblocks screamed obscenities.

SALT LAKE TRIBUNE

ACLU Calls Hansen Murder Accomplice

January 18, 1977—Henry Schwarzschild, New York Coordinator of the National Coalition Against the Death Penalty and director of the Capital Punishment Project of the American Civil Liberties Union, had only harsh words about the execution and Utah officials.

                "This was not a suicide of Mr. Gilmore but a judicial homicide with Mr. Hansen as an accomplice," Mr. Schwarzschild said at a Salt Lake Hilton Hotel press conference.

                The speed with which "the state attorney general raced to the 10th Circuit bespeaks nothing but bloodlust," Mr. Schwarzschild added.

                "I am appalled at such a performance in this society which calls itself civilized," the capital punishment opponent said.

                "I could not gauge the depth of callousness and human depravity that brought about this spectacle."

                Mr. Schwarzschild said his words were harsh, but added the situation called for a strident tone. "Let Mr. Hansen make of them what he will."

SALT LAKE TRIBUNE

Justice Has Been Served, Hansen Says of Execution

By Dave Jonsson Tribune Staff Writer January 17, 1977—Utah Atty. Gen. Robert B. Hansen, who personally argued in court against stays of execution of Gary Mark Gilmore, said Monday after the convict's death, "Justice has been served."

                "Capital punishment is symbolic of society's determination to enforce all of its laws. If we don't enforce the severest of our laws, the criminal mind might conclude (punishments of) other laws won't be imposed against them," Mr. Hansen said.

                "No death can be elevating, and there is much sadness when anyone dies," added Mr. Hansen, his face drawn after 30 hours without sleep, "but I am infinitely more sorrowful about the two victims' families than the fact Mr. Gilmore is no longer alive."

Hansen's story was printed right next to a big photograph of him in the Salt Lake Tribune. Next to that story, however, was the adjoining headline on the Schwarzschild story, and it said: "Judicial Homicide."

                Bob Hansen was used to seeing pretty savage things written about himself, but "Judicial Homicide" offended him. He debated for a long time whether to sue the ACLU guy. Since he was a public figure, he knew he would have to show a lot of malice. While Schwarzschild's statement, from Hansen's point of view, was reeking with malice, the difficulty was that Schwarzschild could hardly be responsible for the headline. Which was the most blatant part of the story. It was a problem, and Hansen was very much offended.

One day, shortly after the execution, Judy Wolbach went over to the State Capitol Building to tell Earl Dorius what she thought of him. It was not a very well advised thing to do, but she sat down in his office and asked him what he thought of himself. Earl said, "Judy, you've got to understand that while you may think everything we did was terrible, we believed in our turn, that everything you did was completely unfair. We'll have to work together on other cases in the future, so I'd be happy if you could stay in some control of your feelings." He may not have used exactly that language, but she heard him making a speech on that order. She could hardly listen. "Earl," she answered, "tell me. You have little children. Doesn't it disturb you when they find out that you were, as it were, a helpmate to this execution?" He nodded. It did disturb him, he told her. One of the children had heard some comment that he and Attorney General Hansen had been involved in a cold-blooded murder. He had to explain it all to them.

                From his side of the desk, Earl felt Judy was entitled to come up and confront him. In fact, he was glad she had done it. After an emotional case such as this, attorneys went their separate ways. He didn't like it when they ran into each other later on the street and could only glare back and forth. In fact, he thought it was big of Judith to have the courage to come up, and get it off her chest. Better than going on over the years with a feud.

                After she left the office, it occurred to Judy that she had been waiting to feel a lot of pain from the execution, but it hadn't come. Only the wrath that consumes. She must have been reacting deeply or she would not have gone to see Earl Dorius, but there simply had not been any emotional reaction to Gilmore's death itself. She wondered if it had to do with the awful feeling she'd had from time to time that she was colliding with Gilmore's rights.

SALT LAKE TRIBUNE

Utah Execution: We Came Killing

By Bob Greene Field Newspaper Syndicate January 20, 1977—We didn't tell you how we crawled around the sandbags in front of the dead man's chair, the sandbags still fresh with his blood. We didn't tell you how we hurried into the firing squad's canvas booth, and how we squinted out of the vertical slits where the rifles had been, squinted out at the chair and made ourselves a gift of the same view the executioners had viewed.

                We didn't tell you how we touched everything, touched every possible surface in the death shed. We didn't tell you of the looks on the faces of the prison guards, who watched in amazement as we went about our doings with such eagerness, such lust. We didn't tell you what we did to the death chair itself—the chair with the bullet holes in its leather back. We didn't tell you that, did we? Didn't tell you how we inserted our fingers into the holes, and rubbed our fingers around, feeling for ourselves, how deep and wide those death holes were. Feeling it all.

Brenda was completely exhausted. Back in her own home, afloat in her own bed, people came to see her, but she could hardly remember who they were, She talked, but couldn't remember what she said. Three days got to be like one. Then she caught fever, and started vomiting pretty heavy. Only thing she could think was, "I've got to get cleaned up and go to that funeral." Made it as far as the bathroom. She didn't know that the funeral had taken place two days ago. She really was shattered to find out. She wouldn't be with Gary at his last service. That was letting him down.

A few nights after the execution, Nicole got into a fight. As evening came on, she felt again a powerful desire to go to bed. It wasn't time yet, but she stretched out, and four or five patients came to drag her off. When they touched her, Nicole started swinging.

                She almost busted somebody's nose, and at one point came near to laying out all five girls. It probably lasted over three minutes.

                That was a long time to fight five girls. Finally they got her stretched out flat on her back but she kept getting her feet loose and kicking them, so they turned her over on her stomach and lay on top of her for, she could swear, twenty fucking minutes on that cold floor, each of them sitting on an arm or leg. All of a sudden, she realized how funny it was, and started laughing. Laughed as if her heart would burst.

                The people holding her weren't seeing it as funny, of course. Yet, she felt she was not laughing alone. Somebody was there with her.

                Then she knew it was Gary. He was just about saying in her ear, Hey, cunt, now you know what it's like.

                Afterward, they locked her up for a few days. During that time, she'd often bust out laughing. Felt like she still wasn't laughing alone.

                All this time, she never cried about Gary. It wasn't necessary. He was not pitying himself. She kept hoping he would feel close to her when she got out of the nuthouse, and thought maybe she would still take her life, but did not really know. It was hard to tell.

Stanger and Moody were booked on a Gulf of Mexico cruise that left on Saturday, but they didn't want to wait for the weekend, so took off for New Orleans with their wives by Thursday afternoon. They had dinner at six, and were so physically exhausted they went back to their motels and didn't wake until twelve hours later.

                The following night, sitting in a restaurant, the gal at the next table got a touch obstreperous. Her husband said with a grin, "Just leave her alone, and she'll go home." He was joking, but she drew herself up and said, "I want you to know that I am a law student, and I have been doing research on an important case, the Gary Gilmore case. Have you ever heard about that?"

                Bob's wife, Katherine, couldn't hold it, said, "These are Gilmore's lawyers." It was worth losing your pants in Court to see the look on that gal's face.

Over the next few days, Earl Dorius did a burn about the disposition of Gilmore's ashes. Under public health statutes, the strewing was illegal, and could have been prevented if he'd known in advance.

                Then he found out the prison had heard, but did not contact him. He had to tell himself to forget it. That was not the sort of thing you could pursue, and besides he was feeling pretty tired. Bob Hansen told him to take some of the compensated time he'd accumulated after working almost every night since November up till nine or ten.

                Earl wanted a quick vacation, no place special, no long time, so he drove his wife and family down to Orem where they had relatives.

                Just off the freeway, he saw a TraveLodge, and walked in to book a room. As the girl started to write up the registration blank, the phone rang and Earl heard her say, "Don't worry, Mr. Damico." When she hung up, Earl said, "What does Vern Damico have to do with this motel? If he or Mr. Schiller owns it, I'm leaving."

                "Well," the girl said, "Mr. Schiller and his staff just checked out yesterday." Earl said to himself, "I can't get away from Gilmore."

Afterward, Earl often thought of that lonely moment in the corridor up in Federal Court in Denver when he looked out the window after hearing Gilmore was dead, and people were coming to work. He had been all alone. Even while giving the argument, he had been a solitary figure, and so it had been appropriate, somehow, to be aware of himself looking out, watching others do press interviews on the plaza. He had to admit he felt a certain disappointment and did his best to laugh and tell himself that he was going in for masochistic martyrdom. If he had wanted to work himself silly just to make sure each little job was done right, then he better develop himself emotionally to a point where he didn't care who got the publicity.