As he explained to Boaz over the course of a drink, his hackles went up about a week ago when it became apparent there was a real danger of Gilmore being executed. Stanley explained that he found capital punishment personally repugnant. He simply couldn't sit around and let it happen. This might seem a romantic reaction, but he had felt obliged, nonetheless, to gather his forces and get together with David Susskind, who was the right producer in an endeavor like this.
Credentials established, Greenberg was now ready to discuss the case. He led off by saying he just didn't see where any criminal had the right to tell society what to do to him. By his lights, a criminal had no more right to demand capital punishment than to demand his immediate release. Society, after all, set the rules.
Dennis, who had been looking oddly subdued, given Stanley's preconceptions of him, now seemed fired up a bit. He replied that Gary wasn't demanding anything. He simply didn't want to appeal.
Appeal law was based on the premise that nobody wanted to be executed, and so it offered all sorts of possibilities for relief, but Gary didn't want to pursue those possibilities.
It wasn't that simple, Greenberg argued back. The Supreme Court had said capital punishment could be resumed, but only if certain legal steps were taken. If you were going to execute people, it was important to kill them only under guarded and truly hedged-about circumstances.
At this point, Dennis again looked gloomy and said that he wasn't so sure he had done a very competent job. In any case, his feelings were undergoing a radical change. Up to now, he had supported Gilmore's plea because he felt the man had a right to determine his own life. Now, however, push had come to shove, and he had realized for the first time that Gary was actually going to die and that made him so upset he didn't know if he wanted to be a part of the process.
Greenberg had the impression Dennis was slightly stoned. Feelings of inadequacy certainly began to pour out. Greenberg even found himself liking Boaz more than he expected. On some levels he was quite attractive, sort of a free spirit. Of course, he was extremely and obviously disorganized, and not the sort of attorney Greenberg might want to entrust his fortune or future to. Still, he was likable, so likable. "Have you been in touch," Stanley asked, "with the local ACLU?"
Hosts of feelings poured forth. No, Boaz had not become involved with them. That was against his client's wishes. His client had this peculiar mélange of right-wing ideas and left-wing emotions.
Gary hated blacks, for instance, but that, Boaz explained, was because they were a dangerous majority in a prison. All the white prisoners were in danger of being raped by blacks. Gary also hated the ACLU. That was because they preached freedom of the individual but wouldn't give Gilmore the liberty to choose his death. So, Boaz had not gotten in touch with them. But just an hour ago, talking to Geraldo Rivera, he had had a brilliant conception. Only he would need some help with it, in terms of paperwork. There were many motions that would have to be filed, for which he would need a Utah lawyer. So, now he wanted to get in touch with the ACLU. When Greenberg encouraged this, Boaz called up a representative named Judy Wolbach, and she agreed to come over to the room for a drink.
Before it was over, Greenberg decided it had to be one of the bizarre conversations of all time. An absolutely marvelous dramatic play. Simply couldn't have imagined it better. This thin, vibrant, intelligent woman, very high strung, very liberal, very suspicious of Boaz on the one hand, and on the other side, Dennis pouring out his soul at how he had been harassed by the legal community and was the number-one suspect at the prison for smuggling in Seconal.
There were tears in Boaz's eyes from time to time, and it was hard to know if he was more worried about himself—"I'll take a polygraph test," he said—or more worked up over poor Gilmore, dying, for all they knew, in Salt Lake right now, and Nicole somewhere else—was she also dying? Here, Greenberg thought, is this mad, churning young lawyer, and then this Judy Wolbach glaring at Dennis as if he were a specimen. She was completely distrustful of the auspices. Even the little bar in the corner of the room must have looked to her, under these circumstances, sinister.
Stanley could hardly blame her. Reading about Dennis in the newspapers, she must have seen him as some sort of hippie hustler.
Now, there he was before her, agitated, smiling, arrogant, modest, first dejected, then haranguing her. Stanley couldn't imagine what he would be like at a time of less agitation.
Almost immediately, Dennis came up with this impossibly attractive and hopeless notion. He wanted to get Gary transferred to a Medium Security prison in some state where they allowed connubial visits.
Oh, it would work, he exclaimed. Nicole could get a job in the local town and bring up her children. On weekends they would have their married life, two nights a week. That could give Gary a motive for living. Why, if the court really understood what a fine person Gary was, they would do it. Gary could write and draw. Cottage incarceration was what he was talking about.
Greenberg noticed that Boaz was now happy again. It was apparent: give him an original idea and some remote possibility of achieving it, and he couldn't be happier. It didn't matter if the conditions were unattainable—just give him a novel approach to the pursuit of happiness, and he was happiness itself.
Judy Wolbach didn't seem very impressed, however. Dennis had ended his presentation by saying that the ACLU should provide the services to accommodate this legal action. Judy Wolbach gave him a speech back. The ACLU in Utah, in case he didn't know, was very underfunded.
"Don't you want him to live?" asked Boaz.
Have you looked, she inquired, into the ways that his life might actually be saved? She began to talk about relevant law in Supreme Court cases, and civil rights procedures under Federal and State law.
When Boaz admitted he had not read such cases, she shook her head, and asked if he was familiar with Gilmore's psychiatric file. In reply, Boaz became critical. Why was she not forthcoming? Why did she emphasize the legalistic rather than the humanistic? Greenberg couldn't believe his good fortune: what a play!
Boaz now said he viewed himself as a man of literature, rather than a lawyer lost in procedure. "In the Renaissance, man knew he could be a poet and a lawyer both."
"Well," said Judy Wolbach, "think about which hat you're going to wear, and stay in touch."
Showing Judy down the hall, Stanley Greenberg felt obliged to remark, "I really don't believe Boaz is the person to represent Gilmore."
Over breakfast, next day, he saw Dennis on "Good Morning America."
GERALDO RIVERA Dennis Boaz . . . a man who up until now has supported his client's wish for the right to die. Dennis, welcome.
You've argued in court, sometimes eloquently, that Gary Gilmore deserves the right to die. Do you still believe that?
DENNIS BOAZ (long pause) I believe he has the right to determine his own fate. I can no longer support, uh, the execution by the State.
GERALDO RIVERA Are you saying that you've changed your position, Dennis?
DENNIS BOAZ Yes.
GERALDO RIVERA Why?
DENNIS BOAZ (long pause) Well, yesterday was a moment of truth for me and I had a remarkable emotional experience which I reflected upon. And . . .
GERALDO RIVERA Are you saying you came to the realization . . .
what, tell me . . .
DENNIS BOAZ Well, I see there's some possibility for . . . Nicole and Gary (his voice sounds shaky here) perhaps to be together, and as long as I can see that possibility, know it's there, I know Gary would want to live and Nicole also.
GERALDO RIVERA After the discussion we had yesterday, and we talked for a long time, you don't even strike me as a man who believes in capital punishment. I want to know why you've gone through this dreadful charade?
DENNIS BOAZ Well, I got into the case not because I was an advocate of capital punishment, but because . . . he needed support, and I did support his own wish to, in a sense, take more responsibility for his own life and death at that time.
And he was attempting to take responsibility by accepting judgment.
GERALDO RIVERA But now you think because of what's happened the situation has changed?
DENNIS BOAZ Well, it certainly changed with me . . .
NEW VOICE Mr. Boaz, David Hartman in New York. Mr. Boaz, you said you had an emotional experience yesterday. How exactly has your mind changed in the last 24 hours?
DENNIS BOAZ Well, it's gotten in line with my heart.
DAVID HARTMAN Be more specific, Dennis.
DENNIS BOAZ I just can no longer be an effective advocate for this execution. I know we can't stop Gary from killing himself if he decides that's what he wants to do now. I can no longer be part of an official process that wants him to die.
GERALDO RIVERA Will you withdraw from the case if necessary?
DENNIS BOAZ I'll talk to Gary as soon as I can. We'll make a decision together.
GERALDO RIVERA He'll probably attempt suicide again.
DENNIS BOAZ I don't know.
DAVID HARTMAN Geraldo, we have a little less than a minute left.
What's the next step, and what do you see happening in the next 24 to 36 hours?
GERALDO RIVERA Well, the Parole Board hearing has to happen presumably, once Gilmore is in sufficiently recovered physical condition for that to happen. He has to be conscious. They can't execute a man who is comatose, David . . . I think that our story is going to be held in abeyance, at least while these two people recover.
DAVID HARTMAN Thank you, Geraldo, very much, and thank you, Mr. Boaz, very much for being with us this morning.
Later that morning, Greenberg drove out to Provo with Dennis and visited Vern Damico whom he rather liked, he told Dennis later, rather a strong man, something of the self-made small entrepreneur about him, a man who could move in his own neighborhood, so to speak.
They ate in a glorified hamburger joint near the shoe shop, hamburgers, milkshakes—the absence of liquor made the whole thing difficult—but still they had a good conversation and Stanley got insights he thought helpful, especially in the choreography of the crimes. He got to see Vern's home in its physical relation to the motel and the service station down the street. Wonderful details for TV. Gilmore knocking on his uncle's door in the afternoon to say he's dirty and wants to take a shower and the uncle turning him away. Then getting his gun and that night walking right past the open window where the uncle is sitting by the television set—didn't take a Freudian genius to figure this one out.
As soon as he got back, Greenberg called Susskind and said, "It's fascinating, it's ugly, and it's complicated." Susskind asked if it was a good idea to go out to Utah himself. Stanley replied, "Things are so hectic I would not advise it at the moment. The principals are being bombarded on all sides, and at the moment, we can't see Gilmore, we can't see the fiancee, you can't get to any of the principals other than Damico."
Susskind agreed. The story, after all, rested on Gilmore's past deeds, and Stanley was there to get the foundations for that. No necessity to become acquainted with Damico and the others. Why, when he acquired the rights to Joe Lash's Eleanor and Franklin, he happened to know a few of the Roosevelts, Elliot, James, and Franklin Jr., in particular, but he hadn't tried to go around and meet any others, hadn't personally intervened and said, "I'm David Susskind. Let me tell you why I should get the rights." The thing to do, if necessary, was send a lawyer.
DESERET NEWS
Nov. 17, Salt Lake—Gary Gilmore's date with Utah State Board of Pardons passed today while the convicted murderer lay conscious and shackled in a hospital bed . . .
Meanwhile, Nicole Barrett, Gilmore's girlfriend and apparent suicide pact partner, is in critical condition at Utah Valley Hospital.
When Gilmore returns to prison he will be moved to a tighter security cell, will have limited communications, and won't be allowed any physical contact with outside persons, Warden Sam Smith said . . .
Chapter 8
ENTERPRISE
That night, on the news, it was mentioned that Tamera Smith's story was being syndicated all over the world. Her phone began ringing, and she began hearing from people she hadn't thought about in years. Friends kept telling her that some of the biggest reporters in the country were here in Salt Lake, yet she had scooped them all.
Next day, a fellow from the New York Times wanted to interview her, then a reporter from Time again, and Newsweek. It got pretty standard that if a new man came to town on the story, he rang up Tamera as soon as he checked into the Hilton. Dying for background on Nicole. She got a lot of free lunches that week.
It was kind of exciting, of course, but one little side of her wanted to escape. Milly from Philly left town to go hiking in the mountains, and that's where she wanted to be, just leave it all, let the world stay down in Salt Lake.
It was only after Gary had been at the hospital for 24 hours that the tube was taken out of his lungs. He had been awake for several hours, but they left it in until they were certain he could swallow.
Then he was given oxygen by mask, and it was recorded that he was expectorating moderate amounts of phlegm. When they examined his throat, he said, "You're violating my privacy."
Next he wanted to know about his fiancee. Suddenly, he was alert, he was agitated, and he was refusing care. Told the nurse to get out. They had to put him in restraints. Then he refused to take a breath. Nearly turned blue before he had to open his mouth. He became extremely abusive. When the nurse tried to give him a needle, he spit in her face. Then he demanded to have the monitor recording his heartbeat removed from his chest. He demanded Fiorinal. When the nurses spoke to him, he refused to answer. On his chart they wrote, "Spiteful, revengeful, obscene." After the intern removed the tracheal tube, Gilmore sat up, sputtered, and said, "I'll fucking well get you, motherfucker."
Most people who overdosed were not like Gilmore when they woke up. He was coming on exceptionally strong. It was dangerous to get within reach. "He looks," said one of the nurses, "like the demon that got into Linda Blair in The Exorcist." Other suicides were depressed when they came out of it. After all, that was why they had taken the overdose in the first place. Didn't want to live. With Gilmore, it was more like he wanted to die.
SALT LAKE TRIBUNE
Nicole's Mother Calls Slayer 'Manson Type'
Nov. 17—Gary Mark Gilmore was described Wednesday as another "Charles Manson" by Mrs. Barrett's mother.
Given all those rides back and forth with Charles from Intensive Care to Pleasant Grove, Kathryne began to live in old memories. Neither she nor Charley was saying much, but she was feeling close to him.
After all, they had lived all those years together. It was the kind of mood to let her think of the summer she met Charley and dated him when he was 16 and worked at the carnival and she was 14. Went together three months and never even kissed. But one day they decided to get married. Kathryne figured it meant going to the movies when you wanted to, and not taking orders from your folks anymore, so she talked her mother into driving them to Elko, Nevada. The Justice of the Peace there didn't believe Charley was 18 and said, "If I make a long distance call to your folks, son, how will they answer my question?" Charley started to stammer. "Well," the Justice of the Peace said, "you better say to your mum I'm going to phone." He was obviously advising them to tell her to lie.
Verna Baker, however, had started screaming,—which made Charley finally speak up and say, "Knock it off, Ma. You tell him I'm 18." That was how Kathryne remembered it.
Same day, they drove back to Provo, and Kathryne's mother said, "Charley can sleep on the couch." He actually did that first night.
The following morning Charley came over with his friend George, and they went riding around all day in George's car, until Kathryne told Charley to have her home at 10 P.M., which he did.
The following night, George and he came over again, but George finally drove them over to this motel called Back of the Pine-Trees and Charley got out to get a room. Kathryne started carrying on, at
which point George said, "Get out. You're married to him." "I'm not," said Kathryne, "you take me home." "I'll tell you what, Nicky," George said—they used to call Kathryne "Nicky" after her middle name, Nicole—"you can go with me, or you can go with him."
Kathryne had no choice. Nothing to do but go in and say hello to Charley. God, they were kids.
They'd fight and make up, fight and make up, and one time, in one of those fights, he enlisted in the Service. They didn't even find out she was pregnant until months later. She had missed periods so many times that she never noticed the real misses. When she started to feel a lump in her stomach, and it got larger, she thought, I bet I got a tumor, and went to the doctor by herself, really scared. When she found out it was a baby, she nearly died of embarrassment. The doctor said, "Are you married?" She didn't have her ring on. The one Charley had bought was too big, and they were waiting for her to grow into it. So when she said she sure was married, she could see the doctor didn't believe her. When he asked where her husband might be, she said he had just finished basic training, only then he asked where Charley was stationed, and she couldn't even remember the name of the fort, just said, "He's in the Army. Somewhere, you know." That doctor was so positive she wasn't married that when Charley came home a couple of weeks later, Kathryne hauled him down there with her for the second medical exam.
The way Charley looked at it, he and Kathryne had been married so long, one of them couldn't start thinking without the other. Two mules in traces. Brooding about how they got into marriage. Charley couldn't even tell himself now what interested him then. He still got mad remembering how Kathryne told him they had to get married because she was pregnant. Pretending she didn't want to marry, boo hoo, but her mother sat them down, and Charley had said, "Well, it don't matter to me." By the time he found out Kathryne wasn't pregnant, by God, she was.
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