Exploring your feelings was an expensive procedure if you had to use unpaid office time to do it, but, from the outset, this job gave Moody more to think about than was customary. Most of his practice was domestic relations, personal injury work, local stores, stuff where he could deal with people. He liked to get out of the office. It was better to go on an investigative tour than get locked up in Probate and endless bookkeeping, so he usually enjoyed a criminal case if it came his way. Certainly, he had never found anything incompatible about being a criminal lawyer and a high member of the Mormon Church, and this case definitely gave him an agreeable tingle, but he could see that Gilmore was going to stretch many feelings. A lot of people would query the moral rights of what he was doing.
It was sometimes hard for religious-minded people to comprehend why a lawyer was there in the first place for certain defendants.
They didn't understand that the basis of the adversary system was the right of a defendant to have his story told in Court as well as possible.
So they could never comprehend that it was not unnatural for two lawyers to be at each other's throat in the courtroom, then sit down afterward to eat together.
While waiting for the Jury to decide, feeling emotionally uptight, they nonetheless had lunch together. The Jury, passing by the coffee shop, saw them eating and laughing, and actually sent a couple of representatives to the Judge to say the lawyers were not sincere. So Bob could see what was coming up. That episode wouldn't be a whiff to the fumes which would arise in this case.
"Nothing personal against you guys," Gilmore said, "I just don't like lawyers." Then he'd burp. The sound of an empty stomach was in the earpiece of the phone.
Vern took a couple of letterheads from Moody's office and Stanger's, and brought them to Gary next day. "These lawyers are local people," he told Gary. "My truthful opinion is I don't think you can go wrong. They'll fight for your rights."
Gary asked, "Do they believe in capital punishment?"
Vern didn't know exactly—it occurred to him he hadn't even asked Moody—but he said, "They'll defend your rights regardless of how they feel."
Moody and Stanger came over to the prison a little later. Gary wanted to look them over. So, they met. On opposite sides of the glass. Spoke by telephone, and it was a cold meeting. "Do you want us to represent you?" they asked, and Gary answered, "Let me talk to my uncle."
A long conversation went on between Gilmore and Vern. Moody heard words on Vern's side, like, "I feel confident," but Gilmore seemed squirrelly. He certainly wasn't talking freely. He looked gaunt and his color was poor. Kept talking about his headache. He was obviously suffering the aftereffects of the sleeping pills. Then they learned that he was on a hunger strike as well. He was not going to eat, he said, until they allowed him a telephone call to Nicole.
He said that and then was silent. He stared at them.
Now, Gary brought up capital punishment. Moody got ready to say he didn't believe in it, but was still mulling over such a speech, when Ron said through the other phone that he, personally, was opposed to it.
"Will you carry out my directions, however?" Gary asked.
"Yes," Ron said, "I'll represent you."
Now Bob said to Gary that lawyers were accustomed to working against the grain. There weren't many people you could defend, if you carried your beliefs into everything.
Still, it never got good with Gilmore this day. He kept answering questions with the remark, "I won't know until I see it in writing."
He was suspicious of mankind in general, and lawyers in particular.
Given the bleakness of these circumstances, Moody decided he might as well make certain of their ground. So he mentioned Dennis Boaz. "Is his relationship with you officially severed?" he asked.
Gary replied, "Dennis was the only man that really wanted to help for a while, so I owe him something. But it's over. This afternoon, I'm going to fire him."
He yawned. Moody had heard how the first few days of a fast were the worst, and if true, that was just as well, for he felt a profound stubbornness in Gilmore that spoke of a hunger strike that could continue for quite a while.
Dennis said, "I spoke to Vern, and he indicated you want to fire me."
"Uh, right," said Gilmore.
"I think that's a good idea," Dennis said.
It blew Gary out of the saddle. Right through the glass, Dennis could see him shifting his feet like he had been set to go in one direction, and now was looking for new footing.
"I didn't appreciate you talking on TV with Geraldo Rivera," said Gary. "I also didn't appreciate you calling the Warden ignorant. You've made things more difficult for me." He yawned fiercely.
"Gary," Dennis said, "I feel like there's a complete cutoff of communications between you and me."
Gilmore said, "It doesn't matter." Then he nodded, as if to himself, "Dennis," he said, "you're entitled to something. How much do you want?"
Dennis said, "All I want is to write about it." He was thinking that he might have to call his character Harry Kilmore, not Gary Gilmore.
He could balance out his book by having one theme on the murders and the other on his own work with the bus drivers: two legal cases, one a litigation to increase people's safety, the other a search for death. Might make a good novel.
He could feel how impressed Gilmore was that he didn't care about the money.
"We have a little difference of opinion," said Gilmore. "But, I'll tell you, Dennis, I'm going to invite you to my execution."
Dennis was pissed. Suddenly, he was damned mad at the way he had been let out of all this. "I don't want to see your execution," he said. That would bother Gary. He would want friends there. But Gilmore only nodded again, and they said good-bye, each of them kind of muttering, "All right, see you, take care." Dennis couldn't help it.
At the last, he said, "Look, if you want me there, I'll come."
After he left the prison, however, he got mad all over again.
Called up Barry Farrell, and said, "I want to take back what I told you about Schiller being a snake. He's a grade above. Call him an eel. My middle name is Lee, which is eel spelled backwards, so I understand eels. Schiller has ascended from snake to eel." Farrell was laughing.
"You guys will probably work out some kind of deal," he said. "I'm not even thinking," said Dennis, "about that anymore. But I'll tell you what really gets me."
"What, Dennis?"
"How your life can turn into something new so fast."
Farrell called Schiller for his version. "I had nothing to do with it," said Larry Schiller. "This news comes as a shock to me."
"It looks like you're going to get it," said Barry.
"Nothing is settled," said Schiller in a gloomy voice. "There are a lot of obstacles ahead."
"But you still have enthusiasm for the story?"
"Between us," said Schiller, "I have a big problem. Where are the sympathetic characters?"
"You have a love story," said Barry.
"I'm not so sure," Schiller told him, "I haven't met Nicole. I don't have your question 100 percent answered."
Farrell went out into the cold November sun. In the valley across the desert, the smoke from Geneva Steel in Orem was pouring forth a storm of poison so fierce that Farrell's eyes, even if long adapted to Los Angeles smog, were still smarting. He felt like one of the carrion 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.
Chapter 10
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 $50,000 and Nicole $25,000, these two lawyers 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 appropriate." Christensen told him a thousand dollars might be right, and Schiller said, "Let's make it $26,000 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, Schiller said, "Of course, it's understood that all this has to be approved 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 questions, but I can tell you I feel very comfortable with Mr. Schiller." In fact, Christensen did ask for more money. He wanted $5,000 for April's medical bills, and Schiller agreed to pay that in several installments. Schiller also stipulated that he would want the rights to April's story and the grandmother's, Mrs. Strong. So it went, comfortable, 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 $40,000 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 structure 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.
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 contingent 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 anyone else, just a simple release." Vern was agreeable, got in his truck, and went around picking them up. The total would add to another $4,000.
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 thinking: 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 convicts 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 Tuesday 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 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 de
sserts, 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.
The Executioner's Song Page 64
