The Executioner's Song (89 page)

On the drive away from the house, he had his first big fight with Stephanie. Her father was in the garment business. Way Schiller saw it, Stephanie's father had always been as deep in business as a sheep is thick in wool, but Stephanie was her dad's delight, and dad had done his best to protect her. Stephanie Wolf was one beautiful princess who hated to see business operating. She might have worked as a secretary, but it never rubbed off. She detested business.

                Now, Stephanie was telling him that he'd acted like a manipulator with Kathryne Baker. "How dare you take advantage of that woman by talking business in the middle of all her grief? Her daughter was just committed yesterday." Larry tried to lay it out for her. "You don't mind," he said, "going to ABC's cocktail parties, but ABC couldn't care less whether they're going to have Larry Schiller at their party next week. I'm only as good as what I can do for ABC. Damn it," he said, "if you're interested in me, you've got to accept me as who I am. You've got to love the part you love, and if there's a part you don't like, you've still got to learn to deal with it. You can't bawl the shit out of me because of what I say in a living room, the very minute I walk out of that room." They really had a big fight, Stephanie, after all, was the girl for whom Schiller was ready to break up a marriage that had gone on for sixteen years, but he could see that their relation was going to be put to every strain during this Gilmore business. Part of his brain was beginning to work already on the possibility of sending Stephanie to Europe to take care of foreign rights. If she stayed around, he could lose the Gilmore story. The aggravations between him and her over this one episode had been close to apoplectic.

That night, unable to sleep, he got up at two in the morning and dictated a contract for the Gilmore rights to a legal service in Salt Lake City. Over the telephone, his words were recorded, and early in the morning some girl would type it up. However, he didn't like the idea that a stranger would hear the terms of the contract. It could easily be leaked to a newspaper. Schiller knew that if he was working for a local paper, he would try to have a pipeline into such places. You could get a story that way.

                Still, he had to have something ready to show Vern's and Mrs. Baker's separate lawyers. So he pretended to be a buyer of sheep and cattle from California, and dictated how many lambs and cows were to be sold in return for conveying full rights to said stock. The humor of it appealed to him at two in the morning.

                Tomorrow, he would change the sheep and cows into specific people. There were a lot of good businessmen in the world, and a lot of good journalists, thought Schiller, but maybe he was one of the few who could be both.

Over the weekend Barry Farrell interviewed Larry Schiller in Los Angeles. They had worked together on Life years ago, but Farrell had not been feeling friendly to Schiller lately. A little over a year before, Larry had been getting a book of photographs together on Muhammad All. He had called Barry to say he wanted him to do the text, and Farrell had gotten into conversations with his publisher about it.

                Then Schiller signed Wilfred Sheed. Farrell felt he had been merely another name to feed into the hopper, and was pissed off over that.

Every December, however, he liked to clean the slates, so he wrote Schiller a letter saying in effect, "I'm over my pique. We did some good things together in the past and maybe we will again." It cleared the air for Farrell. He thought he could talk without bias to Larry if something came up.

Nonetheless, soon as he heard that Schiller was in Utah trying to get the Gilmore story, Farrell was ready to travel with a sharp pencil.

                Larry would be exposing himself to the very thing he'd been criticized for in the past. It would be a great opportunity to observe how he would bid for Gilmore's corpse.

So Farrell arranged to do a piece for New West, and talked to the Warden of the prison, to Susskind, and finally got together with Schiller in Los Angeles on the weekend. By then, Farrell was hardly happy about Dennis Boaz. That fucking hippie, he told himself, persistently fails to understand the stakes. Here Farrell had started with a little animus against Schiller, but Susskind was talking future profits up to fifteen million dollars while offering peanuts. Farrell began to think somewhat gloomily—since Christmas resolution or no, he had looked forward to doing a couple of numbers on Schiller—that the man might be the only one with a realistic notion of what could happen when you died in public. Schiller had done it before, seen the relatives, held their hands. He was closer to the difficulty than Boaz, who was always presenting himself as more organic than thou.

God, Gilmore had need of protection. Nothing got covered on TV more than public death. Farrell listened to Dennis talking about Gary and Nicole in a prison cottage with a couple of pet plants in the backyard, and it disgusted Farrell. Gary's life was running out. There was no way they were not going to kill him in the State of Utah.

                Why, if Gilmore was not executed, a major wave of executions might be touched off. Every conservative in America would say: They couldn't even shoot this fellow who wanted to be shot. Who are we ever going to punish?

Schiller's rap, at least, was solid. Build foundations. Get those contracts up like walls. Let everybody know where they stand.

                Farrell found himself being kind to Schiller in the piece he wrote for New West.

Schiller was on the radio a couple of times, and the nature of his phone calls was changing. He could feel the press coming nearer. He decided to get in contact with Ed Guthman of the Los Angeles Times.

                "Ed," he said, "I need an outlet. I'll give you two thousand words for your front page and an exclusive interview with Gilmore sometime before the execution date, if you'll give me one of your top criminal reporters now as a sounding board." Guthman had a good man named Dave Johnston, who was available for a day, and Schiller and Johnston tried to foresee the problems. If, for instance, you could get only one interview with Gilmore, what were the questions to ask?

                In addition, Schiller needed a story in the next week or so about himself. Not a large story, but a quiet one on a Monday. He wanted to scale down the importance of his presence on the scene. No sudden focus of attention with everybody saying: Carrion bird is getting it.

                Instead, Johnston would write a piece about how the press had come into Salt Lake from all over the world, and Schiller would only be mentioned in the third or fourth paragraph.

Since this modest perspective would not benefit his standing with Vern Damico's and Kathryne Baker's new lawyers, Schiller took pains to tell them separately that the story coming out would give him the virtue of a low profile for the present. He went on to say that there would be times, handling the press, when he might make mistakes, but, "I have seen the heat come down, and I will do my best to protect your credibility. We will set it up like a team operation, and I will take the shots." Over and over he said, "There may be things I do that make you unhappy, we may have our disagreements, but I am still friends with all the people I have worked with. Look," he would say, "pick up the phone and call Shelly Dunn in Denver, Colorado. He was the lawyer on Sunshine. He will tell you how he and I are still friends now, and that, in general, I was right about the press, not right about everything, but often right." Then Schiller would mention Paul Caruso's number, and remind them that he was the lawyer on the Susan Atkins case. "We had a lot of trouble with that," Schiller said, 'many disagreements, but feel free to call him." He named a couple of other lawyers as well.

In fact, Schiller did not have a clear or certain idea what all these attorneys might say about him, but, then, it had been his experience that very few people actually made such phone calls.

When Vern met his lawyer, Bob Moody, on Monday morning, he thought he was a quiet, confident, intelligent man. Moody was well built, and half bald, and his eyeglasses looked competent. His way of talking was very carefully spoken. Vern noticed that when Bob Moody said something, he didn't have to repeat it. Assumed you understood.

                Vern saw him as in the category of upper class. Would belong to the country club and have an expensive home in the foothills of Provo. "Mortgage Heights," Vern called it.

                To Moody, Vern Damico seemed a concerned relative, sincerely looking for good advice and the best deal he could shape up. He kept saying that he wanted Gary's wishes to be carried out. He wanted some kind of dignity retained for his nephew if possible.

                Moody talked to him about the difficulty of trying to represent Gary's criminal interests and his literary estate. Bob Moody didn't think it would work to negotiate contracts for books or films while trying to advise Gary on his legal situation. Suppose, at some point, Gary wished to change his mind and appeal, why then the rights for his life story would be considerably less. A potential conflict of interest existed right there. You just didn't want a situation where a lawyer might have to ask himself whether his client's death might be more profitable to him. Vern nodded. A second lawyer would be necessary.

                Bob now mentioned a fellow named Ron Stanger. A local man with whom he had worked in the past. Worked with him, worked against him. He felt he could recommend Ron.

In fact, Moody had already called Stanger over the weekend.

                "How," Bob Moody had kidded, "would you like to take over from Dennis Boaz?" They had agreed it would be fascinating. Lots of public appeal and great legal questions. In fact, a fellow like Gilmore, capable of putting the State of Utah through hoops, ought to be interesting to meet.

                Of course, they also wondered whether this would be another crusade where you don't get paid. Moody had said good-bye to Stanger with the mutual understanding that they would consider a lot of things, and one was capital punishment. Of course, you could assume it would not go that far. Probably, the convict was bluffing.

                When it got to last push against last shove, he'd appeal.

Just about a week ago, Moody and Stanger had happened to be leaving Court together, and saw Snyder and Esplin out on the court house lawn being interviewed by local TV. As they drove past, they catcalled. It was really funny seeing Craig and Mike under TV lights.

                Shortly thereafter, they ribbed Snyder in the coffee shop. How did it feel to carry out an appeal your client didn't want? "You really do good work," they told him with a grin. Snyder grinned back.

Even after the suicide attempt it was hard for Moody and Stanger to take the case with complete seriousness. By then, courthouse talk was "Snyder, your work is going to blazes. Your man is carrying out the sentence himself." But, then, lawyers had to be like surgeons, joked while they washed their hands. So, on the phone that Saturday night, when Moody told Stanger there was a good possibility he'd be called in, Stanger replied, "All we need is to be on TV and have Craig Snyder drive by."

Now, discussing it with Vern on Monday morning, Bob Moody said over the phone, "Ron, come over and meet Vern and see what he thinks of you." It was his way of telling Stanger he had the job.

Vern was struck with the difference. Ron was a real peppy fellow.

                In fact, his physical appearance threw Vern. Stanger looked like a fresh kid out of law school. Vern wondered, "Can a man this young do what Gary wants?" He decided to hire him because of Moody's recommendation, but couldn't keep from saying to Stanger, "I guess you're kind of young."

                "Not really," said Stanger, pointing to Moody, "this bald-headed guy and I are practically the same age." Vern didn't know if he liked him. Stanger's eyes were gleaming, like his hooves were flashing in the air. "Let's get it on," was his look. Maybe that was good for a lawyer.

                Vern was having to make a lot of decisions about people before he knew how much to trust them. That was not what he would call comfortable.

A few years back, when Moody was Assistant County Attorney, he had been prosecuting a drug charge, and Ron Stanger had been defending. Ron's methods that day were downright insulting. Moody finally got so mad, the Judge called Stanger and him to the bench, and the Jury got a big kick out of that. Two lawyers fighting to the death. In the closing argument, Ron added the crowning blow of telling the Jury that if Mr. Moody had really been ready to prove his case, he would have taken this ten-dollar bill the prosecution said was paid over for drugs, and shown the fingerprints on it. It was a closing argument, with no opportunity for rebuttal, so Bob couldn't reply that a ten-dollar bill has no less than ten thousand fingerprints on it. He was plenty upset. Part of the game was to win your case—you loved to win—but Ron's tactics had gone further than a friendly jab or two.

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.