The Executioner's Song - The Executioner's Song Part 77
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The Executioner's Song Part 77

In the parking lot were Vern and Ida, then Toni, and two middle-aged cousins of Gary's named Evelyn and Dick Gray. All of them, together with Father Meersman, were taken over to Maximum Security, and Lieutenant Fagan was cordial on this night and showed the facilities. The prisoners had been fed early, and the gates between the visiting room and the main dining room for Maximum Security were open so that they could pass back and forth between the two rooms during the evening. A considerable space altogether.

Perhaps so much as a hundred feet of movement in the longest direction, half of that the other way, plus a couple of smaller extra rooms adjacent for more private conversations. Lieutenant Fagan's office was open, and the kitchen, and the booth with the glass window where formerly they talked with Gary.

All this was at the front of Maximum Security just back of the two sliding gates that separated them from the exterior. At the rear of the visiting room, also barred by a gate, was the long hallway through Maximum off which were set the various cell rows. Moody had never been back there, and was not familiar with the area, so much as respectful of it. It was like the hallway that led to the cellar stairs in a large oppressive old house. Just as you imagined you could hear groans in those old cellars, so from the cell blocks came cries and shouts and moans and slamming sounds clear up to the visiting room, but muted, as if under the rock.

Since they planned to be there through the night and wanted to save their good clothes for morning, Moody and Stanger had come with a change. They had also brought crackers and soft drinks which proved unnecessary, for the prison offered light refreshments all evening.

Tang and Kool-Aid and cookies and coffee. Then, Father Meersman procured a TV set and plugged it in. Somebody had managed to bring a portable stereo with a few records, and what with the three or four guards circulating through the kitchen and dining room and visiting room, and, at various times, Father Meersman and Cline Campbell and the two lawyers and the cousins and Vern and Toni and Ida, it was almost enough people for a party. Not to mention the guard on duty all through the night in the bulletproof glass-enclosed booth that overlooked the visiting room.

Every couple of hours somebody would come from the pharmacy with medication. As the evening went on, Bob Moody came to recognize they were giving Gary some kind of speed. Doubtless, the pharmacists saw it as a blessing and kept it coming, and in the early hours of the evening, Gary did keep getting happier and happier. In the beginning, he was so delighted to see Toni, and held her for so long, and kissed her with such cousinly gusto, that Bob and Ron and Vern and the others just sat back and waited, didn't want to interrupt when Gary was so obviously delighting in her visit. Besides, there were chores to accomplish. The guards had brought in a couple of cots with mattresses, and provisions were being laid out for the evening, and then Toni was hardly there very long before Ron and Bob had to take her down between the barbed-wire fences into the swarm of press. It was practically an operation. Until they got her into the track, it felt like their eyes were being seared with strobe lights and their souls with the general mania. For they were magical to the press tonight. They had seen the man and could report on him.

They kept saying "No comment," and looked for Schiller, and talked enough to keep the media close up with their microphones and tape recorders. That gave Vern time to slip around and have a talk with Larry.

Moody and Stanger might have been temporarily satisfying the majority of these reporters, but there was a great deal of press, and Larry and Vern also became the center of a swarm. In the squeeze, Vern could only whisper, "Have you got the liquor?" and Schiller said, "Yeah." "How," whispered Vern, "am I going to get it in?" "Put the little bottles under your armpits," said Larry, "and keep your elbows close." "Fine," said Vern, "but how do I get it under my coat?"

The press was surrounding them as tightly as a crowd packed around two players of the winning team caught on the field after the game.

Schiller turned and shouted, "Can't you let this man have a little privacy? You're hounding him. Get back." Physically he pushed on the press a little, not laying on rough hands so much as using the mixture of pressure and slight hysteria that worked best with reporters, "Give him a little privacy," he repeated. They retreated two feet, maybe three, room enough for Vern to do something with the liquor. By the time Larry turned around, Vern was ready to go back to the glare of the lights in the visiting room with the record player going and the TV set, and Gilmore beginning to spend his last night on earth.

4.

The little bottles went fast. Gary would dip into a back room and take a nip, then come out with a wink. Moody thought it was appropriate.

If that was what the man wanted, then he ought to be able to enjoy a drink. It had been years since Moody had tasted alcohol, but this was a social event. If some corner of Moody's mind could hear the criticism that Gilmore was going to meet his maker in the morning, and that might be wiser on a sober head, still Moody thought, this is more like a last meal. If he wants to go out drunk, he has a right. He thought of how Gary had deliberately not requested his six-pack of Coors at the end because he did not want the world to think he would be unable to face it without something to help him. But now, the speed was coming in, and the booze.

Yet, at the sight of Gary's pleasure, and the way he enjoyed the feeling of slight intoxication, for he didn't get very drunk, it began as a nice evening. Gary even took one of the guards into one of the back offices and gave him liquor from the curved medicine bottles Schiller had also sent in.

Bob, himself, loved the idea that he was able to go up to Gary, shake hands with him, hold him, look at him for a second, face to face-it was unexpected how great a need had developed to do something as simple as that after all these weeks. In fact, this was the first face-to-face meeting without urgent business to discuss. So, it was a pleasure to see Gary become loose and grow to enjoy the night.

It was easy and it was relaxed. During the course of the hours, Ron or he would get up and walk out and get a soft drink in the kitchen, and Evelyn and Dick Gray would go back and forth, and Vern. There was not any terrible feeling of a clock or any sense that outside the prison, lawyers might be preparing to seek a Stay.

Early that evening when they first came into the room and Gary was there without a pane of glass between, actually able to go up and touch, Stanger greeted him warmly, shook hands, put his arm around his shoulder in kind of a semihug, a masculine hit on the shoulder. It was kind of a victory, if you will, thought Stanger, that they were together. He stayed in that sense of glow.

A little later, while the evening was still pleasant, Ron started talking about his boxing experience on the team at BYU, and Gary mentioned that he knew a little about it. They got up, and started sparring. Ron had assumed it would be a matter of throwing a mock punch or two, but Gary wanted to make it more of a contest. While he couldn't really box, he was a street fighter, and threw a lot of punches. Ron kept stepping aside to avoid getting hit, but, of course, that wasn't the purpose of the whole thing. Only Gilmore kind of got this glint. The harder he hit, the more there was to enjoy. Gary sure had his little mean streak.. Hit with fists closed, Ron had to catch it on his shoulders and hands. At one point, like it was still in fun, Gary analyzed his own style, said, "I don't lead, I'm a counterpuncher," and threw a lead. Ron slipped it, turned his shoulder into Gary to tie him up, then bailed out and walked away. Gary kept pursuing. It wasn't like normal sparring where you go in, tap a man, then withdraw to show how you could have hit the guy hard. Gary was throwing one real bomb after another. A couple almost clobbered Ron good.

Of course, for the first twenty or thirty seconds, Ron was still feeling beautiful. He was faster than Gary. It was just that after a minute, he began to count his age with every breath, and Gary was a couple of inches taller, and had longer reach. Soon, there was the same flavor Stanger would find whenever he walked into Maximum. All these cons worked out with weights, knowing they had bodies. Their presence leaned on you psychologically. It was as if their bodies said, "I got more right to be free than you, boy." So, Ron was glad when he found an opportunity to clinch with Gary, hug him, grin, and indicate it was over.

After the boxing, Gary began to make some phone calls. Ron could hear him on the line with the station that played Country-and-Western, and he kidded them about how bad they were and thanked them for playing "Walking in the Footsteps of Your Mind." Next, he went into Fagan's office to make a call to his mother. Of course, Ron didn't try to listen, but Gary came out all excited because he also was able to get a call in to Johnny Cash. Then he began to move around restlessly as if it bothered him that the record player was going, and there was nobody to dance with. Yet, things were still in a good mood. The boxing had set up a kind of intimacy between Gary and Ron. While ups and downs were beginning to appear in the evening, still, it was okay, and the mood was all right. Like any long night, there had to be peaks and valleys. During one of the lulls, Gary now came over to Ron and said he wanted to tell him something, wanted to be alone with him. They took a bench in a corner of the visiting room, away from the others.

Gary said he had $50,000, and looked Ron right in the eye. His pale gray-blue eyes looked as deep as the sky on one of those odd mornings when you cannot tell by the light of dawn whether good or foul weather lies ahead. "Yes, Ron," he said, "I've got $50,000, or to be exact about it, access to $50,000, and I'll give it to you. All I want is that the next time you go outside, leave me the keys to your extra clothes." Those other clothes were in a locker back in one. of the little rooms. "There's so much hubbub around here," Gilmore said, "that the guards won't know. Just leave your key."

"What do you have in mind?" Ron asked. Ron couldn't believe how stupid he was acting, "Well, what, really, Gary, do you have in mind?" he asked again, and then it hit him, and he felt doubly stupid.

"Ron," said Gary, "if I can get through that double gate in your clothes, I'm out. There's nothing past there but the outside door, and that's always open. I'll just skin up the barbed wire and flip over the rolls at the top. That wire'll put a few holes in me, but it's nothing."

"Then, you drop?" asked Ron. "Yeah," said Gilmore. "Then you drop, and start running. If I get out there, I'm gone. You leave those clothes, all right?"

Now Ron realized what had been going into those arduous calisthenics Gary had done every day. He forced himself to look back into Gary's eye, Ron would say that much for himself, and he answered, "Gary, when we started, part of our bargain was no hanky-panky." Then he made himself say, "I've grown very close to you. I'd do anything I could for you. But I'm not going to put my children and my family in jeopardy." Gary nodded. Acknowledged it all with that nod. Didn't seem discouraged so much as confirmed.

Ron was remembering that as Toni and Ida left, Gary had gone into a playful little scene where he put on Toni's hat and Ida's coat and pretended to get into the double door with them. All very funny at the time. Everybody was laughing, including the novice guard on the gate, a young kid Ron had never seen before, but all that guard would have had to do was, by mistake, open both doors at once. Gary would have been gone. Wow! It came over him. This guy meant what he said. If he had to stay in prison, he wanted to die. But if he could get outside, that was another game. But if he could get outside, that was another game.

Sitting on a bench, trying to keep his thoughts above the pain in his knee, taking it all in with sorrow and fatigue and considerable churning at the core of his stomach, Vern was feeling pretty emotional. He knew his face was set like stone but it was getting hard to hold up.

He almost busted out once-didn't know if it was to cry or laugh-when Gary said over the phone, "Is this the real Johnny Cash?" That was as crazy as you would want.

Now, Gary was going around in the hat Vern had bought for him at Albertson's food store, a Robin Hood type of archer's hat, way too big. It had been the last one left. Vern had looked at Ida and said, "He wears funny things anyway, so I'll buy it." How could you love a guy because he wanted to wear a crazy hat? Ah, Gary was so full of love this night. Vern had never seen him this rich. The only thing in the world he could still get mad about was the prison, and he even had a funny attitude there. "My last night," he kept saying with his grin, "so they can't punish me anymore," and Vern came near again to that feeling he was going to cry. He remembered that day so many visits ago that Gary had said, "Vern, there's no use talking about the situation. I killed those men, and they're dead. I can't bring them back, or I would."

A little later, Stanger was feeling restless, Talking of escape with Gary hadn't exactly calmed him down, so he said, "Hey, let's get some pizza," and asked Lieutenant Fagan, "Can we get cleared?"

Everybody liked the idea. Stanger only had six bucks on him, so Father Meersman kicked in a little and Fagan was good for two, and some of the guards pitched in. Then Vern came up out of a reverie and said, "Nobody contributes. I'm buying the pizzas. You just take care of getting them."

Fagan volunteered a car with a man to drive them, and then Ron and Bob and the guard went out and stopped in the parking lot long enough for Stanger to slip out of the car, walk around, find Larry, and tell him, "Gary wants to call you around one-thirty in the morning,"

Schiller said, "Okay, I'll go with you."

By now, the press wasn't on Schiller's ear and elbow anymore.

The cold had gotten to everybody. People stayed in their vans drinking, and Schiller was able to stroll around the perimeter and get to the police car unobserved. The guard in the front seat said, "Who are you?" but Schiller only replied, "I'm supposed to be going out with you," and got in, and lay down in the back. Stanger, in the mean while, had gotten waylaid by a reporter. It took five minutes before he and Moody could return. Then they went up the road, and the outer gate swung open and they were out of the prison grounds. Schiller got off the floor and everybody started laughing.

If they drove Larry all the way back to Orem, the prison would wonder why the car had been gone so long. It was better they head north to the near outskirts of Salt Lake. From there, Schiller called his driver. With it all, he still got back to the motel before midnight, there to wait for Gary's call.

The Pizza Hut was the only place open, and they were the last customers, and ordered the stuff with ham, salami and pepperoni, Bob Moody thinking he'd hit everybody with the selection, and picked up some beer in a grocery. Back at the prison, their car was searched, and the beer confiscated. It made them mad, but the guard examining them was a stiff, and said alcohol would not be tolerated on prison grounds. The irony was that he didn't even look at the pizza boxes. They could have hidden five pistols in there. Then they proceeded from the outer gate down the entrance road to the front of Administration and the guard at the top of the tower spoke down to them like God's voice coming out of a dark cloud to say there had been a ruling against the pizza. Not acceptable.

While they were still disputing that, new word came. They could walk in with the pizzas after all. It was just that Gary wouldn't be able to have any. He had not put it on the list for his last supper.

Moody could conceive of the scene in the Warden's office. One big heavy meeting. What? Food brought in from outside? Stop it! By the time they arrived at the door to Maximum, Bob and Ron were so angry they stood out there to eat their pizza in the cold, and by the time they went in, Lieutenant Fagan was very embarrassed over the situation, very. He was a small man, with white hair, a mustache, and a lean build, usually a crisp and pleasant man, but hangdog now over the way his superiors had reacted. After a while a guard came up and said Gary could have a piece, too. Of course, Gary wouldn't go near the stuff by then. Gave a look to blister paint, and said, "I hope everybody's enjoying my last meal."

Meanwhile, Father Meersman kept entering and going out again. He kept them posted with what was going on in the Administration Building and, presumably, thought Bob, kept the administration posted on what was going on with them.

After this episode, there was a feeling of humiliation all over. Last night, Gary could have requested any of a hundred dishes. The Warden would have initialed the form and he could have had it tonight. Now, it was too late. A couple of pharmacists, however, came to give him more pills. He couldn't eat pizza, but they would feed him speed. Stanger decided the best word for the prison administration was "beautiful."

They also heard that Sterling and Ruth Ann Baker were not being let in to visit. The prison had run a check on Sterling and he had a record. Two traffic citations. A real big criminal record. Grotesque, Moody was muttering to himself. Stupid. Idiotic. Asinine.

8.

At Toni's birthday party, there were dozens of phone calls from friends, so Toni didn't have to think about Gary. All the same, she kept saying to her mother, "I want to go back up," and Ida would reply, "Oh, hon, all those reporters know who you are now." Toni thought, "All right, I'll get up at five."

Her in-laws left early, and she and Howard just sat there talking.

She knew he could feel how she wanted to be with Gary again. Of course, she also didn't want to leave Howard. Besides, that press! The lights in your eyes were frightening, and you could hear reporters' nerves snapping on every question. It was the first time she had ever felt like an animal in a cage with other animals.

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.

There was nothing rousing in the way Dabney gave Hansen this news. Originally from Virginia, his name was V. (for Virginius) Jinks Dabney, a bland-looking fellow with horn-rimmed glasses, who wore seersuckers in summer and tweed jackets in winter. He had a perky, remote way of speaking as if he might know you for ten years but that was no reason to raise his voice. It was obvious he downplayed drama. Did it so well, he could make his lack of it dramatic. All the same, when Earl heard the news, he had a dramatic reaction-a sure feeling the case was lost. He had honestly supposed Judge Ritter wouldn't even consider it. The legal arguments were so thin, and the thing had been submitted so late. Then his gloom increased with the knowledge that Bob Hansen wouldn't even be with them. Thought it would literally hurt their chances if his face was seen in Court. So, Bob left. He was going to get some sleep. That depressed Earl further. Bob sounded like he expected to be needing that sleep later!

It was spooky going down the halls of the courthouse in the dark, with just a few maintenance lights on, but by the time the lawyers had settled at their tables, a number of crime reporters started filtering in. Everybody was beginning to feel more serious by the moment. Then began a long wait for Ritter.

At the table for the Assistant Attorney Generals, which in this case was the defendant's table, Earl sat watching Jinks Dabney and Judith Wolbach on the plaintiff's side. Earl was trying to quiet his temper, and reminded himself of the time he had failed to cross-examine Schiller properly. No matter, he was furious. It was outright unfair of the ACLU, he felt, to wait until now to go to Court. He didn't mind that their case was weak. It was ethical to bring in anything that was remotely plausible. You could try, even if 99 percent of the facts and the law were against you, but it was unfair to wait till the night before an execution. What if Earl's office had not devoted good working hours to troubleshooting these issues? Without such foresight, the ACLU would have caught them unprepared. That would have been unfair to the State of Utah.

Over at the plaintiff's table, Judy Wolbach was also feeling pretty mad. Jinks Dabney was a good courtroom attorney, but she herself had little experience in cases of this sort, and she was pissed off at her own ACLU. Why, in a major case like this, could they only come up with herself, unqualified, and with Jinks, only partially willing?

He was an awfully good lawyer, but not exactly an enthusiastic adherent of the ACLU. Jinks had a promising career ahead in Salt Lake, and it didn't help a rising young legal talent to be known among all these gung-ho Mormons as a civil liberties advocate.

Where were all the big ACLU boys from the big firms in the East who were supposed to contribute their massive liberal expertise? She couldn't comprehend it. A case as big and interesting as this, being left to the local talent.

Judy had tried every trick she knew, including the release she gave to the newspapers of her conversation with Melvin Belli to throw a scare into Bob Hansen. It could be disastrous for the Attorney General if Utah lost a few million bucks because of him. All she had gotten for her pains, however, was a truly weird and pompous response. Hansen said there was no question as to the constitutionality of Utah's death penalty statutes. No question? Why, only an idiot Legislature could pass a statute that didn't insist on an appeal for the death penalty. The whole idea, even among conservatives, was to be cautious about capital punishment. Nobody wanted bloodbaths anymore.

Even from a conservative point of view, the best way to obtain your capital punishment was by emphasizing every safeguard against killing a man for too little. Yet, Utah-good old Utah-had neglected to make the appeal mandatory. What could be more defective, an idiot child?

All the same, this taxpayers' action was awfully hokey for a suit, Judith thought. The only good thing about it was the letters she'd been able to send to the Governor, the Lieutenant Governor, the Attorney General, and the Warden! All accused of wrongful acts and unlawful expenditures. She wished she could have seen their faces.

Those letters had been delivered by her own daughter, who, bless her heart, maybe because of the Jewish blood of her father, was a very politically conscious young lady, and had been upset when she discovered her mother was practicing law to make money. Thought that was wrong. One should not worry about money. One should just go ahead and file political suits. Bless her heart, Judy Wolbach thought. Thank God she feels that way. Still, the measure of how picayune were ACLU resources was that Judy might not have gotten those letters out to any defendants this Sunday without her daughter to serve as runner.