Executioner's Song, The - Norman Mailer [246]
"But, what if you read the transcript?"
"There is no transcript."
"That," said a reporter, "is because nobody ever asked for one. A transcript is easily obtained."
"There is," said Dennis, "no money to pay for a transcript. Besides," added Dennis, "it wouldn't do any good. Gilmore doesn't want his sentence reduced to life."
"But what," asked the reporter, "if it turned out he didn't get a Miranda warning, or the Judge's instructions were wrong? If he had a chance for a new trial, that would be another thing, right?"
"No," said Dennis. "Gary's dead on the facts. He'd be convicted again. Look, you have to understand Gilmore," said Dennis. "He may be a vicious killer, but he's just."
"He wasn't," said the reporter, "very just with those two guys he killed."
"No, definitely," said Dennis, "really, he's just."
That was how his interviews went. Now, on this day, on these steps, fresh with the rumor that Warden Smith had gone hog wild with rage, the reporters wanted to know what Dennis had done to get him that way. Dennis had an impromptu press conference right on the steps of the prison.
Well, he said, Sam Smith was mad because he had sold two interviews.
One had gone for $500 to the London Daily Express, and another for $500 to a Swedish labor-union newspaper. The Swedes were probably attracted by the historical coincidence, Dennis suggested.
Joe Hill, the famous Swedish immigrant who organized the Wobblies, was executed in Utah in 1915. Didn't they remember, "I dreamt I saw Joe Hill last night, alive as you and me?" Why, Joe Hill had even asked his best buddy to carry his remains across the state line into Wyoming. "I don't care," said Joe Hill, "to ever spend another night in Utah."
"What was the other sale?" they asked.
"Bryan Vine for the Daily Express. 'I Talked With A Killer' is what he's going to call it. He was the first to offer me money," said Dennis. "Came right out front with it."
"What did you get?"
"I told you, $500!"
"Don't you think it was cheap?"
"I didn't want to make too much and look like I was greedy. $500 for a ten-minute interview! That's good money for your time." So he would talk, and they would write, and then the news stories would come out. They made him look relatively responsible in the newspaper stories, like a controlled nut, Dennis thought.
Tamera had gone to work at 5 A.M. and spent six hours Xeroxing Gary's letters. She knew some of the reporters were raising their eyebrows at how she protected the stuff, but Tamera didn't want anyone reading over her shoulder, and making the sort of cynical nonchalant comments newspaper people could make. Still, nobody seemed that excited.
In fact, at Friday afternoon meeting, the Executive Editor said, "I don't think we're interested in love letters." Just brushed it off like that.
The paper was famous, of course, for being the leading Mormon daily in the world, and was owned by the Church, so it tended to be a little starchy. Tammy had certainly heard enough complaints from the non-Mormons on staff. The Deseret News had rules you wouldn't believe for a paper. Since it was located in a Church-owned building, you couldn't smoke in the newsroom, or drink coffee at your desk.
Had to go to the lunchroom. A lot of the reporters would make frantic trips all day to the bathroom. It wasn't like the Deseret News, therefore, to get excited about having these love letters in the house. Except, two days ago, they'd been frantic to obtain them. Now, the story was on the back burner. Even Tamera had to feel skeptical. The whole thing could end up being just another account of a con and his girl. With the execution being put off again, Gary's death could be in the distance.
November 12
Boaz was all excited 'cause a movie producer and famous news man named David Susskind had just offered him 15 to 20 thousand dollars cash as a down payment for rights to this fuckin story-plus 5 percent of the gross on movie rights and shit-could run to hundreds of thousands, says Boaz.
Baby, I don't like that-it's getting