Shot in the Heart - Mikal Gilmore [182]
Andrea arranged for a friend of ours, Michael, to pick me up at the airport. I could tell by the way that Michael was acting, as he drove me to my mother’s trailer, that he knew more than he was telling me. He was grave and quiet.
When I arrived, my mother showed me a news story on the front page of The Oregonian: CONVICTED KILLER ASKS UTAH TO PUT HIM TO DEATH. During the time I had been in San Francisco, Gary had waived all rights of appeal and review and was requesting that his execution be carried out. Fourth District Judge J. Robert Bullock had complied, setting the date for Monday, November 15.
I was shocked and I was furious. I figured Gary was throwing a bluff, but I also figured that if there was one state in the Union that would be happy to oblige his request, it was Utah, with its passion for Blood Atonement. As it turned out, that same day Gary’s original attorneys had filed for a stay—against his protests—and the Utah Supreme Court had granted one.
That night, back at my own home, I sat and drank some wine and tried to think about what was happening. I remember thinking that nothing would ever be the same. Not for myself, not for my family, maybe not even for the nation around me. I remember thinking that the past and the future were now closed off from each other for me, and all that was left was a terrible present: a present that had quickly become the entryway to a nightmare that none of us could ever be delivered from.
THE NEXT DAY I DECIDED IT WAS TIME TO CONFRONT GARY. I put a call through to Draper Prison. To my amazement Gary was on the phone within two minutes.
Our first few exchanges were polite but tentative. Gary grew impatient quickly. “Something on your mind?”
“Gary, are you serious about this?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s right, you don’t. You never knew me.” Gary had thrown a hurdle I couldn’t leap, one he was entitled to. I was at a loss for a reply. “Look,” he continued, a softer tone to his voice, “I’m not trying to be mean to you, but this thing’s going to happen one way or the other. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, and I don’t particularly want you to like me. It’ll be easier for me if you don’t. It seems the only time we ever talk to each other is around the time of somebody’s death. And now it’s mine.”
I hadn’t counted on Gary taking the offensive. I felt helpless against it. “What about Mother?” I asked.
“Well, I want to see Mother before all this goes down,” Gary said. “I want to see all of you. Maybe that will make it easier. But I am serious about this, and I don’t want you or anybody else to interfere. It’s totally my affair. I killed two men, the court sentenced me to die, and now I’m accepting that sentence. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on trial or in prison. I’ve lost my freedom. I lost it a long time ago. Now I’m just going to make them finish the job they started twenty years ago.”
I began to form a reply, then stopped. “What’s wrong?” asked Gary.
“It’s hard to hear this stuff from somebody you love—”
“Hey, I don’t need to hear that,” Gary broke in. “I won’t let anything hurt me anymore, and I don’t want you to think I’m some ‘sensitive’ artist because I drew pictures or wrote poems. I killed—in cold blood.” A guard told Gary that his time was up.
The next day, I learned of Gary’s successful appearance before the Utah Supreme Court on network news, and I also saw clips of my brother being led from the courtroom in shackles, with that wary, piercing stare in his eyes. I pitied and feared Gary in those moments, and I also hated him for what he was bringing upon himself and our family. I couldn’t believe his audacity, the seemingly dispassionate manner with which he sought a state-sanctioned suicide, an act which seemed no less premeditated than murder.
Also, I was reeling from having the most painful and private aspects of my family’s history transformed into public