Shot in the Heart - Mikal Gilmore [186]
The car had to stop at a central tower, where a guard gave us clearance to drive down the narrow road to maximum security, a small building surrounded by another tower and two barbed-wire fences. We were told we would be allowed a ninety-minute, uninterrupted visit. Gary was still under maximum restrictions at this point and technically wasn’t even allowed visitors, except for his attorneys. This family visit was an “exception.” We were led into an open triangular room where no guards were present and informed that we would be allowed a physical contact visit.
Gary strolled in through sliding doors dressed in prison whites and red, white, and blue sneakers, twirling a comb and smiling broadly. For so long, I’d seen only the grim, cold-looking photos and film clips that I’d forgotten how charming he could be. “You’re looking as fit as ever,” he said to Frank, and to me: “And you’re just as damn skinny as ever.”
He rearranged the benches in front of the guard-room window. “So those poor fools can keep an eye on me,” he said.
For the first few minutes we exchanged small talk, trying to get comfortable with the surroundings and to approach the inevitable subject. Gary’s face narrowed as we mentioned the decision of Robert Excell White—a condemned man in Texas whose request for execution had occurred at about the same time as Gary’s—to fight for his life. He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you could say he equivocated. Well, that has nothing to do with me. You see, for a while I felt guilty about this whole capital punishment thing, and that’s partially why I tried to kill myself. But I’m tired of everybody pinning that on me. I don’t care what happens to all these rapists and torturers. They can take them out and shoot them tomorrow. What happens to me won’t affect them; their cases will be judged on their own merits.”
I broached the prospect of intervention, but Gary cut it off right away. “Look, I don’t want anybody interfering, no outside causes, no lawyers like Amsterdam.” He reached out and took hold of my chin, staring me in the eyes. “He’s out of this, I hope.” Before I had a chance to reply, the visitors’ door rolled open and in walked Uncle Vernon and Aunt Ida. We had been assured a private visit. As far as I knew, this was our only time with Gary, and here we were, fifteen minutes into what we expected to be our last conversation with our brother, and in walk Uncle Vernon and Aunt Ida, like it’s old folks’ week. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Ida, who stood to be richer than they had ever been before if Gary would just sit down in a large wooden chair one week from now and allow five strangers to pump bullets into his heart. That Vernon and Ida—our uncle, our aunt. I was so furious, I wanted to rip the cheery, familial smiles off their fucking faces and turn them upside down.
The rest of the visit was aggravating. Gary and Vernon did most of the talking, discussing numerous people Gary wanted to leave some money to and cracking an occasional macabre joke. Vernon had brought along a bag of green T-shirts adorned with the legend GILMORE—DEATH WISH and a computerized photo of Gary. Apparently the shirts had been ordered by either Gary or Vernon. They talked about the possibility of Gary wearing one on the execution morning, and then auctioning it off to the highest bidder. I felt bilious. After the ninety minutes, the visit was terminated.
As we were leaving, Gary offered me a T-shirt. “I’m not sure it would be of much use to me, Gary.”
“Well,” he drawled, smiling, “it’s a little big for you, but I think you can grow into it.” I accepted the shirt.
“Is there anything I can do for you while you’re in town?” Vernon asked. I replied that I wanted him to arrange a meeting with Gary’s attorneys, Ron Stanger and Moody, and with Larry Schiller.
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