Shot in the Heart - Mikal Gilmore [188]
“What’s your middle name?” he asked. I told him. He jotted it down in a notebook and then wrote out a phone number and handed it to me. “This is where you can leave a message for me if you need to get in touch and can’t find me at either the Hilton or the Travelodge in Orem. But just use your middle name and not your last. That’s Stanger’s office and you shouldn’t tip him off about where you’re staying. Gary doesn’t have the best attorneys in town, but then I didn’t choose them.”
I TRIED TO CALL FRANK AT HIS HOTEL the next afternoon, but he had checked out. I called my mother back in Oregon to see if Frank had headed home, but as far as she knew, he was still in the Salt Lake area. This time, I would have to see Gary alone.
When I was signing the visitors log at Draper, I noticed that Moody and Stanger had signed in just before me. I glanced over to the phone cubicle and could see them talking to Gary. I explained to the officer in charge that I wanted to speak with my brother privately. He said he would do his best, and let me in the same triangular room I’d been in the day before. I sat in the far corner, away from the phone cage. Moments later a guard came in and told Stanger that the watch commander wanted to see him for a minute. After Stanger disappeared through the rolling bars, Moody asked Gary how the family visit had been. I couldn’t hear my brother’s reply. “Listen, Gary,” Moody continued, “Schiller met with your brother late last night at the Hilton. He thinks Mikal might try to stop the execution.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I moved over to the bench next to the cage. “Did you know that Giauque brought your brothers out here in a Rolls-Royce yesterday?” I couldn’t hear the next sentence but it included a mention of the hotel where I was registered.
The guard reentered. “Mr. Moody, will you come with me for a minute?” As he got up to leave, Moody glanced at me, then did a double take. “Who is that?” I heard him ask, farther down the corridor. I had to wait about thirty minutes before Gary came in, spinning a Scotsman’s cap on his finger and wearing a black sleeveless sweatshirt. Stanger and Moody were standing behind him. Gary introduced us. “Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances,” said Stanger, “but if there’s anything we can do for you, just give us a call.” I nodded.
“Uh, I’m glad you came back,” said Gary, after Moody and Stanger had left. Gary took a seat on the back of the bench.
“Gary, I don’t want to play any games with you. I overheard what your lawyers said and, yes, it’s true. I did meet with Schiller last night. I am thinking of seeking a stay.”
The smile on Gary’s face fell away; in its place I saw the stern stare I’d come to know from newspaper and magazine photos. “Is it true that Giauque brought you out here in a Rolls-Royce yesterday?” Schiller had asked me the same question the night before. The Rolls had become a symbol of powerful, outside intervention, I surmised, yet it seemed so trivial. I explained the situation to Gary. He spoke angrily: “Amsterdam and Giauque are cum-sucking nigger-fuckers who are just trying to use you for some cause. Why do they want to meddle with my life? Because they’re opposed to capital punishment? Does that make them special, or holy men? I was given a sentence to die. Now is that some kind of joke? I don’t want that over my head.”
I decided to avoid a discussion of legal ethics or lawyers. “If you want to believe all that shit about Giauque and Amsterdam, then go ahead,” I replied, “but it doesn’t have anything to do with you and me. I could take action independently that might achieve a stay, that could result in a commutation of your sentence.”
Gary shook his head. “That’s impossible,” he declared. “I couldn’t even stop this thing if I wanted to.” He paused for several