Without a Doubt (39 page)

At the time, I accepted these events as normal. Only now did I finally get it. I was being
stalked
, for God’s sake. Not only had I been stalked, but I went to the jail to bail out my stalker! The parallels with Nicole Brown Simpson’s life were chilling.

Memories. Once you unleash them, you have to be prepared to reckon with them. In the interest of self-preservation, I made a decision to suppress certain ugly realities about my life with Gaby.

As I look back on it, I can see that others about me were doing the same thing. What I had seen in the Browns as disengagement was, I realize now, an attempt to protect themselves from the ravages of memory. Not that I wasn’t angered by their stonewalling, but as the New Year dawned, I felt infinitely more compassion for their plight. Denial is sometimes the only comfort you can offer yourself. Because once you let yourself feel, the misery is endless.

T
he Empty Chair

CAR TAPE.
It’s now January sixth. Fifth. Something like that. It’s Thursday after New Year’s Eve. We worked all through New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day. Finally took Monday off
.

We mapped out our whole trial strategy. Bill wasn’t there Saturday and we finished the whole thing. Me and Hank and Chris got through the whole map of the case, which was wonderful. Bill came in on Sunday
. . . .
Having Chris in there
—
he’s tough, he’s a fighter, he’s smart and when he gets in to do something I know he’s gonna do it perfectly
.

By New Year’s, just three weeks before opening statements were set to begin, Bill Hodgman was fading before my eyes. He grew thinner and more haggard with each passing day. He wouldn’t talk to me about what was bothering him. All he would say was that he wasn’t sleeping well.

That was clear. His eyes were always bloodshot. His face was etched with fatigue. He was trying to hang in there with all the strength he could muster; I could see him struggling to get through the inhuman workload we labored under every day. But after his scuffle with the seventy-one-year-old black juror back in October, he had been out sick with the flu, or some mysterious stomach ailment, almost constantly. Bill was clearly wrestling with his own demons. Believe me, I could sympathize. Yet neither of us felt comfortable confiding our personal problems to the other. So I could only guess at what was eating him.

Bill just didn’t seem prepared to do what was required in this case: get in there and kick the shit out of the defense. Shortly after that weird episode with the juror, he got sucked into another bullshit controversy.

O. J. Simpson had been receiving jailhouse visits from Roosevelt Grier, a former NFL defensive lineman who was purportedly now a minister. Grier and the defendant met regularly in a visiting room, where they sat on either side of a glass partition. They spoke to each other by telephone. On December 14, a sheriff’s deputy who had been manning the control booth supposedly heard Simpson slam down the receiver and blurt out something that could have been interpreted as a confession. (The
National Enquirer
would later report an unidentified source at the jail as saying that Simpson, who was holding a Bible at the time, had exclaimed, “I did it.”)

But when all this came down, no one in the D.A.‘s office had a clue as to what Simpson had actually said. Ito had ordered the sheriffs not to say anything, and they were so scared of bad press they wouldn’t even tell us on the QT. The deputies filed a report with the court, but it was kept under seal. And so we found ourselves in a ridiculous position: the Sheriff’s Department, the judge, and the defense team all knew what Simpson had said—but we didn’t. Roosevelt Grier, of course, knew, but he wasn’t telling. He claimed that Simpson’s outburst was protected by clergyman-penitent privilege.

We took the position that it was not. For all we knew, Grier had gotten his credentials through a diploma mill. So we filed a motion compelling him to testify. Bill and I huddled to decide who should take him. I’d handled most of the motions so far. “It should be you,” I told him. I expected that this would be the sort of civilized exchange to which Bill was well suited. Grier had a reputation as a decent, principled guy. I thought he might actually welcome the opportunity to offer his testimony in a neutral and forthright manner.

My hopes quickly faded once we got to the courtroom. As Grier hulked to the witness stand, I could see that he was going to be a real handful. He carried a Bible, which he clutched as tightly as a fumbled football recovered from the twenty-yard line. He made no bones about which side he favored. He glared at Bill angrily and gave evasive, curt answers. He described his visits to Simpson as “Bible-reading sessions.” Bill had to bob and weave through Johnnie Cochran’s objections, as the Dream Team continued to insist that nothing from the so-called Bible-reading sessions could be admissible—that even a discussion of the Rams’ chances against the 49ers was covered by privilege.

Simpson beamed as Ito let them have that one. Bill tried another tack. Under oath, the deputies had described Simpson as “upset… very loud, in a raised voice… yelling.” Bill suggested that because Simpson was shouting so loudly, he’d waived confidentiality. Did Simpson indeed raise his voice over normal speaking levels? Bill asked Grier.

“No, sir,” he snapped, icily.

Bill was really rattled. When he returned to the counsel table I leaned over and whispered, “That was a tough one. You did good, partner.”

As usual, this wrangling came to no satisfactory conclusion. Ito issued another incomprehensible ruling. He agreed that Simpson had indeed shouted loudly enough for bystanders to hear him and thus had technically waived his privilege. But he—Ito—was the one who had instructed the Sheriff’s Department to set up a private receiving room for Simpson’s visitors. Now, he reasoned, these special accommodations (which, incidentally, did not include soundproofing and required the presence of a guard) had lulled Simpson into mistakenly believing that his conversations could not be overheard. In accordance with this Alice-in-Wonderland logic, he gave the decision to the defense.

Once again, Bill and I just looked at each other and shook our heads in angry amazement. We’d just been denied a possible admission of guilt.

And the episode turned out to be a disaster for Bill. Right after Grier’s appearance, a local newspaper columnist, Bill Boyarsky, scolded Bill in print for referring to the witness as “Mr.” rather than “Reverend.” This was idiotic. First of all, as one etiquette specialist later pointed out, referring to a man of the cloth as “Mr.” is perfectly respectful. But even that is beside the point. One of the very issues we were there to determine was whether Grier really
was
a minister! Even so, Boyarsky’s was the kind of criticism that should roll right off your back. But Bill took it to heart. The morning after the Grier episode, he called in sick again. Hank Goldberg and I had to scramble to put on the rest of the witnesses.

It is difficult for an outsider to imagine the pressures upon Bill Hodgman. All of us felt them. Beyond the usual rub of egos between attorneys and judge, we had those goddamned media commentators weighing in on a daily basis with win-loss tallies. That kind of scrutiny created a petty, puerile competition for media attention among the lawyers. I had long since resolved not to read or watch the press accounts of the trial—it was just too painful to see everything we did twisted, mangled, and misunderstood over and over again.

Nonetheless, I felt their impact in court. Every motion became an opportunity to grab headlines or sound bites that would run on the six o’clock news. Every time the defense gained a tiny, often insignificant, advantage, Bob and Johnnie would race each other to the lectern to give an interminable, meaningless oration. I would lean over to Chris and ask, “What the hell is he talking about?” And Chris would reply, “Man, don’t you watch TV?”

That was the great thing about Chris. He could put a setback into perspective with a quip. I found myself turning to him more and more for advice and support.

Since October, when I’d appointed him case manager, his cubicle had become the center of a beehive of activity. The cheap metal partitions had been rearranged to convert it to what Bill Hodgman liked to call the War Room. (Prosecutors love military talk. I, like many of my fellow deputies in Special Trials, had a big old metal cart that I’d load with briefs and haul down to court. Everyone called it the War Wagon.)

Chris’s cubicle was a little bigger than the others and it was the only one of the bunch with its own access to the hallway: the cubicle dweller’s equivalent of a corner office. In one corner stood a three-foot-high Bart Simpson doll someone had given Chris as a joke. There was also a photograph of him hugging it. We all started calling his cubicle the Roy Pod, a reference to the habit Chris and his two investigators had of referring to each another as “Roy.” Some weird inside joke. He loved the nickname so much that he ordered up special team hats with “ROY” stitched on them. He tried to give me one that read “ROY TOY.”

“In your dreams, buster,” I told him.

Chris hired five very talented law clerks. He had also brought on several Grade 1—entry-level—D.A.s. These “babycakes,” as he called them, were outstanding—eager, bright, dedicated, and willing to do anything asked of them, no matter how menial.

I was used to trying my cases alone: researching, writing, interviewing, and investigating. Everyone in Special Trials did that. So it was awkward for me at first, adjusting to the idea of clerks doing my drudge work. But during the pretrial months it became clear to me I couldn’t afford my usual approach. I was overseeing virtually every aspect of the case; when anyone had a question about
anything
they came to me. My bosom buddy and fellow D.A., Cheri Lewis, once threw her body across the door to block access to all comers until I had signed a document she had thrust under my nose. And of course, the defense was still bombarding us with spurious and time-consuming motions. The hours I would normally have had free for holing up in my office to work were being spent in court arguing. For the first time in my life, I
had
to delegate responsibility.

Chris had no trouble delegating. It used to crack me up. I’d pass the Roy Pod and find him reclining far back in his chair gazing at the ceiling. He’d be surrounded by babycakes who were either taking dictation, listening to him ruminate upon strategy, or just paying homage. I took to calling him “King Chris.” As time went on, Chris came to believe that the Pod was not a suitably impressive headquarters for a case manager. So he demanded and got an office next to mine.

Chris could be that way: jealous of his prerogatives and sullen when he didn’t get what he wanted. He was competitive. He didn’t seem to like Rockne Harmon and George “Woody” Clarke, two deputies we’d brought in from outside the county to handle DNA. Chris considered them interlopers and potential rivals. No question, Chris could be a pain in the ass—but he was a creative, battle-hardened trial lawyer. And he brought a lot of life and humor to the place. I needed him.

On Tuesday and Thursday nights, we’d go out after work. The group usually included me; Cheri Lewis; Chris; my clerk, Dana Escobar; Chris’s clerk, David Wooden; and Lisa Kahn’s clerk, Diana Martinez, who was so tough we referred to her as “the President of All the Women.” We’d truck on over to the Saratoga, a tiny bar and grill about a mile from the courthouse. It was owned by a Yugoslavian family who just loved us. They’d open the kitchen and cook us dinner. Their specialties were steak and fish, which were a little heavy for me at that hour. Although they didn’t normally serve salads, they’d indulge me with a plate of sliced cucumbers and tomatoes.

We’d always sit in the Booth, a table for eight at the back of the restaurant. One of the two TVs mounted at either end of the bar was easily visible from this spot, and on a good night they’d let us control the remote. The cops and firemen who hung off the bar stools were always buying us rounds. I don’t think I ever paid for a drink at the Saratoga. I felt safe there.

These times were especially sweet when we had some small victory to celebrate. Like when each new blood-evidence result came in, pointing the finger of guilt at no one but the defendant. “Man,” someone would say, “we got the motherfucker cold. Even the
jury
has to see it.” And we’d laugh. Chris and I knew what this brave talk was: whistling past the graveyard. You had to rattle sabers to ward off despair. The veterans at the table realized that. The clerks didn’t: they took the victory talk at face value. I worried about them. They had so little life experience to fall back on. How, I wondered, would they handle a bitter defeat?

On January 11, the twelve jurors and twelve alternates were formally sequestered at the Inter-Continental Hotel. Now that they were theoretically safe from the polluting effects of the media, Lance Ito finally gave us the go-ahead to argue our domestic violence motion, the conduit for getting the battering incidents into evidence.

On the defense side, Gerry Uelmen, former dean at Santa Clara University School of Law, had been assigned to damage control. His first request was to ask that the victims’ families be excluded from the courtroom. I’m frankly surprised that he had the nerve to try this. The Dream Team must have dreaded the idea of tears and outbursts—sure to underscore the fact that their client was not such a nice guy. But taking on the victims’ families was a risky public relations move.

“I’m offended by it,” Chris Darden objected. “And I’m sure the victims’ families are offended by the request.”

Ito let the families stay.

Uelmen then pointed a finger at the prosecution, accusing us of slapping the “label” of domestic violence upon this case to prejudice the public against the defendant. Statistically speaking, he explained, fewer than one percent of all cases of domestic violence end in murder.

“When we look at what was obviously a bumpy marriage,” he assured the court, “I think it is quite remarkable that it was resolved in as amicable a way as it was.”

What the defense had done was turn logic on its head. It fell to Scott Gordon to correct the misimpression. If you looked at studies of women killed by a husband or boyfriend, he explained, fully
90 percent
of the victims had reported at least one prior act of abuse. Furthermore, the murder of Nicole Brown Simpson fit the profile of a domestic violence murder: the killer usually bludgeons, strangles, or stabs his victim, or slashes her throat.