Interestingly, none of the men used such slurs in describing me. Most of them, including one black man, found me strong, smart, and tough. That didn’t count, somehow. It was the “bitch” remark that sailed right through the walls of the conference room and reverberated over the wires. So much for confidentiality. The story was out before we even made it back to L.A. The headlines all read that a Phoenix “jury” had voted to “acquit.” Of course, it was complete nonsense, since no vote was ever taken. But one thing that was true-the “bitch” business-was reported with rabid glee.
On the flight home, I gave serious thought to withdrawing from the case. I am not a quitter by nature, but, I thought, if my style, my gender, or my race could actually subvert the process of justice, I should offer Gil the chance to dump me gracefully. So I asked for a meeting with Gil and Don Vinson.
Now, I should say here that in the months since the verdict, Don Vinson has been quoted more than once as saying that his research showed that black women would be too turned off by me to render a fair and impartial verdict. He’s claimed to have counseled our office to downplay the domestic violence issue on the grounds that black women didn’t consider it any big deal-and that I resisted him, clinging to the delusion that I could make them care.
Reality check. By the time I returned from Phoenix, I knew perfectly well what I was up against. And if reaching jurors meant emphasizing physical evidence over DV, I was perfectly willing to do it. The domestic violence aspect of the case had gone largely undeveloped. It wasn’t that we’d neglected investigating the essential leads. Early on, we’d been in touch with the City Attorney’s office, which had handled the 1989 battery incident. We’d collected files of documents generated by that case as well as those from the 911 call from 1983. Throughout the fall I would conduct extensive interviews with prosecutors and cops who had spoken to Nicole on both occasions. But I hadn’t been able to get beyond the basic facts or to talk to domestic violence experts who might help us to interpret those facts.
I hadn’t a spare moment to deal with it. My concentration and energy had been centered upon blood and other physical evidence. I was also experiencing some emotional resistance within myself-which I was hard-pressed to explain, though the reasons for it would become plainer to me as time wore on. The idea that I was on some wild-eyed feminist jag is one of Vinson’s self-serving fantasies.
Vinson’s misrepresentations of me, when I later read them in print, seemed all the more fantastic in light of the little speech he actually delivered to me in the very presence of Gil Garcetti.
“Marcia,” he assured me unctuously, “those responses are nothing to worry about. When you’re in the courtroom, they’ll get to know and like you. I know they will. No question about it.”
I looked to Gil. He paused for a moment, then said, “I agree with Don.”
Gil Garcetti could have bailed on me, and he didn’t. I will always be grateful to him for acting so honorably. I think he wanted to send a message that neither race nor gender should disqualify a good prosecutor. Gil also realized, as a purely practical matter, that anyone he chose was likely to meet resistance from jurors like those who’d branded me a bitch. A white man would be written off as a representative of the power establishment. A black man would be reviled as an Uncle Tom. A black woman? Black female jurors would fucking lynch her. Bottom line, if we drew a panel of jurors who were determined to acquit O. J. Simpson, they were going to kill the messenger.
For several weeks, the mock-jury results were a hot topic of gossip. The “bitch” comment took on a life of its own. I could hear tongues wagging: Clark’s a bitch. Clark’s a hothead. Is it any wonder she doesn’t get along with the judge?
By now the Barry and Lisa Show had given way to the Lance and Marcia Show. Lance and I probably didn’t do nearly as much wrangling as it seemed from the headlines. But whenever there was a flareup, the five scrappiest seconds would make the ten o’clock news. In fact, Ito and I spent a lot of calm, normal moments together doing business-as-usual courtroom stuff. Sometimes we got along well; other times, not. We didn’t have great chemistry, but if we’d been left alone we probably could have arrived at a wobbly truce.
But that was never going to happen. Lance was just too sensitive to his own press notices. He saw that the media had set up the two of us as sparring partners and he wanted to make damned sure the public knew, the reporters knew, and I knew who was running the courtroom. Whenever I raised my voice to make a point, he scowled or dressed me down. While he always spoke respectfully to the defense, referring to them as “Mr. Cochran” and “Mr. Shapiro,” I was usually “Marcia.” I felt that I had to draw the line early and break him of the habit of condescending to me before this case came to trial. If a jury picked up his cues, they’d tune me out before I could finish my opening statement.
Gil had been watching all this from the sidelines. A week or two after the “bitch” episode, he called me into his office for a heart-to-heart.
“Why don’t you try laying back?” he suggested. “Don’t be so tough.”
I was flabbergasted. What the hell did he want me to do? Go in there with a pinafore and pigtails and threaten to hold my breath if Lance didn’t treat me better? I had a job to do, and if I was to represent the People properly, I had to show a little strength. Either that or be an empty chair.
I was tempted to say all this, but I held my peace.
Gil smiled. “Just try lightening up a little.”
I left Gil’s office pretty hot under the collar. The thing I found galling about the “lighten up” business was my suspicion that these suggestions had probably come straight from Don Vinson. By this point, Vinson had zero credibility in my book. If he’d offered his etiquette tips directly to me, I would have told him to go fuck himself. But they didn’t come from him; they came from my boss. I had a lot of respect for Gil Garcetti. He seemed to have faith in Vinson, and once I’d had a chance to calm down, I realized it was probably not a good idea to blow him off.
There were slight alterations I could make in my approach. I could couch my objections more deferentially. I could smile more. That wouldn’t be insincere, would it? In my private life, I am warm and gentle. At least, I can be. But being made to display, on command, a side of my nature that I normally don’t bring to the counsel table seemed awkward.
I went over and over this in my mind, trying to figure out what was right. Vinson told Gil that the people he’d polled perceived me as “hard.” I should speak more softly. I should get a softer hairdo. I should lose the business suits in favor of-get this-dresses. Just think about the logic here. Vinson claimed that black middle-aged women were carrying a grudge against me. And so the way to defuse them was to gussy myself up like Vanna White? Vinson’s line of reasoning was unapologetically sexist. It was demeaning to me personally. And in the end it was meaningless psychobabble. But we were spooked by a set of odds that were definitely not in our favor.
So I got a goddamned haircut. It was not a makeover. The style I’d been wearing to date was frankly unflattering. My hair had always tended to be thin, so I’d had it permed. Suzanne Childs took me to her own hairdresser, Allen Edwards in Studio City. He specialized in soft, natural styles. Allen saw exactly what had to be done. He pulled my fuzzy hair back to the nape of my neck and declared with a flourish, “This must go.”
The transformation was not, in my opinion, miraculous. In fact, it took several visits to Studio City to get it right. But even I had to admit that it was an improvement. My features appeared softer, less matronly. And let’s face it-who’s going to complain about being made to look younger? According to the wisdom of consultancy, these changes should have had a subliminal effect. I would come across as fresher, younger, and, as a consequence, less annoying to middle-aged black women. Go figure.