Admittedly, my private life has taken some unusual turns. And whenever I can manage to climb onto a plane of semidetachment, I see why the tabloid press ended up pursuing me with such cruel enthusiasm. I had no defenses. All I could do was steel myself for the worst-case scenario. In late July 1994, just as we were gearing up for the harrowing business of jury selection in the Simpson case, I got word from Suzanne Childs that the tabs were rooting around my marriage certificates and divorce papers. A couple of weeks later, the Enquirer published an opus entitled “O.J. Prosecutor’s Tragic Secret Life,” which alleged, among other things, that I had “dumped” Gaby after receiving my law degree. It also detailed the shooting incident at Bruce Roman’s, leaving the casual reader to imagine that I was somehow involved.
The stories presented me in absurd caricature, but anyone could see that they contained nuggets of truth. I was so humiliated. I’d never confided the details of my first marriage to anyone at the D.A.‘s office except my friend Lynn. My “past,” as I saw it, was not an opportunist’s upward scramble, but a painful, private struggle. As far as I was concerned, I was a survivor. I had surmounted my personal difficulties through acts that took considerable initiative and will. In the summer of 1994, I was not Marcia Kleks, the gambler’s girlfriend. I was a lawyer-an intelligent and accomplished one at that. I was a damned good mother. And everything admirable that I’d accomplished seemed threatened by this disturbing and unsolicited celebrity.
I knew that the only chance I had of coming off with any dignity was to stay calm and keep silent. I thought, If I just concentrate on my job, I can get through this. They’ll get tired of me. I can ride this out.
But the tabs didn’t get tired of me. In September I picked up new rumblings: the National Enquirer was working on a story that I had been a battered wife. They’d apparently turned up a pair of backgammon promoters who were claiming that once, during a tournament-organizing event, Gaby got angry and threw a chair at me. They’d also found some dingbat who’d once been a neighbor of Gaby’s and mine. She was claiming that I walked around in long-sleeved dresses all the time so that no one would see the bruises from Gaby’s beatings.
The news threw me into a state of near panic. Of course, I knew what the truth was. Gaby never threw anything at me in public. His pride would never have allowed him to let people see that we fought. We did all that in private. But even during those arguments behind closed doors he never beat me. Never. He pushed, I shoved, we wrestled. That’s as far as it ever went.
Don’t misunderstand me. The pushing and the shoving were bad enough. But I always gave as good as I got. It wasn’t right to let Gaby take the rap when I’d done so much provoking. I was not a battered woman! I was not a victim!
I have always hated the culture of victimization. It seems that everyone nowadays has some personal trauma to explain away his own character failings. It’s something I can’t tolerate. I believe people have to take responsibility for themselves and their actions. This seems a reasonable position for a prosecutor to take on matters of human conduct.
My approach to domestic violence cases over the years was one of extreme caution. I’ve never gotten up on a pulpit to spout a feminist line. I never rushed in and charged spousal battery without a full set of facts in hand. The Simpson case was no exception. From the beginning I’d hung back on the DV. I felt there was too much we didn’t know. As of July 1994, the personal history of the Simpsons was still too murky. From a strictly legal standpoint, we would never have needed to address their history of marital violence. True, the fact that a man has beaten his wife over the years may go to motive if he is accused of murdering her. But the state isn’t required to establish why one person killed another, only that he intended to do it. It is perfectly possible to get a conviction strictly on the physical evidence. And in the Simpson case, the physical evidence was so amazingly strong, I felt that we could probably put him away relying on that alone.
The domestic violence aspect of the case, by contrast, left me deeply conflicted. The photos of Nicole, her voice on the 911 tape-these produced in me sensations of dread. When the police and city attorney’s reports arrived in my in box, I scanned them hurriedly, professionally, then pushed them to one side. Later, when Scott Gordon would collar me in the hall, as he did at least seven times a day, with, “Marcia, we’ve got to get to work on DV,” I’d say “Yeah, yeah, Scott. Why don’t you write me up a memo on that?”
Every time a reminder of Nicole’s physical suffering came up, I felt headachy. Sometimes a little sweaty. I’d knock the feelings away and keep pushing on. There were so many brushfires burning around me that it was easy to postpone dealing with the issue indefinitely. I’m sure I knew that, when the time came, I’d have to confront my personal history as well. Which gave me added incentive for not facing the demon down.
By late September 1994, this new threat from the tabloids to invade my personal life left me feeling desperate. If things proceeded on a crash course and the Enquirer was allowed to publish such a wildly distorted account of my troubled marriage to Gaby, the fallout could be disastrous. O. J. Simpson’s defense would charge that I had some political agenda for going after their client. This was not a time to work through my personal mishegoss. I had to take some kind of action. But what, I didn’t know.
My good friend and fellow D.A. Lynn Reed came to my rescue.
“You have to go and see my friend Mark,” she instructed me firmly. “He’s an entertainment lawyer. He helped out a friend of mine who’s been chased around by the press, and he really knows what he’s doing. If the tabs start hearing from your lawyer, they might decide it’s not worth it. Trust me on this one, kiddo.”
She gave me his number.
This whole thing seemed so weird to me. How does it happen that a D.A. in the course of prosecuting a class-one felony comes to need an entertainment lawyer? Come to think of it, have you ever heard of a prosecutor whose private life has made it into a tabloid banner? I haven’t.
Anyway, I gave Mark Fleischer a call and we agreed to meet at a downtown restaurant called Checkers.
I arrived at six o’clock. The place was almost empty. Businessmen and bureaucrats had already decamped for home after downing their “freeway flyers.” I lurked apprehensively in the foyer until the maître d’ directed me to a table in the farthest corner of the room. Mark rose to greet me. He was a slender, dapper man reminiscent of Fred Astaire. He had twinkling blue eyes and a firm yet gentle handshake. I liked him on sight.
“I’m the one who bakes cookies and collects husbands,” I told him.
Mark laughed. “I’m aware of your financial situation,” he said. “One of my dearest friends works in your office. Scott Gordon.”
Scott! I felt a pang of guilt for having ducked him every time he tried to get me moving on the domestic violence issue. My neglect of the issue was, of course, all the more ironic in light of my current predicament. I was about to become poster girl for the battered women’s movement, for no good reason.
“I’m going to help you out as a favor to the D.A.‘s office,” Mark told me. “I’ve always admired you guys and I’m going to take this opportunity to put my money where my mouth is. There will be no fee for my services.”
Had I heard correctly? A lawyer was going to take on a client who might give him nights and weekends of grief-absolutely gratis? The man was a freaking saint.
“We’re probably not going to persuade them to leave you alone,” he warned. “Only time and some new scandal will do that. But we can discuss the possibility of a lawsuit. We don’t want to come at them unless we feel fairly sure of winning. That means I’ll need you to do some homework.”