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?