At that point, Denise rested, forehead in hand, and wept.
“It’s just so hard,” she whimpered.
There was no doubt in my mind that she was sincerely overcome. But I cringed at how this would play to the Twelve Stone Faces. “No tears,” I’d warned Chris. But when you put on a grieving relative, you take your chances. I glanced at the jury box. Sure enough, I saw not compassion but scowls of disbelief.
I knew this icy reaction to Denise’s testimony was sounding the death knell to our domestic violence case. We’d put the brutal facts right in front of this jury, and they were quite visibly rejecting them. It couldn’t have been more clear if they’d actually given the thumbs-down.
Right then and there I made a quiet decision to cut our losses. Chris would not accept this without a fight. He and Scott were so personally invested in DV that they would want to pick up the thread again later on in the trial, when Ito had said we could present the B-string battering incidents. I knew I could not let this happen. Introducing the abuse witnesses so late in the case would seem out of context-certainly a step backward. It would also seem like a desperate effort at character assassination, the kind of move you make if you’ve failed to prove your case. The witnesses would seem like afterthoughts, and the jury would have been furious at hearing them then. I held the veto and I would use it.
On February 3, the day of Denise’s testimony, we had proof positive that this jury was too besotted by the fame of the defendant to hear the cries of his victims. No one else knew it for sure. But I knew Denise Brown would be the last domestic violence witness in the case of People v. Orenthal James Simpson.
CAR TAPE. It’s February 6, Monday. Came to work and saw the National Enquirer’s two-page inside spread of me… I use the word with great intent. I’m just plastered all over the place. [It’s] just so disgusting. I felt so humiliated…
This would never happen to a man. The world is so far more sexist than anybody ever dreamed. I feel so sick, I can barely see straight.
After Denise’s breakdown on the stand that Friday afternoon, Ito dismissed us early. In a way I was relieved that the rest of her testimony would be held over until Monday. It would buy me some time. I was due to put on the dog-bark witnesses immediately after Chris wrapped up domestic violence. Now I had an unbroken block of weekend hours to polish my questions.
When I arrived at my office on Monday morning, I was feeling pretty squared away. There was a knock on my door. Suzanne appeared, looking very uncomfortable.
“What’s up?” I asked her, trying to arrange foldersful of witness outlines in chronological order.
“Um… Marcia…” she stammered. “I don’t know how to tell you this…”
That stopped me cold. Whenever Suzanne opened a conversation this way, it usually meant fresh hell from the “newses”-her quaint expression for the broadcast media. I kept expecting those guys to lose interest in me. Each new offensive left me more bewildered than the last. I felt like I was chained to a breakwater. The waves would batter me into the pilings. They’d subside for a while and then swell and pound me again. There was nothing I could do about it.
“It’s really not that bad,” Suzanne continued in her best effort to soothe. “It’s just that your ex-mother-in-law…”
Huh?
“Well, she sold some pictures of you to the Enquirer… Did you ever visit a nude beach in Europe?”
Nude beach? At first, it didn’t register. And then my befuddled thoughts settled on an image of that carefree afternoon more than twenty years ago when I was kicking loose after the bar exam. In my mind’s eye, I could see Gaby and me and our Italian train-conductor friend. We were playful and giddy. I’d shed my top. It was so innocent. And such a long time ago, and in another world.
I’d never been on real close terms with Gaby’s mother, Clara. After Gaby’s accident, she’d taken him back to Israel to live with her. I hadn’t spoken to her for at least fourteen years, but I could imagine she was pretty bitter about the way things turned out. And I’m sure she held me responsible, however unfairly, for Gaby’s misfortunes. But to sell a personal photo of me to a tabloid? I later learned that a private eye, hoping to curry favor with the Dream Team, had tracked her down in Israel and put her in touch with the Enquirer.
I tried to speak but I couldn’t get any words out.
“I can bring it to you if you want,” Suzanne offered, breaking the long silence.
I knew if I looked at those photos, realizing that they were being sold by the millions at checkout counters around America, I’d fall to fucking pieces. The only comfort, however slight, came from the knowledge that my jury was sequestered. Even if news of them were tracked into the Inter-Continental by visiting spouses, at least the jurors wouldn’t be able to see them. But wouldn’t just the knowledge of those photos affect my credibility? And what about my peers? I’d have to walk down the halls of my own office knowing everyone had seen me bare-breasted. And what about the defense? The defense. I’m sure those low-dealing bastards were laughing up their sleeves about now.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I finally managed to get out. “Maybe I’ll come by later and take a look.”
It was a lame attempt at bravado. But better, I guess, than self-pity.
I packed up my books and notepads and flattered myself that I could shut the whole incident out of my head. During the morning session, I felt as if I did manage to concentrate on Denise’s testimony. By the mid-morning break, I was finally feeling strong enough to assess the damage. I asked Scott Gordon to come with me for moral support.
We ran into Suzanne’s secretary at the door.
“Maria,” I whispered to her. “Before I take the gut shot, tell me, what do you think?”
“I tell you, girlfriend,” she whispered back, “you got nothin’ to be ashamed of.”
The Enquirer was lying on Suzanne’s desk. I flipped to the spread. There I was, wearing a “sunny smile” and a striped bikini bottom. And nothing on top. A black bar had been superimposed over my nipples. But it did nothing to mitigate the tawdry effect. Here I was, a professional woman in the middle of prosecuting a major criminal trial, suddenly exposed naked in a supermarket tabloid. I was so lost in my own humiliation that I couldn’t hear the words of comfort my co-workers were trying to offer me.
I should never have tried to make it back to court that day. I guess I wanted to prove that I was tough enough to keep my head up and keep on working. I overestimated my own strength. No sooner had I taken my seat at the counsel table beside Scott than I felt the tears welling up in my eyes.
Oh, God, no, I told myself. You can’t lose it now.
Way off in the distance, I heard Chris’s voice as he conducted his redirect of Denise. He turned in my direction and beckoned me to sidebar. I could tell that he needed me immediately.
It didn’t matter. I felt myself slipping further and further into pain. The tears were rolling down my cheeks. I wiped them away and leaned into Scott’s shoulder to hide my humiliation from the defense, the jury, the press.
The redirect ended quickly, and Lance must have caught my distress, because, in a singular act of compassion, he quickly managed to recess court for the day.