No, we couldn’t. Let me explain.
During our nightly bouts of solitaire, Bill and I had kept precise tabs on the rotation of candidates within the pool. As days passed, the rating of the average juror in our pool—going by that 1-to-5 scale we’d developed—kept getting lower. Originally, our population had a very strong contingent of middle-class, educated citizens. But remember: the first round of elimination—the “hardship” phase—drastically changed that. The solidly employed middle class had no appetite to serve on this case, and Judge Ito let them off without looking back. There went most of our potential 5s and 4s. Then the defense began their attacks on two categories of jurors: those who were educated and those who were weren’t black. Ito let them strike many without using their peremptory challenges. We were left with virtually no 4s and 5s, and only a few 3s.
By the time the defense’s peremptory challenges had been exercised, we were down to our 2s. We were playing a defensive game, and we played it as cunningly as we could. The best we could do was make sure that the very worst jurors didn’t find their way into the box. And the way the numbers broke down, if we used even one more challenge we would have called up a batch of even sorrier prospects who would outnumber the peremptories we had left. What would be the sense of knocking off one of our 3s or even 2s if most of the bodies who would take their place were 1s, people who wouldn’t have voted to convict if O. J. Simpson stood in front of them with a knife in his hand and shouted, “I did it”?
The process of picking a jury had been so exhausting that when we finally got the twelfth juror, both sides of the room broke into cheers. We were kissing, shaking hands, hugging each other. It was unbelievable. Especially when you consider that only one side really had anything to celebrate.
Bob Shapiro ambled over to our table for some chat. He and Bill and I laughed and joked about the questionnaires. As I suspected, none of the Simpson team had ever had to soil his fingers flipping through those things. Their consultant had done it all for them.
“Gil made you read your own questionnaires!” Shapiro declared, astounded and amused. “He should give you hardship pay!”
Tell me about it.
Then Shapiro gave me a cartoon he’d drawn of me. There were two stick figures: “Marcia Before the Trial,” showing me with long hair and a short skirt. Then, “Marcia After the Trial,” where I had short hair and a long skirt. It was pretty funny. I kept it.
On balance, I’d never expended so much of myself picking a jury. The exhilaration that came from completing that phase, along with the positive feedback I’d gotten from my speech the previous day, led me to a false optimism. That night, on the way home, I spoke into my little tape recorder:
We knew we’d wind up with an almost all-black jury… . We were guaranteed to have basically a female black jury and we do. But I think overall we’re not unhappy with the jury. I think there’s enough strong, fair ones that we’ll get some kind of fair shake. I mean, it’s certainly not the best panel I’ve ever seen, but maybe they’ll rise to the occasion
.
I know I was livin’ in a dream world. But you have to leave yourself a little hope.
F
ever
There were times I could have drowned Suzanne Childs in a gunnysack. This was usually when the D.A.‘s media relations adviser ignored the signs on my door reading “Leave Me Alone!” and “Go See Patti Jo” and bustled in with her handful of message slips.
“Well, CBS wants…”
“Suzanne!” I cut her off. “I don’t have time for this.”
I didn’t mean to give her a hard time. It wasn’t her fault that she was the bearer of unwelcome tidings.
Actually, I depended on Suzanne a lot, and considered her a great friend. She’s a beauty—tall, thin, and laced with nervous energy. During the seventies she had been a weekend anchorwoman on the local CBS affiliate. She’d also been married to Michael Crichton. That was before he was such a big deal. Their marriage ended in a rather public divorce. As a result, Suzanne knew what it was like to be a much-stared-at single woman in L.A. I think that’s why she took pity on me.
I had no personal life to speak of. Except for the nights when there were other arrangements at home, I usually left the office in time for dinner. Then, after the house was quiet and the toys all put away, I’d burrow in to the makeshift office in my bedroom. We’d started this case off-balance, and because of the defendant’s insistence upon a speedy trial, we never really had a chance to take a breather. We were like greyhounds chasing a mechanical rabbit.
Beaten down though I was by my workload, I felt I should take at least a baby step toward an actual life. I’d spread the word among my friends and associates that I wouldn’t mind going out on a date, if anyone knew of a moderately intelligent, heterosexual male. In other words, I was available.
One day, when I came back from court feeling whipped, Suzanne met me in the hall and gave me the once-over. (After two months, the “makeover” she had supervised was already beginning to fade.)
“You should get out a little,” she told me.
“Great idea, Suzanne. Could you get me a life, maybe a few extra hours in a day?”
“I could get you invited to a party,” she told me. It was at the home of some director—I didn’t recognize the name. “It’s a little get-together. About ten people. You could go right from work.”
Suzanne gave me the address, which was in Beverly Hills. I found myself driving north of Sunset, deeper and deeper into the heart of mansion country. I was about to run into some serious glitter. Me, in my believe-me suit, driving a Nissan. The window on the driver’s side still wouldn’t work and it looked like it was going to rain. I pulled my little Maxima into a huge open drive and parked it next to a Mercedes. The only other car as crappy as mine was a county-issue Ford Taurus. I knew that Suzanne had arrived.
My God, what a place! A white-pillared entryway framed a pair of huge double oak doors. I’d barely rung the bell when it was answered by a butler in full livery. Behind him stood the host, who pumped my hand warmly and introduced himself as Ray Stark. Over the course of the evening, I came to realize that he was a big-deal producer, something I probably would have known right away if I hadn’t had my head stuck inside of law books and autopsy reports for the past ten years. This little dinner party was also a private screening of
Legends of the Fall
.
Suzanne took me by the elbow for a quick turn around the place, past a wall of windows that looked out onto a yard of marble statues and topiary. Then, into the screening room. At the rear was a wet bar with all kinds of fancy chocolates set out in silver serving dishes. As we moved, Suzanne made easy introductions to some celebs and semicelebs. God, I couldn’t believe it—there was Kirk Douglas. To my amazement, Kirk (May I call you Kirk?) turned to me and said, “I’m such a big fan of yours.” And I’m like, “I’ve been watching your movies since I was a kid.”
The irony did not escape me. Suppose I’d stuck to acting. About now I’d be an aging bit player, who would have given up what was left of her virtue to be invited to a party like this. But here I was. And Kirk Douglas was angling to meet me! I felt like I’d been dropped onto another planet. There was David Geffen on my left, Kirk D. on my right, Ron Meyer on one end of the table, and Betsy Bloomingdale on the other.
The best part of it was that someone, probably Suzanne, had spread the word that the Case was off-limits for cocktail chat. An O.J.-free zone! Everyone was very cool about it. I’ve discovered since that the one advantage of mingling with the glitterati is that they’ve all had to wage their own battles against tabloid headlines. They observe a sort of gentlemen’s agreement with respect to one another’s privacy.
Ray Stark made sure I was introduced to Alan Greisman, who, I learned, had been head of Savoy Pictures and was the former husband of Sally Field. He was also handsome, and apparently available. He asked me out, which probably took some guts considering all this bullshit mystique that now surrounded me. Now, I still thought I could date like any other soon-to-be-divorced mother of two. Obviously clueless. The following item appeared a few weeks down the line in a New York tabloid:
Transformed by her new hair-do, Marcia Clark at 41 has finally emerged outside the O.J. courtroom as a veritable siren, and with her new softer, prettier looks, the prosecutor in the Trial of the Century has even managed to find romance amid her grinding schedule.
According to sources, Clark has recently linked up with actress Sally Field’s ex-hubby, Alan Greisman, through mutual friends… . “They have been lovey-dovey all over Los Angeles,” says a source. “I don’t think they even attempt to keep their relationship a secret; they are dining out most nights.”
In fact, Alan and I had only one date. I met him for dinner at a little Italian place in Beverly Hills. We talked for most of the evening about divorce. And by the dessert course I knew that nothing could come of it. Alan was intelligent and charming, but he ran with a flashier crowd than I thought I could handle, at least with the Simpson case on my hands. We parted amiably, without having managed to see any part of Los Angeles together beyond the inside of a restaurant.
I made a couple of other stabs at dating. A friend of a friend introduced me to a single guy she knew. He turned out to know Fred Goldman, but he seemed to enjoy no other claim to fame.
Hmmm
, I’m thinking.
This one’s a good bet, not a fast-laner, not wired to the media
. I think I saw him twice; it was barely a friendship. But then one of the tabs found out that we knew each other and asked him if there was a romantic relationship there. He didn’t confirm it; but he didn’t deny it, which seemed dishonest to me.
After that I pulled in my antennae. I was safer with my own kind. From November until the verdict came in twelve months later, I limited my social life to late nights with my co-workers.
CAR TAPE.
November 17. I don’t feel like I ever get more than four hours’ sleep, constantly fighting this cough and this cold. I have not a minute to myself. If I’m not working, I’m with the kids. If I’m not with the kids, I’m working
. . . .
I don’t really feel very good about our chances in this case, I just don’t think we can get the jury to get over their emotional response to seeing their hero being taken down for this, and the evidence is so compelling. I don’t feel like it’s gonna matter. I feel like I’m going to be standing up there talking to myself, you know?
. . . .
But Chris Darden, boy. I pat myself on the back all day long for putting him on the case. What a gem. What a gem! The guy is smart, resourceful, creative, got lots of energy
—
because he hasn’t been beat up like we have all this time. I’ll give him a little time in front of this twelve-headed monster, and he’ll get tired and beat up too. But he’s wonderful
. . . .
Thank God for Chris Darden.
As far as the public and the press knew, Chris Darden joined the team in early November. In fact, he’d been working with us behind the scenes for more than three months.
As I look back on it, I find it amazing that I didn’t think of Chris when I was first drawing up that short list of D.A.s to partner with. He hadn’t even occurred to me. That’s because you tend to think of the people right under your nose. Chris was down on the seventeenth floor in SID.
Eight years earlier, he and I had worked together in calendar court. We had a lot in common. Like me, he was a hard charger, ambitious, tenacious. Back then, after work, Chris and I and a handful of other deputies would all take out the bottles from our respective desk drawers, down a couple of shots, and swap war stories into the night. Then we’d be up early the next morning, ready to charge all over again. During the years since calendar court, Chris and I had gone our separate ways: I to Special Trials; he to the SID, where he handled complaints against cops. We’d see each other from time to time in the courthouse and we’d laugh and joke and talk about the old days.
One summer morning soon after the preliminary hearings, he stuck his head into my office unannounced.
“Hey, Clark,” he hailed me. “Any time for the working class?”
It took me a minute to focus. Cool shaved head. Malcolm X fuzz.
“Chris! C’mon in, man!”
He seemed relieved that I’d recognized him. By the time he took the chair he was having trouble making eye contact. Chris always did have trouble making eye contact. Not just with me, but with judges and juries. Down deep, he is a very shy guy.
Chris gave a detailed account of our reunion in his excellent memoir,
In Contempt
. He recalled me in a dense cloud of my own cigarette smoke, at a desk fit for a CEO. “She leaned back in her huge brown leather executive chair with the diamond tuck in the back, a chair twice her size, clearly not standard county-issue.”
When I read this, I nearly doubled over laughing. You’d think he was talking about some spike-heeled dame from a film noir. That “brown leather executive chair,” as a matter of fact, was just a ratty old armchair that I’d found some years earlier sitting in a hallway. Some departing Grade 3 had apparently discarded it. It
was
huge. It was so huge, in fact, that I could actually curl up in it and catch a few winks. Unfortunately, it was infested with termites, and every time I shifted my weight, it emitted a cloud of sawdust—which probably accounts for the haze Chris saw hanging over me that morning in July.
Finally he looked at me.
“I thought you should know the
L.A. Times
has filed a public records request on Fuhrman.” He slid a file across my desk.
The case was old, 1987. It involved a robbery suspect named Joseph Britton who was fleeing an automated teller machine when he was shot by a couple of police officers. One of them was Mark Fuhrman. Britton sued the city, claiming that one of the two officers had called him a “nigger” and then planted evidence on him.
The problems with Fuhrman just kept on coming. I’d gotten the documents from that disability case Mark had filed against the city in August 1983. It appeared to me that he’d put on quite a show for his psychiatrists. He’d claimed to be suffering from stress growing out of his service in Vietnam (though he hadn’t seen any action), as well as his years going head-to-head with gang bangers. All of this, it appeared, was exacerbated by the strains of his divorce. Yet his job ratings were generally high. No way, I thought, was any judge going to let a cop’s psychiatric reports into the record. But we’d surely have to litigate it. I knew the defense would pull out all the stops trying to get them in.