Without a Doubt - [37]

I don’t know what went on in that conversation, but when Bill showed up at my office the next day, he gave me the thumbs-up. We went down to Gil’s office to get his blessing. We received not only that but our marching orders.

“I want you two to work as equals,” said Gil. “No first- or second-chair situation.”

I didn’t like that. It wasn’t that I felt competitive, but for strategic reasons, every team needs a capo. Otherwise, you lose too much time negotiating over every little disagreement in approach. I also admit that it was disappointing to have Gil zing me like that. Again. I thought I’d hidden my feelings, but apparently not. Bill pulled me aside and said, “Marcia, it’s your case. I know what the realities are.” And during the months to come, he was as good as his word. Bill knew someone had to lead.

We needed to move fast. Shapiro was demanding that the preliminary hearing be held within the time set by statute, ten days after the arraignment. That meant we would have to be ready to go within a week. We knew that the media were gearing up to cover these hearings extensively; they would be beaming testimony into the homes of our jury pool. Our office has an official policy about cameras in courtrooms: don’t object to it. So I had no choice in the matter. This left no room for the fumbles or rough spots that in normal circumstances are routinely tolerated at an early stage of a case. No more flying by the seat of our pants.

I’d told Gil earlier in the week that we should assemble a team of experts from our office to analyze the case-a sort of war council. That way, deputies with different specialties could lend us their expertise for formulating strategy. Gil thought it was a good idea, and called a meeting for Saturday, June 25. On Friday, Gil and I hashed out who should attend. He first suggested Curt Hazell, the head of the Narcotics Unit. Hazell was an expert on search and seizure, and we needed someone who would help us deal with problems arising from the search of Simpson’s house.

I also wanted to hear from Lydia Bodin, our expert on domestic violence; she, I thought, might help us use Simpson’s history to show that Nicole’s murder was premeditated, rather than an impulsive act of passion. Lydia would team with Scott Gordon, a deputy whose experience in the Sex Crimes Division had led him on to a personal crusade against spousal abuse. He’d even drafted legislation on the issue.

To shore up the blood work, I wanted Lisa Kahn, the deputy who had given me tutorials in DNA on that no-body case I’d done with Phil. We still didn’t know if Simpson would try a mental defense, but if he did, I wanted to have someone in the wings with medical training-and Brian Kelberg, whom I had briefly considered as a trial partner, would be perfect.

Bill would be there, of course. And I was happy when Gil said that David should attend as well.

On Saturday morning, June 25, about fifteen deputies and brass all met in the conference room next to Gil’s office. Most wore jeans and workshirts, though I’d rejected my usual weekend attire of leggings, Reeboks, and an oversized T-shirt in favor of slacks and a blouse. While the clothes were casual, the atmosphere was tense.

“Go ahead, Marcia,” said Gil, abruptly cutting off small talk. “Brief us on what we have so far.”

I laid it all out, beginning with the centerpiece of our case: blood. That’s what the Simpson case would be about.

Nicole’s blood.

Ron’s blood.

O. J. Simpson’s blood.

Blood would tell the truth. I was convinced it would convict.

“Here’s how it breaks down,” I began, speaking from notes I’d scribbled on a yellow legal pad. “The police lab did DNA testing on the blood drops at Bundy leading away from the victims-and they all come back to Simpson. The bloody shoe prints to the right of those drops are a size twelve-Simpson’s size. The blood on the Rockingham glove seems to be a mixture of Ron’s and Nicole’s blood, and possibly Simpson’s. We’ll send the samples to Cellmark for more sophisticated testing.”

I glanced around the room to make sure I hadn’t lost anybody. Nope.

More results were coming in, I told them. There was a bloody shoe print on the driver’s-side floorboard of the Bronco. We were preserving it for shoe-print comparison before we did the DNA testing. The knit cap found between the victims at Bundy, I told them, was set to be examined for hair and trace evidence, but nothing had been done on it yet.

On the chalkboard mounted behind Gil’s seat, I sketched a diagram of Rockingham. That’s where Simpson parked the Bentley, I showed them. Here’s where Allan Park pulled his limo up to the gate. And here’s the back wall of Kato’s guest house.

They began pelting me with questions:

When exactly did Simpson leave for the airport?

Where did Allan Park first see the black male walking toward the door?

How could Kato not have seen him, too?

I could address some of these questions, but certainly not all of them. When I didn’t have an answer there would be an uncomfortable silence, then more questions, with a slightly more aggressive tone. In fact, even though many of the people in this room were my friends, the questioning at times was not entirely friendly. It wasn’t just that everyone was feeling the pressure. It wasn’t just that the reputation of our office was at stake. Maybe they wanted not only to see where the weak points lay, but to test