Without a Doubt - [62]

The phone was ringing. I reached blindly for the receiver.

” ‘Lo,” I croaked.

“Marcia, you’re late.” It was Frank speaking in soft, urgent tones. “They’ve already started-you’d better get down here.”

I squinted at the digital radio by my bed. Nine A.M. I’d forgotten to set the damned alarm!

I pulled on a pair of leggings and boots, threw on a shirt, and, grabbing a legal pad and a few binders with case reports, ran out the door. I quietly let myself into the viewing room and found a seat next to Bill. Vinson was on the monitor. He sat at the mouth of a U formed by conference tables. The seventeen panelists were seated around it. The breakdown, as I recall it, was about nine blacks or Hispanics and eight whites. Most of the blacks were women.

“What did I miss?” I whispered to Bill.

“Not much,” he whispered back. “They’re still getting acquainted.”

I remember one of the men saying something like “It don’t make no sense. Why would someone who had it all just throw it away over a woman?”

I’d heard that one before. To a guy who punches a time clock it probably seems incomprehensible to risk a fortune because you’ve been jilted. But that didn’t take into account the fact that even a guy who had everything could flip out in the throes of sexual obsession. I made a note to confer with our domestic violence people about this one.

As I wrote, Vinson’s voice penetrated my concentration. He was asking our focus group what they felt about the death penalty.

I stiffened with alarm. We’d given him a list of topics, and that most certainly wasn’t on it. They were not supposed to talk about sentencing issues. I looked over to Frank, who was already on the case. He whispered something to one of Vinson’s assistants, who promptly entered the conference room and in turn whispered to the boss. Vinson excused himself and came in to see us, chastened.

Vinson apologized, saying he did not know it would be a problem.

“There’s been no decision on whether we’ll seek death or not,” Frank told him. “That subject is strictly off limits.”

By this time, all of us in the D.A.‘s office knew that we wouldn’t be seeking the death penalty. It just wasn’t an option. No jury-not even one composed of white, middle-aged Republican males-was going to sentence O. J. Simpson to death.

Now, I know there is a school of thought that in a capital case, the district attorney should ask for the death penalty as a tactical ploy. If you have asked for the death penalty, every juror empaneled must be “death certified”-in other words, willing in principle to vote for death. And so, the reasoning goes, if you can pack a jury with law-and-order types, they will be more willing to convict.

I never believed that. What you’re likely to get, in my view, is a panel of tough talkers who, when push comes to verdict, can’t bring themselves to convict. Why? Because it has only just dawned on them that their actions may result in a person’s death.

There was an even more compelling reason for not asking for the death penalty in this case. I didn’t feel-and I don’t believe that any of my colleagues from the brass on down felt-that it was warranted. Apart from the incidents of battery, Simpson did not have a prior criminal history. Over the course of his life he had not shown the kind of callous disregard for society’s rules that you look for in a hardened criminal. O. J. Simpson was not an incorrigible, nor was he a danger to society at large. Under those circumstances it would have been immoral to seek his death.

Chastened, Vinson now steered the conversation onto another course.

“What do you think of the lawyers on the case?’ ” he asked them.

Of Robert Shapiro-Oily, insincere, said the nonblack jurors; Smooth, smart, said the black ones.

Bill Hodgman? A couple of jurors thought he was “smart” or “nice.” But the majority didn’t seem to recognize the name.

What do you think of Marcia Clark?

I found myself pulling my knees up to my chest to shield myself from the blows.

“Bitch!” two black women answered almost in unison.

I’ll make no bones about it. That stung.

Let me pause for a moment. I don’t want to make myself out to be some hothouse petunia who withers in the face of criticism. God knows I’d been called “bitch” before. But it was usually during the rough-and-tumble of trial work. And the taunts came from men, usually behind my back. They’re livin’ in a dream world if they think that stuff doesn’t reach my ears. Being called a bitch by some old-time gender bigot doesn’t bother me. In context, it’s a compliment. It means I’ve stood up to him, I haven’t let him have his way, and now he’s throwing a little tantrum.

But from women?

We all knew-virtually from day one-that a racial divide existed in this case, but I figured I could talk to women. In cases past, I’d always been able to reach them somehow. White, Hispanic, Asian, black. It didn’t matter. Even when they had failed to convict, I didn’t feel that they had it in for me personally. But these gals were ready to eat their own.

Interestingly, none of the men used such slurs in describing me. Most of them, including one black man, found me strong, smart, and tough. That didn’t count, somehow. It was the “bitch” remark that sailed right through the walls of the conference room and reverberated over the wires. So much for confidentiality. The story was out before we even made it back to L.A. The headlines all read that a Phoenix “jury” had voted to “acquit.” Of course, it was complete nonsense, since no vote was ever taken. But one thing that was true-the “bitch” business-was reported with rabid glee.