Without a Doubt - [64]

I was tempted to say all this, but I held my peace.

Gil smiled. “Just try lightening up a little.”

I left Gil’s office pretty hot under the collar. The thing I found galling about the “lighten up” business was my suspicion that these suggestions had probably come straight from Don Vinson. By this point, Vinson had zero credibility in my book. If he’d offered his etiquette tips directly to me, I would have told him to go fuck himself. But they didn’t come from him; they came from my boss. I had a lot of respect for Gil Garcetti. He seemed to have faith in Vinson, and once I’d had a chance to calm down, I realized it was probably not a good idea to blow him off.

There were slight alterations I could make in my approach. I could couch my objections more deferentially. I could smile more. That wouldn’t be insincere, would it? In my private life, I am warm and gentle. At least, I can be. But being made to display, on command, a side of my nature that I normally don’t bring to the counsel table seemed awkward.

I went over and over this in my mind, trying to figure out what was right. Vinson told Gil that the people he’d polled perceived me as “hard.” I should speak more softly. I should get a softer hairdo. I should lose the business suits in favor of-get this-dresses. Just think about the logic here. Vinson claimed that black middle-aged women were carrying a grudge against me. And so the way to defuse them was to gussy myself up like Vanna White? Vinson’s line of reasoning was unapologetically sexist. It was demeaning to me personally. And in the end it was meaningless psychobabble. But we were spooked by a set of odds that were definitely not in our favor.

So I got a goddamned haircut. It was not a makeover. The style I’d been wearing to date was frankly unflattering. My hair had always tended to be thin, so I’d had it permed. Suzanne Childs took me to her own hairdresser, Allen Edwards in Studio City. He specialized in soft, natural styles. Allen saw exactly what had to be done. He pulled my fuzzy hair back to the nape of my neck and declared with a flourish, “This must go.”

The transformation was not, in my opinion, miraculous. In fact, it took several visits to Studio City to get it right. But even I had to admit that it was an improvement. My features appeared softer, less matronly. And let’s face it-who’s going to complain about being made to look younger? According to the wisdom of consultancy, these changes should have had a subliminal effect. I would come across as fresher, younger, and, as a consequence, less annoying to middle-aged black women. Go figure.

The “makeover” was big news. A week or so after the cut I drove into a car wash. The radio was on and I heard Howard Stern and Robin Quivers discussing my new ‘do. Howard thought it looked like I’d had chemotherapy. I have to say, I found it amusing. Some of the best commentary to come out of this trial actually came from those guys. But the point is, the buzz would not die. Every time I went in for another trim, or made the slightest alteration, there was another flurry of public commentary about my hair.

Several months down the line, I got my perm straightened. (I’d actually wanted to let it grow back to its natural straightness, but I’d put it off, fearful of calling attention to myself.) The next day, when I got off the elevator at the ninth floor, reporters gave me a standing ovation.

Look pleasant, I told myself. They mean well. At least they’re on your side.

When I walked into court, Lance did a double-take. He noticed the stir my altered appearance was causing.

“Miss Clark… I think,” he quipped.

There was laughter in the courtroom. I joined in, although later I felt uncomfortable about it. The experience produced in me that awful naked feeling of being a teenager changing her hairdo to please the popular crowd. And the irony of it was that this beauty offensive left me feeling more vulnerable than ever before.

A UPI reporter whom I’ve known for years pulled me aside in the hall and said, “Marcia, let me give you one piece of unsolicited advice. Don’t change. You know what you’re doing, just do your thing.”

Do your thing. I used to have a pretty good idea of what my thing was. Even when my private life was a mess, I could come into the courthouse of a morning and count on doing my thing. And I did it pretty damned well. Now my thing had turned into this weird and seedy game show. And when you’re standing confused and blinking in the klieg lights, it’s easy to lose sight of yourself altogether.

But of one thing I was certain. I couldn’t undo four hundred years of social injustice with a pretty dress and a soft voice.

A merican Tabloid

I don’t mean to sound like a whiner. I know there are lots of people who would trade a kidney for a few seconds of celebrity. In fairness, I’m willing to concede that under some very special circumstances it can be flattering to be the center of attention. It’s a nice little perk. You feel important for a moment; then you go back to work.