Without a Doubt - [76]

Why didn’t I take some time to enjoy my newfound freedom and experience life as a single, independent adult for a while? What the hell was the rush?

The relationship with Gordon had taken off like lightning, but marriage was definitely not on the agenda as far as I was concerned. The Church of Scientology, however, didn’t allow romantic liaisons between its officers and members of the public. If Gordon wanted to stay on the staff and keep seeing me, we’d have to get married. The problem was that I was still legally married to Gaby. One of Gordon’s fellow Scientologists told us how to get a quickie divorce in Tijuana. It was supposed to be perfectly legal, but I wasn’t so sure. On the other hand, so what if my marriage to Gordon wasn’t strictly kosher? We were only going through this charade to appease the church hierarchy.

And so I made the trip to Tijuana. My brother came along to keep me company. Two weeks later Gordon and I got married in a friend’s apartment. The Scientology minister who married us was Bruce Roman, who, strangely enough, managed to remain friends with Gaby. Having a friend do the honors made it seem less frightening. It was quick and casual. Gordon immediately went back to work.

Thinking back on it all, I can see both the pattern and the reasons for the facade weddings, the race from one marriage to the next. The truth was, I didn’t know how to be alone. I didn’t have a self to be alone with. As long as there was a man in my life, there was someone to cater to and mold myself around. As long as I had a man to define me, I didn’t have to confront the uncomfortable issue of discovering my own identify. It’s funny. People used to tell me how they never really felt they knew me; that I was mysterious to them. If I’d been a little more in touch with myself, I would have looked inward to see what the hell they were talking about. But I never got beyond being puzzled by my own actions.

I look back on those days of obscure identity with great sadness. If only I’d found the strength to stand on my own for a while, to endure the loneliness, to handle the challenges of daily living as a single adult! I might have learned, among other things, to enjoy my own company. I might have discovered a real person who didn’t need another to find definition. That must be what happiness is all about. It’s not a life without problems. It’s the ability to handle those problems. It took me two marriages-and two divorces-to figure this out.

Four or five months after I’d left Gaby I was driving through Beverly Hills when I saw him walking somewhere. His expression was so sad. I’d heard that he’d gotten into a fight with someone who accused him of cheating at backgammon. Gaby had been punched in the face. It was the only time I’d ever heard of a backgammon row ending in real violence. Gaby was apparently sinking deeper.

I didn’t hear anything about him for another seven years or so. One morning I saw a small article in the L.A. Times. A man named Gabriel Horowitz had suffered a gunshot wound to the head. I sat stunned, reading and rereading the lines of print, not quite comprehending. Gabriel Horowitz? My Gaby? It had to be.

I knew that for my own peace of mind I had to get the whole story, so I asked a detective I was friendly with to check it out for me. A few days later he reported back. Gaby’d been visiting Bruce Roman and the two of them were looking at guns-they were both collectors-when the gun Bruce was holding went off and the wild shot found its way into Gaby’s head. It had been a freak accident. The shot had ricocheted off the ceiling and hit Gaby on the rebound. It left him paralyzed.

Such a bizarre twist of fate. For weeks, I walked around in a daze, barely able to concentrate. The guy had put me through a lot of pain, but when I thought of him confined to a wheelchair for life all I could think was “Poor Gaby.” I never thought I’d say that.

My sadness was so deep, it was inexpressible.

Admittedly, my private life has taken some unusual turns. And whenever I can manage to climb onto a plane of semidetachment, I see why the tabloid press ended up pursuing me with such cruel enthusiasm. I had no defenses. All I could do was steel myself for the worst-case scenario. In late July 1994, just as we were gearing up for the harrowing business of jury selection in the Simpson case, I got word from Suzanne Childs that the tabs were rooting around my marriage certificates and divorce papers. A couple of weeks later, the Enquirer published an opus entitled “O.J. Prosecutor’s Tragic Secret Life,” which alleged, among other things, that I had “dumped” Gaby after receiving my law degree. It also detailed the shooting incident at Bruce Roman’s, leaving the casual reader to imagine that I was somehow involved.

The stories presented me in absurd caricature, but anyone could see that they contained nuggets of truth. I was so humiliated. I’d never confided the details of my first marriage to anyone at the D.A.‘s office except my friend Lynn. My “past,” as I saw it, was not an opportunist’s upward scramble, but a painful, private struggle. As far as I was concerned, I was a survivor. I had surmounted my personal difficulties through acts that took considerable initiative and will. In the summer of 1994, I was not Marcia Kleks, the gambler’s girlfriend. I was a lawyer-an intelligent and accomplished one at that. I was a damned good mother. And everything admirable that I’d accomplished seemed threatened by this disturbing and unsolicited celebrity.