by Marcia Clark
Bailey steered us onto the freeway, and I braced myself for an inch-by-inch, hour-long crawl. It was almost four p.m., a time when the freeways routinely turned into parking lots. But for some reason the goddess of travel smiled upon us, and today the road was stunningly wide open. We flew up the 101 Freeway north and made it to Hancock Park in just fifteen minutes. It’s an older neighborhood, with homes that date back to the ’30s—ancient, by Los Angeles standards—and its pricey midtown location makes it particularly desirable to high-end professionals in the entertainment and law business. The nearby Wilshire Country Club provides a picturesque stream that runs through the area, and even the smallest homes are worth at least a million; the larger estates will set you back more than ten times that much. So the lawyers who live there? Yeah, none of ’em work in the L.A. County District Attorney’s Office.
The Gibbons manse was on South Las Palmas Avenue and occupied a double lot that sported an elegant French Tudor home on one side and a pool pavilion with a ski lodge–type fireplace on the other. The newly retiled pool and tennis court robbed the family of any excuse not to stay fit, and the guesthouse and home theater ensured company would be entertained and well cared for. This was where Melissa had grown up.
Her mother, Nancy, was a warmer version of the kind of woman who always seemed to be the “lady of the house” in a place like this: perfect, understated makeup, expertly styled pageboy hair, neatly manicured nails, and tasteful, conservative threads that genteelly whispered money—lots of it. That same muted luxury was a theme repeated throughout the rolling grounds and spacious rooms of the house.
The maid, an older woman with Slavic features, ushered us into the living room. My heels sank into the plush beige carpet and the sunlight that streamed through the expansive picture window filled the room with a warm glow. I felt as though I’d walked into a painting. Nancy, her handsome features sagging with fatigue and sorrow, moved toward us and gripped my hand in both of hers.
“Thank you for coming. Bennie couldn’t get out of his meeting in time, but of course he’ll be in court… the day after tomorrow, isn’t it? I find it hard to believe it’s finally happening.”
I gave her what I hoped was a supportive smile. But to me, it felt more like “already” than “finally.” We all sat down and I asked how she was doing. As well as could be expected, she told us, then asked, “More importantly, how are you feeling? How does the case look?”
I told her about the latest findings by Dorian and Kwan. I tried to soft-pedal the subject of blood, to give her the importance of the results without invoking the images it conjured. But how the hell do you do that? Anyway, I tried. Nancy blanched and closed her eyes briefly.
“I know, it’s a terrible thing to have to hear,” I replied. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, no. I meant it when I said I wanted to know everything. And I appreciate how you’ve accommodated my wishes.” She took a deep breath, then continued, “So with this… evidence, and the diary, do you think the case is strong enough?”
“With all that plus the evidence in the garage, yes, I do.”
But, of course, I wouldn’t be on the jury. The truth was, given all the circumstances, I was less confident than I let on. Fortunately, Bailey took over.
“Did Melissa keep a diary when she was younger? Or was this something she started when she got older?”
“If she kept a diary as a child, I didn’t know about it. You’d have to ask her college roommates to be sure, but I believe the diary-keeping was something she started after she and… Saul”—Nancy nearly choked on the name—“began having trouble. I think her diary gave her a way to vent because she wasn’t ready to admit out loud that she’d made a mistake.”
I waited for her to continue, but she stopped suddenly and looked down at her hands. Only when the sun sparkled on the teardrops falling into her lap did I realize Nancy was crying. I squeezed her shoulder, and she patted my hand as though she were trying to console us both. Once again, I found myself admiring her strength and unstudied dignity. After taking a few deep breaths, she blinked and looked out the window. Though her body was unbowed, it seemed cloaked in an aura of despair.
“It’s just hard to accept,” she said. “We were always so close. Yet Melissa didn’t feel she could confide in me about what she was going through. I keep asking myself, why? Why didn’t she tell me? Where did I go wrong?”
Nancy pressed her lips together and again closed her eyes and bent her head. I gave her space to recover, and the room filled with a heavy silence.
“Nancy, I don’t think you went wrong anywhere,” I said. “From what I’ve seen, Melissa was strong and independent… like you. I think she wanted to handle this herself. And who knows? Maybe at first she hoped things would improve. Then, by the time she realized there was no hope, it was too late. I’d bet she’d planned to tell you after she’d handled the situation but just didn’t get the chance.”
Nancy swallowed and patted my hand again. “Maybe so. I hope so. Thank you, Rachel.”
But I knew she wasn’t convinced. It would be a long time before she would stop blaming herself for Melissa’s death. If ever. I was struck again by the way the murder of one person poisoned the lives of so many. The proverbial rock in the pond that sends ripples in concentric circles all the way to shore.
The first day of the trial dawned bright and fiery hot. The sun bounced off the sidewalks with blinding force as I walked up Broadway on my way to the courthouse. I could’ve driven, but the walk always gives me a chance to think and charge my mental batteries. Today, especially, I needed that interruption-free time to review my opening statement. But as I walked I could feel the heat penetrate my suit and blouse, and sweat began to run down my neck and into my bra. I’d just pushed through the security door on the eighteenth floor and headed down the hallway for my office when a familiar voice called out, “Now I know what they mean by ‘something the cat dragged in.’ Girl, you look like hell.”
That unflattering assessment was provided by Toni LaCollier, who, like me, was a prosecutor in the Special Trials Unit. If she weren’t my “bestie,” I’d have nailed her in the head with the heel of my Stuart Weitzman.
“So it’s a good thing I’ve got opening statements in one hour, isn’t it?” I groused. “Damn it. Please tell me this isn’t a bad sign.” Trial lawyers are notoriously superstitious. Which is why I was wearing my standard navy “believe me” suit, the one I always wore when I was going to talk to the jury.
“This isn’t a bad sign,” Toni parroted obediently.
“Okay, now say it like you mean it.”
“I do mean it. But remind me to give you my juju just in case. Better safe than sorry.”
“Your what?” I asked. “Toni, since when do you—”
She held up a warning hand. “Stop, do not go there, hear me? Just trust me, it works. Now, come on, I’ll fix you up.”
An hour later, makeup restored and hair expertly blown dry thanks to Toni and her ever-present beauty kit of wonder, I was standing before the jury, the poster-size photograph of Melissa’s white SUV propped up on an easel to my left.
As I’d hoped, the photograph was a siren song the jury could not resist. Time and again, as I described the evidence I’d present, I saw their eyes stray and linger on the image. Taking heart, I hit my final points slowly but firmly.
“So, ladies and gentlemen, we will show you the signs of a struggle in the garage, Melissa’s bloody scarf near the stairs, and the drop of blood on the undercarriage of the car seat, but that’s only the forensic evidence…”
I paused, partially for effect, partially to let the jury catch up. I’d deliberately not mentioned the wipe marks that were evidence of cleanup in the car because I always like to promise less than I deliver. That way, when I present the “new” evidence, it has an extra punch.
I turned back to counsel table, and Bailey handed me the enlarged photograph of Melissa’s diary. I held the photo up for the jury to see.
“Because, ladies and gentlemen, we will bring you the voice of Melissa herself.”
I held the photograph in front of them as I spoke. “Through this diary, Melissa will speak to you from the grave. With her very last entry, on the day that was likely her last day on this earth, she will tell you that this defendant, Saul Hildegarde, took her life. This is what she said:
“ ‘Every time I mentioned divorce, he’d say the only way I’d get out of this marriage was in a pine box. I didn’t believe he really meant it. But then I found him with that volunteer, and I finally knew I’d had enough. So that night, I told him it was over and I didn’t care what he wanted anymore. I was getting a divorce. He grabbed me by the throat and started to shake me. “I’ll kill you!” At that moment, his voice, his face…I’d never seen him look like that before. I was so scared. It was real. He really meant it. I know if I don’t get out of here, he’s going to kill me. If I’m dead when you read this, it’ll be because he killed me.’ ”
I paused again, letting her words sink in. “Sadly, though the evidence will show she tried to get away, Melissa never made it. What we will prove to you, ladies and gentlemen, is that this defendant”—I turned and pointed at him for emphasis—“took her life even as she desperately, valiantly, tried to escape. Then he dumped her body into the ocean and purposely tried to make it look as though she’d been killed during a robbery.”
I saw Juror Number Four nod slightly, then toss a skeptical look in the defendant’s direction. Excellent. I’d already pegged Juror Number Four as the likely foreman.
“But that scenario won’t fly. So my guess is that he’ll say Melissa deliberately left her blood in the car to set him up, and that she’s not dead at all. She’s just getting even. But, ladies and gentlemen, when it’s all said and done, you’ll see that’s just another defense ploy, and that Melissa is truly, tragically, dead. We will prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that Melissa was murdered and that this defendant was the killer. And at the conclusion of this case, I will be asking you to return a verdict of guilty for murder in the first degree.”
On that note, I strode back to counsel table with a bravado I definitely wasn’t feeling. The truth was, though I’d trumpeted Melissa’s last diary entry, it posed a big problem for me. It started off great, but it ended with Melissa saying she had to get out of there. I knew Ronnie O’Bryan would make it the cornerstone of his defense. But there was no point in trying to avoid it. The defense would trot out that line every chance they got—probably a thousand times before this trial was through. Better to front it myself and show the jury it didn’t bother me. Anyone who tells you a trial isn’t a performance is a damn liar.
As I sat down, I glanced at the defense table and saw Saul whispering animatedly to O’Bryan. Saul was handsome, but his thick arms and torso gave him a hulking look that could appear menacing, especially hunched over at counsel table. His dark eyes and heavy, sensual features added to the effect. And I’d noticed during pretrial motions that he had a hard time controlling his reactions. Every time I said something to the judge, he’d nudge his lawyer and write furiously, and occasionally I’d catch him glaring at me. This was great stuff for the jury to see, and I hoped O’Bryan wouldn’t be able to break him of the habit. Now, I saw O’Bryan pat him on the arm, then stand to address the judge. My guess was that Saul had been pushing him to make an opening statement—something the defense rarely does, and rarely should do.
“Your Honor, the defense will reserve opening statement at this time.”
“Very well,” the judge said. He turned to me. “People, call your first witness.”
My only hope was that the physical evidence would tip the jury in my favor. So I intended to lean heavily on my experts. Because Dorian was in charge of evidence collection, she was the most logical witness to start with. And of course the strongest.
“Please tell the jury what you found in the garage.”
“I noticed a large suitcase, navy blue and yellow in color, which was under the tool bench,” Dorian answered.
“What drew your attention to that suitcase?” I asked.
“A corner of it stuck out from under the bench.”
“As though someone had shoved it underneath in a hurry?”
Dorian shot me a warning look. “The way it was situated would have put it in the way of anyone moving around the garage. So it seemed logical to conclude that it wasn’t intentionally placed in that position.”
I declared victory with that answer and moved on.
“Did you notice anything that indicated a more likely place where the suitcase was normally stored?” I asked.
“Yes. I noticed other suitcases of similar appearance, blue and yellow, on a shelf above the tool bench.”
I paused to let the information—and hopefully the implications—sink in with the jury. It was one of those “sleeper” pieces of evidence, the significance of which can take a moment to appreciate. The fact that the suitcase had been dragged down off that shelf indicated that Melissa had been trying to get away. And the fact that the suitcase was still there in the garage, out of place, indicated not only that she hadn’t made it but that there had possibly been some kind of struggle. So this single piece of evidence helped paint an entire scenario for the last moments of Melissa’s life. After stalling for as long as I dared to give the jury time to catch on, I asked Dorian what else she’d found noteworthy in the garage.
“I found a scarf, pale blue plaid in color, near the door to the kitchen. I noted it because it was on the ground next to the stairs and I thought it fair to assume it wasn’t normally kept there.”
I glanced at the jury and saw that most were taking notes—a good sign—and that a few were smiling at Dorian. A great sign, because it showed that they spotted and appreciated Dorian’s minimalist approach, which meant she was scoring big points for credibility.
“Was it immediately visible to you when you entered the garage?”
“No. The scarf was in a dark corner next to the wall, partially hidden by the shelving unit that was bolted to the wall.”
Point being, Saul Hildegarde wouldn’t have noticed that it had fallen there in the heat of the moment and so never knew to get rid of it.
“Did you process that scarf for hair, blood, or foreign fibers?”
“I did. I found traces of human blood that I submitted for DNA testing, and I found a mixture of hairs, which I compared to hairs from Melissa’s brush, and to her family’s hair, and to the defendant’s hair.”
“And what did you find?”
“I found a number of hairs consistent with Melissa’s that appeared to have been forcibly removed—”
“By that, you mean yanked out of her head?”
Dorian gave me a stern look. “By that, I mean pulled out, as opposed to falling out naturally. And I found some forcibly removed hairs consistent with the hair of this defendant as well.” Dorian nodded in Saul Hildegarde’s direction.
She hadn’t approved of my editorialized yanked, but she hadn’t refuted it. I’d taken the risk of getting smacked by Dorian into account and decided it was worth it. Yanked painted a clearer picture of a violent struggle.
“Did you find any other evidence of note in the garage?”
“Yes. I found what appeared to be damp spots on the floor, which I tested for the presence of blood.”
“And what was the result of that test?”
“It was positive. But I must add that certain other substances may also give a positive result to that test, such as rust and certain vegetable materials.”
“Did you see any spots of rust or vegetable materials on the floor of the garage?”
“I did see some rust spots near an old bicycle.”
“And were those spots damp?”
“No.”
In other words, Saul wasn’t a neat freak who liked to scrub his garage floor. He’d only scrubbed certain spots, i.e., those that were bloodstains. So far so good, on to the finale:
Dorian’s findings in the car—the spot of blood on the undercarriage of the seat, which gave me the chance to show the photograph of the car again and the “new” evidence of cleanup.
“Did you find the wipe marks throughout the car?” I asked.
“No. A search of the entire cabin of the car revealed wipe marks only in the backseat area, including the back of the passenger’s and driver’s seats.”
It couldn’t have gone any better. I leaned down and asked Bailey if there was anything I’d missed. She shook her head. I sat down. Time for cross.
Ronnie O’Bryan wisely refrained from getting into Dorian’s credentials—a losing gambit for him since it would only add to her credibility—and went after the damning inferences of the evidence she’d found.
“Now, you’re not trying to say that Melissa got attacked as she pulled that suitcase down off the shelf, are you?”
“Counsel, I’m not trying to say anything. I said what I saw: a suitcase that appeared to be out of place. How it got there, why it got there, is not my business.”
“Exactly so. I agree. And so you don’t know whether Melissa pulled down that suitcase and kicked it under the bench and left it that way herself, do you?”
“Of course not—”
“And you don’t know whether Melissa deliberately cut herself and wiped the blood on that scarf you found either, do you?”
With any other witness, I would’ve objected. The questions called for speculation and were argumentative, intended only to broadcast the defense. But when it comes to objections, less is more. Juries hate objections; it makes them wonder what you’ve got to hide. Besides, this was Dorian. I knew from hard experience that she hated this kind of conjecturing.
Dorian glared at O’Bryan. “Counsel, we can sit here all day talking about the things I don’t know. String theory, the God particle, I don’t know about ’em. I describe what I see at crime scenes. That’s what I know. You want to speculate how the suitcase got where it did, how the scarf landed on the floor by the stairs, how the blood got on it, fine. Have at it. But that’s not what I’m here for.”
