The Search for Justice (15 page)

Although we were still at the beginning of what we both knew would be a lengthy process, I began to sense that in spite of
our previous working relationship, I was getting under Marcia Clark ’s skin. No matter what I said or did, she would come
right back at me—that is, it seemed, at
me,
not at what had just occurred procedurally. When she countered our manila envelope with one of her own, ostensibly containing
the records of Juditha Brown ’s telephone conversation with Nicole, she seemed to present it with a “take that!” gesture.
As was noted in
Newsweek
at one point, “Lead prosecutor Marcia Clark never lost an opportunity to retail her material with theatrical flair.”

Just as the preliminary got under way, the Fourth of July holiday weekend arrived, and court was recessed. Normally Linell
and I take the two boys to the beach for fireworks, but this year she took the boys, and I stayed home working. Miraculously,
the phone didn ’t ring. It was strange not having anyone around, but the peace and serenity of being by myself there was something
I hadn ’t experienced in a long time. It lasted exactly two days. On Monday, we all trooped back into the office.

As I was leaving Drai ’s one evening prior to the preliminary, I met a woman named Jackie Kallen, the only female boxing manager
in the world. I knew the name, and I knew she was managing world champions. You might expect a woman in the fight business
to be the prototype of a tough broad, but Jackie Kallen, lovely in both dress and appearance, is tough where it counts: in
her brain.

“I manage James Toney, the middleweight champ,” she said. “We ’re in town for a couple of weeks training for his Las Vegas
championship fight with Prince Charles Williams. I understand you like to box. Would you like to come by the
gym? If you want, you can even work out with him a round or two.”

Astonished at the chance not only to meet Toney but to spar with him, I eagerly made a date for the following Sunday. It was
to be a private session; Toney ’s training time in the gym was closed except to his family and close friends, and I didn ’t
tell anybody except my family what I was going to do.

The gym was in an old office building. The boxing ring was in a far corner, along with two speed bags, a couple of double-ended
bags, an area for jumping rope, and a bathroom that was there long before World War II. Toney was in the ring with his sparring
partner, who was about three inches taller and outweighed him by twenty pounds. Toney himself, although he fought at 165,
looked more like 190, even though he was only two weeks away from the championship fight. Working inside, he was deliberately
absorbing blows to toughen himself up. With Grant lingering somewhat shyly behind us, Linell and I greeted Jackie, who introduced
us to the manager of the gym, the trainer, and James Toney ’s mother, who seemed almost too young to be the mother of the
man in the ring.

While in a clinch, Toney leaned out and said, “Is that pussy lawyer here? I hate goddamn lawyers. I ’m gonna kick the shit
out of him. Can ’t wait to get him in here.”

Jackie turned to me and said, “Don ’t worry about it, he ’s just trying to make you nervous. He ’s just talking shit; that
’s the way some fighters are.” “Nervous” is hardly sufficient to describe the way I felt. It didn ’t help when I heard the
smack
that accompanied the clean right that Toney fired at his sparring partner, rearranging the guy ’s nose.

After I changed, my hands were wrapped for the first time by a professional trainer—Jackie herself. Afterward, she introduced
me to another trainer, who looked at me dubiously and said, “Let ’s work out for a few minutes and warm up.” He seemed relieved
to see that I ’d had some professional training and basic boxing skills. After he ’d given me a few pointers, he told me that
the most important thing to do was relax.

“Get that pussy up here!” I heard Toney yell. Jackie looked at me and said, “You know, I ’m not sure this is such a good idea.
James is two weeks away from a major fight, and he ’s pretty unpredictable. I ’ve got a couple of other great fighters here
who ’ll give you a good workout. Why don ’t I put you in the ring with one of them?”

“I came to fight the champ,” I said, my own words ringing inside my head, “and I ’m going to do the best I can.”

Toney ’s mother took Linell aside and softly said, “He ’s my son and I love him, but he has a hot temper. No one knows what
can set him off. Tell your husband not to do it.”

“Bob is going to do what he ’s going to do,” said my wife, “and nothing I say will change his mind.”

Through the ropes and into the ring I went. Toney would tell me later that he was amazed not to see any signs of fear whatsoever.
Quite honestly once I was in, I didn ’t feel afraid. I was just ready to give it everything I had, to do the best I could—hoping
he would hold back. Clearly I wouldn ’t have had a chance if he was fighting seriously. For amateurs, sparring isn ’t fighting—it
’s a way to sharpen your skills, to get a good workout. The general rule is, you get hit with as much force as you hit your
opponent. For pros, it ’s different. Boxing is their livelihood; there are championships at stake. And when they spar, the
sparring partner always comes in second.

I went to my corner, where grease was smeared on my face, and then walked into the center of the ring, where Toney was waiting.
We touched gloves, and after that, he was pure speed. My first couple of jabs hit the air; he was giving me the opportunity
to connect and I couldn ’t do it. He had that lightning footwork, that boxer ’s dance, backing up instantaneously every time
he saw a muscle tighten. He slowed down a bit, allowing me to get my rhythm. I was able to throw a few jabs, but every one
met a quick response. Although I ’d trained for as long as twelve rounds before, I had never sparred more than four, and the
tension in my body after the first thirty-second flurry felt
like it was going to burn me out. I could hear my corner yelling “Take a breath! Relax! Relax!”

I went for a second wind, got into a clinch, didn ’t like the body punches that resulted, and then went toe-to-toe, each time
trading punches as Toney bobbed and weaved. It was the longest three minutes I ’d ever spent. I felt like I was in a world
championship match all by myself. When it was over, Toney said, “One more round.” I went back to my corner, where they poured
cold water on my head. Invigorated, I thought, well, sure, okay, another round.

As I got up, still facing the trainer in my corner, Toney snuck up behind me and threw a half-punch to my jaw, like a little
kid taunting and teasing but thinking himself pretty damned amusing. I came back at him immediately, throwing three or four
fast punches that danced us to the center of the ring. He got me into a clinch, doing what fighters call “leaning on you.”
I weighed in at 165, the super-middleweight limit, and Toney outweighed me by what felt like a good twenty pounds. I got lucky
and landed a great uppercut, and then thought: “Oh, my God,
now
what ’ll he do?” Because if he hit me in kind, I ’d have been knocked through the ropes. Instead, he got me into another
clinch and then bit me on the shoulder. Top dog, the gesture said. I ’m in control here.

After we ’d finished, we embraced, as fighters do. Jackie took pictures of me and James Toney and my son Grant. I couldn ’t
stop grinning. It had been the most exhilarating six minutes of my life. Toney told me he was surprised that I showed no fear,
and he later told a reporter, “That Shapiro, he came in here with a big mouth. We went at it for two rounds. He was tough.”

I
didn ’t want to prohibit any of the lawyers on the defense team from answering casual questions posed by reporters, especially
when we walked out of court each day, but I insisted that we had to be perceived as a united, cohesive team—to speak, in effect,
in one voice. Although Bailey and Dershowitz had always appeared on television during their own cases and often offered commentary
on cases they were not involved in, I had decided that I would not give any interviews during the trial. I even turned down
the December
Playboy
interview, which would have given me an opportunity to discuss some of the complexities of the case. I did, however, make
comments on each day ’s proceedings to courthouse reporters.

Bailey and Dershowitz continued appearing on television, making sometimes contradictory comments about the case. One day I
was denying reports of a plea bargain; the next day I was reading that the ice cream that Nicole had purchased at Ben and
Jerry ’s before her death was somehow going to give O.J. a rock-solid alibi. Mickey Rudin, Frank Sinatra ’s longtime lawyer,
sent me a gift—adhesive tape—engraved “For Lee and Alan.” Finally, I had to lay down the law that there had to be no television
interviews by anyone on the team unless previously
viously cleared. Dershowitz graciously agreed; Bailey, however, remained a loose cannon.

Dean Gerald Uelmen arguing for evidence exclusion, citing California ’s Supreme Court in
People v. Smith:
“The belief upon which an officer acts must be the product of facts known to or observed by him, and not a fanciful attempt
to rationalize silence into a justification for a warrantless entry.”

He then continued, explaining, “If we were to carve out an exception to the Fourth Amendment for detectives who don ’t know
what they have, in effect we would turn the Fourth Amendment on its head and say, ‘The less you know, the more you can search.
’”