Free Objection! by Nancy Grace Page A

century” ignited the juror–turned–
    literary cash cow phenomenon. The Simpson trial spawned scores of books, including I Want to Tell You: My Response to Your Letters, Your Messages, Your Questions, written by the defendant before the trial even started. Jurors quickly followed suit. First there was The Private Diary of an O.J. Juror: Behind the Scenes of the Trial of the Century , by Michael Knox, O.J. Juror Number 620. The book is a wordy tell-all from a juror who was thrown off the case for lying about his criminal record. Talk about tainting the jury! Knox’s gossipy tome (cowritten with National Enquirer columnist Mike Walker) was published while the trial was still going on. Then came Madam Foreman: A Rush to Judgment? by Amanda Cooley, Carrie Bess, and Marsha Rubin-Jackson. Cooley, the foreperson on the Simpson criminal trial, united with two other jurors to defend the most infamous acquittal in recent history.
    Of all the exploitive moves by the major players of the O. J. Simpson murder trial, this one takes the cake: Tracy Hampton, the twenty-six-year-old flight attendant who quit the jury early in the case claiming stress, posed for a layout in the March 1995 issue of Playboy. In keeping with the decorum of the trial, the spread was shot in a courtroom setting. My verdict? In the words of O. J. Simpson himself, Hampton is definitely “100 percent not guilty” of having too much class.
    I learned firsthand how the Simpson trial forever changed the way jurors view their civic duty. In 1995, while I was still prosecuting felonies in Atlanta, Geraldo Rivera asked me to come to New York to do a show with Cooley and the other jurors who had written Madam Foreman.

    O B J E C T I O N !
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    Rivera had kindly featured me as a regular on his nightly legal show during the trial. This was my chance to finally get a look at this jury for myself. Their verdict had astounded me and disappointed me. I actually felt I had the wind knocked out of me when it was announced. I was completely intrigued with the idea of meeting some of the jurors responsible for Simpson’s acquittal.
    The jurors on the show were unfailingly pleasant to everyone. Regardless of what I threw at them, they either acted as if they had no idea that the damning evidence I brought up even existed or simply dis-counted it as not being persuasive enough. I realized that even if these ladies had a Technicolor movie playing in surround sound of Simpson doing the deed, they’d choose to believe it was a fake, doctored by police, and vote to acquit all over again. Trying to reason through the evidence with these ladies was like shrieking at a deaf man. After throwing numerous pointed questions about the evidence at them and minding my manners on air as best I could, I finally realized that nothing and nobody would ever get through to them. Even if they ever thought they were wrong, they’d never admit it. There was nothing left to prove. The trial was over.
    After the show, we all walked out to the street together. It was a cold, gray day in Manhattan, and I had dressed for Atlanta weather, no coat, hat, or gloves. The women walked straight to a waiting white stretch limousine and started trundling in. I stood there saying my good-byes. As the last lady juror stepped into the car, she turned back and looked me straight in the eye. I’ll never forget her words: “Nancy, you know, this trial has been the best thing that ever happened to me!
    I’ve been to the best restaurants, hotels, shopping, everything! It’s really been something!” She got into the car, and the door slammed shut.
    I just stared at the car as they drove away.
    I felt numb. As I watched the limo’s taillights disappear east up the street, my eyes filled with tears. I thought of Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman lying dead outside Nicole’s home in a river of their own blood.
    I pictured their families distraught and crying on the hard wooden pews 5 2
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