My first thought after reading the interview Lucia Osborne-Crowley snagged with Scotty David (juror 50) published only days after Ghislaine’s conviction was “this cannot be good.” I’m no legal expert here, but found it incredibly shocking that Maxwell’s team had overlooked such a risk during their selections. After they had been so vocal in their concern over the potential for a jury to be poisoned by “media bias.”
Scotty’s admission in this interview, the timing of it, the heroic undertone, all of it seemed highly suspect to me right off the bat. It read like a guy rushing to be the name & face behind the conviction that put Ghislaine Maxwell away for life. A hero persuader if you will.
Intuition that proved valid. Those interviewed confessions being the reason two and a half months later we are all gathering back under the same courthouse to address the issue under oath. The validity of that verdict now hanging by a thread.
When I decided (only two days before the hearing) to fly back for a single day in court Hayes asked:
“Will Ghislaine be there?”
“Yes.”
“What about the dead guy?”
“He’s still dead.”
“But now … there are two dead guys, right?” He inquired.
Arlo, on the opposite end of the couch smiled back at me. Amused by his youngest brother’s interest and the details he tends to soak up as an ever curious 7 year old intrigued by the idea of chasing a lady spy he only hears about in bits and pieces during my discussions with friends. He doesn’t understand what exactly this mystery woman in a courtroom far away is guilty of, he just knows she taken a lot of his mother’s attention, is the reason for her regular NY flights, and operates a submarine like the men in the superhero movies he watches while I’m away.
He is also, apparently, tracking a growing body count.
Juror 50 exits the courthouse with a friend after an hour long grilling by Judge Nathan under oath
Tuesday, March 8th
On Tuesday morning the room is abuzz with light chatter when Ghislaine Maxwell abruptly enters just after 10am looking anything but superhero comparable. Gone are the signature fitted cashmere turtlenecks skimming the curves of an enviable figure, replaced by a blue shapeless prison jumpsuit pulled over a thick thermal undershirt. Her inky blunt bob newly streaked with gray. Scattered and uncombed. Her perfect poise and straight backed debutant posture, noticeably deflated.
She moves across the room appearing for the first time like someone I’d describe as an average woman. The mysterious command that had transfixed us all during the trial, all seemingly dissolved.
No eye contact, no saunter, no hugs, no control. Instead she heads directly to her designated seat in the corner of the room. The same bright green binder tucked beneath her arm.
Court Sketches by Jane Rosenberg
The jury box in front of her sits vacant. While the room behind her is filled. This time populated mainly by spectators deemed “fifth floor conspiracy theorists.” A colorful mix of characters I appreciate the same as the celebrated journalists I typically cling to. Faces familiar from my first day covering the trial who’ve secured a spot in the courtroom for the first time today thanks to many of the regulars not able to make it.
I’m seated next to a young woman named Nadia who introduces me to her friend, the Twitterhead I recognize from the vlogging videos I’ve seen him filming outside the courthouse, named Addy.
Nadia, watching Ghislaine settle into her seat, leans over to whisper about how “she seems self conscious. I almost feel bad for her,” she says, referring to Ghislaine’s newly guarded mannerisms, making us both uneasy. As spectators it’s hard to watch another woman uncomfortable in her appearance, insecurities on full display, if even under such bizarre circumstance.
We’re suppose to loathe her. So why do we care if she’s self conscious in front of us?
