All my content is about a week behind, thanks to an epic toss of unexpected fate, but there are still valuable details inside delayed recounts that do not expire, so please bear with me as I try & catch up this week. xx
“If something happens to me on this trip, send my body home, don’t tell anyone I died going to the Gwyneth Paltrow trial.” - A warning text I sent Mike on my way to the airport after Jess called and scolded me about the risks of flying so soon after surgery.
“Blood clots.” She said.
“How stupid.” She said.
After my reduction, I had been happily watching the trial from bed (a trial that seemed almost designed for me?) but abruptly decided mid-morning on Tuesday that I wanted to be there in person, to document the concluding days of such fabulous spectacle. Life is too short to miss out on fleeting opportunities, especially with an annoyed but immaculately styled Gwyneth Paltrow in court when celebrity trials are your gig.
It wasn't sex crimes or murder. It felt like a well-earned break.
I convinced Denise last minute to join me. We could be ourselves at a silly ski trial I told her. Watching Hollywood royalty pitted against civilian collision claims played out in eye rolls, yoga stretches, and stacked Prada boots. The flight was just over an hour so we could hop on a plane, land in Salt Lake City by late evening, and be in court the following day with only a handful of media to contend with, and snow-capped mountains as a pristine cinematic backdrop.
The aesthetic was ideal. Park City is the perfect setting for a ski crime. I knew I would regret if I skipped it. And my regrets, they don't die easy.
Admittedly though, I’m a terrible patient. Always have been. After each hospital birth, I was discharged in record time because I wouldn’t stop begging to get out. I was released ten hours after the birth of Rex, and camping on the beach 10 days after Hayes (my 4th) arrived. I mention this only as proof of this as a longstanding flaw. My definition of “take it easy” is skewed because I thrive in chaos and am never not juggling too many things at once. So sitting stagnant in bed (without pain as an anchor) is grating on my sanity.
I figured I could either recover lazily in bed, or court-side in Utah.
All photos by Denise Bovee
The point of being on-site for these situations is not about getting closer to the information or individuals involved, it’s about raking in pieces of the environment to unfold the tale with fuller insight. Watching Gwyneth Paltrow in court on TV is not the same as being with Gwyneth Paltrow in court on TV. And reading about Ghislaine Maxwell in court is not the same as sitting behind Ghislaine Maxwell in court. The scenery and settings become secondary characters in these trials. Moscow, and it’s eerie soul, was solid proof of that. Whatever the scenario, whoever the players, there is expressions to gauge, interactions to dissect, towns to explore, people to meet, and energy to read. But perhaps I’m over-explaining in vain — mostly for the convenience of my best friend, so she can recap the topic at her next therapy appointment. She likes to mull over it. Her unfettered desire to control everything around her and my reckless tendency to embrace spontaneity in any shape or form, even though we’ve been surviving this dynamic for over 35 years now.
Another point worth mentioning, however, is that spiked trial ratings prove we still have an insatiable fascination with celebrities even though we keep insisting that their role in current society is dead. It’s a fascination that intensifies with trial. There is something undeniably compelling about seeing the rich and famous leveled by legal woes, watching carefully crafted public images shattered by vulnerabilities in court. To some degree, I suppose we all appreciate a stripped-down version of any polished facade.
“When we see an actor on trial, their celebrity is conflated with their personhood and that is intriguing,”
This fascination with celebrity trials is nothing new. But amplified in recent years thanks to the rise of social media’s 24-hour news cycles. Now that we can track them in real-time, with every detail scrutinized and analyzed by self professed pundits and armchair experts alike. And yet, even as we seek to consume every bit of information we can squeeze out of these cases, it also evokes an underlying sense of unease over how invested we are in the misfortunes of others — particularly those who come from privilege and success.
Why is it so amusing? To see famous people compromised?
I saw a couple of articles asking if it’s ethical to turn a trial into a spectacle for our own entertainment.
Of course it is.
Trial is theater. And we are innately a captive audience forever awaiting the next show. I know I prefer celeb trials over any other form of reality TV.
Our society is and always has been obsessed with celebrity trials.
“We can go as far back as Clara Bow from the early 1900s, she was the most popular film star of her time,” said Emily Carman, a film historian and professor at Chapman University. “Bow had to testify in 1931 in a civil case involving her secretary and Americans and the media couldn’t have enough.”
The trial was held “amidst a carnival-like atmosphere with thousands of people milling around the L.A. County Courthouse. The trial was reported as news around the world,” said Justice Denied Magazine.
Carman said that,even though most celebrities are on social media, audiences are eager to see different sides of celebrity personhood. “When we see an actor on trial, their celebrity is conflated with their personhood and that is intriguing,” she said.
With Paltrow, said Carman, the interest is even more pronounced as she is an Oscar-winner, a businesswoman and someone with Hollywood pedigree. “You can’t ascend much higher than Paltrow,” she said. “And then to see her involved in this nitpicky civil case, that’s fascinating.” - Washington Post
Justice Row
After a horrible night’s sleep in a generic hotel with a single window facing a sunless courtyard - the kind of thing that actually depresses me - Denise and I headed straight to Justice Row where Terry Sanderson was the first person we bumped into and kindly held the door for us at security with two friends in tow.
One by one, familiar faces started to appear. First, the star-struck attorney who wanted to be tall like Gwyneth in line ahead, in fresh makeup and a nicely fitted suit, then the hacking country lawyer snagging a front-rowed handicapped parking spot, followed by that mannered Clark Kent kid in a navy suit and new briefcase, and finally, with less than 10 minutes to spare, Ms. Paltrow herself emerging from an SUV in all her towering blonde glory in black, layered by a coat, accented by signature boots. She offers no smile or acknowledgment for any of us. Instead, she pretends to take a phone call on her way in to disconnect entirely from the small crowd that awaits her at the entrance.
The BBC guy calls her out on it.
“Come on, no one talks on the phone,” he quips, once she’s in.
Everyone laughs because it’s true. The fake phone call is silly and redundant. The media guys are generally a good time. Especially the UK ones who dwell on the hilarity of certain situations. They tend to be jolly overall, even in freezing temps, but also quick to offer snarky opinions on almost anything you ask them about. And yet still kind enough to make room for iPhone documenters like us, when other media shuns us.
iPhone captures have a way to go before they gain the respect of trained cameraman. But that bias seems fair. So we find our angles in creative corners.
Terry’s Many Many Vacations / A Well Traveled Man
“In his deposition, he described the run as being nearly empty at the time of the crash, but on May 29, he told his attorney the slope was quite crowded that day. He made a deliberate effort to stay “away from all the people congealed in the center,” he said on the stand. Days earlier, Sanderson also informed the court that his alleged brain injury made it hard for him to do some of his activities — skiing and travel, for example — but in this second installment of his testimony, we were treated to a slideshow from the optometrist’s post-crash vacations. We got to see photos of Sanderson riding a camel, golfing, kayaking, hiking, biking, and even posing on some ski slopes. Owens asked him if he had gone to Peru and climbed Machu Picchu after the fact — he had. Did he float down the Amazon? “Uh, yes, I guess so.” Did he travel all over Europe — “with my daughter Jenny, yes” — and visit the Netherlands three times? “I don’t remember.” Did he go to Morocco twice? “Very likely.” The Canary Islands? “I can’t dispute it.” Did he go to Thailand? Did he visit at least the states of Montana, Washington, and Idaho? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.
Sanderson explained all the travel by saying that at the time (2016–2017, roughly) he was “determined to prove [he] didn’t have any mental issues” and to get back to his routine. Nonetheless, he continued, “I just found that it was like flipping a switch. It was like I looked back and there was a light side and now I’m in the dark side.” He said he noticed the change in the way people responded to him, too: “It’s always nice, if you walk into a room, when people say, Hey, c’mon over here, it’s Terry!” he told the jury. “But now it’s, Oh, it’s Terry …” All the light drained from his voice.”
After a brief lecture on media rules we are seated three rows behind a sharp and narrow-shouldered Patrow. The width of her from behind resembles a child. She is thinner than the 145 pounds under current debate. No, her weight is not on trial, but try telling that to my DMs, where every 5’10 woman following me has a personal opinion about the physiological aspect of her frame.
Her hair is parted at the center, limp, and tinted with a touch of green thanks to God-awful fluorescent lighting. Never judge a blonde's color in court. It's never a fair representation. Everyone with light hair looks drier and brassier than they really are.
She is pretty, but off-putting. Entitlement etched in every expression. She comes off as cold and detached. I might like GP less after this short lived experience with her. I was indifferent before, definitely not a fan now.
For those first hours, I do everything I can to keep from dozing off like half the court is guilty of after enduring one dull brain expert analysis on the stand after another. At home I pan the gallery, counting how many are asleep. The last thing I want is to be caught like them on camera with mouth agape, so I put on my sunglasses and focus on Gweyneth's odd facial reflexes. Plenty of languid expressions and deeply inhaled intakes. Is she meditating? Sometimes, randomly, she stands and paces the narrow isle next to her. Whenever she does this, the man in front of me whispers to his wife about how pretty she is. Other times she is up and stretching her bones, slowly rubbing or rotating her neck, perpetually irritated she has to be here. She stares directly at the blank wall across from her, or scrolls her phone, past all the brilliant memes she is currently fueling. Occasionally, she smiles widely at a woman behind her which slices her eyes into thin crescents that stirs flickers of nostalgia because when she smiles like that, she is instantly Margot Tenenbaum in love or Emma at the ball. And we love her for it. But it's these awkwardly pursed-lip reiterations that keep my attention glued for two days. Denise notices it too. At one point, Gwen stands and flashes a smile at Denise who is dressed identically in a black coat, over a turtleneck and wide-leg pants. But other than that, the two of us sit in silent confusion because she’s so odd and uncomfortable to watch with this incessant puckering of her lips.
What's the point?
And if this is such a desired look, why not inject them with filler like everyone else in her industry?
Does she realize how strange it looks on camera?
Does she not watch any of the coverage from this trial?
From the side she resembles a spiteful duck. But her profile in person (when she is not forcing her features) matches exactly what we see on screen. It's a good one. Strong nose, square jaw, and when she drops her head backward in annoyed response to whatever Terry's side is claiming, her features are perfectly symmetrical, to an impressive degree. The kind of superficial blessings the big screen adores.
I keep thinking the lip projection pose must be the face she makes whenever she greets herself in a mirror. One best saved for private reflection.
“I am who I am. I can’t pretend to be somebody who makes $25,000 a year.”
For the Love of Kamut
After our first day in court, we set out to explore this charming town. We walk to the main street, which is like being inside a shaken snow globe, find a nail shop to get manicures, drown cocktails seemingly meant for children, and watch the flutter of snowflakes falling outside every window we settle by.
The whole town is sick to death of this snow, BTW, and they are more than happy to tell you about it. It’s been a record-breaking winter, the most snow they’ve seen in 40 years, with evidence on the rooftops stacked by several layers of snow folded like blankets that look too heavy to have one more tossed on top. And as far as you can see, white peaks line the landscape in the distance. Accented by sky lifts.
Park City folk are exceptionally friendly, wholesome good people who will flatter and embrace you upon every introduction. They recommend soda shops over dive bars. Go to Church functions on the weekdays. Celebrate life with gourmet meals they gather and cook together.
But the Uber drivers are the most chatty of all. They have stories to tell.
“Whatever you do, don’t come here in January,” a couple of the drivers warned us. “The town turns into a madhouse, drunken celebrities falling in and out of every bar.”
*I make a note to return at the end of this year.
In the meantime, the internet has plans of its own for us. Once they discover we are in Utah, home of the beloved Food Nanny, the ‘Fannies’ insist on a group meet-up. So we do. Inside a cozy cabin with 7 high-strung hostesses whose home-baked pizzas prove a top highlight of the trip. Their whole crew is powered by infectious energy and nonstop laughter. The kitchen looks rustled exactly as a baker’s should. We meet (and fall in love with) Aunt Sue, learn all about their commitment to Kamut, France excursions, revived dreams, and exotic salts. We sip whole milk from the family cow, compare our trial predictions, and vow to set Sue up with Terry’s brother (or maybe it’s his bodyguard) who complimented her jacket the previous day.
When we leave we are full and exhausted. Likely craving these delicious creations, made of gut-friendly sourdough, for years to come.
No one greets you like a house full of Fannies in a Utah snow storm.
Around Town
Around town, we like to collect people. At a steak house one night Denise invites a man dining alone at the bar to join us after conversations keep colliding. He introduces himself as a private pilot on break from travel. A quick scroll through his Instagram shows him holed up in lavish locations all over the world. He is gay, sarcastic, opinionated, and it turns out — previously employed by Les Wexner.
His stories are wild. And he picks good wine.
He tells us about the demands of working for Wexner and his wife, Abigail, reminding me of a marriage that I consistently overlook as fact because Wexner, as far as I know, is always painted as a closeted gay who married later in life to cover it up. He has a wife. But I forget it regularly.
“He’s gay, right?” I ask.
“Flaming,” he answers. Then proceeds to detail these extravagant hunting lunches he was in charge of preparing for Wexner and his sons during his brief stint as house assistant. Tables arranged in the middle of nature at noon, with elaborate setups and table cloths for three-course dining. He tells us he visited Epstein’s house only once. But didn’t like the vibe of it “at all.”
His uniform story, however, is even stranger. Essentially, a large batch of pilot uniforms arrived from overseas poisoned by China. They caused mass skin irritations for him and coworkers who wore them for weeks before realizing something was terribly wrong. The mystery was not solved until they were finally tested in labs and the chemicals that turned up showed potentially deadly effect in large doses. He tells us he is still experimenting with treatments to rid his body of these toxins.
After dinner, the three of us end up sitting around a fire at a pub where we meet a couple on vacation from Brooklynn with stories of their own. Mostly regarding their devotion to strict Judaism. They are open and willing to answer all of our questions so we take full advantage. The wife explains the wigs they wear in the company of their husbands, pointing to hers as an example. When we have a hard time believing her hair is fake, she pulls it back enough to expose her real hairline and laughs.
“This is what 8k will get you,” she says. Her eyes light up with laughter. She appreciates how impressed we are with her reveal. She works with all females, so they take their wigs off during work days, but if a man enters the office, they all rush to get them back on.
The best part is she has no idea who Gwyneth Paltrow is, which rightfully amuses all of us. But more so her husband.
“She guessed she was a professional skier!” Her laughs.
Trump, on the other hand, is one celebrity she is keen on. So we talk about him. And the wigs, and NY, and their children.
A text later that night confesses that they accidentally overstayed an hour at the bar with us so the husband missed his flight while she somehow snagged a last seat.
We promised to meet up in NY. Whenever I had another reason for return.
When an expert on the stand testifies to the naturally declining state of the human body, stating that we are all essentially “decaying by the day,” Gwyneth shoots a snide smirk at the woman behind her, as if to say “not all of us.”
Verdict Day
Leave it to Billy Bush to show up and turn a whole courthouse into a party.
“Who’s in charge of getting the pizza and beer here?” Bush asks, with a familiar smile bursting through the front doors.
He has a charity event scheduled for the weekend but flew in a day early to cover these closing arguments. He’s treated like he owns the place. Everyone in this tiny courthouse, not akin to celebrity trials that garner prime-time attention, warms up to him with ease. Right off the bat he is joking with staff and taking photos with fans. When I google him, it occurs to me that he is George W. Bush’s nephew. A fact I didn’t overlook, I never knew! Suddenly, the resemblance is so obvious.
In the courtroom, on this last day I am weirdly targeted by staff in court. Once for wearing sunglasses (prescriptions are allowed but they question me anyway) and later pulled from my spot on the bench into the hallway where I am wrongly scolded for being on my phone. When I pull out a folded form that shows proof of judge clearance, the officer immediately apologizes to me.
When I return to my seat, Sugar, a local psychic reader with gray hair and kind eyes, passes me a blue crystal for “protection.”
Later on break, she finds me to tell me how much she enjoys my Instagram. We talk about the energy in the room. I tell her how much I love this angle. Reading people’s energy is not something I talk or write about often, especially in regard to trial coverage, but defiantly something I’m drawn to. If only with silent interest.
I ask about her take Gwyneth. “Icy, reserved, and closed off,” she says.
Terry, on the other hand, she calls "a real nut.” She says that she senses he is “off his rocker” and possibly even dangerous, suggesting that GP should fear him long after this trial has wrapped. She thinks he’s a liar and loose cannon.
When I start complaining about always being weirdly targeted in court, she reminds me to consider my own energy in the room.
“You are always looking outward, but the energy you bring into the room is being read by everyone else. Remember that. They sense that you carry unique force, so they monitor you based on that.”
It’s not something I’ve ever considered — my own energetic presence projected, so I think perhaps she’s onto something. Certainly though the sunglasses don’t help.
The last two hours in court during deliberations are lively and entertaining. Everyone gathers in the lobby like a college group cramming before finals. There is a brief meeting about moving all press into a dingy storage room which disappoints every branch of media there to cover it. Thankfully, Billy Bush speaks up, explaining why this is a terrible idea: It’s dark, crowded with cameras, screens and boxes, and based on his experience with Gwyneth Paltrow, absolutely not an area she would ever step foot in to speak on camera. With a swift change of plans, everyone gathers up their equipment and sets up outside.
During lunch we catch breaking news. Bush abruptly jumps from his seat to announce that Trump is being indicted. There is an audible gasp in response. Everyone grabs their phone. Bush rushes out to his van to alert his team.
“I can’t believe Billy Bush, of all people, is the one to break this Trump news,” I tell Denise as she pulls up the infamous video of them in that van. We sit and watch it together in a corner.
I spend the last hour talking to the mother of Clark Kent, who is actually James Egan, the unsung hero in this situation. She tells me he’s decided on a new career because “he just can’t be mean.” He’s not cut out to be an attack attorney. She says for the longest time she worried about James because he is her “most sensitive” child and kept getting his heart broken by the wrong girls. She worried about him finding the right one, but eventually he did. He wanted to be a musician, but his father urged him to find something that makes more money so he went into law after a degree in English. At heart, he’s still a writer and musician. Newly married with a 1-year-old son he was eager to return to once trial wrapped.
“These guys are not celebrity lawyers,” his mother tells me, explaining that this firm typically deals with medical malpractice, so all of this media attention was tough on them.
Once the verdict is read the court empties outside swiftly. Gwyneth disappears through the exit in flash while Terry sticks around to recount his regrets for a dozen microphones shoved in his face.
Billy Bush has words of encouragement for everyone interviewed and even manages to drag me on camera for a quick trial rundown, where I deem the green wool coat the “real winner” in this situation.
Denise and I hop into a cab and head downtown for drinks where we take a trolly ride in circles for an hour until finally deciding on a quaint seafood haunt for soup. I get a text just as I sit down.
“I just saw you on IG throwing snowballs in Utah. WTF are you doing?!” It's a warning from my friend, assistant at the reduction doctor’s office.
“I’m in trouble.”
“It’s ok. You’ll be more careful,” Denise says, as two tequila sodas are place on the table in front of us, snow like static out our window, the sun slowly climbing out from behind a dark mountain, a pretty place for rich people to ski and squabble.
Poisoned pilot suits sent from China????? Another story within a story. Intrigued.
You always leave us wanting more 😉
I want to know more about the pilot and his stories with Wexner! And there has to be more about his visit to Epstein’s. Please share!!