NORRISTOWN, Pennsylvania— First there was the running—everyone was running to get inside the courtroom. All the updates from court officials had, so far, said it was a jury question, but this one was different. It said court will reconvene, and the guess was a verdict. The national and international media, mostly gone for the criminal retrial of Bill Cosby, were back. Bodies were everywhere, frantically scurrying up the marble steps with laptops clutched, waiting on the long line to get inside the once sparsely populated courtroom.
Inside, everyone waited. Reporters waited; spectators waited; the women in the gallery who said they, too, were drugged and sexually assaulted by Bill Cosby waited; the lawyers waited; and Andrea Constand and her family waited. After more than a month of pretrial motions, jury selection, and a brutal trial, this was all that was left. We all speculated. What else could we do?
Earlier in the day, court officials had reminded us there there could be no displays of support for either side, and Judge Steven O’Neill had reminded everyone of the decorum order. Given the profile of the person involved, the intense scrutiny of the proceeding, and myriad appeals expected from Cosby’s legal team if he was convicted, I was sympathetic to strident efforts to maintaining order in the court. When the first guilty rang out, though, I could hear the cries behind behind me. I had no idea who they were coming from or why, no idea whether they were cries of joy or horror. I did hear the vague, muffled sound of officials saying they had to leave. I found out later that they were from the other Cosby accusers in the gallery. I understand why they were removed, and I understand why they had to cry.
Minutes later, Cosby lashed out. After so many years of peddling himself as America’s Dad, wearing sweaters that said “Hello, Friend,” and selling one of the softest foods on Earth, the mask of innocence fell for a moment. District Attorney Kevin Steele had asked O’Neill to revoke Cosby’s bond, a request O’Neill denied. As part of the debate, Steele mentioned how Cosby’s great resources, including a plane, could allow him to flee. Cosby lashed out, bizarrely referring to himself in the third person: “He doesn’t have a plane, you asshole.” He had been convicted on three counts of aggravated indecent assault—told by a jury of his peers that he was guilty of drugging Constand and then, among other things, penetrating her with his fingers—and what seemed to offend him was the suggestion that he owned a plane.
Order was restored, the minutiae of Cosby’s legal responsibilities going forward were sorted out and, just like that, the courtroom quickly emptied. After so many years, so many women coming forward, so many campaigns to silence them, it all happened in minutes. By dusk, many of the satellite trucks were gone; the only evidence left was some litter and designations for photographers written on gaffers tape.
But in the moment after the verdict, the gauntlet of media remained. Out of habit, I apologized to the camera people outside for not being Cosby as I walked down the steps. When Cosby’s legal team emerged, nearly everyone ran after them, a stampede of heavy TV cameras. I quickly got out of their running path, because otherwise I just would have gotten knocked over. For weeks, the Cosby team had given lengthy press conferences in which nothing was held sacred and no blow too low. Today, they said very little; there were just a few sparse quotes from defense lawyer Tom Mesereau to tide the hungry mob over.
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