The domestic violence aspect of the case, by contrast, left me deeply conflicted. The photos of Nicole, her voice on the 911 tape—these produced in me sensations of dread. When the police and city attorney’s reports arrived in my in box, I scanned them hurriedly, professionally, then pushed them to one side. Later, when Scott Gordon would collar me in the hall, as he did at least seven times a day, with, “Marcia, we’ve got to get to work on DV,” I’d say “Yeah, yeah, Scott. Why don’t you write me up a memo on that?” Every time a reminder of Nicole’s physical suffering came up, I felt headachy.
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