The Case Against Brian Spencer

Diane De Lena Fialco says a lot of things, and the assistant state attorney who until three weeks ago was handling the case—a woman named Lynne Baldwin—thought that a jury would believe her. Baldwin laid the groundwork in the newspapers, referring to Fialco by her working name, Crystal, in order to protect her for as long as possible from the scrutiny of the press. "She's a very beautiful young girl and, even though she worked for an escort service, there's something about her that makes her seem vulnerable, sort of like Marilyn Monroe...." the prosecutor told the Palm Beach Post in February. "Because of this incident, she got out of that kind of life and is working a good job and has a family."

The state attorney's office needs Diane Fialco, and needs her to be credible. Without her, there is no case. There seems to be no other evidence linking Spencer to Michael Dalfo—no gun, no blood, no witness save Diane De Lena Fialco herself.

And on the testimony of this one witness, who reminds the prosecutor of an actress, Spencer was indicted by a Florida grand jury on charges of first-degree murder and kidnapping. And on her testimony, the state of Florida is willing to end Brian Spencer's life.

There is a temptation here to set Brian Spencer's life on the table, the way museums set out antique silverware and plates and glasses in an Early American dining room and pretend that the setting is somehow what pioneer life was like.

The trouble, of course, is that a life isn't one way or another. A lot of things happen, and the reflections of those things are shaded by time and mood, and are lost and invented even if you were there. Even if you happen to be a professional athlete and thousands of people see what you do, and remember. But the moment becomes private as soon as it is over, because it is dependent on your other moments. And it is not so much the glory itself that follows you later—reminding you of a way things will not be again—but its reflections.

And so when a friend, for instance, who grew up with Brian Spencer in Fort St. James, B.C., tells you, "He was always smiling, he was always happy," it is hard to see that you are entitled to write, "Brian Spencer had a happy childhood." Or when you learn that 12 years ago in Buffalo, Spencer was charged with assaulting a motorist after a traffic accident and wound up paying the other driver an undisclosed sum in an out-of-court settlement of a civil suit—the criminal charges were dropped—you are not then entitled to write, "Brian Spencer has a violent temper."

And the idea of catching up with such a life, halfway through its 38th year, at the Palm Beach County jail, and then picking through the newspaper clippings and the reflections of friends and wives (there have been two) and teammates for some thread of cause and effect is ambitious beyond what can honestly be accomplished.

It can be said that somewhere along the line, Brian Spencer was not careful enough about his roommates, but beyond that you're on your own.

Spencer, of course, is not saying much. He has denied killing Dalfo in a letter sent to this magazine and at least one other publication, but the purpose of the letter was less to explain anything that has happened than it was simply to ask for mail.

"I sit here [in jail] with two passions, really two wishes that you in your charity might help fulfill. First, I hope you find it in your heart to think a kindly thought and to say a prayer for me.... Second, if you could, please write.... Maybe the 'glory days' are over, but not my memory of how incredibly uplifting the fans are."