Jamie McCourt gets face time in court

The Dodgers’ trial resumes Monday, the courtroom is already abuzz because a few minutes earlier Jamie McCourt’s car rolled back into a pedestrian.

A woman has been hit, so first reports it’s Frank McCourt are not true.

The woman is hurt, but apparently not seriously. A witness says Jamie made no move to get out of the car to check on her. After all, it’s not a jury trial.

Later, Jamie is grilled about the incident by Page 2, by now everyone knowing it’s her driver who hit the woman.

“Was the driver, Jeff?” she’s asked. Jeff was her chauffeur with the Dodgers, and according to her husband, Frank, a Dodgers employee who didn’t mind working overtime if she needed it.

Jamie fingers the woman sitting next to her for hitting the pedestrian, no one seemingly alarmed because one of Jamie’s lawyers is in the backseat at the time of the accident and is already on retainer.

Speaking of Jeff, even though she isn’t, two weeks ago, Jamie sat next to her lawyers in the courtroom with a Starbucks cup in front of her with Jeff’s name on it.

On the stand now, she drinks from a white Styrofoam cup with no name on it, and surprisingly none of the attorneys ask her whether it’s the first time in her life she’s drunk from such a thing.

Jamie on the stand is a moment all of L.A. should witness, because she is the self-described “face of the Dodgers.”

No cameras are allowed, so it’s up to Mona Shafer Edwards, a fashion illustrator, sitting where the jurors would be if this wasn’t a case left to the judge to decide.

“I’ve been studying both of them,” she says. “He’s so buttoned up; he always looks like he’s holding it in … and just might explode at any time.

“His suits are gorgeous with side vents, which make a man’s back look better. And the dimple on his tie [beneath the knot] is always perfect.”

As for “Size 0,” as Jamie was described in a USA Today story years ago, “When she wears a color, it’s the same from top to heels, so she looks taller,” says Edwards. “If you’re short, you don’t want to chop yourself up with two colors. Today it’s all French vanilla; well no, it’s more like caramel with a beautiful seam on the back of her dress — which gives it a fish-tail feel to it.”

She’s also wearing a ring that’s got to be worth a relief pitcher on her right hand, “a moon stone,” she says when asked. For the record, nothing on her left hand.

“She has a young boy’s body, no hips. She’s just all muscle,” says Edwards, who asks Jamie if there are little diamonds attached to her gold earrings.

“Don’t I wish,” says Jamie, poverty being something that’s hard on everyone.

Jamie can be so charming, which separates her from her husband. But on the witness stand she sounds so dumb. Both Edwards and Page 2 notice the same thing: She appears blonder since her last appearance.

“Chlorine,” Jamie, the swimmer, explains later.

She seems to remember less than her husband, who couldn’t remember the Dodgers’ last loss when it was probably the night before.

More than that, this is a woman who claims she never read or reviewed the documents in dispute, but every time Frank’s lawyer, Stephen Susman, asks her something, she begs for time to study the exhibit he’s referencing.

Judge Scott M. Gordon is gnawing the fingers on his left hand, a judge’s way of stifling a yawn. At one point, he seems to be posing for Edwards.

“He does pose,” Edwards says, the judge a ready-made caricature with Phil Donahue hair. “He’s very serious about his hair. He has the best hair of all the judges.”

Edwards shows her latest sketch, illustrations apparently putting a good 20 pounds on most people, or maybe just judges. It’ll be interesting to see where Edwards is sitting today.

“He’s a terrific guy,” she says, “and a newshound too.”

That explains why Gordon is sitting here letting the attorneys state the obvious without admonishment, anything to keep the media around. By the way, anyone know what Judge Ito is doing these days?

The only time the judge speaks up is to stop Susman from belittling Jamie about her plans to be President of the United States. You know, just in case some day she’s the one picking Supreme Court justices.

Susman, meanwhile, keeps reminding Jamie she’s under oath, which is understandable because she seems to have no memory. It gets so bad, she says, “I’m sorry, I might’ve forgotten your question.”

He shows her daily notes she took, including one about a trip to L.A.

“Frank freaks out,” she writes, “because we land in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.” Tell me you wouldn’t freak out landing in Iowa?

The note goes on to say, “That means Frank is YAM.” YAM stands for “yelling at me,” she says. Funny that the Screaming Meanie would have shorthand for such a thing.

The day ends with everyone wondering which of the two, who have come off as losers so far, might be the winner.

“They are so perfect for each other,” says Edwards. “I’d lock them in a Ramada Inn, ice machine at the end of the hall, coffee in those little envelopes, and make them spend the whole weekend talking about why they got together in the first place.”

Who knows? Maybe they would make up and go back to Boston, where they didn’t seem to have these problems.

t.j.simers@latimes.com