Not My Type

What does it really take to confront someone far more powerful than you and be believed? In Not My Type, E. Jean Carroll argues that justice for sexual assault survivors hinges less on sweeping movements and more on the credibility of one person telling the truth, under oath, in a room where the rules hold. Carroll contends that her two civil trials against Donald J. Trump—one establishing liability for sexual abuse and defamation, the other setting damages—prove that a single, well-prepared witness, sustained by a disciplined legal team, corroborating evidence, and a judge who enforces the rules, can puncture decades of impunity. But to do so, you must understand the theater and the grind: trauma science, jury psychology, pretrial prep, wardrobe strategy, relentless cross-examination, and the emotional cost of being publicly disbelieved and harassed in real time.

A memoir braided to two trials

Carroll blends memoirish vignettes (a Mohs surgery eye patch she jokingly calls her “pirate scar”; a deposition opener listing her eight lovers—Fred Schmidt, Stephen Byers, George Butler, Bob Datilla, Anthony Haden-Guest, Ben Vereen, Richard Harris, and her husband, John Johnson) with a granular chronicle of litigation. We sit inside the Ruth Bader Ginsburg Conference Room on the 63rd floor of the Empire State Building as Carroll prep-talks with civil-rights legend Robbie Kaplan, strategist Shawn G. Crowley, and silver-tongued trial partner Mike Ferrara (once nicknamed the “sexy blur” on the track). We ride through mock juries that force the team to pivot from a #MeToo frame to a tighter narrative: one woman, one man, one dressing room.

Courtroom as runway, and why that matters

Carroll treats Judge Lewis A. Kaplan’s courtroom as a literal runway—blue carpet threading between oaken tables, the jury corral, and the witness box. Appearance matters because Trump’s first-line defense was “She’s not my type.” So hair (Lisa Corvelli’s 1996 bob revival), fabric (an Oscar de la Renta chocolate dress or a Dior-esque Zara navy suit), and carriage become part of the evidence of plausibility. It’s a frank acknowledgment: jurors are human, stories need coherence, and a witness has to be legible as her younger self from the moment that matters (1996 at Bergdorf Goodman).

The science of hurt—and the myths of reaction

Carroll brings in Dr. Leslie Lebowitz (architect of sexual-assault protocols for the U.S. Air Force) to explain how traumatic events can silence language, trigger avoidance, and disable desire without erasing memory. That expert testimony meets culture-war myths head-on: the idea that a “real victim” must scream, or flee, or report immediately. Against that myth, the defense repeats: Why didn’t she scream? Why did she laugh? Why did she go into a dressing room? The book shows how those questions flatten human physiology and social context.

Evidence beats celebrity

The narrative’s engine is showing—not asserting—credibility: the empty sixth-floor lingerie department at night (corroborated by Bergdorf leaders Cheryl Beall and Robert Salerno), the dressing-room door mechanics, contemporaneous confidences to friends (Lisa Birnbach and Carol Martin), and pattern evidence from other women (Jessica Leeds on a Braniff flight; People reporter Natasha Stoynoff at Mar-a-Lago). We also hear Trump himself, in deposition, misidentify Carroll as his ex-wife (“That’s my wife”), undercutting his “not my type” line.

Harassment as a strategy—and a damages problem

As the trials run, Trump attempts to speak over Kaplan’s evidentiary rulings via posts and press, a firehose of “hoax,” “whack job,” and “Dem operative” messages. Carroll documents the torrent of threats those posts unleash and brings in Northwestern’s Prof. Ashlee Humphreys to quantify reputation repair: from six figures in the first trial to $7.2–12M in the second, alongside punitive damages calibrated to “make him stop.”

Why this matters to you

If you’ve ever wondered whether personal truth can stand up to institutional power, Carroll’s answer is clear: yes—if you refuse to perform someone else’s idea of the “perfect” victim, if you prepare like an athlete, and if you understand trials are persuasion in a rules-bound theater. You see how humor (her default), style (intentionally dialed), hard evidence, and careful lawyering can turn a life story into a credible case. And you leave with a framework for meeting disbelief—not with louder outrage—but with the kind of painstaking detail that convinces nine strangers who owe you nothing.

Core promise

Justice isn’t a viral moment. It’s a strategy of truth under pressure. Carroll shows you how to make truth legible—fact by corroborated fact—until even a former president must pay attention, and pay damages.

Carroll’s great risk is telling a story she spent years training herself not to think about. She hires Dr. Leslie Lebowitz, a trauma psychologist who designed sexual-assault protocols for the U.S. Air Force, to help a jury grasp the quiet mechanics of harm: why Carroll stopped initiating intimacy, why she “shut the shop” when eligible men showed interest, why she laughed during the assault, and why she didn’t scream. You see how shifting from self-blame to structured language becomes crucial for a persuasive courtroom narrative—and for personal repair.

How trauma reorders behavior

Lebowitz’s interviews (22 hours total) surface a simple insight: after the Bergdorf attack, Carroll changed her pursuit of romantic relationships. She describes a physical sensation—like a shopkeeper pulling down a metal grate. She never “called a boy” again. In court, this is not a metaphor; it’s a behavioral map that lines up with research: avoidance and self-protection are common post-traumatic adaptations (compare Chanel Miller, Know My Name, who similarly explains disassociation and delayed reporting). The book uses this science to rebut a thousand “why didn’t you” cross-exam questions before they arrive.

The laughter that confused a courtroom

Carroll testifies she laughed when the encounter turned, first out of comic momentum, then to defuse a threat. The defense pounces, casting laughter as consent. Lebowitz reframes it: nervous laughter is one of many defensive reactions; the goal is to stop escalation, not to signal enjoyment. This matters if you’ve ever second-guessed your own “odd” reactions to fear. In court, it converts a seeming contradiction into a predictable human response.

“Why didn’t you scream?” and other myths

Joe Tacopina, Trump’s first-trial lawyer, pressed the cultural script of the “perfect victim”: scream, fight, report, document. Carroll held her ground: “I’m not a screamer.” Her body fought—stamping feet, wedging a knee, trying to shift his weight. The jury later hears Mike Ferrara’s clean logic: if you find yourself debating consent, you’ve already accepted they were in that room with his hands on her. That reframing neutralizes an entire line of myth-based doubt.

What counts as harm (and what doesn’t)

Lebowitz helps a jury see harm beyond bruises: loss of intimate life, vigilance, flashbacks, and avoidance. Meanwhile, the defense tries to use happiness as disproof—Carroll smiled, attended parties, said she’s “fabulous.” Ferrara’s rebuttal is what you need to remember: healing moments don’t negate harm. They prove resilience. If you’ve ever felt required to look perpetually broken to be believed, this section will feel liberating.

From therapy to courtroom language

In the second trial, when graphic threats from social media make words stall in her throat, Lebowitz gives Carroll a practical bridge: “Go to the body.” Describe literal sensations—sweaty palms, shallow breath, unfocused eyes—until language returns. That is testimony triage. It’s also a self-care protocol you can use when adrenaline kills your words in high-stakes meetings or conflict at home.

The takeaway for you

You don’t need to perform someone else’s idea of a victim to be credible. Map what your body did, name the adaptations you made, and let expertise translate behavior that once looked contradictory into a coherent, human pattern.

Trials are marathons run in inches. Carroll shows you the scaffolding behind a “simple” verdict: jury exercises, theme selection, witness sequencing, evidentiary boundaries, and how to course-correct when your priors mislead you. The Kaplan Hecker & Fink team—Robbie Kaplan, Shawn G. Crowley, Mike Ferrara, Matt Craig, Joshua Matz, and more—turns an allegation into a case that could carry the weight of an entire country’s arguments about gender and power, while still convincing nine specific people in a box.

From movement to micro-story

Early mock juries were sobering. Men tended to view the dressing-room encounter as consensual. The more the team framed the story as “about all women,” the more jurors resisted. Robbie Kaplan made a strategic pivot: “This case is for you.” Not #MeToo writ large. One woman, one man, one room. That micro-focus—echoing classic trial advice to avoid crusades—proved decisive. (Compare Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey’s She Said for how cases move best with narrow aims.)

What juries need to hear, and when

Sequence matters. First: scene and setting from Bergdorf leadership—Cheryl Beall (store manager) and Robert Salerno (VP)—to anchor the sixth floor: quiet evenings, open-fitting-room doors, no constant attendants, no cameras, and a layout that matched Carroll’s description. Then: contemporaneous witnesses (Lisa Birnbach and Carol Martin) who got the panicked calls in 1996. Then: pattern evidence—Jesscia Leeds and Natasha Stoynoff—showing parallels in behavior. Finally: Trump’s own words in deposition (“That’s my wife”—pointing to Carroll) and Access Hollywood (“When you’re a star… you can do anything”).

When the case became two cases

Thanks to New York’s Adult Survivors Act, Carroll filed a second suit (the first had been detoured by DOJ interventions on scope of presidential duties). The 2023 trial decided liability for sexual abuse and defamation and awarded ~$5 million. The 2024 trial wasn’t a do-over; it was about the money it would take to stop ongoing defamation—compensatory, repair, and punitive damages. Judge Kaplan’s instructions barred relitigating what was already decided.

The reputation math

Northwestern’s Prof. Ashlee Humphreys quantified how far Trump’s statements traveled, how many believed them, and how much it would cost to repair Carroll’s reputation among that target audience. In 2023, the estimate ran from ~$368,000 to $2.7M. In 2024, with amplification and repetition, she testified repair alone was $7.2–12M—numbers the jury ultimately echoed when it wrote “M = million” on the verdict form.

Adapting to adversaries

Every legal team has a counterpuncher. Tacopina’s style—physical presence, relentless “why didn’t you” questions—forced the plaintiffs to clarify the “perfect victim” trap and train Carroll to keep answers short. Alina Habba’s second-trial missteps (skirmishes with the judge about what was already decided; introducing few exhibits) taught a different lesson: when the law narrows what you can argue, precision beats volume.

What this means for you

If you’re taking on a powerful opponent, shrink the battlefield to what you can prove. Start with environment and mechanics. Add contemporaneous witnesses. Let patterns speak last. And test your story with outsiders before the real audience testifies with their verdict.

Carroll doesn’t pretend trials aren’t theater. She leans into it—not as costume, but as clarity. Jurors will compare the 52-year-old in a 1996 black Donna Karan dress (no makeup on New York magazine’s cover) with the 79- and 80-year-old at counsel table. So she and stylist Lisa Corvelli reverse-engineer a 1996 vibe—a sharp bob, clean lines, and textures that say serious, not flashy. The message is simple: “I look like someone who could once have looked like that.”

Wardrobe as argument

The book’s most entertaining passages double as advocacy lessons. The Dior-like Zara navy suit? Armor. The Oscar de la Renta chocolate dress? Gravitas. The white Armani jacket and black Piazza Sempione skirt? Continuity. This isn’t vanity; it’s trial craft. “She’s not my type” made looks material. Carroll’s clothes rebut the line without saying a word. (Compare Anita Hill’s calm, classic presentation in 1991; presentation is often a first exhibit.)

Voice training for a hostile room

Ferrara and Crowley rewire Carroll’s instinct to charm. “Don’t try to be liked,” Robbie Kaplan warns. “Speak like a normal person. Keep it short.” The rules are deliberate: answer only the question, no three-syllable flourishes, and sometimes talk directly to jurors. On cross, those micro-habits let her survive the door debates (revolving or hinge?), the tights friction (how far down? did they rip?), and the “why keep holding your purse?” drumbeat, without losing the jury in defensiveness.

Judge Kaplan’s runway

In Carroll’s telling, Judge Kaplan is a hawk for order—a federal judge who presided over Virginia Giuffre v. Prince Andrew and other high-profile matters. His instructions are explicit, even anatomical (“any penetration, however slight…”), because exactness protects fairness. That tone checkmated attempts to retry settled facts in the second trial and kept the spotlight on damages.

When the defendant is also a campaign

Trump’s out-of-court messaging—calling it a “hoax,” “witch hunt,” dubbing Carroll a “whack job”—functioned like a shadow closing argument aimed at one juror to hang the panel. Kaplan repeatedly warned counsel: you cannot speak to the jury that way. Still, the public harangue backfired. The jury saw the cascade of threats Carroll received and could connect the dots between posts and harm.

The two-minute testimony heard ’round the world

In the second trial, Trump finally took the stand—briefly. Constrained by Kaplan’s rulings, he could only affirm he stood by his deposition; he couldn’t relitigate liability. The optics mattered less than the law: this trial was about money to stop ongoing defamation. That tight focus (and Prof. Humphreys’ math) set the stage for a historic damages award.

Practical lesson

When words won’t persuade, signals do. Choose signals—hair, fabric, cadence—that serve your story. Then let the judge’s rules do the rest.

A central culture clash in both trials was over how a assaulted person “should” behave. The defense framed the absence of a scream, the presence of laughter, and the continued holding of a purse as disqualifying. Carroll, supported by expert testimony and Ferrara’s clean logic, refused the script. The book breaks the myth down so you can spot it—and counter it—in your own life.

The “why-didn’t-you” pattern

Cross-examination marched through a checklist: why didn’t you scream or tell the police? Why go into the dressing room? Why not take off heels? Why keep the purse? Each question assumes one correct response to danger. Carroll answers with the specifics of geometry and force—his shoulder pin, her stamping, and finally getting a knee up—so a juror can visualize a physics problem, not a moral one.

Ferrara’s “perfect victim” demolition

In closing, Ferrara lists the defense’s fantasy: a perfect victim never jokes, never enters a dressing room, always screams, reports immediately, burns her clothes, never smiles again, never succeeds, never sues. Then he says the quiet part aloud: if you find yourselves debating consent, she wins. That formulation gives you a way to realign a conversation drifting into purity tests.

Reframing laughter and silence

Carroll’s laughter—a social defuser—was cast as consent. Her silence at the time of impact (no scream) was cast as acquiescence. Trauma science flips both: nervous laughter is a freeze/fawn response; silence under compressive force is common. The jury’s liability verdict (sexual abuse) shows that lived reality can beat the storyline we grew up with.

Why details beat indignation

The hinge-versus-revolving-door exchange, the fit of tights and whether they ripped, the exact floor plan: none of it is glamorous. But these details are the antidote to myth. They gave nine jurors concrete reasons to trust a narrative over a caricature. If you’re ever pressed by a “why didn’t you,” switch to particulars.

For your next hard conversation

Name the trap (“a perfect victim test”), then narrate your body’s problem-solving. People argue with abstractions; they believe physics they can picture.

Carroll’s story doesn’t rest on her voice alone. It’s surrounded by infrastructure: place testimony from Bergdorf leadership, contemporaneous witnesses, pattern witnesses, and the defendant’s own words. Together, they make a mosaic where no single tile has to do all the work.

The scene mechanics

Cheryl Beall (then-store manager) and Robert Salerno (VP) didn’t testify to the event; they testified to the conditions: Thursday nights are quiet, lingerie on six, no constant attendants, some doors left ajar, and no cameras in that area at that time. That matters because it nerfs the “someone would have heard” argument. You can use this in conflict: get neutral witnesses to describe environments, not just acts.

The friends who got the call

Lisa Birnbach (whom Carroll called minutes after the attack) and Carol Martin (who held her hands in her kitchen the next day, warning Trump had “200 lawyers”) became time anchors. Neither is perfect for “the narrative” (Martin regrets telling Carroll to stay silent), which is precisely why they’re credible: real friends give imperfect advice under shock.

Pattern isn’t pile-on; it’s context

Jessica Leeds (groped on a Braniff flight) and journalist Natasha Stoynoff (pushed against a wall at Mar-a-Lago during a People assignment) told stories with similar themes: sudden boundary collapse, force, silence. This pattern evidence (allowed in federal court in sexual-assault cases) doesn’t prove the Bergdorf event by itself; it shows how a specific story tracks a known behavioral template.

When the defendant speaks

The deposition detail you won’t forget: shown a decades-old photo, Trump points to Carroll and says, “That’s my wife,” believing she’s Marla. If “not my type” was a pillar of the defense, the pillar cracked. Add the Access Hollywood tape (“When you’re a star… you can do anything”) and subsequent social posts, and you get a throughline that jurors could weigh without editorializing.

Harassment as foreseeable harm

Kaplan repeatedly warned that out-of-court posts could taint the jury. Inside the courtroom, the effect landed differently: Carroll showed the threats she received after each new blast. Humphreys’ media-impressions math made the chain of causation legible. In plain terms: when a high-amplifier says “whack job,” millions hear it; some respond with violence-laced messages. That’s harm a jury can price.

Lesson for your proofs

Don’t overburden one witness (even yourself). Build a ring: environment, contemporaneous confidences, patterns, and the other side’s own admissions.

The book’s climax isn’t a single verdict; it’s a pair that divide the questions cleanly: did it happen, and what will it take to make it stop? In 2023, a jury found Trump liable for sexual abuse and defamation and awarded roughly $5 million. In 2024, a second jury—barred from relitigating liability—awarded $83.3 million: $7.3M for general damages, $11M for reputation repair, and $65M punitive, with Judge Kaplan reading the foreperson’s clarification that “M” meant “million.”

Why the second verdict was so large

Two things shifted. First, repetition and reach: posts during and after the first trial compounded the audience for defamation. Prof. Humphreys’ updated model reflected that. Second, deterrence: punitive damages must “sting” enough to stop the conduct. Carroll used Trump’s own sworn boasts of wealth (Mar-a-Lago valuations, branding claims) to give the jury benchmarks. In other words, the number wasn’t just expressive; it was engineered.

Adult Survivors Act: a window with a hinge

Carroll filed within New York’s one-year look-back window for adult survivors—legislation she personally lobbied for in Albany. That statutory hinge turned what had been a stalled defamation case into a full liability trial and then a damages sequel. (Compare revival windows that enabled cases from the Catholic Church to USA Gymnastics; policy changes alter what justice can reach.)

What damages do (and don’t)

Money can’t rewind 1996. It can fund security, repair reputation, and deter repetition. Carroll’s stated plan to give most of the recovery to causes Trump “hates”—women’s health, voting rights, climate solutions—works as narrative symmetry and public policy nudge. It also reframes victory: not a personal windfall but reallocation of power.

After the gavel

Life keeps its texture: dogs (Guffington Von Fluke and Miss Havisham), a shotgun nicknamed “Aphrodite,” long New York walks, a trust architected by estate lawyer Rachel Harris, a pledge to publish donations on Substack. That mundane detail is the point—the long arc of harm meets the long practice of living. (It echoes Chanel Miller drawing, running, and writing as integration.)

Your durable takeaway

Accountability is a process, not a climax. Separate your fights: liability first, repair next. Price the harm in the language decision-makers use—eyeballs, reach, deterrence—then decide what your win will fund.

Carroll’s voice is mischievous because mischief let her survive. She wisecracks through Mohs surgery (“I want to look like a pirate”), catalogs her lovers with Austen-lite wit, and narrates midtrial snacks with deadpan relish. That humor is not a dodge; it’s a tactic—keeping panic at a distance until the work gets done. The book offers a model for how to wield humor and style without becoming performative.

The joke that earns the truth

In deposition, when asked to list sexual partners—an obvious attempt to shame—Carroll flips the valence. She names names (Ben Vereen! Richard Harris!) with affectionate detail. The point isn’t celebrity; it’s agency. By refusing embarrassment, she keeps the frame on the questioner’s intent, not her past. (Nora Ephron used the same jujitsu in essays; humor disarms so truth can land.)

Fashion as language

Clothing arcs into character development: “quiet luxury” knits in the second trial, the Dior-esque skirt that swirled like resolve, the coat she gifts to Shawn Crowley that looks “omniscient.” These aren’t indulgences but narrative signposts: continuity, seriousness, and a callback to 1996. If you’ve ever been told to “dress for the job,” this is dressing for the truth.

The dog-Einstein test

Carroll constantly returns to ordinary joys—throwing the ball for Guff 19 times a day, stocking cottage cheese and Dave’s 21-grain bread, a bottle of Chartreuse from the team. Those details keep the story anchored to a larger self than a case number. It’s a reminder to protect rooms in your life that your opponent can’t enter.

When to put away the joke

During cross on threats, Carroll’s voice catches. She resists tears, then allows two before reclaiming her tone with “This is my moment.” The humor returns later, not as mask but as fuel. That modulation—light when it helps, steel when it counts—is a skill you can practice for your own hard rooms.

Use it like this

When a question is meant to shame, narrate with verve. When the core harm arrives, drop the bit and state the fact. Humor opens ears; seriousness closes the deal.