“I Spent 8 Hours In A Courtroom w/ Diddy & This Is Everything He Did” | HO

On Tuesday, May 6th, I found myself in one of New York City’s most daunting courtrooms, a cavernous space that felt more like a cathedral than a place where justice is served. My plane had been delayed, my nerves were already frayed, and as I navigated the carpeted hallways and passed through heavy double doors, I was struck by the gravity of the moment. I was about to spend eight hours observing Sean “Diddy” Combs, the music mogul now on trial for racketeering, sex trafficking, and related charges.

A Room Built for Drama

The space was intimidating: rows of solid wood church pews, ten massive chandeliers, and the kind of hush that makes you instinctively lower your voice. Retired law enforcement officers in bulletproof vests stood by the entrance. At the front, a podium and an enormous artwork made from knotted ropes dominated the wall, while the pews vibrated with every nervous shift from those seated. Most of us—press, sketch artists, and a few of Diddy’s supporters—clustered on the right side, scattered and tense.

From my vantage point, I could see the court sketch artists hunched over their large pads, binoculars perched on their heads as they tried to capture every detail of the defendant, the legal teams, and the judge. Diddy himself sat near the front, his presence surprisingly subdued. For a man often described as electrifying, he entered the room with a shrug, as if trying to blend into the background rather than command it.

Diddy’s Demeanor: Shrug, Then Stare

Despite the media’s portrayal of Diddy as a larger-than-life figure, his courtroom presence was remarkably understated. He did not command attention with grand gestures or dramatic flair. Instead, his most striking quality was his eye contact. At times, he would turn and look directly at members of the press, holding the gaze just long enough to make you look away first. It wasn’t aggressive, but it was unsettling—a reminder that, despite the circumstances, Diddy remains a man used to sizing up a room.

Throughout the day, his demeanor fluctuated between meek and attentive. Early on, he barely raised his voice, apologizing to the judge for being nervous. But as the hours passed, he seemed to gain confidence, standing quickly and respectfully when jurors entered or exited, and even flashing a rare smile or nod when someone made a lighthearted remark.

Courtroom Rituals and Defense Dynamics

Diddy’s interactions with his defense team revealed a carefully choreographed dynamic. He would shake hands with his attorneys, mouth “thank you” to his supporters, and even assist lead attorney Brian Steel with his blazer in a gesture that seemed almost staged for the press. Steel, known for his colorful courtroom style and reputation from defending Young Thug, appeared to genuinely enjoy Diddy’s company, their rapport evident in their shared notes and occasional laughter.

The defense team itself was a spectacle—polished, friendly, and highly strategic. Lead counsel Mark Agnifilo, with his oversized backpack and approachable demeanor, contrasted sharply with the steely focus of Steel and the poised professionalism of Tenny Garagos. Jury consultant Linda Moreno, renowned for her ability to read people, sat quietly, her pearl necklace gleaming as she observed potential jurors with gentle persistence.

Jury Selection: The Heart of the Battle

Most of the day was devoted to jury selection—a process more about eliminating problematic candidates than choosing favorites. Attorneys scrutinized every potential juror for signs of bias, leadership, or susceptibility to influence. Some openly admitted to having seen the infamous hotel footage of Diddy and Cassie, describing their reactions with a mix of shock and detachment. Others recounted traumatic experiences with sexual assault or domestic violence, their voices trembling as they explained why they couldn’t serve impartially.

The judge, a sharp and compassionate presence, guided the questioning with patience, sometimes reading jurors’ questionnaire responses aloud in ways that made everyone in the room squirm. One juror, an executive at Simon & Schuster, revealed her company was publishing a tell-all memoir by Al B. Sure, Diddy’s longtime rival and the biological father of Diddy’s adopted son Quincy. The connections ran deep, and the stakes felt higher with every new revelation.

The Human Side of Jury Duty

What struck me most was the raw humanity on display. Jurors shared stories of hardship, illness, and trauma—one fainted during a sex education class as a child, another suffered from ocular migraines, while others had lost friends or family to domestic violence. Some simply couldn’t afford to miss eight weeks of work. Despite the gravity of the case, there were moments of levity: a juror admitting to shoplifting a Harry Potter wand as a teen, another giggling about a Russian comedy sketch about Diddy.

Diddy himself seemed attuned to these moments, nodding sympathetically or smiling at awkward jokes. During group questioning, he craned his neck to give jurors his full attention, giggling at their humor as if trying to win them over—not just as a defendant, but as a person.

Visuals and Impressions

With no cameras allowed, the courtroom sketches and my own observations became the only record of Diddy’s appearance. He looked older than his 55 years, his hair grayer, his face paler—perhaps a result of the stress and lack of sunlight. Yet, physically, he moved with energy, standing quickly and helping others, projecting a mix of humility and resilience.

At one point, Brian Steel tapped on Diddy’s iPad, turning on the front camera so Diddy could check his appearance before the jurors entered—a small, oddly intimate moment that spoke volumes about the performative nature of high-profile trials.

The Stakes Ahead

As jury selection wrapped up, with opening statements looming, the tension in the room was palpable. Diddy faces life in prison if convicted, and every gesture, every glance, every whispered exchange could sway the outcome. His defense team is stacked with heavy hitters, each an expert in their field, but ultimately, it will come down to the 12 people chosen to decide his fate.

After eight hours in that room, what I saw was not the celebrity mogul from TV, but a man fighting for his life—measured, strategic, and, at times, disarmingly human.