Authors: O.J. Simpson
A decade later, when I was married to Marguerite, and with
my marriage already in trouble, he was at my house in Los Angeles,
celebrating Thanksgiving with the family, and I turned to him and
said something about some football game. And man, the whole
room went silent! It was like I could hear my own heart beating.
Everybody was staring at us: He talked to him. Did you hear that?!
O.J. talked to him!
And my father just answered, like it was the most natural
thing in the world, like our decade of silence had never happened,
and that was the day we started talking again.
I think on some level I had always blamed him for my parents'
marriage not working out, and over the years I had come to see,
slowly, that maybe I'd been a little hasty about passing judgment. I
had simply assumed he was the bad guy, but I had nothing to back
it up. And while he'd been there for me as a father, I guess I was still
angry at him, because I wanted what every kid wants: Both parents,
together, under one roof.
Now here it was years later, with my own marriage failing, and
I began to see that there really were two sides to every story—and
that maybe my father wasn't such a bad guy after all. I'm not sug-
gesting I was fully conscious of this, mind you, but I believe that on
that Thanksgiving afternoon, with my own marriage in trouble, I
began to see that I'd been pretty hard on him—and that, whatever
else had happened, he had always been there for us kids. That was
an important lesson for me, and that night, sitting on the low wall
in front of my house, my stomach rumbling, thinking about all of
this, it hit me with a weird kind of clarity: If you flick up your mar-
riage, you try not to fuck up your kids.
I figured Sydney and Justin would be in bed by then, over at
the Bundy condo, fast asleep. I hoped so, anyway. I wondered what
their mother was doing at that moment, and I wondered what
other unpleasant surprises lay in store for me and the kids. For a
moment, I thought back to the night I'd surprised her at the Gretna
Green house, going at it on the couch with her friend Keith, in the
glow of two dozen candles—while the kids were in the house. It made
my stomach lurch.
Don't get me wrong: Nicole had been a terrific mother—
almost obsessive at times—but she'd been screwing up big time
lately.
It's strange. They say people don't change, but I say they're
wrong. People change, but it's usually for the worse.
Ron Fishman's words came back to haunt me: We don't know
the half of it, he'd said. He was right. We didn't know shit. Nicole
was on the fasttrack to hell, and she seemed determined to take me
and the kids with her.
I shut my eyes and told myself to stop thinking about her. I
looked at my watch. It was 10:03. I needed a shower, and I had to
finish packing. As I got to my feet, an unfamiliar car slowed near
my gate, then pulled past and parked a short way down, across the
street. The driver got out and waved from the distance, and at first
I couldn't tell who it was. When he came closer, I saw it was
Charlie. I'd met him some months earlier at a dinner with mutual
friends, and I'd seen him again a few weeks earlier, when we'd gone
clubbing with the same friends. I liked Charlie—he was one of
those guys who is always in a good mood, always laughing—and I
told him what I tell a lot of people: Stop by when you're in the neigh-
borhood.
I guess he took it literally.
Now picture this—and keep in mind, this is hypothetical:
Charlie reached the gate, and the first thing I noticed is that
he wasn't smiling.
“O.J., my man—what's up?” he said. It sounded kind of forced.
“What's up with you?” I said. I went over and opened the gate
and he stepped through and we shook hands. “What brings you to
these parts?”
“Not much. I was out to dinner with some guys, down in
Santa Monica. Thought I'd stop by to say hello.”
“You've got a strange look on your face, Charlie,” I said.
“Something bothering you?”
Charlie looked away, avoiding my eyes. “It's nothing, man,”
he said.
“Come on,” I said. “You can tell me.”
He looked back at me, struggling with his thoughts. “You're
not going to like it,” he said finally.
My stomach lurched again and right away I knew. “This is
about Nicole, isn't it?”
Charlie nodded.
“What about her?”
“You're not going to like it,” he repeated.
“Just tell me,” I said, already riled. “Before I get pissed off.”
Charlie took a step back, like he thought I might hit him or
something. “A couple of these guys at dinner tonight, I guess they
didn't know that you and I were friends,” he began, tripping over
the words. “They started talking about this little trip they took to
Cabo a few months back, in March I think it was, and about these
girls they partied with.”
“Yeah?”
Charlie took a moment. “It was Nicole and her friend Faye,”
he said.
“I'm listening,” I said. I tried to stay calm, but I was fit to
explode.
“There was a lot of drugs and a lot of drinking, and apparently
things got pretty kinky.”
“Why are you fucking telling me this, man?!” I hollered. I
turned and had to fight the urge to put my fist through the
Bentley's window.
“I'm sorry, man. I thought you'd want to know.”
“Well I don't fucking want to know! I'm sick of hearing this
shit!”
“I'm sorry—”
“That is the mother of my children!”
“I know, man. I'm sorry. That's why I told you. I know you
two have been through a lot of shit, and I know it can't be easy, and
I thought maybe if you talked to her—”
“Talked to her?! What the fuck is wrong with you? I've been
trying to talk to her for years. She won't listen to me. She won't lis-
ten to her family. She won't listen to her friends!”
“O.J., man—I'm not the enemy here.”
I turned around, fuming, and tried to count to ten. I didn't
make it. By the time I got to three I realized that Charlie was right.
He wasn't the enemy. Nicole was the enemy. I looked at my watch. I
had less than an hour before the limo showed up to take me to the
airport, just enough time to drive down to Bundy, read her the
fucking riot act, and get my ass back to the house.
“Come on,” I said, and moved toward my Bronco.
“Where we going?”
“Just come. ”
Charlie got in. I started the Bronco and the gate whirred to
life and I pulled into the street, the tires squealing against the curb.
“Where we going, O.J.?” Charlie repeated.
“We're going to scare the shit out that girl,” I said.
“What? Now?'
”It never fucking ends. Every time I turn around, it's some-
thing new—and none of it's pretty.“
”This isn't a good idea, O.J.“
”Fuck that. I'm tired of being the understanding exhusband.
I have my kids to think about.“
”I'm asking you, man, please turn around.“
”Woman's going to be the death of me!“ I said. I was seething
by this time, and I began to mimic her: want to grow as a per-
son, O.J. I want to find myself. I'm tired of everyone seeing me as
O.J. Simpson's wife. I'm tired of living in your shadow'.”
“O.J., please.”
“You want to know how crazy it got?” I said, ignoring him.
“After the split, after she dumped me, she began calling to tell me
about the guys she was dating. 'Oh, O.J.—do you think they like
me for me or do they just want to get into my pants?' And you
know what I did? I told her to just have fun. I told her she was a
great girl and not to worry and to go with her gut. `Guys'll be lining
up around the block for you,' I said. 'You're gorgeous and you're
smart. I know you'll pick the right guys.' Is that twisted or what? I
would think, What the fuck are you doing, O.J.?! Andthen I would
answer my own question: Well, the sooner she gets this findingherself
shit out of her system, the sooner she'll be back.”
“That's fucked up, man,” Charlie said.
“Tell me about it!” I said. I glanced over at him. He looked
scared. “Relax, man,” I said. “I'm just going to talk to the girl. And
it'll be quick. I'm leaving for Chicago on the red eye.”
“I shouldn't have told you,” Charlie said.
“No, man. You did the right thing. This is exactly what I
needed—something to shake me up. This shit's been eating away at
me forever, and it's got to stop. I want to get on with my fucking
life. I've got to get this under control.”
“You should let the lawyers handle it.”
"Fuck the lawyers. You know what divorce lawyers are? They
are the scum of the earth. Preying on people at their weakest and
most vulnerable. I know. I've given those scumbags a million dol-
lars already!“
”Maybe they owe you, then.“
”Fuck them,“ I said. ”I'm going to take care of this myself.“
We were at Bundy by then, where it meets San Vicente
Boulevard. I jogged left for a few yards and made a quick right to
get back on Bundy. We passed the light at Montana and I slowed
near Nicole's place. I kept going, though. I took a right on Dorothy
and an immediate right into the alley behind her condo, and I
pulled a few yards past it and parked on the far left, near a chain-
link fence. I cut the engine and looked back toward the condo. It
was so quiet it kind of spooked me. I looked at Charlie again. He
seemed pretty glum.
”Which one's her place?“ he asked.
I pointed it out.
”I don't like this,“ he said. ”Let's go the fuck back to your
house.“
”You worry too much.“
”What if she's with someone?“
”She better not be,“ I said. ”Not with my kids in the house.“
I reached into the back seat for my blue wool cap and my
gloves. I kept them there for those mornings when it was nippy on
the golf course. I slipped into them.
”What the fuck are you doing, man?“ Charlie said. ”You look
like a burglar.“
”Good.“ I said. I reached under the seat for my knife. It was
very nice knife, a limited edition, and I kept it on hand for the cra-
zies. Los Angeles is full of crazies. ”Nice, huh?“ I said, showing it to
Charlie. ”Check out that blade.“
”Put that shit back,“ Charlie snapped. ”You go in there and
talk to the girl if you have to, but you're not taking a goddamn
knife with you.“
He snatched it out of my hand, pissed.
”You've got to learn to relax, Charlie,“ I said, then I opened
the door, got out of the Bronco, and stole across the alley.
Nicole's condo was one of two units, both of them long and
narrow, mirror images of each other, fused at the middle. They each
had their own entry, on Bundy, and they each had a back gate, in the
alley, but Nicole's back gate was broken. The buzzer didn't work
properly, and the gate opened if you gave it a little push. I must have
told her a million times—”Please get the goddamn gate fixed!"—but
the woman never listened. I slipped past the gate, into the narrow
courtyard, and moved toward the front door, and right away I
noticed lights flickering in the windows. I moved past the front door
to take a closer look. There were candles burning inside, and I could
hear faint music playing. It was obvious that Nicole was expecting
company. I wondered who the fuck it was this time. I wondered if
maybe Faye was coming over with some of her boytoys so that they
could all get wild and dirty while my kids were sleeping upstairs.
Just as I was beginning to get seriously steamed, the back gate
squeaked open. A guy came walking through like he owned the fuck-
ing place. He saw me and froze. He was young and goodlooking,
with a thick head of black hair, and I tried to place him, hut I'd
never seen him before. I didn't even know his name: Ron Goldman.
“Who the fuck are you?” I said.
“I, uh—I just came by to return a pair of glasses,” he replied,
stammering.
“Really? A pair of glasses, huh?”
“Yes,” he said. He was carrying an envelope. “Judy left them at
the restaurant. I'm a waiter at Mezzaluna.”
“So it's Judy, is it? You're on a firstname basis with Judy.”
At that moment, the gate behind Goldman squeaked again.
Charlie walked into the narrow space. He was carrying the knife.
“Everything cool here?” he asked. “I saw this guy walking through
the gate, and I just wanted to make sure there wasn't going to be
any trouble.”
“This motherfucker wants me to believe that he's here drop-
ping off a pair of Judy's glasses,” I said.
“I am,” Goldman said, appearing increasingly nervous. He
held up an envelope. “Look for yourself.”
“And then what?” I said. 'You were going back to the resta
urant?“
”No,“ he said. ”My shift's over. I'm just leaving these here and
going home.“
”You expect me to believe that?“
”I don't expect anything,“ he said. ”I'm telling you the truth.“
”You're a fucking liar!“ I shouted.
”I'm not. I swear to God.“
”She's got candles burning inside. Fucking music playing.
Probably a nice bottle of red wine breathing on the counter, waiting
for you.“
”Not for me,“ Goldman protested.
”Fuck you, man! You think I'm fucking stupid or something?!“
Suddenly the front door opened. Nicole came outside, alerted
by our raised voices. She was wearing a slinky little cocktail dress,
black, with probably not much on underneath. Her mouth fell
open in shock. She looked at me, and she looked at Goldman, and
she looked at Charlie, just beyond. Goldman was pretty well
trapped. Charlie stood between him and the rear gate, and I was
barring his way to the front.
”O.J., what the fuck is going on?“
I turned to look at Nicole. ”That's what I want to know,“
I said.
Kato, the dog, came wandering out of the house. He saw me
and wagged his tail, then he saw Goldman and also wagged his tail.
I looked at Goldman, steamed, and Charlie moved closer, the knife
still in his hand. I think he sensed that things were about to get out
of control, because I was very close to losing it.
”I'm listening, motherfucker!“ I said to Goldman.
”O.J.!“ Nicole hollered. ”Leave him the fuck alone! What are
you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to Chicago.“
”Fuck you,“ I said.
”Hey, man,“ Goldman said. ”That's not necessary.“
Charlie piped in. ”Let's just get the fuck out of here, O.J.“
”I asked you a question, motherfucker. What are you doing
here? You delivering drugs?“
”Leave him alone, O.J.!“ Nicole shouted.
”I hear half - you assholes are dealing on the side," I said.
Nicole came at me, swinging. “Get the fuck out of here!” she
said. “This is my house and I can do what I want!”
“Not in front of my kids, you can't!”
“Fuck you!”
“No, fuck you. I gave you everything you could ask for, and
you fucked it all up.”
She came at me like a banshee, all arms and legs, flailing, and
I ducked and she lost her balance and fell against the stoop. She fell
hard on her right side—I could hear the back of her head hitting
the ground—and lay there for a moment, not moving.
“Jesus Christ, O.J., let's get the fuck out of here!” Charlie said,
his voice cracking.
I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he
thought I was going to hit him, because he got into his little
karate stance. “What the fuck is that?” I said. “You think you can
take me with your karate shit?” He started circling me, bobbing
and weaving, and if I hadn't been so fucking angry I would have
laughed in his face.
“O.J., come on!” It was Charlie again, pleading.
Nicole moaned, regaining consciousness. She stirred on the
ground and opened her eyes and looked at me, but it didn't seen-
like anything was registering.
Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me
blocking my view. “We are fucking done here, man—let's go!”
I noticed the knife in Charlie's hand, and in one deft move
I removed my right glove and snatched it up. “We're not going
anywhere,” I said, turning to face Goldman. Goldman was still
circling me, bobbing and weaving, but I didn't feel like laughing
anymore.
“You think you're tough, motherfucker?” I said.
I could hear Charlie just behind me, saying something, urging
me to get the fuck out of there, and at one point he even reached
for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook him off, hard, and
moved toward Goldman. “Okay, motherfucker!” I said. “Show me
how tough you are!”
Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what hap-
pened, but I can't tell you exactly how. I was still standing in
Nicole's courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn't
remember how I'd gotten there, when I'd arrived, or even why I was
there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital—with lit-
tle Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping
balls into my neighbor's yard; Paula, angry, not answering her
phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly
shit about Nicole's behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive
from Rockingham to the Bundy condo.
And now? Now I was standing in Nicole's courtyard, in the
dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my
own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt
strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I
couldn't get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of
me was covered in blood, but it didn't compute. Is this really blood?
I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?
I was more confused than ever. What the hell had happened
here? Then I remembered that Goldman guy coming through the
back gate, with Juditha's glasses, and I remembered hollering at
him, and I remembered how our shouts had brought Nicole to
the door . . .
Nicole. Jesus.
I looked down and saw her on the ground in front of me,
curled up in a fetal position at the base of the stairs, not moving.
Goldman was only a few feet away, slumped against the bars of the
fence. He wasn't moving either. Both he and Nicole were lying in
giant pools of blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It
didn't seem real, and none of it computed. What the fuck happened
here? Who had done this? And why? And where the fuck was I when
this shit went down?
It was like part of my life was missing—like there was some
weird gap in my existence. But how could that be? I was standing
right there. That was me, right?
I again looked down at myself, at my bloodsoaked clothes,
and noticed the knife in my hand. The knife was covered in blood,
as were my hand and wrist and half of my right forearm. That didn't
compute either. I wondered how I had gotten blood all over my
knife, and I again asked myself whose blood it might be, when sud-
denly it all made perfect sense: This was just a bad dream. A very
bad dream. Any moment now, I would wake up, at home, in my
own bed, and start going about my day.
Then I heard a sound behind me and turned, startled. Charlie
was standing in the shadows, a few feet away, his mouth hanging
open, his breathing short and ragged. He was looking beyond me,
at the bodies.
“Charlie?” I called out. He didn't answer. “Charlie?” Still nothing.
I went over and stood in front of him and asked him the same
question I'd just asked myself. “Charlie, what the fuck happened
here?”
He looked up and met my eyes, but for several moments it
was as if he didn't really see me. “Are you listening to me?” I said. “I
asked you what happened here.”
Charlie shook his head from side to side, his mouth still hang-
ing open, his breathing still short, ragged, and in a voice that was
no more than a frightened whisper, said, “Jesus Christ, O.J.—what
have you done?”
“Me?'
What the hell was he talking about? I hadn't done anything.
I jumped at a sound behind me—a highpitched, almost
human wail. It was Kato, the dog, circling Nicole's body, his big
paws leaving prints in the wet blood. He lifted his snout and let out
another wail, and it sent chills up and down my spine. ”Let's get the
fuck out of here,“ I said.
I hurried toward the rear gate, and moved through it, with
Charlie close behind, but I stopped myself before I crossed into the
alley. Charlie bumped into me and jumped back, startled. ”What?"
he said.
I didn't answer. I was thinking about the shape I was in—I was
thinking of all the blood. My shirt and pants were sticking to my
skin. Even my shoes were covered in Hood.