If I Did It (10 page)

She was whining about getting older, and how much she
hated it, how much it depressed her, and I told her to join the club.
I was getting older, too, and a lot faster than she was, but I dealt
with it because that was the only option. I asked her to put the kids
on the phone, and chatted with them about their day, then I told
them I loved them and to go to bed and to behave themselves.
The next evening, when I called to check in, she was even
more venomous than the previous night: “Why are you calling
me?” she snapped.
“ Why am I calling you? To see what's happening. To speak
with the kids.”
“You're checking up on me, aren't you?”
“Why would I be checking up on you? What have I got to
check up on you for?”
“I don't want to talk to you,” she said.
“Well I don't want to talk to you, either!” I said. “Put the kids
on the phone.”
Man, it was weird! This was not the Nicole I'd known and
loved for the better part of seventeen years. This was a whole
'nother person. At that point, even an idiot could have told you
that drugs were involved. You don't get mood swings like that from
eating Wheaties.
I called again a couple of days later, to talk about the Miami
trip. Don't ask me why, but we'd discussed it and I thought it was
still happening. Maybe I was still hopeful. After all, less than a week
earlier I'd called her mother to tell her that things were going great,
and they had been going great—so it seemed a little strange to just
give up on her.
“What about Miami?” she snapped, that edge in her voice
again.
“We've got to figure out the flights and stuff,” I said.
“I don't have time for this shit right now. Stop hassling me!”
“Hassling you? How the fuck am I hassling you? I'm trying to
plan our trip!”
“Well this isn't the time for it!” she said, and she hung up.
The next morning, early, my phone rang. It was her. “Hi
honey. Did you sleep well? Do you have a big day on the set?” Holy
shit. What was I dealing with here?
She called again the next day to tell me that she had spoken to
her mother, who had agreed to come up the following weekend to
take care of the kids while we were in Miami. But at that point I
was no longer interested in going to Miami with her. I felt like a
goddamn yoyo.
“What do you mean we're not going?” she said. “Why?”
“It's just too much of a headache,” I said. “I'm tired. It's not
worth all the flying.”
She could see I was bullshitting her, and she knew it was
because I'd finally had enough of her crap. “O.J., don't do this,” she
said, whimpering. “It's not me. It's Faye. She's doing drugs again,
and it's really bad this time, and she has me really worried. And
Cora and Ron are having trouble. Their marriage looks like it's
falling apart.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Why?”
“I don't know. It's complicated.”
I felt bad about Ron and Cora. They were good people, and
Cora was a genuinely terrific human being. I didn't feel all that bad
about Faye, though. I'd always felt that she'd been a terrible influ-
ence on Nicole, and from what I was hearing those influences were
only getting worse.
“I'm really stressed out by all of this,” Nicole said. “I know I've
been a little on edge lately, but it's really not my fault.”
That was kind of the last straw for me. Nicole was always
blaming other people for her fuckups. When she had me, it was
me. Now that she didn't have me, it was the people closest to her.
“We're not going to Miami,” I repeated.
“Don't do this to me, O.J. I was really looking forward to it.”
“I'm not doing anything to you. I just want to get through
this shoot and come home.”
“Are you saying this isn't working?”
Christ! What was I supposed to say to that? Wasn't it obvi-
ous? “Well,” I said. “I'm not feeling all that optimistic. And if you
honestly feel it's working, then something is really wrong with
this picture.”
I guess I was trying to be honest, and maybe I was a little too
blunt about it, but maybe she needed that bluntness to get her
mind around the situation.
When I got back to L.A., I knew almost immediately that it
was over. The other Nicole had won. She came by the house with
the kids and immediately got into another argument with Kato,
calling him a “useless freeloader” and worse—right in front of the
kids. It was scary. Her entire face was transformed by rage.
Later, when she was somewhat calmer, and I was trying to pull
the story out of her, trying to figure out what had set her off, she
told me that Kato wasn't doing his job. He never helped with the
kids anymore, he never ran errands, and he didn't return her calls
when she most needed him. “You've got to kick him out,” she said.
I told her that she should deal with him herself—Kato was her
problem, not mine—and I suggested that she should back off a lit-
tle. “I think he's actually been looking for a place to live,” I said.
She looked at me, pissed, shaking her head from side to side.
“You don't give a shit what happens to me, do you?”
“You're wrong, Nicole. I do give a shit. But I can't fix every-
thing.”
Man, I'll tell you: I was really looking forward to Mother's
Day. It was time to bail.
From that day on, I tried hard to keep my distance. The only
time I saw her was when I was picking up or dropping off the kids,
or on those rare occasions when she herself dropped them at
Rockingham. She didn't look good. She looked tired and strung
out, and she seemed to be getting progressively worse. She seemed
beaten, in fact.
When Mother's Day finally rolled around, I can honestly tell
you that I had never looked forward with so much pleasure to any
Mother's Day in my entire life. A year earlier, also on Mother's Day,
we had decided to try to save our marriage, and we had given our-
selves a lull year o do it. Now the year was drawing o a dose.

That weekend, we drove down to Laguna—I had a house
there, and the Browns lived nearby, in Dana Point. On Saturday,
Nicole and I went out to dinner, and I basically told her it was over.
To be honest with you, it wasn't a big deal. She knew as well as I did
that it was over, so this was really more of a formality.
“Maybe we tried to get back together too soon,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“That maybe we should have stayed apart longer. I should
have worked on myself a little more before asking you to try again.”
“Well, you know, now that you mention it, that's my one con-
cern,” I said.
“What?”
“You. I want to make sure you're okay.”
“I'm fine,” she said, and she changed the subject. Suddenly
she was talking about Cora Fishman again, and about the
complications in her marriage. “I feel kind of bad about it,” she said. “Of
all the couples we know, Cora and Ron had the best marriage.” She
also talked a little about Faye Resnick, who was having very serious
problems of her own. She was still messing around with drugs,
apparently, and her boyfriend had finally read her the riot act. “He's
really pissed,” Nicole told me. “He thinks Faye is out of control.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“It's not good,” she said.
When the food came, we must have looked just like every
other married couple in the restaurant. We sat there eating, not say-
ing much, and from time to time I'd reach across the table with my
fork and spear something off her plate.
The next day was Sunday, Mother's Day. We went to church
with some of Nicole's family. Denise was there with her sixyearold
son, and Nicole kept dogging her. “Why is he wearing a black shirt
and black pants? What kind of outfit is that for a little boy? And in
church, no less.” Nicole was venomous, full of rage and anger, and I
kept my distance for the rest of the day.
By nightfall, the bad mood had passed. We drove back to Los
Angeles, to her place on Bundy, and I went inside and helped her
put the kids to bed.
“Well,” I said, looking at her, and feeling kind of sad. “It's
over.”
“I know,” she said.
We went into her bedroom and made love. We both knew it
was going to be the last time, and that this was our way of saying
goodbye. It was actually very nice. We fell asleep in each other's
arms.
In the morning, before the kids were up, I slipped out of the
house and went back to my place on Rockingham.
It was time to get on with my life.

5.
THINGS
FALL APART
Later that same morning, I went by the office and told Cathy
Randa all about Mother's Day weekend. “We are done,” I said. “We
are moving on.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
Cathy looked sort of relieved, then smiled a big smile and
said, “Guess who's coming to town tonight?”
“Who?”
“Paula.”
“You're kidding me?” I said.
“No,” she said. “She's in New York, on her way to Honolulu,
but she's stopping in L.A. for the night. I'm supposed to pick her up
at the airport.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Let me pick her up.”
“I don't know about that . . .”
“Trust me,” I said. “It's definitely over between me and
Nicole.”
That evening, I showed up at the airport and waited for Paula
by the baggage claim. I saw her before she saw me, and she looked
as beautiful as ever. She also looked kind of stunned, to be honest.
“ What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Well, it's been a year,” I said. “And it's over.”
“You're done?”
“We're done.”
I drove her back to her place, and she was shaking her head
the whole way, unable to believe that this was really happening. A
year earlier she'd warned me that she wasn't the type of girl who
would wait around for me, and she hadn't waited around, but
suddenly I was there, and she was there, and we both still wanted
each other.
We spent the night together, and the next day I took her to
the airport. We were happy, like a pair of kids, and I drove home
wondering why I'd ever put her through such hell. I was also
grateful—she was being incredibly understanding. 'When I reached
her in Honolulu later that day, however, she sounded a little less
happy. “I'm still hurt,” she said.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I did what I had to do. If I hadn't made an
effort to keep the family together, I would have wondered about it
for the rest of my life.”
“It was a long year,” she said.
“It was long for me, too.”
“I don't honestly know what I want from you,” she said. “All I
know is that I want to take it real slow.”
I was game for anything, and I told her so. I wanted Paula
back in my life and I made it clear that I'd jump through hoops for
her. On the other hand, to be completely honest, I wasn't sure we
could make it work. Paula was looking to settle down and start
making babies, and I was done with that part of my life. I figured
we could have that conversation when she returned to Los Angeles,
but it never happened. A few weeks later, Nicole and Ron Goldman
were dead, and I was being charged with the murders.
But I'm getting ahead of myself again.
Less than a week after Paula left for Honolulu, I was in New
York on business, and I got a call from Gigi, my housekeeper. She
was upset. She said Nicole had just been by the house, and that
she'd asked her to take care of the kids that weekend.
“What are you crying about?” I asked. “That's no reason to cry.”
“Nicole got mad at me,” Gigi said.
“What do you mean she got mad? What right does she have to
get mad? You work for me, and you're off on weekends. If you want
to babysit the kids, that's between you and Nicole, but she can't be
coming by making demands.”
“Yes, sir. That's what I tried to tell her, but she said I'd better
be here when she came by to drop off the kids.”
“That's crazy! She's got no right even coming by the house
when I'm not there. Don't worry about a thing. I'll take care of it
right away.”

I called Nicole the moment we got off the phone. I was pissed,
but I kept it civilized. “Gigi works for me, and she has the weekends
off,” I said. “You can't be hasslin' her. You ran Michele off. Please
don't do the same with Gigi.”
Nicole didn't apologize, but she didn't come by the house that
weekend, either. Two days later, however, when I was back, she
stopped by to drop off the kids, and I thought I heard her having
words with Kato. I looked out the window but couldn't see her, and
I couldn't see Kato, either. He was probably running for the hills. I
went downstairs as the kids came through the front door, and
Nicole was right behind them, walking in like she owned the place.
“I thought I told you to get rid of Kato,” she barked.
“I don't want to talk about Kato,” I said. “Not now, not ever.”
“I never want to see him again,” she said.
“Nic, come on—back off. The guy told me he found a place,
but it fell out.”
“Bullshit.”
I ignored her. I took the kids out to the pool and we jumped
into the water. Nicole watched us for a few minutes, scowling. “I'm
leaving,” she said.
I looked at her, as if to say, So fucking what? Leave already. She
got the message. She turned and left.
I hung out with the kids and tried not to think about her, but
it was hard. She was clearly deteriorating. Maybe she was upset
because we were over. Maybe she was having a hard time facing the
future. I didn't know what the hell it was, but it wasn't good. I
found myself thinking of that old cliché about divorce: If you've got
kids, you're stuck with that person for the rest of your life. It was not a
pleasant thought.
After the kids got out of the pool, I called Cathy Randa. I told
her I thought Nicole was getting worse, and that I didn't want to be
around her anymore. It wasn't good for me, I said, and it sure as hell
wasn't good for the kids. I asked her to please review the schedule,
and to help me arrange all future pickups and dropoffs.
“You okay?” Cathy asked me.
“Yeah,” I said. “I'm fine. And if we can get Nicole handled, I'll
be better than fine.”
I went back to New York on business and returned a few days
later, and the next morning—before I was even out of bed—the
phone rang. It was Nicole. “I'm sick,” she said. “I've got pneumo-
nia. Could you come by and take the kids to school?”
I got dressed and hurried over. She looked like hell. I changed
the bed linens and tucked her back into bed and took the kids to
school, then I stopped at Fromin's, a Santa Monica deli, to pick up
some chicken soup. I took it back to the house and sat with her,
watching her eat it. I didn't understand why she was sick. This was
midMay. Who catches pneumonia in midMay? I just knew this
had to be connected to the drugs. “You're not doing anything you're
not supposed to be doing, are you?”
“O.J., please. How many times have I told you: I don't want
to talk about this.”
The weird part was she didn't deny it. She had always been a
lousy liar, so she just avoided the topic. I wanted her to talk about
it, though. So did her mother. So did anyone who cared about her.

Hell, Cora Fishman had begged her to talk about it. We all wanted
her to face this thing so she could begin to do something about it.
“I wished we had tried harder,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“During the year we tried to reconcile. I know we could have
done better.”
Now this was something I didn't want to talk about, so I said
nothing. She set down her soup spoon and stared at me. She looked
like all the hope had gone out of her. In the course of the previous
year, while we were still working at reconciling, there were times
when everything seemed to be going completely to hell—but
Nicole never stopped hoping. Now that we weren't even trying any-
more, however, there was nothing to be hopeful about, and that's
what I saw in her eyes: A complete absence of hope.
For the next few days, Nicole was pretty sick. I ended up shut-
tling the kids to and from school and to and from my house, and
Cathy Randa pitched in, but mostly Nicole wanted me to take care of
things. I went to the pharmacy to pick up her medicine, and I went
back to Fromin's for second and third helpings of chicken soup, and I
helped her change the linens a couple more times. Now don't get me
wrong: I'm not trying to suggest that I was the perfect exhusband.
All I'm saying is that I was very worried about her, and that I wanted
to help her find her way back. No matter what had gone wrong in
our lives—and plenty of shit had gone wrong—she was still the
mother of my kids. I was stuck with her, but for their sake I wanted
to be stuck with her. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Nicole was
a great mother. Schoolwork. Manners. Appearance. She was all over
those kids. The only thing I objected to was when she turned into the
other Nicole, and that Nicole was still very much around, still lurk-
ing, ready to leap out and make more trouble.
Meanwhile, Paula was back in town, and I was trying to keep
that romance going. It was strange. Not all that long ago, I'd
cheated on my girlfriend with my exwife. Now I was cheating
again, in a manner of speaking: I was nursing my exwife back to
health and trying to keep my girlfriend from finding out.
“I still think separating was a good thing,” Nicole told me a
couple of days later. We were standing in her kitchen at the Bundy
place, and I was ladling hot soup into a clean bowl. “I just wish I'd
made a little more progress in therapy.”
“You don't think the therapy helped?”
“It helped, I guess. But it didn't really change anything. I
wanted to get stronger for us, so that we could have a stronger rela-
tionship, but that didn't work out too well.”
“Well, you know—that shit takes time.”
“I already quit therapy,” she said. “I didn't think I was making
enough progress.”
A few days later—this was in late May, less than a month
before Nicole's death—I was having a party at my house for the
kids and their classmates. It was a little fundraiser for the school,
and this was the third consecutive year I'd played host. I had clowns
and magicians and those bouncy things for the little kids, and, of
course, lots of good food for everyone.
The day of the picnic, Kato was on his way out of the house to
meet some friends, and he sopped by the party to say hello. I heard