If I Did It (14 page)

I turned and looked behind me, beyond Charlie, and saw a
track of bloody, telltale prints. “I've got to get rid of these fucking
clothes,” I said.
Without even thinking about it, I kicked off my shoes and
began to strip. I took off my pants and shirt, dropped the knife and
shoes into the center of the pile, and wrapped the whole thing into
a tight bundle. I left my socks on, though. I don't know why, but I
didn't see any blood on them, so I had no reason to remove them.
As I stood, with the bundle grasped in my left hand, I realized that
I'd left my keys and my wallet in my pants. I fell to a crouch and
dug for them and noticed that my hands were shaking.
Charlie stood there all the while, mumbling. “Jesus Christ,
O.J. Jesus Christ.” He just kept repeating himself, like he'd lost his
goddamn mind or something.
“Will you shut the fuck up?!” I snapped. I found my keys and
my wallet, and rewrapped the bundle, then I stood and hurried
across the dark alley. Charlie followed, still mumbling. I got behind
the wheel and Charlie climbed into the passenger seat. “Jesus
Christ, O.J.” he said. “Jesus Christ.”
“WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Charlie recoiled, startled, and shut up. I started the Bronco
and pulled out, the tires squealing, and raced through the curved
alley toward Montana Avenue. When I reached the end of the alley,
I made a left onto Montana and an immediate right at the corner,
onto Gretna Green. San Vicente was a block away, and I made a left
there and took it all the way to Bristol, then hung a right to Sunset
and made a left there, toward home.
I glanced at Charlie. He was hunched over, his elbows on his
knees, his face buried in his hands.
“What happened back there, Charlie?” I said.
Charlie sat up. His cheeks were wet with tears. He shook his
head from side to side and shrugged.
I thought back to that horrific scene at the courtyard, and to
all the blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It didn't
seem possible. It didn't seem real.
“Charlie?”
He still didn't answer, but what the hell—this wasn't really
happening. That hadn't been me back there. I'd imagined the whole
thing. I was imagining it then. In actual fact I was home in bed,
asleep, having one of those crazy crimeofpassion dreams, but I
was going to wake up any second now. Yeah—that was it!
Only I didn't wake up.
We were still on Sunset, and I passed the light on Burlingame
and made a sharp right onto Rockingham, tearing up the winding
hill, toward the house. As I approached the gate, I saw a limo mov-
ing toward the Rockingham gate, from Ashford Street, and remem-
bered that I had a flight to catch.
I drove past my house, and past the moving limo, and in the
sideview mirror I saw its taillights flare as it pulled to a stop in
front of my gate. The driver had probably been waiting on Ashford,
out of sight, and I wondered if he'd already called the house. I had
no idea what time it was. I looked down at the Bronco's clock and
saw it was 10:37. Fuck! I was supposed to be in that limo in eight
minutes.

I pulled into Ashford and kept going, hanging a right on
Bristol, and I parked in the shadows beyond the home of Eric
Watts. There was another neighbor on Rockingham who was
closer, but his property ran parallel to mine, and I couldn't get
inside without running the risk of being spotted by the limo driver.
I was going to have to steal onto my property through the Watts
place, and I knew just how to do it.
I looked down at my lap, at the bloody bundle, then over at
Charlie. “You're going to have to help me out here, man,” I said.
Charlie turned to look at me. His mouth was hanging open a
bit, and he was breathing kind of funny, and he couldn't stop shak-
ing his head. It looked like he was slipping into shock or some-
thing.
“Charlie, are you listening to me?”
He stopped shaking his head for a moment, and nodded once,
and I began to tell him what I needed from him. “I've got to get
into my house,” I said. “You're going to have to wait here until I'm
in the limo, understand? When the limo's gone—”
Charlie looked away, into the darkness beyond his own win-
dow, clearly not listening to me. I reached over and slammed his left
shoulder into his seat, hard, and he whipped around to face me,
more frightened than ever.
“I need you to fucking listen to me, man!” I shouted. “Are you
fucking listening to me?”
Charlie nodded. He looked scared to death.
“Say it! Tell me you're listening.”
“I'm listening,” he mumbled.
“Let me spell it out for you, and you better fucking pay atten-
tion. Are you paying attention?”
Charlie nodded.
“Say it, goddamn it!”
“I'm—I'm paying attention,” Charlie said.
“I'm going to sneak back into my house. I'm going to take a
shower, and get dressed, and grab my bags, and I'm going to get
into that goddamn limo we just passed. Did you see the limo?”
“No,” Charlie said.
“Well there's a fucking limo parked in front of the Rocking-
ham gate, and I'm supposed to be in it, on my way to the airport.”
“A limo,” Charlie repeated. His mouth was still hanging open,
and I wasn't sure any of this was really registering, but I didn't have
a choice.
“Once I'm in that limo, and it's gone, I need you to park the
fucking Bronco in the driveway, then get into your car and take the
fuck off. Do you understand?”
Charlie nodded.
“This here's the clicker. It'll open the gate. You can drop the
key in the mailbox, but run out before the gate closes. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
I took the key out of the ignition and removed all the keys
except the one for the Bronco.
Then I set the bundle in his lap. “I need you to take this, and
get rid of it,” I said. Charlie looked down at the bundle, afraid to
touch it. “I don't give a fuck how you get rid of it, but make sure it
disappears. You hear? It needs to disappear forever.”

Charlie nodded.
“Did you fucking hear me?!” I hollered.
“I heard you,” Charlie said.
I made him repeat everything I had told him, word for word,
then I got out of the car and stole into the neighbor's property,
toward my house. My heart was beating like crazy. I could feel it
pounding in my ears.
I moved past the tennis court to the little secret path that con-
nected our two properties. Only a few friends knew about that
path, and all of them were tennis players. They made use of it
whenever I wasn't around to open the front gate for them.
Within seconds, I was on my property, moving past my own
tennis court. I hung left, moving past the guest houses, all of which
are tucked away, out of sight, and past the pool, toward the rear of
the main house. I couldn't see the limo from way back there, but I
knew it was at the Rockingham gate. I was sure the driver had
already buzzed the house by then, and I was pretty sure he'd already
called his office to tell them I wasn't there. Still, he was a few min-
utes early, and he'd hang tight. He'd buzz again in a few minutes.
For all I knew, he was buzzing at that very moment.
As I was moving past Kato's room, I stumbled against one of
the airconditioning units, making a racket, and almost fell down. I
stole past, still clutching my keys, breathing hard, and let myself
through the back door. I moved toward the alarmpanel and
punched in the code to keep it from going off.
I didn't turn on any lights until I got upstairs, into my own
room, then I hurried into the bathroom and hopped into the shower.
Not a minute later, I heard the phone ringing. I saw that the
bottom light was flashing—the light that corresponded to the
Rockingham gate—so I knew it was the limo driver. I figured he'd
seen the lights go on in the bedroom and the bathroom and was
trying me again. Maybe he thought I'd been asleep. That would be
a good thing to tell him: That I'd been asleep.
I let the phone ring, knowing he'd call back, and finished
showering. I got out and dried myself, thinking about what I had to
do. My bags were pretty well packed, so I was almost ready to go.
I slipped into my black robe and went downstairs and grabbed
the Louis Vuitton bag and my golf clubs and took them out front
and set them in the courtyard. The driver saw me and got out of the
limo, squinting in my direction.
I hurried back upstairs, to finish dressing, with my heart still
beating like crazy. I could feel it in my ears, and against my temples,
but as I looked around I couldn't understand what I was so worked
up about. I took a deep breath and told myself, The last hour was
just a nightmare. None of that ever goddamn happened.
The phone rang again—the lower light—and I reached for it.
“Yeah, man,” I said. “I know you're here. I overslept and just got
out of the shower. My bags are out front.”
I hit the code and opened the front gate, so he could drive
through and get the bags, and hung up and finished dressing. Then
I hurried downstairs and went outside. The driver was still putting
the bags into the trunk of his white limo.
“Hey,” I said.
“Good evening, Mr. Simpson.”

“We about set here?”
“Yes, sir.”
At that moment, Kato showed up, looking spooked. “Did you
hear that?” he asked.
“What?” I said.
“That banging noise,” he said. “A big thump out back, near
the fence.”
“I didn't hear shit,” I said. “I was in the shower.”
“It was a really loud fucking noise, O.J. It scared the hell out
of me.”
Kato seemed to think that someone had been lurking around
that part of the house, and he asked me to have a look, so I
humored him. We went off in separate directions, and after about a
minute we reconvened near the front door.
“I didn't see anything,” I said.
“You got a flashlight?” he asked.
“Jesus, Kato—I'm trying to get out of here. You go look for it
and lock up when you're done.”
Kato went into the house, still spooked, and I got into the
limo and took off. I think the driver was nervous about being late
or something, because he got confused at Sunset and took the
wrong entry ramp onto the 405 Freeway.
Once we were en route, I called Kato to tell him to make sure
to set the alarm. I didn't get through to him, but I remembered hav-
ing told him to lock up, and I hoped he was smart enough to set the
alarm.
“Man,” I told the driver. “It feels like I spend my whole life
racing to and from airports and getting on and off airplanes.”
“I know what you mean,” the driver said.
When we got to the airport, I checked in at the curb, like I
always do, and watched the skycap tag the bags. A couple of fans
came by for autographs, and I was happy to oblige.
On my way to the gate, I signed a few more autographs, and
when I boarded the plane I shook hands with a couple more fans.
One of them was curious about my ring—he thought it was my
Super Bowl ring, but it was actually my Hall of Fame ring—and he
took a closer look and admired it. I only mention this because there
was supposed to be a cut on my ring finger, but it must have been a
phantom cut—there was nothing but a ring there.
I was asleep before the plane took off, and I slept most of the
way to Chicago. A limo driver helped me get my bags, then took
me to the O'Hare Plaza Hotel. It was quiet at that early hour, even
at the airport, and the ride only lasted about five minutes.
I got to my room exhausted, and stripped and immediately fell
asleep, but a short time later I was awakened by the ringing phone. I
picked it up. It was some cop in Los Angeles—either Philip
Vannatter or Thomas Lange, I don't really remember—calling to tell
me that he had some bad news. “Nicole has been killed,” he said.
“Killed?” I said, not sure I'd heard him correctly. “What do
you mean killed?”
And the cop said, “O.J., we can't tell you. But we can tell you
that the kids are all right. Where are you?”

I looked around the hotel room and came out of my fog. “I'm
in Chicago,” I said.
“I need you to come back to L.A. as soon as you can,” he said.
Much later, during the trial, the prosecution made a big deal
about my response to that phone call, claiming that I never both-
ered to ask what had happened to Nicole, and suggesting that I didn't
ask because I already knew. But that's not the way I remember it.
When I was told that Nicole was dead, my first response was the
one I just noted: “Killed? What do you mean killed?' And even when
I was told that I wasn't going to get any more details, I remember
asking, ”What happened? What the fuck happened?“
The cop repeated himself: ”We can't say anything. We're still
investigating.“
And I said, ”And my kids are all right?“
And the cop said, ”Yes. As I said, the kids are fine. We need
you to come home now, O.J.“
”Jesus Christ,“ I said. ”That's all you're going to say: Come
home now!“
”O.J.,“ the cop replied. ”We'll tell you what we know when
you get here. We don't know much ourselves. We'll be waiting for
you at your house.“
I went nuts, and I remember screaming at him—begging him
not to leave me in the dark—but it didn't help. When it became
clear that the cops had nothing else to say—either because they didn't
want to share anything with me, or because they didn't know
much—I slammed the phone down, stormed into the bathroom,
and threw a glass across the room. It shattered against the tiled wall,
sounding like a gunshot.
I went back into the room and called Cathy Randa, my assis-
tant, and told her what was going on. ”I just heard from the cops,“
I said. ”They told me Nicole is dead.“
”Dead?“ she said. ”What do you mean dead?“
”I don't know,“ I replied. ”They say she was killed.“
”Oh my God!“
I told her to call the cops and get hold of the kids, and asked
her to please get me on the next flight to Los Angeles.
Then I looked down at my hand and noticed that my finger
was bleeding.
I made a few more calls. I called Hertz to tell them I had to go
home, I tried calling the cops again, and I called the Browns, down
in Dana Point.
Nicole's sister, Denise, got on the phone, hysterical. ”You bru-
tal son of a bitch!“ she hollered. ”You killed her! I know you killed
her, you motherfucker!"
Juditha took the phone from her, but I couldn't understand
what she was saying. I told her I was getting on the next flight to
Los Angeles, and that I'd speak to her as soon as I landed.
I got dressed and had the porter come up for my bags, then
went down to the lobby and asked for a BandAid. I guess I'd cut
my finger in the bathroom, when I threw that glass.
On my way to the airport, fighting panic, I made a few more
calls. I tried to reach Cathy, to see if she knew anything else about