If I Did It (15 page)

my kids, and I again tried to call the cops. For the some reason, I
even tried to call Kato, back at the house, to see if he knew any-
thing.
When I got to the airport, I was told there was a flight leaving
at 7:15, but that it was already booked. I spoke to one of the clerks
and she spoke to the manager and they made room for me.
During the course of that entire flight, I sat upright and stock
still the entire time. I felt like I was made of glass or something, and
that if I moved too much I would shatter into a million pieces. I
also remember trying to control my breathing, and thinking that
my heart was beating all wrong. I guess I was on the edge of panic.
There was a guy in the seat across the aisle from me, and he
noticed and asked me what was wrong. I told him that the cops had
just called to tell me that my exwife had been killed, and that I
didn't even know where my kids were. He turned out to be a lawyer,
and after expressing his condolences he gave me some advice: “You
should contact your attorney the moment you land,” he said.
“You're going to need someone to help you navigate your way
through this.”
Someone? Christ, the man had no idea. I ended up needing a
fucking team to get me through it, and even then I almost didn't
survive.
When the plane landed, I found Cathy Randa waiting for me
at the terminal, along with Skip Taft, one of my attorneys. Both
Cathy and Skip looked shocked, but probably nowhere near as
shocked as I looked.
“ Where are my kids?” I said.
“They're safe,” Cathy said. “They're on their way to the
Browns' place.”
“That all your luggage?” Skip asked.
“No, there's the golf clubs—but leave them. I'll get them later.”
We hurried through the terminal and talked about what had
happened, but they didn't know much more than I did. And I was
having trouble hearing them, anyway, because my heart was
pounding and the blood was roaring in my ears. I was fucking ter-
rified, to be honest. Nicole was dead—gone forever—and the
police were waiting for me at my house.
When we were in the car, leaving the airport, Skip said we
should go to his office before we went to see the cops.
“No,” I said. “The cops told me they needed to see me, and
they said they'd be waiting at my house, and I'm going to my house.
I can't go to your office. I'm going to my house. That's what the cops
asked me to do.”
“The cops can wait,” he said. “We need to get a handle on this
thing.”
“No,” I said. “I gave them my word. I'm going.”
At that point, Skip turned his attention to the radio, and he
began flipping through the stations. I picked up bits of information
here and there: Nicole Simpson Brown was dead. There was a second
victim, a young man. The murders had taken place in the courtyard of
her Bundy condo. Police were waiting to talk to O.J. Simpson, who
had been out of town but was apparently on his way home.
The whole thing felt completely unreal, as if it was happening
to someone else, not me. I looked down at my hands. They were

shaking uncontrollably. “What the fuck is going on?” I asked Skip.
“Are people saying they think I did it? I can't believe people would
think that of me—that I could do something like that.”
Skip told me to relax, that nobody could possibly think I had
anything to do with the murders. Cathy also told me not to worry.
“Everything's going to be fine,” she said.
“Did the kids see anything?” I asked.
“No,” Cathy said. “The police took them out back, through
the garage.”
I felt the bile rising in my throat. It was all I could do to keep
myself from being sick. “Call the Browns. Don't let them tell the kids
what happened. I want to be the one to tell them. They're my kids.”
“I'll call them,” Cathy said.
When we got to the house, the place was crawling with cops
and reporters. It was unreal. We drove up to the gate and I could
hear the reporters surging behind Skip's car, shouting my name and
snapping pictures.
“This is not a good idea,” Skip repeated. “We should have
gone to my office.”
I ignored him. I got out of the car and moved toward the gate,
and the reporters kept hollering at me from across the street.
There was a cop standing guard at the gate, and he seemed a
little startled to see me.
“You going to let us through?” I said.
“Not the car,” he said. “Not anyone but you.”
I turned around and saw my friend Bob Kardashian crossing
to greet me. I guess he'd been waiting for me there.
“Jesus, O.J.,” he said. He looked like he was near tears.
“They're not letting us in.”
Skip popped the trunk and Bob and Cathy reached for my
carryon bags and followed me back to the gate. Skip, meanwhile,
backed out and went off to park the car.
The cop looked at Cathy, then turned back to face me and
shook his head. “Just you,” he said.
“But they're with me,” I said.
The officer didn't care. He opened the gate just wide enough
to let me pass, and left Bob and Cathy behind, with the two small
bags. The reporters were going crazy, snapping pictures and trying
to figure out what was going on.
I looked through the gate, back at Bob—he looked ashen—
and when I turned back the cop was reaching for his handcuffs.
“What the fuck are you doing?' I said. ”I live here. This is my
house.“
”I'm sorry, Mr. Simpson. I'm going to have to handcuff you.“
”You ain't gonna handcuff me,“ I said.
”Mr. Simpson—“
”You gonna handcuff me for what? I'm not crazy. I want to
talk to someone. Who the fuck's in charge here?“
Bob called out from beyond the gate: ”What do you want me
to do with the bags?"
Hell if I knew. I wasn't thinking about the bags, and I didn't
realize what a strange part they'd play in the proceedings in the
months ahead. One of them was my famous Louis Vuitton bag,
and it gave reporters a lot of nothing o write about: What the fuck

happened to the Louis Vuitton bag? What was in the fucking bag?
Where was Bob Kardashian going with O.J.'s bag?
The irony is that I was trying to bring the bags into the house
with me. You'd think that if there had been anything incriminating
in those bags I wouldn't have tried to lug them inside, but of course
nobody wrote that part of the story. Instead, they made a huge fuss
about the missing bags, and even suggested that Kardashian had
walked off with all sorts of evidence, maybe even the bloody knife.
Still, not once in the course of the entire trial did the prosecution
make any attempt to retrieve the bags, which remained untouched
for months on end.
I began to move toward the house, with the cop right on my
ass, mumbling about the goddamn cuffs, and when I turned
around I saw the horde of reporters across the street, with all sorts
of cameras aimed right at us, rolling and pumping. I took a deep
breath and figured I shouldn't make a scene. This was my home. I
didn't want to see myself on the news later that day, giving a cop a
hard time about handcuffing me. I had to keep cool. The only thing
that really mattered was finding out exactly what was going on.
I put my hands behind my back and let the guy handcuff me.
He led me toward the front door just as Vannatter and Lange came
out the house. They introduced themselves, and told me they were
in charge of the investigation.
“Well, I'm here,” I said. “I got here as fast as I could.”
“Thank you for coming,” Vannatter said.
“Don't thank me,” I said. “Just take these goddamn cuffs ofi
me. You shouldn't he doing this to me in my own home.”
At that moment, Howard Weitzman showed up. He's another
attorney, and Skip had called him earlier, seeking his advice, I guess.
Maybe he was already there, waiting for me, but that was the first I
saw him. He looked directly at Vannatter and Lange. “Mr. Simpson
is in no condition to talk right now,” he said. “He's still in shock.”
And I said, “No. I can talk.”
Vannatter asked if I minded going downtown with him and
his partner, and I said I didn't mind at all.
And Howard said, echoing Skip, “That's not a good idea.”
I don't know whether I was in shock or not, but I was in no
mood to listen to lawyers. “I'm going with them,” I said. “I'm going
to do whatever they ask me to do.”
Howard was adamant. He didn't want me to talk to those
guys, and he was getting pretty hot and bothered about it. “O.J.,”
he said. “You're making a mistake.”
“I'm not going to sit here and try to cover my ass,” I replied,
getting a little hot and bothered myself. “I've read enough thrillers
and watched enough TV movies and seen enough shit on the news
to know that the first guy they go to in these types of situations is the
spouse or the exspouse or the boyfriend. I'm not going to be one of
those people who get described as an 'uncooperative witness'.”
Howard tried to tell me that that wasn't the point—that we
needed to take a moment to gather our thoughts and to try to fig-
ure out where things stood, and that once we had more informa-
tion I could be the most cooperative witness in the world. But I
didn't want to wait that long. I wanted to know what the cops
knew, and I w.inied to know right away.

“I don't need a lawyer,” I told Howard. “I'm innocent.”
And yeah, I know what you're thinking: “Everybody's innocent!
The prisons are filled with guys who didn't do shit!” But that's my
point. Half of you think I did it, and nothing will ever make you
change your minds. The other half know I didn't do it, and all the
evidence in the world—planted or otherwise—isn't going to sway
you, either. But this wasn't about that. This was about me, the
prime suspect, the accused party, and I did what all accused men do
at the moment of truth: I proclaimed my innocence.
Absolutely 100 percent not guilty, your honor.
You might remember that phrase. I used it at the beginning of
the trial.
I turned to look at Howard again. “I'm going to talk to them,”
I said. “I don't care about anything else. I want to know exactly
what the fuck is going on.”
And that was the truth. My wife was dead. I was exhausted. I
needed to know what the cops knew. I wanted to get through this
thing as quickly as possible, and I wanted desperately to see my
kids.
So I got in the car with Vannatter and Lange and we went
down to Parker Center, for the interview. No bullshit. No lawyers.
No interference.
Just me and them.
If it had only been that easy . . .
7.
THE INTERROGATION
On June 13, 1994, a little after 1:30 P.M., I found myself in an
interrogation room at Parker Center, in downtown Los Angeles,
talking to Philip Vannatter and Thomas Lange, the two cops who
were leading the investigation. The interview lasted thirtytwo min-
utes, and the entire transcript follows:
VANNATTER: . . . my partner, Detective Lange, and we're in an
interview room in Parker Center. The date is June 13, 1994,
and the time is 13:35 hours. And we're here with O.J.
Simpson. Is that Orenthal James Simpson?
O.J.: Orenthal James Simpson.
VANNATTER: And what is your birth date, Mr. Simpson?
O.J.: July 9, 1947.
VANNATTER: Okay. Prior to us talking to you, as we agreed with
your attorney, l'm going to give you your attorney, I'm going to

give you your constitutional rights. And I would like you to
listen carefully. If you don't understand anything, tell me, okay?
O.J.: All right.
VANNATTER: Okay. Mr. Simpson, you have the right to remain
silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you
say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You
have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney
present during the questioning. If you so desire and cannot
afford one, an attorney will be appointed for you without
charge before questioning. Do you understand your rights?
O.J.: Yes, I do.
VANNATTER: Are there any questions about that?
O.J.: (unintelligible).
VANNATTER: Okay, you've got to speak up louder than that . . .
O.J.: Okay, no.
VANNATTER: Okay, do you wish to give up your right to remain
silent and talk to us?
O.J.: Ah, yes.
VANNATTER: Okay, and you give up your right to have an
attorney present while we talk?
O.J.: Mmm hmm. Yes.
VANNATTER: Okay. All right, what we're gonna do is, we want
to . . . We're investigating, obviously, the death of your ex-
wife and another man.
LANGE: Someone told us that.
VANNATTER: Yeah, and we're going to need to talk to you about
that. Are you divorced from her now?
O.J.: Yes.
VANNATTER: How long have you been divorced?
O.J.: Officially? Probably close to two years, but we've been apart
for a little over two years.
VANNATTER: Have you?
O.J.: Yeah.
VANNATTER: What was your relationship with her? What was the-
O.J.: Well, we tried to get back together, and it just didn't work. It
wasn't working, and so we were going our separate ways.
VANNATTER: Recently you tried to get back together?
O.J.: We tried to get back together for about a year, you know,
where we started dating each other and seeing each other. She
came back and wanted us to get back together, and-
VANNATTER: Within the last year, you're talking about?
O.J.: She came back about a year and four months ago about us
trying to get back together, and we gave it a shot. We gave it
a shot the better part of a year. And I think we both knew it
wasn't working, and probably three weeks ago or so, we said
it just wasn't working, and we went our separate ways.
VANNATTER: Okay, the two children are yours?
O.J.: Yes.
LANGE: She have custody?
O.J.: We have joint custody.
LANGE: Through the courts?
O.J.: We went through the courts and everything. Everything is
done. We have no problems with the kids, we do everything
together, you know, with the kids.

VANNATTER: How was your separation? What-
O.J.: The first separation?
VANNATTER: Yeah, was there problems with that?
For me, it was big problems. I loved her, I didn't want us to
separate.
VANNATTER: Uh huh. I understand she had made a couple of
crime—crime reports or something?
O.J.: Ah, we had a big fight about six years ago on New Year's, you
know, she made a report. I didn't make a report. And then we
had an altercation about a year ago maybe. It wasn't a
physical argument. I kicked her door or something.
VANNATTER: And she made a police report on those two
occasions?
O.J.: Mmm hmm. And I stayed right there until the police came,
talked to them.
LANGE: Were you arrested at one time for something?
O.J.: No. I mean, five years ago we had a big fight, six years ago. I
don't know. I know I ended up doing community service.
VANNATTER: So you weren't arrested?
No, I was never really arrested.
LANGE: They never booked you or-
O.J.: No.
VANNATTER: Can I ask you, when's the last time you've slept?
O.J.: I got a couple of hours sleep last night. I mean, you know, I
slept a little on the plane, not much, and when I got to the
hotel I was asleep a few hours when the phone call came.
LANGE: Did Nicole have a housemaid that lived there?
O.J.: I believe so, yes.
LANGE: Do you know her name at all?
O.J.: Evia, Elvia, something like that.
VANNATTER: We didn't see her there. Did she have the day off
perhaps?
O.J.: I don't know. I don't know what schedule she's on.
LANGE: Phil, what do you think? We can maybe just recount last
night-
VANNATTER: Yeah. When was the last time you saw Nicole?
O.J.: We were leaving a dance recital. She took off and I was
talking to her parents.
VANNATTER: Where was the dance recital?
O.J.: Paul Revere High School.
VANNATTER: And was that for one of your children?
O.J.: Yeah, for my daughter, Sydney.
VANNATTER: And what time was that yesterday?
O.J.: It ended about six thirty, quarter to seven, something like
that, you know, in the ballpark, right in that area. And they
took off.
VANNATTER: They?
O.J.: Her and her family—her mother and father, sisters, my kids,
you know.
VANNATTER: And then you went your own separate way?
Yeah, actually she left, and then they came back and her
mother got in a car with her, and the kids all piled into her
sister's car, and they
VANNATTER. Was Nicole driving?