If I Did It (18 page)

And I told her this for one very simple reason: I didn't need
anyone to tell me that I wasn't abusive, let alone some bogus tests. I
knew I wasn't abusive.
But that's not what the media wanted to hear. It didn't bolster
their story.
As far as they were concerned, I was the one and only suspect,
and they were going to make a case against me before I even went to
trial.
8.
THE FIGHT
OF MY LIFE
At some point, late that same evening, somebody turned off the TV
and urged me to go to bed. The stories were too upsetting and were
making me crazy. One minute I'd be crying, the next I'd be on my
feet, screaming at the TV set.
I went to bed, but I don't remember sleeping much, and in the
morning, with the press still camped outside, Bob Kardashian
decided I should leave the house and move into his place in Encino.
I had to try to get out of the house without being spotted by the
media, and I told him about the secret path that cut through Eric
Watts's property, over by the tennis courts. Before we left, I asked
Kardashian to get me something from under the Bentley's front
seat. He went and got it. It was my black grip, with my .357
Magnum inside (though, of course, he didn't know this ). I then

packed a few things into my black duffel—some clean clothes, toi-
letries, etcetera—and we left the house at the same time.
Kardashian drove though the Rockingham gate, and turned
toward Ashford, and a few minutes later I met him on Bristol.
None of the reporters had been smart enough to follow him. They
all thought I was still inside the house.
I asked him to take me to the airport to pick up my golf bag,
which we'd left behind, and I found it right away. The bag was
made by Victorinox, the Swiss Army knife people, and it had that
distinctive logo. It had been given to me some months earlier by the
company, with whom I was doing business.
After we left the airport, we drove straight to Kardashian's
house, in Encino, and Bob started talking about the other Bob—
Bob Shapiro. He felt that Howard Weitzman wasn't the right guy
for us—he wasn't a criminal attorney—and he thought we should
see what Shapiro had to say about the situation.
“What are we going to do about Howard?” I asked.
“Let's worry about that later,” he said.
When we got to Kardashian's place, my close friend A.C.
Cowlings was waiting for us with my kids. They were in one of the
guest bathrooms, playing in the Jacuzzi, and when I first saw them
I almost fell apart. I hugged both of them and told them we had a
lot to talk about, and I asked them to get dressed and come down-
stairs when they were done.
When they showed up, looking so clean and fresh, I could feel
the blood rushing to the back of my throat, and I found myself
fighting tears. Again, the whole thing felt unreal. I'd seen the kids
less than two days earlier, and they were the same kids, but in that
short period of time the whole world had changed. Suddenly I felt
very alone. Up until that point, ever since I'd heard the news, I'd
either been traveling or in rooms full of people, but now it was just
me and the two kids, and I didn't know where to begin.
“Something has happened to Mommy,” I began, but Sydney
cut me off before I could continue.
“We know,” she said. “She's in heaven.”
I had assumed that I was going to be the one to break the
news, but apparently Judy had already told them.
“That's right,” I said. “She's in heaven.”
“Can we play a game?” Sydney asked.
I realized that neither of them really understood what had
happened to Nicole, let alone the longterm effects that her death
would have on their lives. But then, what did I expect? I hadn't
processed it either.
They wanted me to read them a story, and I read them a story,
and they wanted to play, so we horsed around a little and I tickled
them and made them laugh. But it was unbearably hard for me. I
was sitting there staring at these kids, knowing that they were never
again going to see their mother, and knowing how deeply that was
going to affect them for the rest of their lives. That really destroyed
me. I was so overwhelmed that I excused myself for a moment and
locked myself in the downstairs bathroom and wept. Then I pulled
myself together and rejoined them, and the three of us sat there,
enjoying each other's company, pretending that everything was just
fine that life was great.

Later that same day, A.C. took the kids back to Dana Point,
back to the Browns, and I watched them pull away in his white
Bronco and felt all emptied out. As I look back on it now, I believe
that that's when it finally hit me—that that was the moment I
finally realized Nicole was truly gone.
A short while later Bob Shapiro showed up to talk to me
about what lay ahead. He immediately cut to the chase. Almost the
first thing he said was, “O.J., I need to know: Did you do this?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I didn't do it, and I still can't believe
it actually happened.”
We talked for a couple of hours—Kardashian, Shapiro, and
myself—and Shapiro seemed especially upset about the fact that
Weitzman had let me talk to the cops. I told him that I had insisted
on talking to the cops, and he said that that wasn't the point.
Weitzman should have tried to stop me, and—when that didn't
work—he should have been at my side for the interrogation.
Shapiro asked me a few more questions—about Sydney's
recital, the flight to Chicago, the cut on my hand, etcetera—then
got to his feet.
“We have a lot of work ahead of us,” he said. “I better get
started.”
I thanked him and he left, and Kardashian called Weitzman to
break the news to him. Weitzman didn't take it well. He began curs-
ing Kardashian, who got tired of trying to explain the situation to
him and simply hung up. Not surprisingly, the press found out that
Weitzman was no longer representing me, and they even tried to
use that against me, suggesting that Weitzman had pulled out
because he had doubts about my innocence. I don't know whether
he had doubts about my innocence, but I do know that Weitzman
didn't pull out—he was pushed.
After his conversation with Weitzman, Kardashian called a
psychiatrist he knew and asked if he might prescribe a little some-
thing to get through the wake and funeral. I spoke to the doctor on
the phone. “It's going to get very tough in the days ahead,” he said.
“I'm going to prescribe something that should keep you from hit-
ting bottom.”
The pharmacy delivered the stuff a short while later—sleeping
pills, antianxiety pills, antidepressants—and I followed the direc-
tions. It said the anxiety pills would kick in pretty fast, but that the
antidepressants wouldn't take effect for at least a week or two.
When it was time for bed, Kardashian walked me to the room
he'd set aside for me and wished me a good night. “I'm glad
Shapiro's on board,” he said.
“Me too,” I said.
I thought about that as I stripped and got into bed. I didn't
even know Bob Shapiro, and from the looks of it my life was in his
hands—I was in control of absolutely nothing.
I hardly slept again that night, even with the pills. I kept
thinking of the kids, and of Nicole, and as I drifted off I vaguely
remembered having been told about the wake, which was sched-
uled for the following afternoon. I was so out of it that I actually
remember thinking, A wake? For whom? Who died?
In the morning, I turned on the TV and it was the same old
slut. The reporters were still harping on this idea that Nicole was

leaving me and trying to get on with her life, and that I'd been unable
to handle it. There were also those misguided rumors about Howard
Weitzman, and the real reasons he had removed himself from the
case. I remember thinking that the press got everything wrong. I also
remember thinking that they got everything wrong really, really fast.
In the middle of yet another report, Kardashian walked into
the den and told me that Lou Brown was on the line, calling from
Dana Point. I got on the phone and Lou told me that the first view-
ing was going to be in Laguna Beach, at four that afternoon. I told
him that I didn't want an open viewing for anyone other than the
direct family. I said I didn't want to see a picture of Nicole in her
casket in some tabloid. I said I didn't want the kids to have to live
with an image like that for the rest of their lives.
“I want them to remember her just as she was,” I said.
“Okay,” Lou said.
In the afternoon, a limo arrived to pick me up. Kardashian
went with me. The drive took over an hour, and I don't remember
talking much. I think I fell asleep, to be honest. The drugs the
shrink had given me were pretty powerful.
I remember waking up as we were pulling into the mortuary
parking lot. There were dozens of people there, and dozens of
reporters, and I climbed out of the limo and went straight inside
without even looking at anyone. All of my kids were there: Jason,
Arnelle, Justin, and Sydney. Al Cowlings was with them. I saw Judy
and Lou, and we exchanged a few words, and then I went over and
took a look at Nicole. She looked as white as a sheet. I leaned over
and kissed her, and I could hear Arnelle crying just behind me, and
a moment later everyone kind of shuffled out of the room and left
me there with Nicole. I don't know how long I was in there. I
remember just standing there, shaking my head, still refusing to
accept her death, and then I heard someone behind me and turned
around. It was Judy. She looked at me and started crying, then
asked me, point blank, “O.J., did you do this?”
I didn't even get upset, to be honest. “No,” I said. “I could
never have done this. I loved her too much.”
Much later, Judy went on national television and repeated this
story, but long after that, during the civil trial, she told the story but
failed to mention my denial. At that point the attorneys played a
tape of her television appearance. I guess people remember what
they want to remember.
After the viewing, we went to the Browns for a little while—I
was in a complete fog, and I only know I was there because I was
told I was there—then I got back into the limo for the ride home. I
remember that part: I cried all the way.
Kardashian tried to comfort me, but he was pretty broken up
himself. He didn't know what to say because there wasn't much he
could say.
By the time we got back to Kardashian's place, in Encino, I
was in terrible shape. For the first time in my life, I thought about
killing myself. I felt sorrowful and angry at the same time, and most
of all I felt hopeless. I felt like I had nothing to live for. I felt like my
life no longer made any sense.
At some point I fell asleep—I was exhausted and all hollowed
out and I took a couple of extra sleeping pills and when I woke

up the following morning, groggy and disoriented, I felt more
depressed than ever. I went downstairs and found Kardashian in the
kitchen, and I tried to revive myself with coffee. A.C. showed up
while I was in the middle of my second cup. He had brought a suit
for me to wear to the funeral.
I went upstairs and it took me a very long time to get dressed.
I couldn't seem to make my arms work. They felt heavy and sore,
like they would if you overdid it at the gym.
The funeral took place at St. Martin of Tours, a church on the
corner of Sunset and Saltair, in Brentwood. I couldn't have made it
through the service without A.C. and Kardashian. Kardashian led
me to some seats in the second row, behind the Browns, and I
remember that they turned to look at me. They weren't smiling.
My four kids joined me, and at that point I think Sydney was
beginning to understand what had happened. Justin, on the other
hand, was completely oblivious.
I noticed pictures of Nicole and the children resting on the
casket. Then I looked beyond the casket. I saw a literal wall of cam-
eras pointed in my general direction. I had no idea that the press
was going to be allowed inside, but I didn't have the energy to
complain. And who was I going to complain to anyway?
I couldn't follow the service, to be honest. At one point I
thought it was over, and I found myself standing, shaking a lot of
hands, thanking people, but then I was sitting again, and I looked
up and saw that Judy Brown was preparing to deliver a eulogy. I
don't remember that, either, but I know it was short.
After the service, people came up to talk to me, and to shake
my hand and hug me, and I went through the motions and nodded
from time to time, trying not to fall apart. Once again, I felt like
none of this was really happening, that I was in the middle of a hor-
rible, unimaginable dream, but when I stepped into the parking lot
I knew it was no dream. There was an army of reporters across the
street, and halfadozen helicopters overhead, and I could hear
some of them shouting my name.
“O.J., right here!” “O.J., can we ask you a few questions?”
“O.J., can we get a shot of you with the kids?”
It took about an hour to get to the cemetery, in Mission Viejo,
and the press followed us down. So did the helicopters. Strangely
enough, that's what I remember most clearly about the funeral—
the damn helicopters, making a racket overhead, not giving a shit
about any of us. I also remember, vaguely, sitting through a short
service, and I vaguely remember the priest, but I can't remember a
single specific detail about anything at all. I guess those drugs were
working pretty hard.
Later, some reporter said that I stood by the grave for a long
time after the service, alone, talking to Nicole, and he suggested that
I was asking for forgiveness. I don't know where he got that idea. I
didn't stand by the grave for more than a half a minute. I had my kids
with me, and they never left my side. That much I do remember.
The next thing I remember was being back in the limo, on
our way to the Browns, and it felt almost like a timecut in a
movie---I wasn't sure how I had gotten there. On the other hand,

during the drive Justin spotted a Wendy's hamburger place, and
announced that he was hungry. Sydney said she was hungry, too, so
we pulled up to the drivethru window and I ordered food for
everyone.
I remember looking at my kids, at their smiling faces, and at
the way they attacked their burgers, and thinking, It's the little things
in life that keep you going.
An hour later, I wasn't sure if I could keep going. Or whether
I wanted to.
I got back to Encino late that night and turned on the news.
There was footage of us at the church, and more footage of us at the
cemetery, but I couldn't watch it without crying.
I popped a couple of pills and went to bed.
The following morning, Friday, I got out and took a leak and
went right back to bed. There was a remote next to the bed and I
picked it up and turned on the TV. There was some kind of action
movie on, and I watched for a few seconds, but then I heard a
knock at the door and killed the picture.
“Come in,” I said.
Kardashian walked inside with Robert Shapiro. We made a lit-
tle small talk—they asked me how I'd slept and stuff—and then
they cut to the chase.
“I heard from the police this morning,” Shapiro said.
“Yeah?”
“They've issued a warrant for your arrest. You're supposed to
turn yourself in at eleven.”
I looked at the clock on the night table next to the bed. It was
almost ten. I had an hour.
“Okay,” I said. “I'll shower and get dressed.”
Shapiro then told me that a couple of doctors were on their
way to the house, to collect blood and hair samples for the police. I
felt like I was in the middle of an episode of a bad TV movie, only
it wasn't a movie. I just shrugged. I was too numb to say anything.
Kardashian broke the awkward silence. “A.C. and Paula are
downstairs,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. “I'll get ready.”
Then Shapiro spoke again. “O.J.,” he said, “it's just you and
us in this room at the moment, and I don't know dwell get another
chance like this. I need to know. Is there anything you want to tell
us?”
“No,” I said. “I've told you everything. I'm not hiding any-
thing. You know everything I know, and everything I've told you is
the truth.”
Shapiro didn't look real happy about my response, but he didn't
push. He told me that the doctors would be there any minute, and
that he'd wait for me downstairs, and then he left the room.
I looked over at Kardashian. He smiled a sad smile, and for
some crazy reason he started talking about our long friendship, and
about all the great times we'd shared over the years. I didn't under-
stand what he was trying to tell me. Was he saying the good times
were over?
“Yeah,” I said. “We sure had some good old times.”