The Search for Justice (21 page)

On Wednesday, July 27, I spent two hours with O.J. at the county jail. It was becoming more and more obvious to me that his
frustration with the press coverage was growing each day. He couldn ’t understand why the media kept hammering at him, especially
on the issue of domestic violence. For most of his life, O.J. Simpson had easy access to the press, as well as a good relationship
with reporters; now, he simply didn ’t understand why he just couldn ’t talk to the reporters himself.

I didn ’t want to get into a situation where we opened the door to or participated in a public debate on the issue of domestic
violence. It wasn ’t an argument that we could “win,” because there aren ’t two sides to it. It ’s intolerable behavior that
takes place too often, and in this case, it would be presented by the prosecution in a complex way, going beyond physical
abuse and moving into areas of psychological and financial control as well. Some of these resonated strongly with me because
of my earlier representation of Tina Sinatra; I was well aware that they resonated with the public as well.

O.J. had pleaded no contest to spousal abuse in 198, and had gone through the legal system as he ’d been directed to do, getting
counseling and performing the required public service. Talking to the press or challenging their interpretation of events
now that he ’d been accused of Nicole ’s murder would give them a reason to replay the 911 tapes, setting up what would in
effect be a parallel public trial. Only this one would be outside the rules and constraints of a courtroom. As his defense
lawyer, defending him in a capital murder case, I couldn ’t allow that door to be opened. I ’d learned that each time the
issue came up, O.J. was going to react with understandable frustration. “I ’m just venting,” he ’d say to us. “You have to
let me vent.” He had to blow off steam; we had to let him.

Also on July 27, we were served notice that Ron Goldman ’s mother, Sharon Rufo, had filed a wrongful death suit against O.J.,
but we made no response. Ultimately the Browns and
Fred Goldman would also file suits. The filing of a civil lawsuit during a criminal proceeding is not unusual—and in this
case, I had expected it. For many families, civil suits are one way to assuage pain and, seemingly, to take control of the
system and inflict their own punishment. Civil suits generally have no effect on the outcome of a criminal case; the criminal
case has priority, and so, because of Fifth Amendment privileges, depositions can ’t be taken for the civil suit until the
criminal case ends.

We live in a civilized society, governed by laws. However, grief for a dead child is primal, governed by no law and softened
only by the passage of time. I had great compassion for the Goldman family, as I did for the Browns, and never lost sight
for a moment that they had buried their children, a son and a daughter that they loved as much as I love my own. My sorrow
for the families was of no consequence to them, of course, nor should it have been, and I wasn ’t surprised to see the civil
suits begin to develop.

That Wednesday night I flew up to San Francisco. I had a business appointment there the next day to meet with the U.S. attorney
on a case I ’d been involved with previous to Simpson ’s. Outside the courthouse I was stopped by two women who asked for
autographs. While I was standing there, a city bus came to an abrupt halt, and the driver jumped out, ran over, and asked
for an autograph. It was getting stranger and stranger.

When I returned to Los Angeles on the twenty-eighth, I met with Larry King and his producer for dinner at Eclipse, an elegant
restaurant on Melrose Avenue that had quickly become one of the only places where I could count on having any privacy, whether
I was eating with my wife or having a business dinner. It was the first time I ’d met King, although we had mutual friends
who ’d grown up in New York City and were his lifelong buddies. I liked the fact that he did live interviews on his show—no
editing or tailoring quotes—and I thought his Clinton and Perot interviews had made a new kind of history.

That night, King was good company, full of witty stories and observations about the law, and he was very informed about the
Simpson case. He made not-so-subtle hints that someone from the defense team should come on his program to talk about the
defense ’s version of the case.

“I don ’t think my making appearances outside of court are in my client ’s best interests,” I told him, still smarting from
my
New Yorker
experience.

“Bob, you ’ve gotta come on the show. You know this case so well, you can explain it so the viewers understand it,” he said,
combining his natural charm with an appeal to my trial lawyer ’s ego. “It ’ll be great. Besides, the prosecution ’s case is
already out there; you have a responsibility to counterbalance it.” Now he was hitting me where I lived, in the inherent characteristic
I carry around from my cultural upbringing: guilt.

It was an easy evening. After dinner we exchanged phone numbers, and I agreed to think about the invitation and meet with
him the next time he came to Los Angeles.

On Friday July 29, Uelmen, Caplan, and I met at the courthouse with Bill Hodgman to set the date for the trial. Cochran, who
had another matter that morning concerning rapper Snoop Doggy Dogg ’s murder case, said he ’d meet us later.

Hodgman, as always, was low-key and friendly. Ito suggested a date of September 20, but the defense wanted no delays, so I
asked for the earliest possible date—the first Tuesday after Labor Day, September 2, The prosecution objected, saying that
they needed more time, but I didn ’t want to waive another day. Cochran suggested a compromise of September 12, then Judge
Ito settled on September 19.

Afterward we visited with O.J. in the lockup. Kardashian was with him, and I knew he wanted to hear something positive. All
he could think of was getting out and being with his children. I don ’t think he had any comprehension of how complicated
it was going to be to even seat a good jury, let alone see this trial through to completion.

On the last weekend in July, Linell and I took Brent and Grant to Las Vegas for the James Toney fight. We ’d been invited
to join Bob Arum, the fight promoter, as Toney ’s guests after my sparring match with him three weeks before, and we certainly
got the royal treatment. When we walked into the MGM Grand Hotel that night for the fight, we were immediately recognized,
and someone from the VIP desk offered to escort us into the arena. I was so proud of my family: the boys looked handsome and
happy, and Linell was practically glowing in an all-white Richard Tyler suit. When we entered the arena, the crowd started
cheering and clapping. I looked up to see who they were applauding, and there, on the four big screens in each corner of the
arena, were the four Shapiros. One of the boys said, “They ’re cheering you, Dad.”

Once we got settled in the second row, we were immediately surrounded by people asking for autographs and pictures. “If Muhammad
Ali had walked in here,” said Bob Arum, “he probably wouldn ’t have gotten a bigger response.”

Jackie Kallen, Toney ’s manager, came down and invited me back to the dressing room to see James before the fight. James was
taped up, concentrating and focused, refusing to break his poker face as he waited for this championship fight to begin.

Looking at him, I thought about the letter I ’d received that day from the California State Boxing Commission. It seems they
’d heard about my two rounds with James earlier that month and were writing to inform me that I was not licensed as a sparring
partner, which the law required. In addition, as an attorney I should be aware that “people over thirty-six years of age are
not allowed in the ring with a professional boxer,” let alone anyone with the talent of James Toney. They further stated that
the law required anyone over thirty-six to have a complete neurological and physical examination before fighting.
I joked later that George Foreman and I would take that exam together.

Seeing the look in Toney ’s eyes as he prepared to walk into the ring, I decided that I probably
should
have had a mental competency exam before ever stepping into the ring with the man. “You ’re going to kick butt, James,” I
said, pledging that we ’d be back after the fight to congratulate him.

While I was making my way back down to my seat, they kept putting the celebrities up on the big screen, people like Sugar
Ray Leonard and Phil Collins, and whenever I turned, there was my picture up there, uncomfortably large, and people would
cheer each time. This was a sports crowd, a crowd that was likely to root for the underdog. On the other hand, the predominantly
male audience that loved boxing also loved football, and O.J. had been one of their great heroes. Were they cheering me because
I was representing an underdog? And was it even me they were cheering, or was it O.J., and I was just here in his stead? My
eyes met my wife ’s. What
is
this? she seemed to be asking.

James Toney ’s fight with Prince Charles Williams was twelve rounds and mostly took place in the corners, with lots of blows
exchanged. The crowd booed consistently, even though a lot of punches were thrown. Toney would not take him to the middle
of the ring, and it seemed to be very close right up until the end when Toney took control. Those sitting close to the ring
said he had it by three or four rounds, but going into the eighth it was clearly even. He was finally able to KO Williams
by the twelfth round, but it was a tough fight. Later, Toney said he ’d been suffering from the flu.