If I Did It (19 page)

He looked like he was about to cry. “I'll wait for you down-
stairs,” he said, then turned and quickly left the room.
Much later, I heard a crazy story about this incident.
Supposedly, I noticed a taperecorder on the night table next to the
bed, and the moment Kardashian left the room I picked it up and
started talking about my life. I talked about my kids, and about how
much I loved them; I talked about Nicole and about how much she
had meant to me and about how much I missed her already; and I
talked about the fact that I believed myself to be a good person, a
man who had always tried to do right by others. It was a good story,
but I don't know where it came from. I'm not saying it couldn't have
happened, but I don't remember a taperecorder, and I don't remem-
ber reviewing my life. Still, who knows? At that point I was so
drugged up I could hardly find my way into the shower. But if it did
happen, and if someone has the tape, I'd love to hear it some day.
I eventually found my way into the shower, and I eventually
got dressed.
When I got downstairs, the place was crawling with people.
Paula looked up and started crying the moment she saw me. A.C.
was there, too, and so was the psychiatrist. He asked me how I felt
and I told him I was fine, but I should have told him the truth: I
felt hopelessly lost.
Then the doctors showed up to collect their samples. One of
them was Henry Lee and the other was Michael Baden. They had a
nurse with them, and I think I sat down and she took some blood.
She took a lot of blood. I think she must have filled up four or five
glass vials.
When she was done, I said I needed a moment, and I excused
myself and disappeared into the den. I called Judy Brown and told
her that she needed to take care of the kids till this was resolved,
then I called Skip Taft, one of my lawyers, and asked him to work
out the details with the Browns.
When we got off the phone, I found a legal pad and wrote a
letter, in longhand, that filled four entire pages. I folded the letter
and put it in an envelope and sealed the envelope and wrote across
the front: “To Whom It May Concern.”
I left the room and gave it to Kardashian and told him not to
open it till after.
“After what?” he said.
“Just after,” I said. I didn't honestly know what I meant
myself. “When the time comes, you'll know.” I'm not sure what I
meant by that, either, but it sounded right.
The doctors were still there—I think they still wanted a hair
sample or something, and they were interested in taking another
look at the cut on my hand—so I gave them what they needed.
Then Shapiro said it was time to go. “I gave the cops my word
that I'd have you at Parker Center at eleven, and it's already after
eleven,” he said.
“I don't give a shit,” I said. “ What can they do to me now?”
I think Shapiro went off to call the cops to tell them that we
were running a little late, and that we'd be there shortly.
I went over and asked Paula to please leave before me. I don't
know why, but I guess I thought that would make it easier on both
of its. She'd he leaving because I had asked her to leave, instead of

standing there, watching me walk away from her life. I'm not sure
that made any sense, either then or now, but at that point nothing
made much sense.
Paula didn't want to leave, but I asked her again, and she
finally relented and I asked A.C. to walk her out to her car.
I went back to the guest room and got my black grip. My
Magnum was inside, along with my passport, and about ten dollars
in cash, and some pictures of Nicole and the kids. I looked at the
pictures and started to cry, but there was a knock at the door and I
dried my tears and tried to pull myself together.
“Come in,” I said.
Kardashian walked in. “How you holding up?” he asked me.
“Okay,” I said.
“Shapiro's waiting downstairs,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
“Take your time,” he said, but he didn't really mean it.
He left the room.
A few minutes later, still carrying my grip, I went downstairs
and saw A.C. standing in the foyer, near the front door. I guess
everyone else was in the den or something, watching the news.
“Let's get out of here,” I said.
“What do you mean?” He said.
“Let's just go,” I said.
I walked out the front door and he followed me, and we
climbed into his Bronco and pulled out. He didn't say anything. He
was my friend. He would do anything for me, and I would have
done anything for him.
“Let's go by the house,” I said.
“What house?” he said.
“Nicole's house,” I said.
He didn't ask why. He got onto the 405 Freeway and headed
north. We got off at Sunset, and worked our way toward Bundy,
but as we got closer we saw that most of the street was blocked off,
and that the place was crawling with cops. I told him to forget it
and asked him to take me to the cemetery, and he looked at me,
wondering why. “I was so overmedicated that I don't remember a
thing,” I said. “I want to see the grave before they lock me up. I
may never get another chance to see it.”
We drove south to Mission Viejo, with me in the back seat,
where I could lie down and close my eyes. We didn't talk. Each of us
was alone with his thoughts. I found myself thinking back to what
Nicole had told me that night in Laguna, right after Mother's Day,
when it was clear that we weren't going to be able to save our marriage.
“Maybe we tried to get back together too soon,” she had said.
She looked incredibly sad. Just remembering the look on her face
made me feel like crying.
I also remembered driving back to Los Angeles that night, and
the two of us putting the kids to bed. And I remembered the way
she asked me to make love to her. It was the last time we made love,
and just thinking about it was absolutely devastating. I had really
loved that girl. Why hadn't we been able to make it work? What
had we done wrong? How do other people do it?
As we got dose to the cemetery, A.C. called my name and I
opened my eyes. There were cops everywhere. He drove mound to

But that morning the pain was back—and it was worse than
ever. And since I did not believe I was going to survive it, I had
taken the time to sit down and share some final thoughts.
Kardashian was then in the process of sharing those thoughts
with the world:
the far side to see if there was another way in, but there were cops
there, too.
“They're looking for you,” he said.
I reached across the front seat and turned on the radio, and it
turned out he was right. I heard myself described as “a fugitive.”
A.C. drove another halfmile or so and pulled into an orange
grove, where no one could spot us, not even from the sky. He got
out to take a leak, and the moment he left the Bronco I reached for
my grip. I unzipped it and pulled out the Magnum. I was in
tremendous pain, and I saw nothing but more pain ahead of me,
and I decided to end it. I realized, I can make this stop. One shot to
the flicking head and it's over.
Strangely enough, at that very moment Bob Kardashian was
on national television telling the world about my pain. When it
appeared that I wasn't going to turn myself in, he had opened the
fourpage note I'd written earlier that day, and couldn't believe what
he was reading. I had asked him to not open it till after, and I guess
he thought the time had come. If I hadn't killed myself yet, I was
probably about to.
I'm not going to lie to you. I had been thinking about killing
myself. The first time it crossed my mind was after my brief conver-
sation with Sydney and Justin, at Kardashian's house, when I tried
to break the horrible news about Nicole.
“We know,” Sydney had said, cutting me off. “She's in heaven.”
That just about destroyed me. The pain was unbearable. But I
kept going.
To whom it may concern: First, everyone understand I have
nothing to do with Nicole's murder. I loved her, always have
and always will. If we had a problem, it's because I loved her
so much.
Recently, we came to the understanding that for now we
were not right for each other, at least for now. Despite our love
we were different, and that's why we mutually agreed to go
our separate ways. It was tough splitting for a second time,
but we both knew it was for the best.
Inside I had no doubt that in the future we would be
close as friends or more. Unlike what has been written in the
press, Nicole and I had a great relationship for most of our
lives together. Like all longterm relationships, we had a few
downs and ups. I took the heat New Year's 1989 because that's
what I was supposed to do. I did not plead no contest for any
other reason but to protect our privacy and was advised it
would end the press hype.
I don't want to belabor knocking the press, but I can't
believe what is being said. Most of it is totaHHy made up. I
know you have a job to do, hut as a Hast wish, please , please,

please, leave my children in peace. Their lives will be tough
enough.
I want to send my love and thanks to all my friends. I'm
sorry I can't name every one of you, especially A.C., man,
thanks for being in my life. The support and friendship I
received from so many: Wayne Hughes, Lewis Markes, Frank
Olson, Mark Packer, Bender, Bobby Kardashian.
I wish we had spent more time together in recent years.
My golfing buddies, Hoss, Alan Austin, Mike, Craig,
Bender, Wyler, Sandy, Jay, Donnie, thanks for the fun. All
my teammates over the years, Reggie, you were the soul of
my pro career. Ahmad, I never stopped being proud of you.
Marcus, you've got a great lady in Catherine, don't mess it
up. Bobby Chandler, thanks for always being there. Skip and
Kathy, I love you guys, without you I never would have
made it through this far. Marguerite, thanks for the early
years. We had some fun. Paula, what can I say? You are spe-
cial. I'm sorry we're not going to have our chance. God
brought you to me I now see. As I leave, you'll be in my
thoughts.
I think of my life and feel I've done most of the right
things. What the outcome, people will look and point. I
can't take that. I can't subject my children to that. This way
they can move on and go on with their lives. Please, if I've
done anything worthwhile in my life, let my kids live in
peace from you (press).
I've had a good life. I'm proud of how I lived. My mama
taught me to do unto others. I treated people the way I
wanted to be treated. I've always tried to be up and helpful so
why is this happening? I'm sorry for the Goldman family. I
know how much it hurts.
Nicole and I had a good life together. All this press talk
about a rocky relationship was no more than what every long-
term relationship experiences. All her friends will confirm that
I have been totally loving and understanding of what she's
been going through. At times I have felt like a battered hus-
band or boyfriend but I loved her, make that clear to every-
one. And I would take whatever it took to make it work.
Don't feel sorry for me. I've had a great life, great
friends. Please think of the real O.J. and not this lost person.
Thanks for making my life special. I hope I helped
yours.
Peace and love, O.J.
I had meant what I'd written. I'd had a wonderful life, but it
was over now. It was time to check out.
I looked at the Magnum in my lap and checked to make sure
it was loaded. It was.
And just then I heard Dan Rather's voice on the radio: “We
have now learned that the police have been to Mr. Simpson's house
six or seven times on domestic abuse calls.”

And I just goddamn snapped:
“What the fuck motherfucker!”
And that's when A.C. got back to truck, still zipping up his
fly, and saw the Magnum in my hand. And I guess he snapped,
too—though for different reasons. “Man, put that fucking gun
down!” he shouted “What the fuck do you think you're doing
with that thing?”
But I wasn't listening to him. I was listening to more of Dan
Rather's bullshit: “We're now learning that Mr. Simpson has a
long history with the Los Angeles Police Department,” yada yada
yada.
And I'm shouting at the radio, “You ain't learned shit, mother-
fucker!”
I almost put a bullet through the radio.
“What the fuck is going on?!” A.C. said, also hollering.
“Nothing!” I said. “Take me the fuck home! That changes
everything. I'm not going to listen to any more of this bullshit!”
And A.C. got behind the wheel and pulled out, with me still
fuming and venting. “Who the fuck do these people think they
are?! They're supposed to be reporters. They hear one lie and if it's a
lie they like they goddamn share it with the world. Well, I'm sick to
death of it!”
I wasn't thinking of killing myself anymore.
Depression had given way to rage.
And we pulled out of the orange grove, heading back toward
the freeway, and he picked up his cell phone and dialed 911. “This
is Al Cowlings,” he said. “I've got O.J. Simpson with me, and I'm
bringing him in.”
And wouldn't you know it—must have been some kind of cop
GPS—the police were on our tail in minutes. The cemetery wasn't
two miles behind us and they were already crawling up our asses.
And A.C. said, “Maybe we should pull over.”
And I said, “No fucking way! You told them you were bring-
ing me in, so bring me in already. Take me back to my house.”
I was feeling angry. Defiant. The rage was fueling me. I was
ready to take on the world.
There were more cops now, still following, and I leaned close
to the window and looked up into the sky. I think I counted halfa-
dozen choppers.
When we were still a few miles from Brentwood, on the 405
Freeway, heading north, it seemed as if the whole world had turned
out to watch. People were hanging off overpasses, cheering, holding
up signs. GO JUICE!
I remember thinking, When did they have time to make those
signs?
By that point, there were maybe a dozen squad cars with us,
behind the Bronco, up ahead of us, on either side. A.C. didn't like
it, and he slowed to a crawl. “O.J.,” he said. “I'm pulling over.”
“No you're not,” I said. “You're taking me home.”
I put the Magnum to my head, so the cops could see it, and
A.C. again used his cell phone to call the cops. “Back the fuck off,”
he said. “Can't you see the man's gonna kill himself?”

The whole thing took less than an hour. By then we were driv-
ing past the Wilshire offramp, and A.C. took the Sunset exit. If the
cops had any doubts about where we were going, they knew now:
O.J. Simpson was heading home.
For a moment, cruising those familiar streets, I suddenly felt
crushingly depressed again. A man spends his whole life trying to
figure out what it all means, trying to make some sense of this busi-
ness of living, and in the end he doesn't understand shit.
I missed Nicole. I was worried about the kids.
There was a goddamn battalion waiting for us at Rocking-
ham, and before A.C. had even killed the engine the cops had
pretty much surrounded us.
I was pissed off again. What the fuck did they think I was
going to do? Shoot it out?
I dialed 911. “You tell those motherfuckers to back off!” I said.
The operator patched me through to someone at the scene,
and I hollered at him for a while, but I couldn't see who I was talk-
ing to, and I'm not sure what I was trying to say.
Then I saw a sniper on the roof of a neighbor's house, and I
swear to God—I almost lost it. The sons of bitches. What were they
planning on doing? Taking me out when I stepped out of the
Bronco?
I showed them the Magnum again, and I could see the cops
tensing up, backing off.
“Put that fucking gun down,” A.C. said. “You want to die?”
“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe.”
And I didn't know, to be honest. I was depressed. Then I was
angry. Then I was a depressed again. The shrink had told me that
the pills were going to keep me from hitting bottom, but this felt
awful close to bottom. And if bottom was worse than this, I didn't
want to know about it.
A moment later, I felt the tears coming.
“We should have tried harder,” I said.
“What's that?”
“Nicole and me,” I said. “I should have tried harder. Even
when I thought I didn't love her, I loved her. It's just there were
times I forgot.”
A.C. didn't say anything, but I wasn't even looking at him. I
was thinking about all those years with Nicole, most of them so
good I wasn't sure I deserved them, and I was thinking about the
way we'd gone and fucked everything up.
Like I said earlier, this is a love story, and like a lot of love sto-
ries it doesn't have a happy ending.
I got out of the Bronco and the cops moved in. They gave me
a few minutes in the house, a chance to freshen up, then took me
downtown, to Parker Center. They booked me and took my prints
and had me pose for a mugshot. The flash blinded me, and I closed
my eyes for a few seconds.
Nicole had written:
I want to be with you! I want to love you and cherish you,
and make you smile. I want to wake up with you in the

mornings and hold you at night. I want to hug and kiss you
everyday. I want us to be the way we used to be. There was
no couple like us.
And I'm thinking:
You were sure right about that, Nic.
There was no couple like us.