If I Did It

by The Goldman Family

  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 looked beyond the casket and saw a literal wall of cameras 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 horrible, 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 half-a-dozen 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 time-cut 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 drive-thru 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 little 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 if we’ll 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 anything. 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 this sort of 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 understand 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.”

  He looked like he was about to cry. “I’ll wait for you downstairs,” he said, then turned and quickly left the room.

  Much later, I heard a crazy story about this incident. Supposedly, I noticed a tape recorder 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 tape recorder, and I don’t remember 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 someday.

  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 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 to myself, 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, but that we’d be there shortly.

  I went over an
d 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 us. She’d be 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 guestroom and got my black grip. My Magnum was inside, along with my passport, 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 helping her put the kids to bed at her place. And I remembered the way she invited me into her bedroom and 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 close to the cemetery, A.C. called my name and I opened my eyes. There were cops everywhere. He drove around to 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 half-mile 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 fucking 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 four-page note I’d written earlier that day, and couldn’t believe what he was reading. I had asked him to not to 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 conversation 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.

  But that morning the pain was back, worse that 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:

  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 long-term 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 totally made up. I know you have a job to do, but as a last 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 special. 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. Whatever 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 husband or boyfriend but I loved her, make that clear to everyone. 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 the 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 yad yada.

  And I’m shouting at the radio, “You ain’t learned shit, mother-fucker!”

  I almost put a bullet though 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 cellphone 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.