Before the end of the summer, though, Nicole began putting a little pressure on me about moving back into Rockingham, and I reminded her that we had agreed to try it for a full year before making that commitment. She knew that, of course, but her lease was running out at the end of the year, and she didn’t want to move again. It was hard to find a decent rental, she said, and the few places that were available were incredibly expensive. I told her she should consider buying a place. If she ended up moving back into Rockingham, she could treat the new place as an investment, and real estate on the west side of Los Angeles was always a solid investment. It was good advice, but it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She’d go off, pouting, and for a few days I wouldn’t hear a word about it. But before long, it began again: “Why can’t we just move back in, O.J.? This is silly. You know we’re going to be living together soon enough.” Whenever she got too pushy about it, I’d basically avoid her until she got the message: Stop hounding me. We had a deal. Honor the deal.
It was a pain in the ass, to be honest, and I got tired of the endless bickering, but at least she had enough self-control to keep it from turning into a full-blown argument.
In the fall, we got an enforced break from each other, which was probably a good thing. It was football season, and I went off to do my TV analyst thing with Bob Costas and Mike Ditka. She stayed in L.A., taking care of the kids, and still obsessing about hav ing to move.
She was also spending a lot of time with her friends – people she’d started hanging out with soon after we separated – and I’m not going to beat around the bush: I didn’t like them. Period. I wasn’t all that crazy about Faye Resnick, who apparently had a little drug problem, I certainly didn’t like Keith Zlomsowitch, with whom she’d had her little ‘accidental’ fling, and I wasn’t wild about the rest of the gang, either. I had met a few of them around town, mostly recently, when Nicole and I were out and about, and most of them seemed like pretty marginal characters. I thought a few of them lived a little too close to the edge. They seemed to be mixed tip in all sorts of shady stuff, and one of’ them – Brett Cantor, a waiter at Mezzaluna, a restaurant right there in the heart of Brentwood – had been knifed to death earlier that summer. The murder remained unresolved, but there were rumors it was drugrelated.
“I don’t know what you see in those people,” I told Nicole one night.
“They’re my friends,” she said. “They’re nice.”
I didn’t think that was an accurate description. “I don’t want those people around the kids,” I said.
“Jesus, O.J. – they’re my friends. You make them sound like criminals.”
“Maybe they are criminals,” I said. “Maybe you should take a closer look.”
I kept traveling, generally on business, and when I got home my first priority was always the kids. I was still trying to make things work with Nicole, of course, but there wasn’t all that much time for romance, and – to be honest – I’d lost some of my enthusiasm for it. I don’t know what it was, exactly. I guess I didn’t think it could work, and I didn’t like her marginal friends, and I didn’t think she’d learned all that much in therapy, to be brutally frank. I was also sick of tired of arguing about our living arrangement. “Let’s please don’t talk about moving back into Rockingham until we’ve done our year,” I repeated.
“You make it sound like a prison sentence!”
“Nicole, come on. You know what I’m saying.”
“My lease is running out in a few months, O.J., and the Rockingham house is empty half the time. I don’t understand this.”
“We had a deal.”
“Can’t we change it?”
“Not until we know that things are working out.”
“I think things are working out,” she said.
“Maybe they are,” I said. “But it’s early yet.”
I was a long way from thinking that things were working out, to tell you the truth. All that talk about therapy and seeing the error of her ways and accepting responsibility was fine, but on closer inspection it seemed like it was mostly talk. I didn’t see that Nicole had really changed all that much. She was trying hard – that was obvious – but she was still the same Nicole she’d been when everything started going to hell. She still had that hot temper, and that anger, and that impatience. And she was still blaming me for all her troubles: You have that big house on Rockingham. I need a place to live. You won’t let me and the kids move in. She was making me the heavy, and I didn’t like it. But I’d committed to a full year and I was determined to honor my commitment. The year had begun on Mother’s Day 1993, and we were only half way there.
There were good days, too, though – don’t get me wrong. Times when we’d be hanging out with the kids, having fun, or waking up at my place in the morning, just a big happy family – the family we’d always imagined for ourselves. On those days, I actually let myself believe that things were going to work out, and it colored everything. Life is good. Nicole is terrific. We’re going to make it. During this period, Nicole’s one big beef, which she kept hammering at, mercilessly, was this business about the house: Why wasn’t I ready [w] let her move hack in? And my big beef, which I also kept hammering, equally mercilessly, was about her so-called friends – people that definitely rubbed me the wrong way. Those were the two major problem areas, and we bickered about them, sometimes to a point of exhaustion, but we never let the bickering get out of hand. And in fact, whenever things looked like they might blow up, I’d find myself jetting off on business. I’d go to Tampa or Atlanta, say, to interview athletes for the show, or to New York, for my regular network gig, and being away from her and our problems was a real relief.
When I came home, I always appreciated her more, though, because I’d missed her, but within days I felt like I was walking on eggshells. I didn’t want to have any more arguments. I didn’t want to hear any more shit about our living arrangements. I didn’t want to listen to any more stories about her asshole friends.
Luckily, I got cast in the Naked Gun sequel, and that kept me busy. We saw less of each other and argued less as a result, and for a while it worked great. Like a lot of people, we got along a hell of a lot better when we were apart, and when we were together we never had quite enough time to get into anything too serious or damaging.
One day, though, on the set of the movie, I ran into a girl who was a stand-in for Anna Nicole Smith, and she and I got to talking. She began to tell me about some of the wild parties she’d been to recently, and how she was always running into Nicole with her little entourage – a group she described as ‘a pretty rough crowd’. And suddenly, I was thinking, Now that’s weird. This stand-in was basically a part-time hooker – I believe she worked with Heidi Fleiss, the so-called Hollywood Madam – and she and three of her little girlfriends later wrote a book about their experiences, You’ll Never Make Love in This Town Again. But here she was, a call girl, telling me that my ex-wife was partying with a ‘rough crowd.” I was pretty upset, as you can imagine, and after the shoot I drove over to Nicole’s house and read her the riot act. “I thought I warned you about these people,” I said. “I’ve told you a million times: I didn’t want them around the kids.”
“They’re not around the kids,” she said, which turned out to be a lie. “And I don’t know what you have against them. They’re nice people. They’re my friends.”
“You better open your eyes, Nicole. Nice people don’t go around getting themselves knifed to death. Nice people don’t do hard drugs. Nice people don’t turn into whores.”
“Where are you getting your information?” she snapped.
“I just know, okay?” I said. “I know about the wild parties. I know about Heidi’s girls. And I know about these fucking druggies.”
“You’re crazy.”
“This is not what’s supposed to be happening in my life, Nicole. We’ve been back together for five months and you’re fucking everything up worse than ever. Why is this shit still going on
? What are you doing while I’m in New York and traveling all over the place and busting my ass working? I don’t want to hear this bad shit about you, and I don’t want to find out you’re letting these people near my kids.”
I left, still steamed as hell, with Nicole still hollering at me, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying, and at that point I didn’t really care.
When I got back to Rockingham, the phone was ringing as I came through the door. I looked at the caller I.D. and saw it was Nicole, so I didn’t pick up. But she kept calling and I finally had to answer. “What?!” I barked.
“Why did you leave like that?”
“Because I was pissed!”
“You committed to a year, O.J. It’s only been five months.”
“I know I committed to a year! Who said anything about that?”
“Nobody, but you seemed angry. I didn’t want you to be angry.”
“How can I not be angry?”
“Please come back here.”
“What for?”
“So we can talk about it.”
I went back to the house, and to be honest with you I was still angry. I kept going on about these criminals she was hanging around with, and these trashy women, and I told her she had to wise up and look for better friends. I think I kind of worked myself into a frenzy – it was all just pouring out of me – and I guess she got scared or something because she went upstairs and locked herself in the bedroom. I followed her up and banged on the door.
“Let me in!” I said.
“No!”
“You called me to come back here, and now you lock me out?!”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Just open the fucking door!”
“Stop banging, O.J. Please! You’ll wake the kids!”
“Why didn’t you think of that before you dragged me back here?! Why did you drag me back here, anyway?! So we could argue about this shit!”
In the middle of this, Kato showed up, so I started venting to him. I didn’t realize that Nicole had called the police, and that I was talking so loudly they were able to pick some of it up on the 911 tape. “This goddamn woman!” I told Kato. “She’s got drug addicts and hookers hanging around my kids, and I’m pissed about it.” I went back and banged on the door again. “Why is this door locked, Nicole?! You asked me to come back here, and I’m here!”
I went back downstairs and kept venting at Kato: “She keeps telling me she wants to make this work, and she keeps telling me she’s getting her shit together, but she’s a long way from getting her shit together!”
Meanwhile, she made two calls to 911, back to back:
Nicole:
Can you send someone to my house?
Dispatcher:
What’s the problem there?
Nicole:
My ex-husband has just broken into my house and he’s ranting and raving outside the front yard.
Dispatcher:
Has he been drinking or anything?
Nicole:
No. But he’s crazy.
Dispatcher:
And you said he hasn’t been drinking?
Nicole:
No.
Dispatcher:
Did he hit you?
Nicole:
No.
Dispatcher:
Do you have a restraining order against him?
Nicole:
No.
Dispatcher:
What’s your name?
Nicole:
Nicole Simpson.
Dispatcher:
And your address?
Nicole:
325 Gretna Green Way.
Dispatcher:
Okay, we’ll send the police out.
Nicole:
Thank you.
Dispatcher:
Uh-huh.
I guess at this point she got off the phone for a minute; then she got impatient and called back.
Nicole:
Could you get somebody over here now, to Gretna Green. He’s back. Please?
Dispatcher:
What does he look like?
Nicole:
He’s O.J Simpson. I think you know his record. Could you just send somebody over here?
Dispatcher:
What is he doing there?
Nicole:
He just drove up again. (Crying.) Could you just send somebody over?
Dispatcher:
Wait a minute. What kind of car is he in?
Nicole:
He’s in a white Bronco, but first of all he broke the back door down to get in.
Dispatcher:
Wait a minute. What’s your name?
Nicole:
Nicole Simpson.
Dispatcher:
Okay, is he the sportscaster or whatever?
Nicole:
Yeah. Thank you.
Dispatcher:
Wait a minute, we’re sending police. What is he doing? Is he threatening you?
Nicole:
He’s fucking going nuts. (Crying again.)
Dispatcher:
Has he threatened you in any way or is he just harassing you?
Nicole:
You’re going to hear him in a minute. He’s about to come in again.
Dispatcher:
Okay, just stay on the line…
Nicole:
I don’t want to stay on the line. He’s going to beat the shit out of me.
Dispatcher:
Wait a minute, just stay on the line so we can know what’s going on until the police get there, okay? Okay, Nicole?
Nicole:
Uh-huh.
Dispatcher:
Just a moment. Does he have any weapons?
Nicole:
I don’t know. He went home and he came back. The kids are up there sleeping and I don’t want anything to happen.
Dispatcher:
Okay, just a moment. Is he on drugs or anything? I need to hear what’s going on, all right?
Nicole:
Can you hear him outside?
Dispatcher:
Is he yelling?
Nicole:
Yep.
Dispatcher:
Okay. Has he been drinking?
Nicole:
No.
Dispatcher:
Okay. All units: additional on domestic violence, 325 South Gretna Green Way. The suspect has returned in a white Bronco.
Dispatcher:
Okay, Nicole?
Nicole:
Uh-huh.
Dispatcher:
Is he outdoors?
Nicole:
He’s in the backyard.
Dispatcher:
He’s in the backyard?
Nicole:
Screaming at my roommate about me and at me.
Dispatcher:
Okay. What is he saying?
Nicole:
Oh, something about some guy I know and hookers and Keith and I started this shit before and…
Dispatcher:
Um-hum.
Nicole:
And it’s all my fault and ‘Now what am I going to do, get the police in this’ and the whole thing. It’s all my fault, I started this before, brother.
Dispatcher:
Okay, has he hit you today or – ?
Nicole:
No.
Dispatcher:
Okay, you don’t need any paramedics or anything.
Nicole:
Uh-huh.
Dispatcher:
Okay, you just want him to leave?
Nicole:
My door. He broke the whole back door in.
Dispatcher:
And then he left and he came back?
Nicole:
Then he came and he practically knocked my upstairs door down but he pounded on it and he screamed and hollered and I tried to get him out of the bedroom because the kids are sleeping in there.
Dispatcher:
Um-hum. Okay.
Nicole:
And then he wanted somebody’s phone number and I gave him my phone book or I put my phone hook down to write down the phone number that he wanted and then he took my phone book with all my stuff in it.
Dispatcher:
Okay. So basically you guys have just been arguing?
At this point you can hear me yelling in the background, simultaneously venting to Kato and shouting at her.
Dispatcher:
Is he inside right now?
Nicole:
Yeah.
Dispatcher:
Okay, just a moment.
O.J.:
Do you understand me?…Keith is a nothing. A skunk, and he still calls me…
Dispatcher:
Is he talking to you?
Nicole:
Yeah.
Dispatcher:
Are you locked in a room or something?
Nicole:
No. He can come right in. I’m not going where the kids are because the kids…
Dispatcher:
Do you think he’s going to hit you?
Nicole:
I don’t know.
Dispatcher:
Stay on the line. Don’t hang up, okay?
Nicole:
Okay.
Dispatcher:
What is he saying?
Nicole:
What?
Dispatcher:
What is he saying?
Nicole:
What else?
Nicole:
O.J. O.J. The kids are sleeping.
I guess I’m still yelling at her, still pissed as hell, and Nicole is sobbing by this time.
Dispatcher:
He’s still yelling at you? Is he upset with something that you did?
Nicole:
A long time ago (sobbing). It always comes back. (More yelling.)
Dispatcher:
Is your roommate talking to him?
Nicole:
No, who can talk? Listen to him.
Dispatcher:
I know. Does he have any weapons with him right now?
Nicole:
No, uh-huh.
Dispatcher:
Okay. Where is he standing?
Nicole:
In the back doorway, in the house.
Dispatcher:
Okay.
O.J.:
…I don’t give a fuck anymore…That wife of his, she took so much for this shit…
If I Did It Page 7
