If I Did It

by O. J. Simpson

  “I’m listening, motherfucker!” I said to Goldman.

  “O.J.!” Nicole hollered. “Leave him the fuck alone! What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to Chicago.”

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  “Hey, man,” Goldman said. “That’s not necessary.”

  Charlie piped in. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here, O.J.”

  “I asked you a question, motherfucker. What are you doing here? You delivering drugs?”

  “Leave him alone, O.J.!” Nicole shouted.

  “I hear half you assholes are dealing on the side,” I said.

  Nicole came at me, swinging. “Get the fuck out of here!” she said. “This is my house and I can do what I want!”

  “Not in front of my kids, you can’t!”

  “Fuck you!”

  “No, fuck you. I gave you everything you could ask for, and you fucked it all up.”

  She came at me like a banshee, all arms and legs, flailing, and I ducked and she lost her balance and fell against the stoop. She fell hard on her right side – I could hear the back of her head hitting the ground – and lay there for a moment, not moving. “Jesus Christ, O.J., let’s get the fuck out of here!” Charlie said, his voice cracking.

  I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he thought I was going to hit him, because he got into his little karate stance. “What the fuck is that?” I said. “You think you can take me with your karate shit?” He started circling me, bobbing and weaving, and if I hadn’t been so fucking angry I would have laughed in his face.

  “O.J., come on!” It was Charlie again, pleading. Nicole moaned, regaining consciousness. She stirred on the ground and opened her eyes and looked at me, but it didn’t seenlike anything was registering.

  Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me blocking my view. “We are fucking done here, man – let’s go!” I noticed the knife in Charlie’s hand, and in one deft move I removed my right glove and snatched it up. “We’re not going anywhere,” I said, turning to face Goldman. Goldman was still circling me, bobbing and weaving, but I didn’t feel like laughing anymore.

  “You think you’re tough, motherfucker?” I said.

  I could hear Charlie just behind me, saying something, urging me to get the fuck out of there, and at one point he even reached for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook him off, hard, and moved toward Goldman. “Okay, motherfucker!” I said. “Show me how tough you are!”

  Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened, but I can’t tell you exactly how. I was still standing in Nicole’s courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there, when I’d arrived, or even why I was there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital – with little Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping balls into my neighbor’s yard; Paula, angry, not answering her phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly shit about Nicole’s behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive from Rockingham to the Bundy condo.

  And now? Now I was standing in Nicole’s courtyard, in the dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I couldn’t get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of me was covered in blood, but it didn’t compute. Is this really blood? I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?

  I was more confused than ever. What the hell had happened here? Then I remembered that Goldman guy coming through the back gate, with Juditha’s glasses, and I remembered hollering at him, and I remembered how our shouts had brought Nicole to the door…

  Nicole. Jesus.

  I looked down and saw her on the ground in front of me, curled up in a fetal position at the base of the stairs, not moving. Goldman was only a few feet away, slumped against the bars of the fence. He wasn’t moving either. Both he and Nicole were lying in giant pools of blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It didn’t seem real, and none of it computed. What the fuck happened here? Who had done this? And why? And where the fuck was I when this shit went down?

  It was like part of my life was missing – like there was some weird gap in my existence. But how could that be? I was standing right there. That was me, right?

  I again looked down at myself, at my blood-soaked clothes, and noticed the knife in my hand. The knife was covered in blood, as were my hand and wrist and half of my right forearm. That didn’t compute either. I wondered how I had gotten blood all over my knife, and I again asked myself whose blood it might be, when suddenly it all made perfect sense: This was just a bad dream. A very bad dream. Any moment now, I would wake up, at home, in my own bed, and start going about my day.

  Then I heard a sound behind me and turned, startled. Charlie was standing in the shadows, a few feet away, his mouth hanging open, his breathing short and ragged. He was looking beyond me, at the bodies.

  “Charlie?” I called out. He didn’t answer. “Charlie?” Still nothing.

  I went over and stood in front of him and asked him the same question I’d just asked myself. “Charlie, what the fuck happened here?”

  He looked up and met my eyes, but for several moments it was as if he didn’t really see me. “Are you listening to me?” I said. “I asked you what happened here.”

  Charlie shook his head from side to side, his mouth still hanging open, his breathing still short, ragged, and in a voice that was no more than a frightened whisper, said, “Jesus Christ, O.J. – what have you done?”

  “Me?”

  What the hell was he talking about? I hadn’t done anything.

  I jumped at a sound behind me – a high-pitched, almost human wail. It was Kato, the dog, circling Nicole’s body, his big paws leaving prints in the wet blood. He lifted his snout and let out another wail, and it sent chills up and down my spine. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.

  I hurried toward the rear gate, and moved through it, with Charlie close behind, but I stopped myself before I crossed into the alley. Charlie bumped into me and jumped back, startled. “What?” he said.

  I didn’t answer. I was thinking about the shape I was in – I was thinking of all the blood. My shirt and pants were sticking to my skin. Even my shoes were covered in Hood.

  I turned and looked behind me, beyond Charlie, and saw a track of bloody, tell-tale prints. “I’ve got to get rid of these fucking clothes,” I said.

  Without even thinking about it, I kicked off my shoes and began to strip. I took off my pants and shirt, dropped the knife and shoes into the center of the pile, and wrapped the whole thing into a tight bundle. I left my socks on, though. I don’t know why, but I didn’t see any blood on them, so I had no reason to remove them. As I stood, with the bundle grasped in my left hand, I realized that I’d left my keys and my wallet in my pants. I fell to a crouch and dug for them and noticed that my hands were shaking.

  Charlie stood there all the while, mumbling. “Jesus Christ, O.J. Jesus Christ.” He just kept repeating himself, like he’d lost his goddamn mind or something.

  “Will you shut the fuck up?!” I snapped. I found my keys and my wallet, and rewrapped the bundle, then I stood and hurried across the dark alley. Charlie followed, still mumbling. I got behind the wheel and Charlie climbed into the passenger seat. “Jesus Christ, O.J.” he said. “Jesus Christ.”

  “WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

  Charlie recoiled, startled, and shut up. I started the Bronco and pulled out, the tires squealing, and raced through the curved alley toward Montana Avenue. When I reached the end of the alley, I made a left onto Montana and an immediate right at the corner, onto Gretna Green. San Vicente was a block away, and I made a left there and took it all the way to Bristol, then hung a right to Sunset and made a left there, toward home.

  I glanced at Charlie. He was hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands.

>   “What happened back there, Charlie?” I said.

  Charlie sat up. His cheeks were wet with tears. He shook his head from side to side and shrugged.

  I thought back to that horrific scene at the courtyard, and to all the blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It didn’t seem possible. It didn’t seem real.

  “Charlie?”

  He still didn’t answer, but what the hell – this wasn’t really happening. That hadn’t been me back there. I’d imagined the whole thing. I was imagining it then. In actual fact I was home in bed, asleep, having one of those crazy crime-of-passion dreams, but I was going to wake up any second now. Yeah – that was it!

  Only I didn’t wake up.

  We were still on Sunset, and I passed the light on Burlingame and made a sharp right onto Rockingham, tearing up the winding hill, toward the house. As I approached the gate, I saw a limo moving toward the Rockingham gate, from Ashford Street, and remembered that I had a flight to catch.

  I drove past my house, and past the moving limo, and in the side-view mirror I saw its taillights flare as it pulled to a stop in front of my gate. The driver had probably been waiting on Ashford, out of sight, and I wondered if he’d already called the house. I had no idea what time it was. I looked down at the Bronco’s clock and saw it was 10:37. Fuck! I was supposed to be in that limo in eight minutes.

  I pulled into Ashford and kept going, hanging a right on Bristol, and I parked in the shadows beyond the home of Eric Watts. There was another neighbor on Rockingham who was closer, but his property ran parallel to mine, and I couldn’t get inside without running the risk of being spotted by the limo driver. I was going to have to steal onto my property through the Watts place, and I knew just how to do it.

  I looked down at my lap, at the bloody bundle, then over at Charlie. “You’re going to have to help me out here, man,” I said.

  Charlie turned to look at me. His mouth was hanging open a bit, and he was breathing kind of funny, and he couldn’t stop shaking his head. It looked like he was slipping into shock or something.

  “Charlie, are you listening to me?”

  He stopped shaking his head for a moment, and nodded once, and I began to tell him what I needed from him. “I’ve got to get into my house,” I said. “You’re going to have to wait here until I’m in the limo, understand? When the limo’s gone – ”

  Charlie looked away, into the darkness beyond his own window, clearly not listening to me. I reached over and slammed his left shoulder into his seat, hard, and he whipped around to face me, more frightened than ever.

  “I need you to fucking listen to me, man!” I shouted. “Are you fucking listening to me?”

  Charlie nodded. He looked scared to death.

  “Say it! Tell me you’re listening.”

  “I’m listening,” he mumbled.

  “Let me spell it out for you, and you better fucking pay attention. Are you paying attention?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Say it, goddamn it!”

  “I’m – I’m paying attention,” Charlie said.

  “I’m going to sneak back into my house. I’m going to take a shower, and get dressed, and grab my bags, and I’m going to get into that goddamn limo we just passed. Did you see the limo?”

  “No,” Charlie said.

  “Well there’s a fucking limo parked in front of the Rockingham gate, and I’m supposed to be in it, on my way to the airport.”

  “A limo,” Charlie repeated. His mouth was still hanging open, and I wasn’t sure any of this was really registering, but I didn’t have a choice.

  “Once I’m in that limo, and it’s gone, I need you to park the fucking Bronco in the driveway, then get into your car and take the fuck off. Do you understand?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “This here’s the clicker. It’ll open the gate. You can drop the key in the mailbox, but run out before the gate closes. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  I took the key out of the ignition and removed all the keys except the one for the Bronco.

  Then I set the bundle in his lap. “I need you to take this, and get rid of it,” I said. Charlie looked down at the bundle, afraid to touch it. “I don’t give a fuck how you get rid of it, but make sure it disappears. You hear? It needs to disappear forever.”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Did you fucking hear me?!” I hollered.

  “I heard you,” Charlie said.

  I made him repeat everything I had told him, word for word, then I got out of the car and stole into the neighbor’s property, toward my house. My heart was beating like crazy. I could feel it pounding in my ears.

  I moved past the tennis court to the little secret path that connected our two properties. Only a few friends knew about that path, and all of them were tennis players. They made use of it whenever I wasn’t around to open the front gate for them.

  Within seconds, I was on my property, moving past my own tennis court. I hung left, moving past the guest houses, all of which are tucked away, out of sight, and past the pool, toward the rear of the main house. I couldn’t see the limo from way back there, but I knew it was at the Rockingham gate. I was sure the driver had already buzzed the house by then, and I was pretty sure he’d already called his office to tell them I wasn’t there. Still, he was a few minutes early, and he’d hang tight. He’d buzz again in a few minutes. For all I knew, he was buzzing at that very moment.

  As I was moving past Kato’s room, I stumbled against one of the air-conditioning units, making a racket, and almost fell down. I stole past, still clutching my keys, breathing hard, and let myself through the back door. I moved toward the alarm-panel and punched in the code to keep it from going off.

  I didn’t turn on any lights until I got upstairs, into my own room, then I hurried into the bathroom and hopped into the shower.

  Not a minute later, I heard the phone ringing. I saw that the bottom light was flashing – the light that corresponded to the Rockingham gate – so I knew it was the limo driver. I figured he’d seen the lights go on in the bedroom and the bathroom and was trying me again. Maybe he thought I’d been asleep. That would be a good thing to tell him: That I’d been asleep.

  I let the phone ring, knowing he’d call back, and finished showering. I got out and dried myself, thinking about what I had to do. My bags were pretty well packed, so I was almost ready to go.

  I slipped into my black robe and went downstairs and grabbed the Louis Vuitton bag and my golf clubs and took them out front and set them in the courtyard. The driver saw me and got out of the limo, squinting in my direction.

  I hurried back upstairs, to finish dressing, with my heart still beating like crazy. I could feel it in my ears, and against my temples, but as I looked around I couldn’t understand what I was so worked up about. I took a deep breath and told myself, The last hour was just a nightmare. None of that ever goddamn happened.

  The phone rang again – the lower light – and I reached for it. “Yeah, man,” I said. “I know you’re here. I overslept and just got out of the shower. My bags are out front.”

  I hit the code and opened the front gate, so he could drive through and get the bags, and hung up and finished dressing. Then I hurried downstairs and went outside. The driver was still putting the bags into the trunk of his white limo.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Good evening, Mr. Simpson.”

  “We about set here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At that moment, Kato showed up, looking spooked. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

  “What?” I said.

  “That banging noise,” he said. “A big thump out back, near the fence.”

  “I didn’t hear shit,” I said. “I was in the shower.”

  “It was a really loud fucking noise, O.J. It scared the hell out of me.”

  Kato seemed to think that someone had been lurking around that part of the house, and he asked me to have a look, so I humored him. W
e went off in separate directions, and after about a minute we reconvened near the front door.

  “I didn’t see anything,” I said.

  “You got a flashlight?” he asked.

  “Jesus, Kato – I’m trying to get out of here. You go look for it and lock up when you’re done.”

  Kato went into the house, still spooked, and I got into the limo and took off. I think the driver was nervous about being late or something, because he got confused at Sunset and took the wrong entry ramp onto the 405 Freeway.

  Once we were en route, I called Kato to tell him to make sure to set the alarm. I didn’t get through to him, but I remembered having told him to lock up, and I hoped he was smart enough to set the alarm.

  “Man,” I told the driver. “It feels like I spend my whole life racing to and from airports and getting on and off airplanes.”

  “I know what you mean,” the driver said.

  When we got to the airport, I checked in at the curb, like I always do, and watched the skycap tag the bags. A couple of fans came by for autographs, and I was happy to oblige.

  On my way to the gate, I signed a few more autographs, and when I boarded the plane I shook hands with a couple more fans. One of them was curious about my ring – he thought it was my Super Bowl ring, but it was actually my Hall of Fame ring – and he took a closer look and admired it. I only mention this because there was supposed to be a cut on my ring finger, but it must have been a phantom cut – there was nothing but a ring there.

  I was asleep before the plane took off, and I slept most of the way to Chicago. A limo driver helped me get my bags, then took me to the O’Hare Plaza Hotel. It was quiet at that early hour, even at the airport, and the ride only lasted about five minutes.

  I got to my room exhausted, and stripped and immediately fell asleep, but a short time later I was awakened by the ringing phone. I picked it up. It was some cop in Los Angeles – either Philip Vannatter or Thomas Lange, I don’t really remember – calling to tell me that he had some bad news. “Nicole has been killed,” he said.

  “Killed?” I said, not sure I’d heard him correctly. “What do you mean killed?”