The Search for Justice

by Robert L Shapiro

  I called Marcia Clark. “We ’re not going to make it to the Parker Center by ten.”

  She said, “Bob, you ’ve got to make it by ten.”

  “Look,” I said, “we know you ’re going to lock the man up. I thought we ’d have another couple of days before this would happen. He ’s talking to his personal attorney, there ’s the matter of his two small children. He has to get his affairs in order, talk with the rest of his family, Jason and Arnelle, and his mother. There are doctors here examining him. Marcia, let me call Parker Center and see if we can stretch this a little.”

  She agreed that I could call the police and ask for some leeway. They gave us until eleven o ’clock. By eleven, although we were getting close, we still weren ’t ready to leave, and everyone ’s nerves were getting a little raw. At the center of it all was O.J. He had written and sealed some letters, addressed to family and friends. Now he was sitting in his underwear, methodically arranging custody of his children and power of attorney over his personal and business affairs while nurses drew blood out of his arms and scientists pulled hairs out of his head.

  And then, as we came down to the wire, he walked into another room with A.C. to talk privately. All through the previous days, A.C. had been a constant presence, solid as a rock. We didn ’t worry about O.J. as long as he was with his friend, who seemed to have grown bigger and stronger as O.J. became quieter and more passive.

  After they ’d gone, Michael Baden and I spoke quietly to Dr. Faerstein, who was very concerned about O.J. ’s state of mind. I was genuinely concerned about the potential for suicide. For a man who defined himself in physical expression and motion, there was a curious stillness to O.J., a leaden presence. His skin was ashen and his eyes seemed somehow flattened out in his head. Michael Baden had observed all through the week that although O.J. ’s weight had remained the same, his body seemed to have shrunk somehow. Perhaps it would be a good idea, Baden suggested, if Faerstein called the doctor at the jail, to let him know what was going on and make sure that O.J. was put on suicide watch once he got there.

  I made another call to the police and the district attorney ’s office, trying to negotiate more time for O.J. ’s surrender. But finally, when it was close to one o ’clock, Detective Lange announced, “No more time. We ’re coming to arrest him.”

  I said, “Look, we ’re all driving down to Parker Center together, in two cars—his doctors, me, A.C., my driver, Bob Kardashian. Just give us a little more time.”

  “No go,” he said. “We ’re on our way to you now.”

  “Wait, wait, just talk to his doctor,” I said. I put Dr. Faerstein on the line, and he tried to talk to them about O.J. ’s condition and his professional concerns about a possible suicide attempt. But Faerstein had no success. “The commander said this has gone past the deadline,” Lange told him. “We have a warrant. What ’s your location?”

  Defeated, Faerstein just looked at me. “They want to know where we are,” he said. “They have a warrant.”

  I passed the phone to Kardashian. “We don ’t have a choice, there ’s a warrant for his arrest. We have to give him up, now,” I told him. “Tell them where we are.”

  In order not to panic O.J., we decided among ourselves not to go downstairs and tell him and A.C. that the police were on their way. We would wait, we decided, until they got here. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes. It was grim.

  When the two police cars finally arrived, Kardashian went down and opened the front door to let the four officers in, showing them where O.J. was waiting for them. Only he wasn ’t. And neither was A.C. My heart just fell. O.J., I thought, what have you done?

  Kardashian mentioned the letters O.J. had written. We quickly found them and opened the one addressed “To my friends.” It was handwritten, and quite long. We read it over each other ’s shoulders.

  To whom it may concern: First, everyone understand, I have nothing to do with Nicole ’s murder. I loved her. I always have and I 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 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, Louis Marks, Frank Olsen, Mark Packer, Bender, Bobby Kardashian.

  I wish we had spent more time together in recent years. My golfing buddies, Haas, Alan Austin, Mike, Craig, Bender, Wiler, Sandy, Jay, Donnie, thanks for all 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 got a great lady in Catherine, don ’t mess it up. Bobby Chandler, thanks for always being there. Skip and Cathy, 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 I ’m not going to—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, so why do I end up like this. I can ’t go on. No matter 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, the 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. 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.

  In a gesture that seemed oddly childlike, he had drawn a smiley face inside the O. Stunned, I looked at Dr. Faerstein. “What do you think this means?” I asked, almost not wanting to hear his answer. He just shook his head. I don ’t think there was anyone in that room who didn ’t believe, at that moment, that O.J. had gone off to kill himself.

  It was now nearly two—and the police declared the Kardashian house a crime scene. They detained all of us under house arrest and took a statement from every person. As the long afternoon wore on, the tension and fear factor increased.

  At about three, Gil Garcetti called, asking to speak to me. When I put the phone to my ear, there was no doubt that the district attorney was livid.

  “I ’m here with Suzanne Childs [his press secretary] and we ’re at a loss to understand this, Bob,” he said, his voice barely controlled. “Can you explain to me how a
murder suspect just disappears from a house full of people?”

  I knew Garcetti reasonably well; in fact, not only had I supported his reelection campaign and done some major fund-raising for him, I had been named to the board of advisors of the District Attorney ’s Association. He ’d come to my fiftieth birthday party. He had trusted me. Now, it was clear, he believed that his trust had been badly misplaced. I could only imagine, between the press and the police chief ’s office, the kind of heat he was getting at this moment—heat that he was ready to redirect towards me.

  “Gil, look,” I said, trying to control my own fears about O.J. and calm Garcetti ’s anger at the same time, “I gave my word that he would surrender on his own, and that ’s still my intention. Don ’t forget I promised to bring Erik Menendez in, and I did, all the way from Israel. If O.J. ’s alive, and we ’re hoping that he is, I ’ll do everything I can to get him there.”

  In the meantime my wife, who hadn ’t heard from me all day, had grown more and more worried, and she finally beeped my driver, Keno, who called me to the phone.

  “What on earth is going on there?” Linell asked. “We ’re watching TV, and they ’re reporting that he ’s disappeared or something.”

  “You know as much as I do,” I told her. “We were preparing to surrender him, and then… and there ’s this letter. It ’s awful, Linell. We ’re pretty sure that he ’s gone off to kill himself.”

  “Everyone ’s calling here looking for you,” she said, “and I was so worried. Nobody knew where you were, and when I didn ’t hear anything, we began to think that maybe you ’d gone with him. And now there ’s all this speculating on television.”

  She told me that David Gascon, the L.A.P.D. commander, had appeared on TV, obviously furious, and made a statement to the effect that anyone who was involved in O.J. ’s disappearance was now involved in a felony and would be dealt with as a felon. Gascon ’s anger didn ’t dissipate over time. A year and a half later, when Michael Nasatir and I were at a Kings hockey game, we ran into him, and it was apparent, although he was cordial, that he was still smoldering over the fact that O.J. hadn ’t been surrendered as we had promised—thus making the L.A.P.D. look foolish.

  In the meantime, Linell had more information for me. “Lee Bailey called,” she said, “and asked that you call him back immediately.”

  When I got Bailey on the phone, he said, “Bob, you have to respond to this somehow. They ’re on the air, out-and-out accusing you, claiming that you ’re involved somehow, that you ’re deliberately not surrendering him.”

  “Lee, wait,” I said, “that ’s totally ridiculous. I mean, we ’ve got this suicidal letter here, and—”

  “No, no, no,” he interrupted. “You ’ve got to speak up, and do it now. Before it gets worse.”

  I told Kardashian what was going on outside the walls of his house. And then I called up my office and spoke with Bonnie, asking her to please do whatever it took to set up a large conference area somewhere in the building and to notify the press that we would be there at 5:00 P.M. to make a statement.

  On the way over in the car, Kardashian and I discussed O.J. ’s letter, which I thought he should read aloud at the press conference. “People have to hear his own words, so they can understand what ’s going on,” I said. “So they ’ll know what we know.”

  “Bob, I can ’t do that,” Kardashian said. “In front of a room full of reporters? I don ’t think I ’ll be able to get through it.”

  As I tried to figure out a way to help him, I suddenly remembered a conversation I ’d once had with Jack Nicholson. I ’d met him while I was working on the Brando case and asked him about talking in front of a camera, about how to be effective and not self-conscious. He told me, “The best help I ever got was from John Wayne. Years ago I was riding with him in an elevator at the studio and asked what kind of advice he might give to a young actor. He just said, ‘Remember two things: Speak low, and speak slow. ’” This was what I told Bob Kardashian.

  When we got to the conference room—it was actually the former lobby of a bank in our office building—it was a mob scene. I had spoken at press conferences before, but nothing like this. The camera lights were blinding, it was hot, and it was noisy. But the room grew stone-cold silent when I walked up to the microphone. “O.J.,” I said, “wherever you are, for the sake of your family, for the sake of your children, please surrender immediately. Surrender to any law-enforcement official at any police station, but please do it immediately.”

  I then detailed the events of the day, and Bob Kardashian quietly and slowly read O.J. ’s letter. His fingers gripping the paper, he read it well. He told me later that his heart was about to come out of his throat.

  Afterward, I faced the reporters and answered questions for about forty-five minutes. Then we all went upstairs to my office, frustrated and sad. Where was O.J.? Kardashian speculated that perhaps he was headed for the Coliseum or USC, to kill himself there as some type of symbolism. Or maybe he was going to Nicole ’s grave. After a few desultory minutes of conversation, Keno drove Bob Kardashian home, everyone else drifted off, and I sat at my desk alone, trying to make sense of it all.

  In four days I had gone from a cheerful party at the House of Blues to a murder investigation to a client I believed at this very moment was committing suicide. Perhaps he was dead already. To top it off, the police were all but calling me a felon. It was some small comfort the next day to read in the Los Angeles Times that we had conducted “the most captivating live press conference ever” in front of approximately ninety-five million TV viewers. I felt many emotions as I stood in front of those cameras, but “captivating” wasn ’t on the list. I was hoping only that O.J. was alive—hoping that he had been alive to hear me and Kardashian and that he would stay alive and come in on his own.

  An hour later, I was still sitting numbly at my desk. A little before seven, Peter Weil, one of my law partners, dropped by the office. He had his son with him. “Boy, this has been a rough day for you,” Peter said.

  “You have no idea,” I said.

  “Are you going home soon?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No, I have to wait. The press is still camped outside, I don ’t want to leave until they ’ve thinned out a little. One press conference a day is plenty.”

  “Bob, I have an idea,” Peter said. “I ’ll bring my car to the side entrance, and we ’ll sneak you out that way. They won ’t be watching that door—security closes it at six—and they ’re not looking for my car, either.”

  His plan worked. On the drive home, I tried to lift my spirits by talking with Peter ’s son, Adam, who was not quite nine. I love my own boys so absolutely. What they think and what they care about is tremendously important to me, and so it was a comfort to fall into easy conversation with young Adam. Very quickly I discovered that he was an avid baseball fan.

  When we got to my house, I asked them if they would please wait a couple of minutes while I ran inside. I promised I ’d be right back out. When I came through the front door, Linell was standing there. “Bob, what on earth is going on? Where are you going?”

  “Just a minute,” I said, and went into my study.

  I have a lot of baseball memorabilia that I ’ve collected over the years, both from the professional players I ’ve represented and from the ones I ’ve been a fan of. After looking it all over for a couple of seconds, I grabbed a signed baseball, took it back outside, and gave it to Adam. He looked at it.

  “Orel Hershiser!” he exclaimed. There, I thought, as Peter and Adam drove away, I feel a little better.

  “Well, it ’s just a matter of time,” I said to Linell as I walked back into the house. “O.J. ’s killed himself, I know it. It ’s just a question of when they find him.”

  She looked at me in shock. “Are you crazy?” she asked. “Where have you been? He ’s on television, Bob. He ’s been driving up and down the freeway for hours with Al Cowlings. Complete with news helicopters, and some kind of p
olice escort, and people cheering him on the overpasses, you can ’t believe it. Come in here, you ’ve got to take a look at this!”

  I stood in front of the television in disbelief. There he was in the white Bronco, with A.C. driving. He had a gun, someone had reported, and a cell phone. His former football buddies Vince Evans and Walter Payton were pleading with him to surrender. The conversations were being picked up and broadcast on radio and television, and all the while people were following him in their cars, or standing on the sidelines cheering, like he was running down a football field. “I can ’t believe this,” I said. “There ’s just no way this can be happening.”

  Later there was much made of the fact that he also had a great deal of cash, his passport, and a beard-and-mustache disguise with him in the car. The theory was he was heading for Mexico, or even farther. But through what airport, over what national border, could this man reasonably have gone? The police were watching him constantly, and so was the press, and he was aware of that. For four days his image had been plastered on the front of every newspaper and broadcast on every television news report.

  The explanation was simple: The mustache-and-beard disguise had been ordered by him some weeks before (using his own name and address, the police easily discovered, which hardly pointed to subterfuge) so that he could take his children on a planned trip to an amusement park without being recognized; the sizable amount of cash and passport were always with him, as was the cell phone, when it wasn ’t in one of his cars. These items were all carried in the black leather bag he was known to have with him constantly, not unlike other business people with their bulging computer cases. He flew back and forth across the country quite often, and on short notice, on business for Hertz or the NBC network, for whom he was a sports commentator. The cash was his “pocket money” used for golf, gambling, tipping, et cetera; in fact, Faye Resnick, in her book, noted that both O.J. and Nicole were known to carry large amounts of cash, into the thousands, all the time, and they often paid for things, even big-ticket items, with cash rather than with their credit cards. In this instance, it was evidently O.J. ’s intention that after his suicide the cash go immediately to his small children as a stopgap support measure until the larger legal matters were handled on their behalf.