The Search for Justice

by Robert L Shapiro

  Linell and I were transfixed in front of the television. All over the country people had done what I just did: walked into the house after a long day, to be greeted by a televised three-ring circus, a weird national spectacle, at the center of which was my client. Larry King had tracked down Michael Baden in Los Angeles, and now Baden was providing mile-by-mile commentary for CNN. Network coverage of the NBA playoffs had been temporarily interrupted for the breaking O.J. news, and when coverage was resumed, a window in the upper right side of the TV screen monitored the Bronco ’s strange ride.

  “My God,” I said to my wife, “I hope the police don ’t decide to start shooting at that car.” And then we heard he was heading home, back to Brentwood.

  “You ’d better get over to Rockingham,” Linell said.

  I ran out and got into my car, grabbed the car phone, and punched in 91, as I took off. “I need to talk to the L.A.P.D.,” I snapped.

  “Is this an emergency?” the operator asked.

  “Yes, it ’s an emergency!” I said. “I ’m Robert Shapiro, O.J. Simpson ’s lawyer, and I have to get to him, to his house in Brentwood. I know the police have blocked off some streets, and what with the traffic and the people, I ’m going to need some help to get there.”

  In a minute or two, the police were on the line. “Where are you, Mr. Shapiro?” they asked.

  “Beverly Glen and Sunset,” I said.

  “Just keep going that direction.” They took the description of my car, and within two or three more minutes a motorcycle cop pulled up, motioned me to follow him, and turned on his flashing lights and siren. Falling in behind him, I took off on what would normally have been about a twenty-minute drive. This time, weaving in and out of traffic on Sunset, mostly on the wrong side of the street, the trip took all of five minutes.

  When I turned onto Rockingham, the street was cordoned off and lined with people. Someone recognized me, presumably from the televised news conference earlier that afternoon, and a voice shouted out, “It ’s Shapiro, it ’s Shapiro!” People actually started cheering. All I could think was, Where the hell is O.J.?

  The police let me drive a little farther down the street, near the front gate. The captain and the commander came over and asked me to stay back—they had a SWAT team lined up there. O.J. was in the house with A.C., Kardashian, and Jason, his son. Eunice Simpson, O.J. ’s mother, had been checked into the hospital in Oakland. No one knew for sure whether it was a heart attack or an understandable physical reaction to the emotional roller coaster of this day. I could hear the voices squawking on the police radio. “He ’s coming out, he ’s coming out. He ’s in the police car.”

  When the squad car rolled back down the drive, I could see O.J. inside. He turned and saw me and nodded almost imperceptibly. I nodded back, and then the car drove away. Later O.J. would say that as A.C. had pulled the Bronco into the driveway, he was still holding the gun to his head, not yet ready to abandon the idea of suicide. When his son Jason ran up to the driver ’s-side door, Cowlings, who knew that the situation was still delicate and O.J. ’s behavior unpredictable, instinctively shoved Jason out of the way, both to protect him and to try to keep things stabilized. When O.J. heard Jason cry “Dad! Dad!” he suddenly realized that for his children ’s sake, suicide was not an option for him. It ’s entirely possible that Jason saved his life.

  Michael Baden, who ’d hitched a ride to Rockingham on a TV camera-crew truck, joined me on the street. As we glumly watched the police car pull away from Rockingham, a good strong wind could have blown me over. I hadn ’t eaten anything all day and had only a vague recollection of grabbing a soda at Kardashian ’s. All I could think of was the strange ride O.J. had taken and the police caravan that hadn ’t followed him as much as escorted him.

  I offered Baden a ride back to his hotel, and as we slowly walked back to my car, some reporters stopped me and asked for my comments.

  “I want to personally congratulate Chief Willie Williams and the entire staff of Los Angeles police officers who were able to resolve one of the most incredible situations in a very, very peaceful manner,” I said, and I meant every word. “I can ’t express the fear I had that this matter would not end the way it did. Also at this point I ask all members of the public to please reserve any judgment on this case until the evidence is reviewed in a court of law.”

  As I got into the car, a man walked by with two children. I didn ’t recognize him (because, as my wife says, I never recognize anybody), so for a second or two I didn ’t have any context for what he said to me.

  “When you see O.J., tell him good luck from Kurt and Goldie.” It was actor Kurt Russell. Once again I was reminded that Los Angeles is a company town.

  Chapter Three

  My legal assistant, Bonnie Barron, has run my law office exceptionally well for five years. In addition, I have two young associates, Karen Filipi and Sara Caplan, both superb attorneys and trusted colleagues. It was not until after the Simpson trial was over, in October 0f 1995, that I officially became a partner in one of Los Angeles ’s leading law firms—Christensen, White, Miller, Fink, Jacobs, Glaser and Shapiro—and had access to its support staff. Until then, although my offices were in the same physical location as the firm, I maintained my own practice and my own staff, four people in all.

  After the Bronco chase and the press conference, it became obvious that this case would require much, much more staff and support than we had. Camera trucks took up residence in the parking lot and reporters arrived in the reception area and insisted on seeing me. Access to the nineteenth floor, where my office was located, was quickly restricted by building security. The mail began to pile up, hundreds of pieces each day. Initially it was from professionals—private investigators, lawyers, scientists, forensic specialists—all offering their services, but within days, envelopes began to come in addressed to O.J. from supporters, detractors, football fans, unrequited lovers. Death threats, marriage proposals, single dollar bills falling out of envelopes. We were in danger of being buried by the avalanche. Help arrived when Gerry Uelmen contacted a friend of his, Stan Goldman, a professor at Loyola, who brought in student volunteers from the law school to help us with the mail. Each piece had to be opened, logged, read, and screened for threats or possible clues.

  The telephone rang constantly, with messages coming in faster than they could be logged. Quickly, new phone lines were added, but that only increased the noise factor. The first time O.J. called collect from the jail, his voice was low, almost inaudible. Convinced it was yet another crank call, Bonnie adamantly refused to accept it. A minute later he called back and again gave his name, this time very slowly and deliberately. This time the call was accepted, with apologies.

  By the end of the first week, Bonnie and some of the others (ultimately there were more than twenty) were ducking out of the office every couple of hours, forwarding the telephone calls to the firm ’s receptionist before they left, then heading for the parking lot to smoke cigarettes or have a good cry. Everyone involved was being contacted for press interviews or being followed by tabloid reporters. “Nobody dares to ask me for an interview,” Bonnie boasted with typical determination. “I ’m too rude.”

  Given what she was fending off, she wasn ’t as rude as she was probably entitled to be. Within a couple of weeks, she had recruited her adult daughter, Erika, to help with the phones, and her friend Stephanie Pion to work as assistant to the four private investigators, coordinating their telephone messages, mail, and their file memos to the attorneys. At around the same time, Petra Brando, Marlon ’s daughter (who was scheduled to begin law school in the fall), started coming in and archiving the print material—page after page of magazine and newspaper articles, as well as analytical pieces in law journals. This, in addition to Gary Randa ’s video files, kept us all in touch with the outside world, which was important, given that none of us were actually living in it.

  There were days that it seemed less like a law office than the fabled mail
room at the William Morris Agency, or some kind of surreal factory assembly line. It was hard to think, let alone find the focus and concentration that we all needed. The voice-mail system ’s capacity was fifty messages, and we easily reached that every twenty minutes, at which point the “mailbox” would simply shut down and take no more messages. The calls were coming in at such a rate that no one could ever get a line for outgoing calls, so we had to have new lines installed for our own use. And when we announced an 800 number, along with a $500,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the murderer(s), fiber-optic hell broke loose: within the first two weeks, Pacific Bell ’s voice-mail system had recorded and logged 250,000 calls—one a minute—which we then had to log and store on cassette tapes as part of the investigation. Callers who couldn ’t get through on the 800 number reverted to calling the office number. Every hour or so Bonnie had to “dump” the voice mail and then record the messages in her computer, deciding which ones were genuine and which ones were cranks, and pass them along to Bill Pavelic. We couldn ’t possibly deal with every call, but it was difficult to dismiss the possibility that among the callers who received radio signals in their fillings or saw the killer ’s name in their tea leaves might be the one solid lead we needed.

  Immediately after O.J. ’s surrender on June 17, I heard from many of his closest friends, all asking questions about the legal procedures to come and wanting to know how they could help. They were especially anxious to stay in touch with O.J., to do whatever he needed to keep his spirits up. So I arranged for a number of them to come into my office on the following Sunday.

  Skip Taft and Bob Kardashian were in the group, of course, as was A.C. Cowlings. Others included football great Marcus Allen and his wife, Catherine; Raider quarterback Vince Evans; O.J. ’s golfing buddies Alan Austin, Craig Baumgarten, and Bob Hoskins; clothing entrepreneur Alan Schwartz; talent agent Joe Kolkowicz; and businessman Wayne Hughes (the founder of a public-storage company, upon whom O.J. had long relied for financial advice). Bill Pavelic came also; he needed to get to know these people and the roles each of them played in O.J. ’s life.

  Once everyone was assembled, we set up a conference call with O.J. As his familiar voice came over the speaker phone, the emotion in the room immediately ran high. Marcus Allen was the first to speak.

  “Hey, Juice,” he said, fighting back tears. “Hey, man, how ya doing?”

  “I ’m doing okay, Marcus,” said O.J. quietly. “I ’m doing okay.”

  As he had done with the police, he quickly apologized for worrying everyone during Friday ’s Bronco ride. One by one, their voices cracking, each person spoke to him, telling him how much they cared for him, encouraging him to be strong, vowing to do whatever they could to get him through this ordeal. It was clear that he was moved, not just by what they said but by the realization that these people had all come together solely for his sake.

  Loyalty is the one human quality I value more than any other, and as I listened, it struck me that these friendships were mostly all long-standing ones, among self-made men with drive and talent, who had worked hard, stayed close to each other through their struggles, and built solid, successful lives. Jocks and businessmen alike were unashamed to cry, not afraid to use words like “love” to another man, knowing that ’s what he needed to hear. I could easily identify with them, because my friends were cut from the same cloth. Surely, I thought, this speaks to the quality of O.J. ’s character. These people had known him well, for many years, and they believed him.

  Since each of them had been in contact with O.J. immediately around the time of the murders and therefore could speak to his demeanor, we were successful in getting them on the court-approved visitor ’s list of material witnesses at the county jail. Nicole Pulvers, a young lawyer who had been working for Bob Kardashian, was designated as the attorney who would be present for these visits, as the court required.

  Sadly, some of these friendships would dissolve in the difficult months to come, as tension, doubt, and the glare of the media caused some to lose faith. Alan Austin became disillusioned and gradually separated himself, as did Alan Schwartz. Rumors were flying about there having been a relationship between Marcus Allen and Nicole, which Marcus vehemently denied and which caused great heartache to his wife. We tried to subpoena him in Missouri, but he was successful in fighting it. And within a few weeks, Wayne Hughes and I would come to loggerheads about O.J. ’s defense; he wanted to have a stronger voice in directing it, and I couldn ’t allow that.

  Almost immediately after O.J. ’s arrest, Gil Garcetti went on an unprecedented media “tour,” hitting the local airwaves as well as the national ones, with appearances on Nightline and This Week with David Brinkley. He freely discussed the charges of first-degree murder and offered his personal opinion that not only was O.J. guilty but in all likelihood he would use a “Menendez-type” defense (in which the Menendez brothers admitted that, yes, they killed their parents, but years of abuse had driven them to it).

  I had been practicing criminal law for twenty-five years, and many of my cases had been high profile. It was only natural that I had accumulated some expertise in dealing with the press, believing as I did that wealth and fame not only didn ’t protect or insulate people accused of crime, it often made their situation worse. In fact, in a paper written for a law journal two years before, I had said that immediately after a celebrity arrest, a D.A. and chief of police can almost inevitably be counted on to go to the press, announce that they have solved the crime, congratulate each other on doing such a wonderful job, and take credit for quick and fast action in their crime-solving ability and pursuit of justice. Even knowing this, Gil Garcetti ’s statements completely surprised me. He might ’ve been angry that O.J. hadn ’t surrendered in a timely manner; maybe he thought the press coverage of the Bronco ride and subsequent arrest was too sympathetic. Whatever his reason, as I saw his quotes picked up by news stations and newsmagazines across the country, I thought, This is going too far.

  The district attorney position in Los Angeles is a political one; candidates run for election every four years. Historically, incumbents pay the price for losing high-profile criminal cases. For instance, the renowned McMartin Pre-School molestation case (which dragged on for an unprecedented six years) made Robert Philobosian vulnerable to Ira Reiner. After the acquittal of the McMartin defendants and the defendants in the first Rodney King trial, Reiner gave way to Gil Garcetti. Now, in the wake of the Menendez hung jury and the Reginald Denny trial, Garcetti needed O.J. ’s case as political damage control. The question, then, was not whether an indictment would be returned, the question was how soon.

  There are two ways for a felony charge to be brought against someone in the state of California. One way is for the police, after an investigation, to submit charges to the district attorney, who then simply signs the complaint, has an arrest warrant issued, and charges someone with that felony, at which point a preliminary hearing takes place. At a preliminary hearing the prosecution presents witnesses under oath, and the rules of evidence are greatly relaxed; for instance, hearsay evidence is admissible. Defense cross-examination is allowed but generally very restricted. The burden on the prosecution is light; they only have to show that a crime has been committed and that there is a strong likelihood that the person charged is guilty.

  The second way for a felony charge to be brought is for the prosecutor to bring a case before the grand jury. The proceedings are secret, and there are no rules of evidence, no judge, no cross-examination. Only the prosecution is present; the defendant and defense counsel are not. If sixteen members of that jury vote for an indictment, a person is then charged criminally, and the matter goes directly to trial.

  The term “grand jury investigation” is a misnomer. Although legally empowered with the ability to begin investigations on their own, grand juries in California—and indeed, in most American jurisdictions—are a powerful tool in the prosecution ’s arsenal. Traditionally a body that meets
in secret to investigate corruption or allegations with political overtones, a grand jury is made up of citizens (the number depends on the size of the county ’s population; there were twenty-three people hearing the Simpson case) chosen after being nominated by judges. They serve for a term, rather than for a case—a period of one year (in California; eighteen months in most other jurisdictions)—and have the power to subpoena, investigate, and indict; they can charge an individual with a crime (called a “true bill”) or reject charges (called a “not-true bill”).

  Grand juries are a potent prosecution tool because they compel witnesses to come forward who might otherwise be reluctant to do so. They ’re a political tool as well, allowing the district attorney to step back from filing charges independently, letting the grand jury do it instead—which is especially important in politically sensitive cases or instances where the potential defendant is either popular or powerful. Within hours of O.J. ’s arrest, we knew that Garcetti was going to the grand jury.

  After the district attorney ’s TV blitz, I quickly called Gerald Uelmen and Alan Dershowitz, and they agreed with me that he had gone over the line. Making out-of-court statements that speculate on guilty pleas and mental defenses raise more than a few serious questions; and when the head of the largest district attorney ’s office in the country announces categorically, just days after a murder, that the case is solved—before any meaningful forensic examinations have taken place, before any DNA analysis—it tilts the strategic weight heavily to the prosecution ’s side.