When we began interviewing for our own jury-selection experts, I became most impressed with Jo-Ellan Dimitrius, who came in the door with computerized exhibits and a thorough knowledge of current jury-pool demographics. We had asked for written proposals and cost estimates from everyone we spoke with, and I knew that cost would be a factor in who we ultimately chose. But I was going to hold out for Dimitrius.
Tuesday morning, July 26, we held our first major roundtable meeting for the entire defense team: Cochran, Uelmen, Pavelic, McNally and McKenna, Sara Caplan, Shawn Chapman (an associate in Cochran ’s office) and Carl Douglas (a junior partner), and Barry Scheck. Dr. Lee came in later, and we spoke with Baden and Dershowitz by speakerphone. The meeting lasted two and a half hours, and its purpose was to draw up a detailed battle plan. From the investigators, we needed minute-by-minute timetables, starting with Nicole ’s dinner at Mezzaluna and going right up to when O.J. ’s letter was read by Kardashian, including O.J. ’s phone calls, Kato ’s phone calls, the Browns ’ phone calls to Nicole, and calls to anyone else that any of the key figures might ’ve talked to during that time. We needed background information on essential witnesses, including everyone who had testified in both the grand jury and preliminary hearing, with a special emphasis on Detective Fuhrman. We needed interviews from all known and potential witnesses on Bundy and Rockingham, in Los Angeles and Chicago, as well as those on the flights to and from Chicago. Of major concern was O.J. ’s purchase of a stiletto knife just weeks before the murders. And I was additionally concerned about the story we ’d heard that the witness to the dog “plaintively wailing” on the night of the murders reportedly worked at one time as a National Enquirer reporter.
After the investigators had left the office, the lawyers discussed the DNA evidence and what, if any, benefits would be gained from observing the prosecution ’s tests at Cellmark. Henry Lee was adamant that just observing would be of no benefit at all; on the other hand, not doing it might reflect negatively on us in front of the jury. The choices came down to these two: We could get a blood split so that we could have our own samples and test them if we decided that it was warranted; or we could forego testing completely, and instead challenge the collection and preservation procedures that the L.A.P.D. lab had performed, and the subsequent contamination of these samples.
At noon on Wednesday, July 27, I received word that Judge Ito was holding an emergency hearing that day regarding the prosecution ’s request to set aside his order of Monday which would allow our experts to cut a sample. It seemed that Cell-mark labs had written a letter objecting to that ruling. “Our laboratory policies and procedures preclude anyone other than the appropriate Cellmark staff from doing any analysis in our laboratory,” the letter stated. “We strongly prefer that Dr. Blake and/or Dr. Lee observe the cutting…. This avoids the necessity of a transfer of evidence custody and control.”
I notified the court that even though we were given the opportunity to observe, we declined. “The guidelines are totally unmanageable,” I said. “We won ’t be participating.” It wouldn ’t benefit us or the jury, we decided, and would be a waste of everyone ’s time.
Once again, I was aware of Clark ’s growing impatience with me. My unwillingness to flirt with her or be less than businesslike made her angry. The invective was getting sharper, the expression on her face was frequently disdainful or disgusted. Her remarks were running to things like “Shapiro ’s being outrageous, unethical, unprofessional. I have never seen such conduct from a lawyer.” We weren ’t, I suspected, going to walk hand in hand out of the courtroom when this was all over.
Later that afternoon, I had a conversation with Don Ohlmeyer, the West Coast president of NBC and close friend of O.J. ’s who had visited him often at the county jail. After one recent visit, during which they ’d had a long and impassioned discussion that had convinced him that O.J. was innocent, Ohlmeyer was worried that their conversation had been overheard.
It wasn ’t the first problem we ’d had with the way the visiting area was set up. The deputies stood barely five feet away, on O.J. ’s side of the glass. I was never sure whether conversations were “accidentally” overheard or not, but I was almost certain that real confidentiality was nearly impossible in that space. A few months later, we would grapple with this issue again, when Roosevelt Grier, the former football great who had become a Christian evangelist, visited O.J. on a Sunday afternoon in November. At that point, they ’d been meeting regularly, reading the Bible and discussing private matters; and on this particular day, O.J. spoke quite emotionally to the large and gentle man who had become, in his opinion, his spiritual advisor. The conversation was overheard by a sheriff ’s deputy, who then reported it to the prosecution—who then alleged that by virtue of raising his voice, O.J. had waived his right to confidentiality. They then went so far as to subpoena Rosie Grier in an attempt to get him to testify as to the content of his conversations with O.J., which he appropriately declined to do.
On Wednesday, July 27, I spent two hours with O.J. at the county jail. It was becoming more and more obvious to me that his frustration with the press coverage was growing each day. He couldn ’t understand why the media kept hammering at him, especially on the issue of domestic violence. For most of his life, O.J. Simpson had easy access to the press, as well as a good relationship with reporters; now, he simply didn ’t understand why he just couldn ’t talk to the reporters himself.
I didn ’t want to get into a situation where we opened the door to or participated in a public debate on the issue of domestic violence. It wasn ’t an argument that we could “win,” because there aren ’t two sides to it. It ’s intolerable behavior that takes place too often, and in this case, it would be presented by the prosecution in a complex way, going beyond physical abuse and moving into areas of psychological and financial control as well. Some of these resonated strongly with me because of my earlier representation of Tina Sinatra; I was well aware that they resonated with the public as well.
O.J. had pleaded no contest to spousal abuse in 198, and had gone through the legal system as he ’d been directed to do, getting counseling and performing the required public service. Talking to the press or challenging their interpretation of events now that he ’d been accused of Nicole ’s murder would give them a reason to replay the 911 tapes, setting up what would in effect be a parallel public trial. Only this one would be outside the rules and constraints of a courtroom. As his defense lawyer, defending him in a capital murder case, I couldn ’t allow that door to be opened. I ’d learned that each time the issue came up, O.J. was going to react with understandable frustration. “I ’m just venting,” he ’d say to us. “You have to let me vent.” He had to blow off steam; we had to let him.
Also on July 27, we were served notice that Ron Goldman ’s mother, Sharon Rufo, had filed a wrongful death suit against O.J., but we made no response. Ultimately the Browns and Fred Goldman would also file suits. The filing of a civil lawsuit during a criminal proceeding is not unusual—and in this case, I had expected it. For many families, civil suits are one way to assuage pain and, seemingly, to take control of the system and inflict their own punishment. Civil suits generally have no effect on the outcome of a criminal case; the criminal case has priority, and so, because of Fifth Amendment privileges, depositions can ’t be taken for the civil suit until the criminal case ends.
We live in a civilized society, governed by laws. However, grief for a dead child is primal, governed by no law and softened only by the passage of time. I had great compassion for the Goldman family, as I did for the Browns, and never lost sight for a moment that they had buried their children, a son and a daughter that they loved as much as I love my own. My sorrow for the families was of no consequence to them, of course, nor should it have been, and I wasn ’t surprised to see the civil suits begin to develop.
That Wednesday night I flew up to San Francisco. I had a business appointment there the next day to meet with the U.S. attorney
on a case I ’d been involved with previous to Simpson ’s. Outside the courthouse I was stopped by two women who asked for autographs. While I was standing there, a city bus came to an abrupt halt, and the driver jumped out, ran over, and asked for an autograph. It was getting stranger and stranger.
When I returned to Los Angeles on the twenty-eighth, I met with Larry King and his producer for dinner at Eclipse, an elegant restaurant on Melrose Avenue that had quickly become one of the only places where I could count on having any privacy, whether I was eating with my wife or having a business dinner. It was the first time I ’d met King, although we had mutual friends who ’d grown up in New York City and were his lifelong buddies. I liked the fact that he did live interviews on his show—no editing or tailoring quotes—and I thought his Clinton and Perot interviews had made a new kind of history.
That night, King was good company, full of witty stories and observations about the law, and he was very informed about the Simpson case. He made not-so-subtle hints that someone from the defense team should come on his program to talk about the defense ’s version of the case.
“I don ’t think my making appearances outside of court are in my client ’s best interests,” I told him, still smarting from my New Yorker experience.
“Bob, you ’ve gotta come on the show. You know this case so well, you can explain it so the viewers understand it,” he said, combining his natural charm with an appeal to my trial lawyer ’s ego. “It ’ll be great. Besides, the prosecution ’s case is already out there; you have a responsibility to counterbalance it.” Now he was hitting me where I lived, in the inherent characteristic I carry around from my cultural upbringing: guilt.
It was an easy evening. After dinner we exchanged phone numbers, and I agreed to think about the invitation and meet with him the next time he came to Los Angeles.
On Friday July 29, Uelmen, Caplan, and I met at the courthouse with Bill Hodgman to set the date for the trial. Cochran, who had another matter that morning concerning rapper Snoop Doggy Dogg ’s murder case, said he ’d meet us later.
Hodgman, as always, was low-key and friendly. Ito suggested a date of September 20, but the defense wanted no delays, so I asked for the earliest possible date—the first Tuesday after Labor Day, September 2, The prosecution objected, saying that they needed more time, but I didn ’t want to waive another day. Cochran suggested a compromise of September 12, then Judge Ito settled on September 19.
Afterward we visited with O.J. in the lockup. Kardashian was with him, and I knew he wanted to hear something positive. All he could think of was getting out and being with his children. I don ’t think he had any comprehension of how complicated it was going to be to even seat a good jury, let alone see this trial through to completion.
On the last weekend in July, Linell and I took Brent and Grant to Las Vegas for the James Toney fight. We ’d been invited to join Bob Arum, the fight promoter, as Toney ’s guests after my sparring match with him three weeks before, and we certainly got the royal treatment. When we walked into the MGM Grand Hotel that night for the fight, we were immediately recognized, and someone from the VIP desk offered to escort us into the arena. I was so proud of my family: the boys looked handsome and happy, and Linell was practically glowing in an all-white Richard Tyler suit. When we entered the arena, the crowd started cheering and clapping. I looked up to see who they were applauding, and there, on the four big screens in each corner of the arena, were the four Shapiros. One of the boys said, “They ’re cheering you, Dad.”
Once we got settled in the second row, we were immediately surrounded by people asking for autographs and pictures. “If Muhammad Ali had walked in here,” said Bob Arum, “he probably wouldn ’t have gotten a bigger response.”
Jackie Kallen, Toney ’s manager, came down and invited me back to the dressing room to see James before the fight. James was taped up, concentrating and focused, refusing to break his poker face as he waited for this championship fight to begin.
Looking at him, I thought about the letter I ’d received that day from the California State Boxing Commission. It seems they ’d heard about my two rounds with James earlier that month and were writing to inform me that I was not licensed as a sparring partner, which the law required. In addition, as an attorney I should be aware that “people over thirty-six years of age are not allowed in the ring with a professional boxer,” let alone anyone with the talent of James Toney. They further stated that the law required anyone over thirty-six to have a complete neurological and physical examination before fighting. I joked later that George Foreman and I would take that exam together.
Seeing the look in Toney ’s eyes as he prepared to walk into the ring, I decided that I probably should have had a mental competency exam before ever stepping into the ring with the man. “You ’re going to kick butt, James,” I said, pledging that we ’d be back after the fight to congratulate him.
While I was making my way back down to my seat, they kept putting the celebrities up on the big screen, people like Sugar Ray Leonard and Phil Collins, and whenever I turned, there was my picture up there, uncomfortably large, and people would cheer each time. This was a sports crowd, a crowd that was likely to root for the underdog. On the other hand, the predominantly male audience that loved boxing also loved football, and O.J. had been one of their great heroes. Were they cheering me because I was representing an underdog? And was it even me they were cheering, or was it O.J., and I was just here in his stead? My eyes met my wife ’s. What is this? she seemed to be asking.
James Toney ’s fight with Prince Charles Williams was twelve rounds and mostly took place in the corners, with lots of blows exchanged. The crowd booed consistently, even though a lot of punches were thrown. Toney would not take him to the middle of the ring, and it seemed to be very close right up until the end when Toney took control. Those sitting close to the ring said he had it by three or four rounds, but going into the eighth it was clearly even. He was finally able to KO Williams by the twelfth round, but it was a tough fight. Later, Toney said he ’d been suffering from the flu.
At some point in the middle of the frenzy, a large man came up and introduced himself as a private security person who had worked for Marvin Hagler and Sylvester Stallone. “Do you think you ’ll need any help tonight, Mr. Shapiro?” he asked. Normally I would ’ve turned him down, but as I looked around the room, I decided it was a good idea, especially since Linell and the boys were with me. It turned out to be a great idea. We needed five linked-arm escorts just to get back to James ’s dressing room, and the same number to get out the front door.
It was hard to get to sleep that night. I knew about courtrooms, and I thought I knew about human nature. This was something altogether different. Entertainers, politicians, and athletes covet the public spotlight; it ’s not only integral to who they are, it defines their professional worth in a measurable, palpable way. For lawyers… well, recognition is wonderful, applause is great, people asking for autographs can make you feel good, but I kept asking myself why. What was there about being a lawyer for a man accused of double murder that caused people to treat me like a celebrity?
Of course, it was still early in the case; things would change. Just as quarterbacks must get used to both cheers for touchdowns and boos for interceptions, I ’d soon hear a different sound coming from the stands.
Chapter Eight
They ’re taking potshots at him already; every lawyer in the country is auditioning for his job. That ’s something Bob would be terribly upset by—he ’s always been a team player and a gentleman.
—LESLIE ABRAMSON
On Sunday, July 31, Johnnie and I visited with O.J. in the county jail, where once again we heard him tell the story of his life with Nicole. It was a mantra he repeated no matter who was visiting him, no matter how easily the sheriff ’s bailiffs could overhear. That he ’d loved her, that they ’d had their problems, that he ’d accepted their marriage was over, that he ’d moved on, that he only wante
d to do what was best for the kids, that he had a good life, that he never would do anything to threaten it.
We had to get him to focus on the task at hand, to understand that what lay ahead of us was work. I know he wanted our support, our friendship. But being his best friend wasn ’t my job, it wasn ’t what he was paying me for. I know my bedside manner could stand some improvement, but I didn ’t think we had the time to indulge O.J. anymore. On the other hand, Johnnie seemed to have infinite patience with him, telling him what he wanted to hear, approving of everything he said, listening to him tell the story of his life over and over. We had work to do, and it was time for O.J. to think of it as work.
O.J. just couldn ’t stay with it; he kept veering off to Nicole, to the stories that had been printed about them, and to some of the grand jury testimony that had inexplicably been leaked to the media. There was one story in particular, about Keith Zlomsowitch, who had dated Nicole shortly after the divorce. Zlomsowitch, who was a potential witness for the prosecution, had alleged that O.J. followed Nicole, stalking her, and had watched through her window when she and Zlomsowitch were having sex.
The Search for Justice Page 14