If I Did It (8 page)

Fleiss, the socalled 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 exwife 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 fuck-
ing 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 peo-
ple 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 her-
self 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 exhusband 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: Uhhuh.
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: Uhhuh.
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: Uhhuh.
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: Umhum.
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: Uhhuh.
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: Umhum. 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, simultane-
ously 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, uhhuh.
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 . . .
NICOLE: Would you just please, O.J, O.J., O.J., O.J., could you
please . . . Please leave.
O.J.: I'm leaving with my two fucking kids* is when I'm leaving.
You ain't got to worry about me anymore.
NICOLE: Please leave. O.J. Please, the kids, the kids. . . . Please.
DISPATCHER: Is he leaving?
NICOLE: No.
*Transcripts of this call show this word as “fists,” but I said “kids.”

DISPATCHER: Does he know you're on the phone with police?
NICOLE: No.
DISPATCHER: Okay. Where are the kids at right now?
NICOLE: Up in my room.
DISPATCHER: Can they hear him yelling?
NICOLE: I don't know. The room's the only one that's quiet.
DISPATCHER: Is there someone up there with the kids?
NICOLE: No.
I'm really losing it about here, yelling to beat the band.
DISPATCHER: What is he saying now? Nicole? You still on the
line?
NICOLE: Yeah.
DISPATCHER: You think he's still going to hit you?
NICOLE: I don't know. He's going to leave. He just said that ..
O .J.: You're not leaving when I'm gone. Hey! I have to read this
shit all week in the National Enquirer. Her words exactly.
What, who got that, who?
DISPATCHER: Are you the only one in there with him?
NICOLE: Right now, yeah.
DISPATCHER: And he's talking to you?
NICOLE: Yeah, and he's also talking to my—the guy who lives out
back is just standing there. He just came home.
DISPATCHER: Is he arguing with him, too?
NICOLE: No. Absolutely not.
DISPATCHE R: Oh, okay.
NICOLE: Nobody's arguing.
DISPATCHER: Yeah. Has this happened before or no?
NICOLE: Many times.
DISPATCHER: Okay. The police should be on the way—it just
seems like a long time because it's kind of busy in that
division right now. (To police) Regarding Gretna Green Way,
the suspect is still there and yelling very loudly. (Back to Nicole)
Is he still arguing? Was someone knocking on your door?
NICOLE: It was him.
DISPATCHER: He was knocking on your door?
NICOLE: There's a locked bedroom and he's wondering why.
NICOLE: Can I get off the phone?
DISPATCHER: You want—you feel safe hanging up?
NICOLE: Well, you're right.
DISPATCHER: You want to wait till the police get there?
NICOLE: Yeah.
DISPATCHER: Nicole?
NICOLE: Umhmm.
DISPATCHER: Is he still arguing with you?
NICOLE: Umhum.
DISPATCHER: He's moved a little?
NICOLE: But I'm just ignoring him.
DISPATCHER: Okay. But he doesn't know you're—
NICOLE: It works best.
DISPATCHER: Okay. Are the kids are still asleep?
NICOLE: Yes. They're like rocks.
D ISPATCHER : What part of the house is he in right now?

NICOLE: Downstairs.
DISPATCHER: Downstairs?
NICOLE: Yes.
DISPATCHER: And you're upstairs?
NICOLE: No, I'm downstairs in the kitchen.
DISPATCHER: Do you see the police, Nicole?
NICOLE: No, but I will go out there right now.
DISPATCHER: Okay, you want to go out there?
NICOLE: Yeah.
DISPATCHER: Okay.
NICOLE: I'm going to hang up.
DISPATCHER: Okay.
Then the cops showed up, two of them, followed by a supervisor,
and it took both me and Nicole a little while to calm down. I told
the officers that Nicole was exposing my kids to all sorts of unsa-
vory people, which I wasn't happy about, and she told them that all
I did was complain about her friends. I don't think they were all
that interested in the details, because one cop just cut to the chase:
“Has he ever hit you?” he asked her.
“Yeah,” she said. “Once. We had this one incident in 1989.”
Once. I hit her once—not even hit her, technically—and ever
since that day I'd been known as a wifebeater. Whatever they were
thinking, I wasn't there in the capacity of a socalled wife beater—I
was there because I was concerned about my kids.
Let me share with you an excerpt from the civil trial. The man
on the stand is Robert Lerner of the LAPD, one of the officers who
responded that day, October 25, 1993. The man asking the ques-
tions is attorney Robert Baker:
BAKER: Now, in terms of your conversations with O.J. Simpson,
Mr. Simpson was upset about the people—and he
informed you of this—that his wife was running around
with, correct?
LERNER: Correct.
BAKER: And he was upset about the fact that she was, in fact, in
his view and from his information, running—having people
in the house who were hookers, correct?
LERNER: He was concerned.
BAKER: And he was concerned that there was one person that he
thought was bad for his kids and that his wife shouldn't
associate with, and he didn't want him around the house; isn't
that true?
LERNER: Yes.
BAKER: And that was a gentleman with the first name of Keith,
correct?
LERNER: Yes.
BAKER: And he expressed that to you, that in fact these people
that were around the house had some sort of dealings with
Heidi Fleiss, correct?
LERNER: That's what he indicated.
BAKER: And he was upset about that, those people being around
his house where his kids were; he informed you of that,
didn't he?

LERNER: Yes.
BAKER: And he also indicated to you, sir, that he never had
intended, nor was he ever considering any physical violence
to Nicole Brown Simpson that evening, correct?
LERNER: Correct.
BAKER: And he also indicated to you that the door that she said
was broken, before that, she told you he broke—it was
broken before he ever went to the house. Isn't that correct?
LERNER: That's what he claimed.
This was in October 1993, almost eight months before Nicole was
murdered. Still, when the trial finally got under way, everyone acted
like my lawyers were making this stuff up. They weren't. Nicole had
been associating with hookers and drug dealers and unsavory
characters from way back, and I'd been begging her to keep those
people away from my children. And I went on record with my
concerns that night when I spoke to the police about it.
Now here's the weird part: The next day, the very morning
after the fight, I was back on the set, working, when Nicole called.
“Hey, how you doing?” she said, as if nothing had happened.
“Fine.”
“Did you play golf this morning?”
“No. I'm working. We're shooting.”
“So everything's good?” she asked.
She was feeling me out, seeing if I was still angry, and I told
her yes, I was very flicking angry. She dragged me back to the house
and then called the police on me, and all because I was concerned
about my kids, and about the direction her life was taking.
“I'm sorry,” she said.
“Great!”
“What are you doing later?”
“Going back to New York. What the hell do you think I'm
doing?”
For the next several weeks, I stayed on that crazy backand-
forth schedule. I'd be in New York for the sports show, then fly back
late Sunday to work on Naked Gun for a couple of days. Then it
was back to New York, with a stop or two on the way to interview
one athlete or another for the show. Sunday night, the cycle started
all over again—like my own personal version of that movie,
Groundhog Day.
Whenever I was in L.A., visiting with the kids, Nicole was
generally on her best behavior, but during this period she began to
seem unusually tired. I think the stress of keeping it together
around me was almost more than she could take. She really wanted
this thing to work, so she was determined to be a good little girl,
but the effort left her exhausted. I also began to wonder whether
she was doing drugs.
The one thing that she wasn't able to control was this constant
harping about our living arrangement. She kept pushing me to let
her and the kids move back into Rockingham, and I kept telling her
no. I suggested that she rent another place, or, better yet, buy one,
and she finally took my advice and found a nice condo on Bundy,