Murder in Brentwood (33 page)

Even accepting my own responsibility for what occurred, it was incredibly frustrating to have the world pass judgment without knowing the real me. Soon after the tapes came out, several of my colleagues in the LAPD were interviewed by the press. Here’s what they said:

Bob Tapia, my former supervisor at West LA, said, “Mark’s not prejudiced against blacks. He’s only prejudiced against criminals, whatever their color.”

“If he were back on the job he would risk his life for anyone on the job or anyone in the city, just like he always had,” Sergeant Paul Partridge told the Los Angeles Times. “And he wouldn’t care who they were.”

“The person that the world knows... on the tape... is a racist, who made terrible remarks, who probably represents all the filth the world has to offer,” said Roberto Alaniz, a former partner of mine who’s a Latino and a police sergeant. “The Mark Fuhrman I know... is not that. He’s not a racist.”

Ed Palmer, a black police sergeant, said, “There have been times I have worked with people [and] you wonder about them. I never wondered with him. I knew he was aggressive. I knew he was a little arrogant. But I never got racism at all. If he were that way, and as much a racist as the tapes indicated, then it would have come out somewhere, and somebody would have spoken up.”

The cops who knew me understood. They worked with me on the street and saw how I dealt with people of all colors. They knew I was not a racist. They were shocked and offended by what they heard on the tapes. But they knew that I didn’t talk dial way, I didn’t feel that way, and I certainly didn’t act that way. I wish everyone else who doesn’t know me could understand this. If I must be judged, I wish it were on the basis of my record as a police officer, and not on my play-acting, intentionally shocking comments to an aspiring screenwriter.

Chapter 24

TAKING THE FIFTH

Throughout the trial, the sad irony was that the defense attorneys seemed to be fighting harder for injustice than the prosecutors were fighting for justice.

VINCENT BUGLIOSI

IN LATE AUGUST, I was called back to Los Angeles to take the stand again, although I didn’t know when I would be asked to appear. I flew into LAX, but for security reasons, instead of exiting through the gate, I walked down a stairway and onto the tarmac, where Ron Phillips was waiting with an unmarked police car flanked by two black and whites.

“You’re on the radio, want to listen?” Ron asked me.

They were playing excerpts of the tapes in court. I didn’t want to hear it, so Ron turned the radio off.

“I bet there are a lot of people pissed off at me.”

“Pissed off? They want to tar and feather you, and then they want to hang you.”

The district attorney’s office put me up in an apartment in downtown LA and assigned a team of investigators to run a security detail. For the next week, I had at least two district attorney investigators as round-the-clock bodyguards.

For days, I waited, and waited, and waited for the prosecution to talk to me before I was called to the stand.

I spoke to Ron Phillips regularly. Each time we spoke, I asked him, “Have Marcia or Chris call me, I’ve got to talk to them.”

I waited for their call. Nothing.

It was time to hire a criminal defense attorney. I had known Darryl Mounger for ten years. He was a friend, and I knew his wife-quite well-as she’d worked as a detective in West LA. Darryl is a great criminal defense attorney and was experienced in high-profile cases, having represented Stacey Koon in the Rodney King case. I hired Darryl, knowing I would need his counsel.

At the same time, my civil defense attorney Bob Tourtelot called me.

“I have to work in this city. I can’t be your attorney any more.”

“Yeah, Bob, I know,” I responded. “I’ve already seen it on TV”

Before calling me, Tourtelot told reporters that he would no longer represent me, saying he was “shocked and sickened” after hearing the tapes. I understood Bob’s decision. It was a knee-jerk reaction, the same kind of response that many people had after hearing the tape excerpts. Bob had been defending me in court and in the media for over a year. But when he was confronted with the tapes, he quickly distanced himself from me. As much as I wish he hadn’t done it, or had done it differently, I can’t say that I blame him.

Because of these out-of-court statements concerning a client, Tourtelot was investigated by the state bar. When an investigator called me in Sandpoint, I told him I didn’t think Bob had acted with malice. He just dumped me, the same as almost everyone else.

In LA, I had nobody to talk to but my bodyguards and a few loyal friends. And while I was beaten up daily in the press, the prosecutors continued to ignore me.

“Have Marcia call me,” I said every time I talked to Ron. “I’ll fall on my sword. I’ll go back on the stand for as long as it takes. I’m willing to do whatever they want. But I need to talk to them first. I need to know what to do.”

Ron relayed the message, but I never heard from Marcia, Chris, or anyone from the district attorney’s office. I would have done anything the district attorneys office asked me to. But they wouldn’t talk to me. Their star witness was tarnished.

Finally, I got the word. Get dressed, we’re moving you down to the Criminal Courts building. They’re probably going to call you in the morning.

On September 5, I was brought to the Criminal Courts building and made to wait in the snitch room, where witnesses and cooperative suspects wait before they appear in court. I stood beside the empty desks and barren bookshelves waiting and talking to my attorney.

“What do you want to do?” Darryl

[l took the Fifth because I had no choice. The prosecution had abandoned me and I was left twisting in the wind.]

asked me. I needed to be examined by the prosecution. Otherwise the defense would ask set-up questions that would elicit only the answers that they wanted to hear.
    
                                               

Once the tapes came out, I might have been beyond rehabilitation for the prosecution. But other witnesses could corroborate my investigation and evidence. In this case, that was essential. As a rebuttal witness, Brad Roberts would have been indispensable in disputing the defense’s theories about planted evidence. After all, Brad saw the single glove at Bundy. He saw the fingerprint on the back gate, the extra drops of blood, the blood inside the Bronco, the blood in the foyer, the black socks at the foot of Simpson’s bed, all at the same time I did. And he also saw the empty Swiss Army knife box at the edge of Simpson’s tub. Brad was ready and eager to testify, but the prosecution still refused to use him.

The defense was claiming that I committed a crime, specifically that I allegedly planted evidence to incriminate O.J. Simpson, with racism as my supposed motive. Now, abandoned by the prosecution, with no chance to defend myself against the defense lawyers’ deviously phrased yes-or-no questions about my use of the “N” word, and no opportunity to provide narrative or explanatory answers, I would be vulnerable to the defenses attempts to maneuver me into self-incrimination. Without the prosecution’s support, I had no ability to refute the defense’s charges. I was innocent, but the prosecution wouldn’t help me prove it, no matter how much their failure would harm their case.

I had to make the toughest decision of my life.

“As much as it kills me,” I told Darryl, “as much as it goes against everything I believe in, as much as I wish I could fight it, as much as I know how bad it will look, I don’t have any choice. I have to take the Fifth.”

“Okay,” Darryl said. He understood there was nothing else I could do.

It was tough walking into that courtroom. But I tried to carry myself professionally. I stood tall and looked straight ahead.

As soon as I entered the room, Judge Ito stopped talking. Everyone turned their heads. I saw the lawyers and the cops and the reporters. Art Harris of CNN, who had always been decent to me, was seated by the aisle. He looked at me, his arm swung over the bench behind him. As I passed by, I put my hand on Art’s shoulder.

I walked to the stand and took the oath.

Gerald Uelmen handled my questioning without the presence of the jury. The defense had never officially completed their previous cross-examination, hoping they would find a witness to impeach me. Now they thought I would impeach myself. Ito wanted to see how I would respond to questioning before he brought the jury in.

UELMEN: “Detective Fuhrman, is the testimony that you gave at the preliminary hearing in this case completely truthful?”

FUHRMAN: “I wish to assert my Fifth Amendment privilege.”

UELMEN: “Have you ever falsified a police report?”

FUHRMAN: “I wish to assert my Fifth Amendment privilege.”

UELMEN: “Is it your intention to assert your Fifth Amendment privilege with respect to all questions that I ask you?” FUHRMAN: “Yes.”

UELMEN: “I only have one other question, Your Honor.”

COURT: “What was that, Mr. Uelmen?”

UELMEN: “Detective Fuhrman, did you plant or manufacture any evidence in this case?”

FUHRMAN; “I assert my Fifth Amendment privilege.”

What many people don’t realize is that you cannot pick and choose the questions you will answer when you invoke your Fifth Amendment right. If you answer one question, you open the door to other questions. So if you take the Fifth, you must take it on all questions.

Gerry Uelmen is a smart lawyer, so he played the game and asked me patently absurd questions about planting evidence. I had no other choice but to plead the Fifth and refuse to answer. Even Uelman knew the answer to all of his questions was no, but he also knew that asking the questions made for good drama.

I took the Fifth because I had no choice. The prosecution had abandoned me, and I was left twisting in the wind. When I took the Fifth, I was seen as a demon. When Simpson took the Fifth and refused to testify about his whereabouts the night of the murder, his relationship with Nicole, and the many pieces of damning evidence, he was constitutionally protected and issued a self-serving statement that allowed him to profess his innocence without subjecting himself to examination by the prosecution.

Alter my court appearance, I was transferred to a hotel in the San Fernando Valley where, by chance, the Hispanic

officers of the LAPD were having a conference. When Ron came to visit me at the hotel, an officer from West LA recognized him. Everybody working in the West LA Division knew that Ron and I were best friends, and it didn’t take long for the word to get out where I was. The media was camped out in the lobby, and I was stuck in my room.

My bodyguards discussed ways of getting me out of the hotel and out of Southern California. I listened and then came up with my own plan.

“Very early in the morning we sneak out the back through a fire exit. Have a car waiting for me. Then we go to Utah to my friend Kevin’s house. From there, Kevin and I will rent a car and drive up to Sandpoint.”

Being the most obvious method of escape, the media wouldn’t expect it.

That night in the hotel, I had four district attorney investigators with me. I was in a lost mood, sick and tired of everything, disgusted with myself and the fact that I had let down so many people. I had to get my mind off things.

“Hey,” I told my bodyguards. “You know this television has pay-per-view. Want to watch a movie?”

“Sure, why not?” they answered.

We got chicken take-out and some beer, Ron and Brad came by, and we watched Braveheart, starring Mel Gibson. At the end of the movie, when William Wallace is strapped down, disemboweled, and finally beheaded, it was as if he were being sacrificed for the sins of others. Boy, did I feel a lot like William Wallace. People wanted a sacrificial lamb so they wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that a popular celebrity brutally murdered two people. The jury wanted an excuse to vote not guilty. The defense wanted to cast guilt on others. The prosecution and investigating detectives wanted someone to take the blame for their mistakes.

So I was drawn and quartered in the forum of public opinion. At least William Wallace could feel proud that he was a hero of his people. But I had nothing to lull back on, except my family, a few good friends, and the sincere belief that I hadn’t done anything wrong.

We woke up early the next morning, well before dawn. After scouting the area and finding no media, my bodyguards loaded the car, got me out of the hotel, and drove out of town. We kept looking behind us, but nobody was on our tail. We were on our way to Ukiah, and from there I would be going home.

On the ride up, my bodyguards tried to make me feel better.

“You got the shaft.”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Because they worked for the district attorney’s office, they were up on the law. They knew that I didn’t commit perjury and assured me that Garcetti wouldn’t file charges. I wish the state attorney general’s office had listened to them.

When we arrived at Kevin’s house in Ukiah, I was tired but also relieved to be out of LA and among friends. Kevin, his wife Cindy, and I drank beer and ate dinner. My bodyguards spent the night at a motel, and took off for LA the next morning.

My bodyguards were really great guys. I’m sorry I hadn’t met them earlier in my career. While working for the prosecution, they had investigated the witnesses who made statements against me, and literally found stacks of evidence to impeach them, including Roderic Hodge, the only man who ever claimed that I had addressed him with a racial epithet. Despite the fact that these investigators had uncovered so much evidence, the prosecution never used it against the people who were attacking me. If they had introduced even some of the evidence, and argued that the tapes were only the record of a fictional screenplay, we could have fought back and I would not have taken the Fifth. If you want to win, you’ve got to play the game. But the prosecution only played dead.

Kevin and I drove to Sandpoint, and I was finally reunited with my family. My wife and kids were at the next-door neighbor’s house, and I had to sneak in the back door to avoid the media, who were already waiting for me.

I kissed my wife, I hugged my kids, and thanked my neighbor Sherry for helping out. Sherry is a truly remarkable woman; she’s seventy years old, but that doesn’t stop her from parasailing and swimming in the lake every day in the summer.

“Welcome home,” she said. “We’re glad to have you here.”

Sherry was incredibly supportive. She gave the media enough heartache for two lifetimes. When journalists tried to interview Sherry, she’d say, “You’re just slimy bastards. Leave him alone. Get out of here.”

After tirades like this, the media changed their tactics. They tried giving Sherry flowers. Still, she gave them nothing but holy hell.

Sherry and the others in Sandpoint understood that I was used as a scapegoat. I wasn’t rich. I wasn’t famous. I wasn’t powerful or well-connected. I could be used and thrown away when I was no longer needed. I’m not treated that way in Sandpoint. And I don’t treat anyone else that way.

Now, I was officially retired from the force. I hadn’t started working as an apprentice electrician yet, so I fixed up our house. I laid down tiles, put in new doors, repainted the interior. The media was camped outside, which only made it easier for me to stay inside working.

One day, the carpet installers came. After putting in a full day’s work, they went back out to their truck to go home. On the way, the media people tried to ask them questions, which of course they didn’t answer. Driving off in their truck, one of the carpet installers dropped his drawers and shot the media a full moon. I often wished I could have done that myself.

My life was irrevocably, irreversibly, and irresponsibly changed. Even if I were guilty of everything that people said or thought that I did, that didn’t change the fact that O.J. Simpson had murdered two people. But the death of Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman was old news. For all intents and purposes, the trial of O.J. Simpson was over. It was now the trial of Mark Fuhrman.

Chapter 25

CLOSING ARGUMENTS

Nobody wants to do anything to this man. We don’t.

CHRISTOPHER DARDEN IN REFERENCE TO THE DEFENDANT O.J. SIMPSON

ON SEPTEMBER 26, 1995, closing arguments began, exactly a year to the first day of jury selection and more than fifteen months since the murders. The case had veered so far off course that what had begun as a murder trial had become a discourse on race and alleged (though never proven) police misconduct. This is exactly what the defense attorneys intended, and the extent to which they succeeded is clear from the summations of both sides.

The prosecution felt forced to play the race card because of the defense team’s focus on racial issues. Much of the prosecution’s time and energy was taken up either attacking me or making excuses for prosecuting Simpson, when there was no reason to do either. Moreover, there was no reason for Marcia and Chris to spend so much time presenting their close. The jury had heard all (lie evidence; every detail about DNA test results didn’t need to be repeated. What the jury did need to hear again was that not one shred of evidence pointed to a murderer other than O.J. Simpson.

Vince Bugliosi points out that a summation can’t be effective if the advocate does not believe absolutely what he’s saying.

He says, “Throughout the trial, the sad irony was that the defense attorneys seemed to be fighting harder for injustice than the prosecutors were fighting for justice.” He goes on to say that although the soft sell might work in selling insurance, it doesn’t win murder cases. Throughout the trial, from opening statements to closing arguments, the prosecuting attorneys apologized for doing their jobs, when they should have been forcefully-even angrily-stating what they believed and what the evidence proved: Simpson was guilty of murder.

Not only was Marcia Clark unconvincing; she also seemed to know it. Instead of using fire and brimstone, instead of dramatically pointing out the obvious guilt of O.J. Simpson in no uncertain terms, Marcia was dull and obviously fatigued, so she tried to make a virtue out of her weakness:

In the course of this trial you have heard some testimony of a very emotional nature. I expect, that during the course of argument you are going to be hearing some very impassioned speeches. Fiery speeches that may stir up feelings of anger or pity. Although your feelings may be aroused, as may be natural and understandable for all of us, as the instruction tells you as the trier of fact, you, the judges, are to remain neutral and impartial and not be influenced by such passion or sentiment, no matter how sorely tempted you may be to do so.

Marcia showed almost no emotion except when she started talking about one of her most important witnesses:

“On the other hand, although it would be completely understandable if you were to feel angry and disgusted with Mark Fuhrman, as we all are, still it would be wrong to find the defendant guilty [or] not guilty just because of that anger and disgust.”

In her closing, Marcia Clark not only indicted me, but she also tried, convicted, and figuratively sentenced me to death. And she did so without appeal to reason or evidence, but with emotional responses to inflammatory issues: precisely what she asked the jury not to do.

I’m sure the prosecutors felt fairly confident that in the weeks or months ahead I would be

[Chris Darden admitted he didn’t have the moral depth to sit on a jury in a case where race could possibly be an issue.]

indicted for misconduct in the course of my policework. But instead of waiting for the facts, Marcia took a stand of moral superiority and condemnation, knowing full well that her case failed not because of anything I had said or

done, but because of her own mistakes and those of her lead detectives.

“Did he lie when he testified here in this courtroom saying that he did not use racial epithets in the last ten years? Yes. Is he a racist? Yes. Is he the worst LAPD has to offer? Yes. Do we wish the LAPD had never hired him? Yes. In fact, do we wish there were no such person on the planet? Yes.”

No such person on the planet? A little melodramatic, isn’t it, Marcia?

“But the fact that Mark Fuhrman is a racist and lied about it on the witness stand does not mean that we haven’t proven the defendant guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, and it would be a tragedy if, with such overwhelming evidence, ladies and gentlemen, as we have presented to you, you found the defendant not guilty in spite of all that, because of the racist attitudes of one police officer.”

In other words, I’m guilty, but so is O.J. The only difference is that Simpson had a trial, and I was convicted without one.

Marcia went on to say that I was not that crucial to the prosecution’s case, and they didn’t even need to call me as a witness. Well, if this had been true, I sure wish she had told me then, because I would have gladly walked away from the Simpson circus in July 1994. But the prosecution wouldn’t let me.

This is what Marcia should have said about the tapes:

The only evidence against Mark Fuhrman are notes and tapes for a fictional screenplay and witnesses who are easily impeached. Regardless of what Mark Fuhrman said, did, or thought-these are the facts. Mark Fuhrman did an outstanding job investigating and testifying in this case. No, he didn’t admit to something he said a long time ago. Perhaps he forgot or was embarrassed or felt too much pressure, some of which I may have been responsible for. But your decision should be based on his professional approach to this case, the job he did, and the evidence he found, and not the soap opera this trial has become.

Chris Darden’s summation was often indistinguishable from that of the defense. Not that he made the same arguments that they did, but he seemed to agree with them on certain issues, even if he did think they took things too far.

“And there are some people that think because Fuhrman is a racist, that we ought to chuck the law out the window, throw it out the window, perhaps it shouldn’t be applied in this case.”

But that’s exactly what happened, and Chris himself deserved much of the blame for allowing it.

“You heard from the defense in this case and they presented testimony about slurs, epithets as they call them, a bunch of nasty, hateful, low-down language used by Mark Fuhrman.”

Chris doesn’t mention that the slurs and epithets were testified to by only a couple of witnesses who were easily impeached, and the other language was used in a fictional screenplay.

Then
 
Chris went on
 
to say:
 
“This is the case of O.J. Simpson, not Mark Fuhrman. The case of Mark Fuhrman, if there’s to be a case, that’s a case for another forum, not necessarily a case for another day, because today may be the day. But it is a case for another forum, another jury perhaps.” In other words, he was expecting another trial with me as the defendant. Perhaps he was hoping to prosecute it.