The Search for Justice (10 page)

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.

M
y 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.