From Chapter 6: "The Night In Question"

Now picture this—and keep in mind, this is hypothetical:
Charlie reached the gate, and the first thing I noticed is that
he wasn't smiling.
"O.J., my man—what's up?" he said. It sounded kind of forced.
"What's up with you?" I said. I went over and opened the gate
and he stepped through and we shook hands. "What brings you to
these parts?"
"Not much. I was out to dinner with some guys, down in
Santa Monica. Thought I'd stop by to say hello."
"You've got a strange look on your face, Charlie," I said.
"Something bothering you?"
Charlie looked away, avoiding my eyes. "It's nothing, man,"
he said.
"Come on," I said. "You can tell me."
He looked back at me, struggling with his thoughts. "You're
not going to like it," he said finally.
My stomach lurched again and right away I knew. "This is
about Nicole, isn't it?"
Charlie nodded.
"What about her?"
"You're not going to like it," he repeated.
"Just tell me," I said, already riled. "Before I get pissed off."
Charlie took a step back, like he thought I might hit him or
something. "A couple of these guys at dinner tonight, I guess they
didn't know that you and I were friends," he began, tripping over
the words. "They started talking about this little trip they took to
Cabo a few months back, in March I think it was, and about these
girls they partied with."
"Yeah?"
Charlie took a moment. "It was Nicole and her friend Faye,"
he said.
"I'm listening," I said. I tried to stay calm, but I was fit to
explode.
"There was a lot of drugs and a lot of drinking, and apparently
things got pretty kinky."
"Why are you fucking telling me this, man?!" I hollered. I
turned and had to fight the urge to put my fist through the
Bentley's window.
"I'm sorry, man. I thought you'd want to know."
"Well I don't fucking want to know! I'm sick of hearing this
shit!"
"I'm sorry—"
"That is the mother of my children!"
"I know, man. I'm sorry. That's why I told you. I know you
two have been through a lot of shit, and I know it can't be easy, and
I thought maybe if you talked to her—"
"Talked to her?! What the fuck is wrong with you? I've been
trying to talk to her for years. She won't listen to me. She won't listen
to her family. She won't listen to her friends!"
"O.J., man—I'm not the enemy here."
I turned around, fuming, and tried to count to ten. I didn't
make it. By the time I got to three I realized that Charlie was right.
He wasn't the enemy. Nicole was the enemy. I looked at my watch. I
had less than an hour before the limo showed up to take me to the
airport, just enough time to drive down to Bundy, read her the
fucking riot act, and get my ass back to the house.
"Come on," I said, and moved toward my Bronco.
"Where we going?"
"Just come. "
Charlie got in. I started the Bronco and the gate whirred to
life and I pulled into the street, the tires squealing against the curb.
"Where we going, O.J.?" Charlie repeated.
"We're going to scare the shit out that girl," I said.
"What? Now?'
"It never fucking ends. Every time I turn around, it's something
new—and none of it's pretty."
"This isn't a good idea, O.J."
"Fuck that. I'm tired of being the understanding ex-husband.
I have my kids to think about."
"I'm asking you, man, please turn around."
"Woman's going to be the death of me!" I said. I was seething
by this time, and I began to mimic her: want to grow as a person,
O.J. I want to find myself. I'm tired of everyone seeing me as
O.J. Simpson's wife. I'm tired of living in your shadow'."
"O.J., please."
"You want to know how crazy it got?" I said, ignoring him.
"After the split, after she dumped me, she began calling to tell me
about the guys she was dating. 'Oh, O.J.—do you think they like
me for me or do they just want to get into my pants?' And you
know what I did? I told her to just have fun. I told her she was a
great girl and not to worry and to go with her gut. `Guys'll be lining
up around the block for you,' I said. 'You're gorgeous and you're
smart. I know you'll pick the right guys.' Is that twisted or what? I
would think, What the fuck are you doing, O.J.?! Andthen I would
answer my own question: Well, the sooner she gets this finding-herself
shit out of her system, the sooner she'll be back."
"That's fucked up, man," Charlie said.
"Tell me about it!" I said. I glanced over at him. He looked
scared. "Relax, man," I said. "I'm just going to talk to the girl. And
it'll be quick. I'm leaving for Chicago on the red eye."
"I shouldn't have told you," Charlie said.
"No, man. You did the right thing. This is exactly what I
needed—something to shake me up. This shit's been eating away at
me forever, and it's got to stop. I want to get on with my fucking
life. I've got to get this under control."
"You should let the lawyers handle it."
"Fuck the lawyers. You know what divorce lawyers are? They
are the scum of the earth. Preying on people at their weakest and
most vulnerable. I know. I've given those scumbags a million dollars
already!"
"Maybe they owe you, then."
"Fuck them," I said. "I'm going to take care of this myself."
We were at Bundy by then, where it meets San Vicente
Boulevard. I jogged left for a few yards and made a quick right to
get back on Bundy. We passed the light at Montana and I slowed
near Nicole's place. I kept going, though. I took a right on Dorothy
and an immediate right into the alley behind her condo, and I
pulled a few yards past it and parked on the far left, near a chainlink
fence. I cut the engine and looked back toward the condo. It
was so quiet it kind of spooked me. I looked at Charlie again. He
seemed pretty glum.
"Which one's her place?" he asked.
I pointed it out.
"I don't like this," he said. "Let's go the fuck back to your
house."
"You worry too much."
"What if she's with someone?"
"She better not be," I said. "Not with my kids in the house."
I reached into the back seat for my blue wool cap and my
gloves. I kept them there for those mornings when it was nippy on
the golf course. I slipped into them.
"What the fuck are you doing, man?" Charlie said. "You look
like a burglar."
"Good." I said. I reached under the seat for my knife. It was
very nice knife, a limited edition, and I kept it on hand for the crazies.
Los Angeles is full of crazies. "Nice, huh?" I said, showing it to
Charlie. "Check out that blade."
"Put that shit back," Charlie snapped. "You go in there and
talk to the girl if you have to, but you're not taking a goddamn
knife with you."
He snatched it out of my hand, pissed.
"You've got to learn to relax, Charlie," I said, then I opened
the door, got out of the Bronco, and stole across the alley.
Nicole's condo was one of two units, both of them long and
narrow, mirror images of each other, fused at the middle. They each
had their own entry, on Bundy, and they each had a back gate, in the
alley, but Nicole's back gate was broken. The buzzer didn't work
properly, and the gate opened if you gave it a little push. I must have
told her a million times—"Please get the goddamn gate fixed!"—but
the woman never listened. I slipped past the gate, into the narrow
courtyard, and moved toward the front door, and right away I
noticed lights flickering in the windows. I moved past the front door
to take a closer look. There were candles burning inside, and I could
hear faint music playing. It was obvious that Nicole was expecting
company. I wondered who the fuck it was this time. I wondered if
maybe Faye was coming over with some of her boy-toys so that they
could all get wild and dirty while my kids were sleeping upstairs.
Just as I was beginning to get seriously steamed, the back gate
squeaked open. A guy came walking through like he owned the fucking
place. He saw me and froze. He was young and good-looking,
with a thick head of black hair, and I tried to place him, hut I'd
never seen him before. I didn't even know his name: Ron Goldman.
"Who the fuck are you?" I said.
"I, uh—I just came by to return a pair of glasses," he replied,
stammering.
"Really? A pair of glasses, huh?"
"Yes," he said. He was carrying an envelope. "Judy left them at
the restaurant. I'm a waiter at Mezzaluna."
"So it's Judy, is it? You're on a first-name basis with Judy."
At that moment, the gate behind Goldman squeaked again.
Charlie walked into the narrow space. He was carrying the knife.
"Everything cool here?" he asked. "I saw this guy walking through
the gate, and I just wanted to make sure there wasn't going to be
any trouble."
"This motherfucker wants me to believe that he's here dropping
off a pair of Judy's glasses," I said.
"I am," Goldman said, appearing increasingly nervous. He
held up an envelope. "Look for yourself."
"And then what?" I said. 'You were going back to the resta
urant?"
"No," he said. "My shift's over. I'm just leaving these here and
going home."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I don't expect anything," he said. "I'm telling you the truth."
"You're a fucking liar!" I shouted.
"I'm not. I swear to God."
"She's got candles burning inside. Fucking music playing.
Probably a nice bottle of red wine breathing on the counter, waiting
for you."
"Not for me," Goldman protested.
"Fuck you, man! You think I'm fucking stupid or something?!"
Suddenly the front door opened. Nicole came outside, alerted
by our raised voices. She was wearing a slinky little cocktail dress,
black, with probably not much on underneath. Her mouth fell
open in shock. She looked at me, and she looked at Goldman, and
she looked at Charlie, just beyond. Goldman was pretty well
trapped. Charlie stood between him and the rear gate, and I was
barring his way to the front.
"O.J., what the fuck is going on?"
I turned to look at Nicole. "That's what I want to know,"
I said.
Kato, the dog, came wandering out of the house. He saw me
and wagged his tail, then he saw Goldman and also wagged his tail.
I looked at Goldman, steamed, and Charlie moved closer, the knife
still in his hand. I think he sensed that things were about to get out
of control, because I was very close to losing it.
"I'm listening, motherfucker!" I said to Goldman.
"O.J.!" Nicole hollered. "Leave him the fuck alone! What are
you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to Chicago."
"Fuck you," I said.
"Hey, man," Goldman said. "That's not necessary."
Charlie piped in. "Let's just get the fuck out of here, O.J."
"I asked you a question, motherfucker. What are you doing
here? You delivering drugs?"
"Leave him alone, O.J.!" Nicole shouted.
"I hear half - you assholes are dealing on the side," I said
Nicole came at me, swinging. "Get the fuck out of here!" she
said. "This is my house and I can do what I want!"
"Not in front of my kids, you can't!"
"Fuck you!"
"No, fuck you. I gave you everything you could ask for, and
you fucked it all up."
She came at me like a banshee, all arms and legs, flailing, and
I ducked and she lost her balance and fell against the stoop. She fell
hard on her right side—I could hear the back of her head hitting
the ground—and lay there for a moment, not moving.
"Jesus Christ, O.J., let's get the fuck out of here!" Charlie said,
his voice cracking.
I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he
thought I was going to hit him, because he got into his little
karate stance. "What the fuck is that?" I said. "You think you can
take me with your karate shit?" He started circling me, bobbing
and weaving, and if I hadn't been so fucking angry I would have
laughed in his face.
"O.J., come on!" It was Charlie again, pleading.
Nicole moaned, regaining consciousness. She stirred on the
ground and opened her eyes and looked at me, but it didn't seenlike
anything was registering.
Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me
blocking my view. "We are fucking done here, man—let's go!"
I noticed the knife in Charlie's hand, and in one deft move
I removed my right glove and snatched it up. "We're not going
anywhere," I said, turning to face Goldman. Goldman was still
circling me, bobbing and weaving, but I didn't feel like laughing
anymore.
"You think you're tough, motherfucker?" I said.
I could hear Charlie just behind me, saying something, urging
me to get the fuck out of there, and at one point he even reached
for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook him off, hard, and
moved toward Goldman. "Okay, motherfucker!" I said. "Show me
how tough you are!"
Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened,
but I can't tell you exactly how. I was still standing in
Nicole's courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn't
remember how I'd gotten there, when I'd arrived, or even why I was
there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital—with little
Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping
balls into my neighbor's yard; Paula, angry, not answering her
phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly
shit about Nicole's behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive
from Rockingham to the Bundy condo.
And now? Now I was standing in Nicole's courtyard, in the
dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my
own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt
strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I
couldn't get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of
me was covered in blood, but it didn't compute. Is this really blood?
I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?
I was more confused than ever. What the hell had happened
here? Then I remembered that Goldman guy coming through the
back gate, with Juditha's glasses, and I remembered hollering at
him, and I remembered how our shouts had brought Nicole to
the door . . .
Nicole. Jesus.
I looked down and saw her on the ground in front of me,
curled up in a fetal position at the base of the stairs, not moving.
Goldman was only a few feet away, slumped against the bars of the
fence. He wasn't moving either. Both he and Nicole were lying in
giant pools of blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It
didn't seem real, and none of it computed. What the fuck happened
here? Who had done this? And why? And where the fuck was I when
this shit went down?
It was like part of my life was missing—like there was some
weird gap in my existence. But how could that be? I was standing
right there. That was me, right?
I again looked down at myself, at my blood-soaked clothes,
and noticed the knife in my hand. The knife was covered in blood,
as were my hand and wrist and half of my right forearm. That didn't
compute either. I wondered how I had gotten blood all over my
knife, and I again asked myself whose blood it might be, when suddenly
it all made perfect sense: This was just a bad dream. A very
bad dream. Any moment now, I would wake up, at home, in my
own bed, and start going about my day.
Then I heard a sound behind me and turned, startled. Charlie
was standing in the shadows, a few feet away, his mouth hanging
open, his breathing short and ragged. He was looking beyond me,
at the bodies.
"Charlie?" I called out. He didn't answer. "Charlie?" Still nothing.
I went over and stood in front of him and asked him the same
question I'd just asked myself. "Charlie, what the fuck happened
here?"
He looked up and met my eyes, but for several moments it
was as if he didn't really see me. "Are you listening to me?" I said. "I
asked you what happened here."
Charlie shook his head from side to side, his mouth still hanging
open, his breathing still short, ragged, and in a voice that was
no more than a frightened whisper, said, "Jesus Christ, O.J.—what
have you done?"
"Me?'
What the hell was he talking about? I hadn't done anything.
I jumped at a sound behind me—a high-pitched, almost
human wail. It was Kato, the dog, circling Nicole's body, his big
paws leaving prints in the wet blood. He lifted his snout and let out
another wail, and it sent chills up and down my spine. "Let's get the
fuck out of here," I said.
I hurried toward the rear gate, and moved through it, with
Charlie close behind, but I stopped myself before I crossed into the
alley. Charlie bumped into me and jumped back, startled. "What?"
he said.
I didn't answer. I was thinking about the shape I was in—I was
thinking of all the blood. My shirt and pants were sticking to my
skin. Even my shoes were covered in blood.
I turned and looked behind me, beyond Charlie, and saw a
track of bloody, tell-tale prints. "I've got to get rid of these fucking
clothes," I said.
Without even thinking about it, I kicked off my shoes and
began to strip. I took off my pants and shirt, dropped the knife and
shoes into the center of the pile, and wrapped the whole thing into
a tight bundle. I left my socks on, though. I don't know why, but I
didn't see any blood on them, so I had no reason to remove them.
As I stood, with the bundle grasped in my left hand, I realized that
I'd left my keys and my wallet in my pants. I fell to a crouch and
dug for them and noticed that my hands were shaking.
Charlie stood there all the while, mumbling. "Jesus Christ,
O.J. Jesus Christ." He just kept repeating himself, like he'd lost his
goddamn mind or something.
"Will you shut the fuck up?!" I snapped. I found my keys and
my wallet, and rewrapped the bundle, then I stood and hurried
across the dark alley. Charlie followed, still mumbling. I got behind
the wheel and Charlie climbed into the passenger seat. "Jesus
Christ, O.J." he said. "Jesus Christ."
"WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Charlie recoiled, startled, and shut up. I started the Bronco
and pulled out, the tires squealing, and raced through the curved
alley toward Montana Avenue. When I reached the end of the alley,
I made a left onto Montana and an immediate right at the corner,
onto Gretna Green. San Vicente was a block away, and I made a left
there and took it all the way to Bristol, then hung a right to Sunset
and made a left there, toward home.
I glanced at Charlie. He was hunched over, his elbows on his
knees, his face buried in his hands.
"What happened back there, Charlie?" I said.
Charlie sat up. His cheeks were wet with tears. He shook his
head from side to side and shrugged.
I thought back to that horrific scene at the courtyard, and to
all the blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It didn't
seem possible. It didn't seem real.
"Charlie?"
He still didn't answer, but what the hell—this wasn't really
happening. That hadn't been me back there. I'd imagined the whole
thing. I was imagining it then. In actual fact I was home in bed,
asleep, having one of those crazy crime-of-passion dreams, but I
was going to wake up any second now. Yeah—that was it!
Only I didn't wake up.
We were still on Sunset, and I passed the light on Burlingame
and made a sharp right onto Rockingham, tearing up the winding
hill, toward the house. As I approached the gate, I saw a limo moving
toward the Rockingham gate, from Ashford Street, and remembered
that I had a flight to catch.
I drove past my house, and past the moving limo, and in the
side-view mirror I saw its taillights flare as it pulled to a stop in
front of my gate. The driver had probably been waiting on Ashford,
out of sight, and I wondered if he'd already called the house. I had
no idea what time it was. I looked down at the Bronco's clock and
saw it was 10:37. Fuck! I was supposed to be in that limo in eight
minutes.
I pulled into Ashford and kept going, hanging a right on
Bristol, and I parked in the shadows beyond the home of Eric
Watts. There was another neighbor on Rockingham who was
closer, but his property ran parallel to mine, and I couldn't get
inside without running the risk of being spotted by the limo driver.
I was going to have to steal onto my property through the Watts
place, and I knew just how to do it.
I looked down at my lap, at the bloody bundle, then over at
Charlie. "You're going to have to help me out here, man," I said.
Charlie turned to look at me. His mouth was hanging open a
bit, and he was breathing kind of funny, and he couldn't stop shaking
his head. It looked like he was slipping into shock or something.
"Charlie, are you listening to me?"
He stopped shaking his head for a moment, and nodded once,
and I began to tell him what I needed from him. "I've got to get
into my house," I said. "You're going to have to wait here until I'm
in the limo, understand? When the limo's gone—"
Charlie looked away, into the darkness beyond his own window,
clearly not listening to me. I reached over and slammed his left
shoulder into his seat, hard, and he whipped around to face me,
more frightened than ever.
"I need you to fucking listen to me, man!" I shouted. "Are you
fucking listening to me?"
Charlie nodded. He looked scared to death.
"Say it! Tell me you're listening."
"I'm listening," he mumbled.
"Let me spell it out for you, and you better fucking pay attention.
Are you paying attention?"
Charlie nodded.
"Say it, goddamn it!"
"I'm—I'm paying attention," Charlie said.
"I'm going to sneak back into my house. I'm going to take a
shower, and get dressed, and grab my bags, and I'm going to get
into that goddamn limo we just passed. Did you see the limo?"
"No," Charlie said.
"Well there's a fucking limo parked in front of the Rockingham
gate, and I'm supposed to be in it, on my way to the airport."
"A limo," Charlie repeated. His mouth was still hanging open,
and I wasn't sure any of this was really registering, but I didn't have
a choice.
"Once I'm in that limo, and it's gone, I need you to park the
fucking Bronco in the driveway, then get into your car and take the
fuck off. Do you understand?"
Charlie nodded.
"This here's the clicker. It'll open the gate. You can drop the
key in the mailbox, but run out before the gate closes. Okay?"
"Okay," he said.
I took the key out of the ignition and removed all the keys
except the one for the Bronco.
Then I set the bundle in his lap. "I need you to take this, and
get rid of it," I said. Charlie looked down at the bundle, afraid to
touch it. "I don't give a fuck how you get rid of it, but make sure it
disappears. You hear? It needs to disappear forever."