As in the Past, an O.J. Run That Is Beyond Belief

I am watching a television set from the doorway of a cocktail lounge. The TV is small and the picture is poor. I cannot get any closer to it. The airport is teeming with weekend travelers, dozens of whom are huddled in this doorway with me, transfixed. Police cars are pursuing a vehicle on television. O.J. Simpson is inside the vehicle, with a gun.

I rub my face with my palms. I am not seeing this. I am hallucinating.

“Where is he?”

“The 405.”

“What’s that sign say?”

“GO, JUICE.”

My fingers press against my temples. I am not hearing this. I am dreaming.

“He wrote a letter.”

“What did it say?”

“That he didn’t do it.”

My jaw sways side to side. No, no, no. This is not happening.

“What else?”

“That he can’t go on.”

“Why is he running?”

“To see his mother.”

I squint at the TV. The truck in front is going slowly. O.J. Simpson, a man I so admire, is crouched in back, a fugitive.

“Who’s driving the truck?”

“Al Cowlings.”

“The old USC football player?”

“He helped O.J. escape.”

I have passed some shockproof point. Every word I hear is more eerie than the last.

“Where were the cops?”

“Not there, I guess.”

“After a double-murder?”

“They let him turn himself in.”

I am listening to a radio now. My friend Jim Hill is on, the sportscaster. He is not talking to an audience. He is talking to O.J. and Al.

“Don’t do this. O.J.? Al?

“Don’t run away from this.

“If you can hear me, guys, stop.

“Please stop.”

I call someone in L.A., watching TV. My friend Vince Evans is on, the quarterback. He is not being interviewed. He is talking to O.J. and Al.

“O.J., please stop.

“This isn’t the thing to do.

“Please, please, stop.

“We love you, man.”

I ask for O.J.’s letter to be read. Why is Nicole Brown Simpson dead? Why is Ronald Lyle Goldman dead?

“Everyone understand.

“I have nothing to do with Nicole’s murder.

“I loved her,

“Always have and always will.”

I ask how he wrote this. On a yellow legal pad, I am told. I am trying to picture this man writing this letter.

“I can’t believe what is being said.

“Most of it is totally made up.

“Please, please, please,

“Leave my children in peace.”

I feel a flutter in my heart. I know not what to make of this--pathetic or sympathetic? I ask how the letter ends.

“I’ve always tried to be up and helpful.

“So why is this happening?

“Please think of the real O.J.

“And not this lost person.”

I am thinking, thinking, thinking. I want so much to believe. To say: Say it ain’t so, O.J. Say it ain’t so.

“He gave himself up.”

“What?”

“O.J. Simpson surrendered.”

“Where?”

I am listening to this conversation. My eyelids close in thankfulness. I do not care how or where. Thank God no more blood has been shed.

“They took him into custody.”

“With a gun?”

“No.

“With a photo of his family.”

It is Friday, June 17, 1994. It is very, very late. I am very, very tired.

I go to bed. I try to sleep.

I cannot.