THE O.J. SIMPSON MURDER TRIAL : On the Record About an Off-the-Record Chat

As court was adjourning late Wednesday afternoon, Judge Lance A. Ito asked me to step into his chambers.

He addressed me as “Mr. Boyarsky” and there was something about his voice that made me feel a bit apprehensive, especially in light of what I had written about him in Wednesday morning’s paper.

I had been outraged when he cut off the cameras and mikes Tuesday to shield from public view the faces of two well-known underworld informants. I thought the judge, never a friend of the press, had merely used the mobsters as an excuse to cut off, at least temporarily, sight and sound coverage of the O.J. Simpson trial. The judge, I said, had shown he was the godfather in Department 103, his court.

Expecting to be bawled out, I headed to Ito’s chambers, passing by the defense table. I must have looked worried. “A good lawyer is just a phone call away, Bill,” said chief defense attorney Johnnie L. Cochran Jr., trying to be reassuring.

*

Ito’s office looked like the war room of a presidential campaign, a few days before the election.

Once, it must have been prime space in the Criminal Courts Building. But more than a year of the Simpson proceedings had filled the office with tables and filing cabinets. Documents made tabletops invisible. Paper had overflowed onto the floor. Two legal aides furiously tried to work their way through the mess.

Judge Ito’s desk was also covered with paper. The judge, in dress shirt, tie and no robe, looked tired. “Hello, judge,” I said, my face and voice serious. He gave me a friendly “Hello, Bill” and motioned me over to an old couch in front of his desk. He sat down behind his desk.

Now my story gets complicated, involving journalistic ethics and my knowledge and observance of them.

Because he said the conversation was off the record, I was immediately plunged into a major ethical dilemma.

Off the record means you are not supposed to quote the person you’ve interviewed. You get the information and can use it. But you can’t use the person’s name, or mention that you had an interview. By agreeing to the judge’s terms, I had, in effect, given my pledge that I would not mention our conversation.

So let’s just say we talked and leave it at that. I can’t reveal the substance of our discussion except to say it was of small importance. More important, he didn’t mention my calling him the godfather.

I can report, without breaking a confidence, that the 5.8 Ridgecrest earthquake struck in the middle of our conversation. After all, the quake, recorded on seismographs around the country, is a matter of public record. Without disclosing Ito’s words, I’ll tell you that he and I--both native Californians--reacted calmly to the quake, even when it shook the scales of justice.

As we chatted, an aide handed Ito a note. He looked at it, laughed and gave it to me. Printed on reporter’s notebook paper were the words “Free Bill Now.” I found out later it had been written by my colleague Andrea Ford.

I got up to leave. “Don’t tell anyone we talked,” Ito said. I agreed, but didn’t think it was possible. All the reporters in the courtroom had seen Ito invite me into his chambers. And Ford’s note showed they knew I was still there.

*

When I walked out of the courtroom, the reporters were waiting. A whole bunch of them, holding notebooks and pens and hurling questions at me. It was role reversal. I felt like one of the poor people I’ve questioned in similar circumstances.

What did the judge say? Did he rip you for your story? Why did he call you in? What did you say?

When all I would say was that it was a friendly chat, my colleagues looked disgusted. One reporter said I was ducking questions, making me feel like a slippery politician.

Thursday morning, people at the courthouse asked me why I hadn’t written about the meeting. It was off the record, I said.

As soon I gave that mealy-mouthed reply, I was disgusted with myself. Who was I kidding? Most of the lawyers and reporters connected with the Simpson case knew of our conversation.

My conduct reminded me of Washington reporters who have a long interview with an important public officeholder on the condition that the person be identified only as “a senior official.”

All Washington knows it’s the secretary of state or someone like that, but the reporters, bound by their hypocritical rules, don’t feel obligated to clue the rest of the country in.

So, I decided to tell my story. If the cops of journalistic ethics call, tell them I’m unavailable for comment. As far as Judge Ito goes, I think I’m home free. He told me he never reads my column.