THE O.J. SIMPSON MURDER TRIAL : A Yearlong Lesson on Race, Law and the Need to Be Cautious

With O.J. Simpson’s lawyers completing their case Friday, I thought back to the beginning of his long murder trial.

It’s a blur of images and words, of moments of sadness and high drama mixed with quantities of hype and spin never seen before in an American murder trial.

That will draw a dissent from devotees of the first Trial of the Century, that of Bruno Hauptman, convicted in New Jersey in 1935 for the kidnaping and murder of hero Charles Lindbergh’s child. But in the Simpson case, the biggest celebrity is the defendant. And the media coverage, live every day from Los Angeles to London, has exceeded the excesses of the Hauptman trial.

I remembered all those unforgettable moments--the chase, the arrest, the arraignment, the preliminary hearing, the tedious days of jury selection and finally the trial, beginning in a carnival atmosphere that was reminiscent of a medieval hanging.

For the reporters, whose lives often revolve around the coverage of tragedy, this was a journalistic high. While we talk about how glad we’ll be when it’s over, we know that depression will seize us when there’s no Simpson trial to cover.

None of us have ever covered quite anything like it, this combination of sensationalism and complex legal and social issues. Much of it was new to me, more wild and crude than the coverage of government and politics that occupied me previously.

For me, it’s been an education at a stage in life when people are tempted to think they know everything. What have I learned? What lessons can be drawn from this unforgettable year? Too many to list here. But a few come immediately to mind.

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First of all, race.

I thought I knew a lot about the subject, having covered race relations, good and bad, around the country, particularly in Los Angeles. And so when millionaire O.J. Simpson of Rockingham Avenue, Brentwood, fielded the Dream Team in his double murder trial, I didn’t think race was an issue.

As far as I could see, not even the fact that the accused was a black athletic hero and the victims, his ex-wife Nicole Brown and Ronald Lyle Goldman, were white would make any difference. Race in the criminal justice system meant poor minorities up against a powerful white-dominated prosecutorial apparatus. Here was a man who could afford the best defense.

Wrong, said a friend, an African American who grew up in South-Central Los Angeles. “It’s pay-back time,” he said.

Pay-back time, he said, meant many black South-Central residents would relish the chance to watch a rich African American, and his charismatic black lawyer, take on the cops and the prosecutors. Or as other African Americans told me, if Simpson is guilty, the D.A. will be forced to prove it beyond reasonable doubt, against the toughest kind of opposition. For once, they said, a black man in a criminal court will play on a level field.

It turned out that my friend was right. His gut feeling has been confirmed by every poll, by conversations I’ve had since the trial began.

Watching the process inside and outside the courtroom, I’ve gotten a clearer insight into the depth of America’s racial divide. Race is so intertwined with life in the United States that a reporter--whether covering the courts, sports, medicine, politics, business or the arts--can’t ignore it.

I’ve also learned more about my job.

As a reporter and a columnist, I’ve spent a lot of time explaining to readers how the system works. I’ve done this from the vantage of an insider familiar with the the intricacies, peculiarities of the political and government system, and with the people who run it.

In the Simpson trial, I became the outsider. The criminal courts were pretty much unknown to me, as were the people who operated in them.

I knew the district attorney, Gil Garcetti, but he doesn’t confide in reporters. The prosecutors were strangers, as was the defense team with the exception of Johnnie L. Cochran Jr.

In my previous reporting experiences, knowing the system and the people, I’d make allowances for them. If Mayor Richard Riordan was fumbling around, it was because he was getting used to the job. When the Los Angeles City Council or another legislative body ducked an issue, I’d come out with an intricate explanation of the many political, economic and ethnic pressures the council members face.

From now on, I won’t give so much space to politicians’ laborious excuses.

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Since the guts of my assignment was watching the media, I also had to think about journalism in a critical way. Journalists are not especially good at introspection or self-examination. For example, when there’s a dispute about whether a story is right or wrong, the initial response of the publication or broadcast station often is “we stand by our story,” with no more details. That’s our own code of silence.

The final lesson is a reaffirmation of something I’d been taught earlier--caution.

All through the trial, the balance of success has shifted between the prosecution and defense. It is the trial of the unexpected. Nobody can predict. All we can do is watch.

Go day to day. Don’t worry about how it will end. Be open-minded, try to be fair to each side. Don’t get carried away. The readers and viewers want a clear, calm explanation.

This is particularly true in this explosive trial, with its famous defendant, its tragic victims, and its growing background noise of politics and race.

For nobody knows what the jury will do or what will happen in the final days.