KEY POINTS:
When you first pick up a copy of OJ's book, you immediately think the title is I Did It. The If is shaded a very dark grey, barely visible against a black background and a picture of OJ Simpson.
It's the first sign that the weird saga of Simpson and the infamous murders which transfixed the world over 13 years ago is still rolling on - but, this time, Simpson has been out-manoeuvred.
Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman were found brutally murdered at her home in Brentwood, California; Simpson was found not guilty in one of the most widely followed murder trials of all time; he was later found liable for the death of Goldman in a civil case taken by the Goldman family.
Simpson was ordered to pay US$19 million to the Goldmans in damages but avoided doing so by never paying it and moving to Florida where state law safeguards his assets and income. So the civil judgement - which cannot award jail time - has gone on accruing interest, until the family are now owned US$38m.
To gain financial security for his children Sydney and Justin - who continued to live with him - he decided to write a book, supposedly a hypothetical account of the night of the killings . It was originally titled If I Did It, Here's How It Happened.
It is now called If I Did It, The Book That Rupert Murdoch Pulped, Why OJ Simpson's Confession Of The Killer Must Not Remain a Secret.
Simpson's name does not appear anywhere as an author, even though he has approved every word of it, and if you look at the title on the spine of the book, it reads I Did It, with a photo of Simpson and, in small type, The Goldman family on the spine.
That's because news that Simpson was preparing to profit from the murders ignited debate in the US and the Goldmans and the Brown families fought hard to stop publication.
They succeeded. The book was pulped by Rupert Murdoch who, as head of News Corp owned the original publishers, and felt the public outcry was counter-productive.
But, when Murdoch pulled the book from publication, the Goldman family stepped in, winning control of the book after court action hinging around the unpaid monies owed by Simpson. The Goldmans then decided to publish the book as, they said at the time, they realised it was more of a confession than a murder manual.
Ron's father Fred says: "He [Simpson] has an excuse for everything. Anyone who reads this book will see that he is trying to tell people that he is not to blame; that everyone is to blame; that in some bizarre way Nicole Brown was to blame for her own death.
"But what he doesn't realise is that by expressing himself this way, he shows what a monster he is; he exposes himself. He has always needed to be centre of attention and always will be," said Goldman. "He knows better than anyone else and he has to prove that he knows better to everyone else and he has to be the focus of attention, even to the extent of painting himself as a murderer."
Perhaps predictably, the family then came under fire with accusations of blood money although Goldman says the only bad comments came from Denise Brown (Nicole's sister) who was against the book.
But there is no doubt that, however bizarre the book is, it is an intriguing window into Simpson's psyche.
Judith Regan, head of publishers Regan Books, was always adamant that the book had been sold to her as a confession.
"When they brought me the book, I was told it was a confession," she said. "And as far as I am concerned, that is exactly what it is."
And while the word 'hypothetical' is used in the book, it features nowhere near as heavily as one might expect.
Nor does the weirdness end there. The book was ghost-written by Pablo Fenjves who was a prosecution witness against Simpson in the criminal court case and who testified that he heard Nicole's dog howling in the aftermath of the murders.
The nub of the book is chapter six - Simpson's account of the night of the killings. We are prevented by agreement with the publishers from printing that chapter here but, from reviews elsewhere in the world, it is plain that this chilling account is a uniquepart of publishing history in which Simpson mentions a mysterious accomplice, a man who is never referred to in the rest of the book.
There is little effort by Simpson to give himself a definite alibi. It is the strangest part of a bizarre tale and Fred Goldman puts it this way: "He is such an egotist that he can't even bring himself to put someone else centre stage. He has to be the centre of the action, even if that means indicting himself as the killer."
The Goldmans may not be benefiting financially from the book but, astonishingly, Simpson is. Or, more accurately, his children with Nicole (daughter Sydney and son Justin) are.
As part of the court deal to gain control of the book, the Goldmans agreed to give the children 10 per cent of the proceeds. Without that condition, the family would not have gained control of a book which they feel plainly establishes Simpson's guilt in the eyes of more and more people.
Just to complete the circle of weirdness, Fred Goldman has been named as a potential witness by Simpson's defence counsel seeking to defend his part in the strange sports memorabilia incident at a Las Vegas hotel-casino late last year (see p25).
"I do not know why they have thought about having me as a witness," Goldman says archly. "I have only negative things to say about him and I do not think they will be calling on me."
See? Only in America
OJ'S DRIVE TO THE EDGE OF SUICIDE
O J Simpson's book If I Did It details a "hypothetical" way the murders might have happened. We pick up the story, in this edited excerpt, as Simpson goes to his lawyer Robert Kardashian's house after viewing Nicole's body in a funeral parlour. He is about to embark on the low-speed freeway pursuit in a four-wheel-drive SUV and with seemingly most of the US police force following.
By the time we got back to Kardashian's place I was in terrible shape.
For the first time in my life, I thought about killing myself. I felt sorrowful and angry at the same time, and most of all I felt hopeless. I felt like I had nothing to live for.
At some point I fell asleep. I was exhausted and all hollowed out and I took a couple of extra sleeping pills and, when I woke up the following morning, groggy and disoriented, I felt more depressed than ever. I went downstairs and I tried to revive myself with coffee.
AC [close friend Al Cowlings] showed up while I was in the middle of my second cup. He had brought a suit for me to wear to the funeral. I went upstairs and it took me a very long time to get dressed. I couldn't seem to make my arms work. They felt heavy and sore, like they would if you overdid it in the gym.
The funeral took place at St Martin of Tours, a church on the corner of Sunset and Saltair, in Brentwood. I couldn't have made it through the service without AC and Kardashian. Kardashian led me to some seats in the second row, behind the Browns, and I remember that they turned to look at me. They weren't smiling.
My four kids joined me, and at that point I think Sydney [Simpson's daughter with Nicole] was beginning to understand what had happened. Justin [his son], on the other hand, was completely oblivious.
I noticed pictures of Nicole and the children resting on the casket, then looked beyond the casket and saw a literal wall of cameras pointed in my general direction. I had no idea that the press was going to be allowed inside, but I didn't have the energy to complain.
I couldn't follow the service, to be honest. At one point I thought it was over, and I found myself standing, shaking a lot of hands, thanking people, but then I was sitting again, and I looked up and saw that Judy Brown [Nicole's mother] was preparing to deliver a eulogy. I don't remember that, either, but I know it was short.
After the service, people came up to talk to me, and to shake my hand and hug me, and I went through the motions and nodded from time to time, trying not to fall apart. Once again, I felt like none of this was really happening, that I was in the middle of a horrible, unimaginable dream, but when I stepped into the parking lot I knew it was no dream.
There was an army of reporters across the street, and half-a-dozen helicopters overhead, and I could hear some of them shouting my name. "OJ, right here! OJ, can we ask you a few questions? OJ, can we get a shot of you with the kids?"
It took about an hour to get to the cemetery, in Mission Viejo, and the press followed us down. So did the helicopters. Strangely enough, that's what I remember most clearly about the funeral - the damn helicopters.
Later, some reporter said that I stood by the grave for a long time after the service, alone, talking to Nicole, and he suggested that I was asking for forgiveness. I don't know where he got that idea. I didn't stand by the grave for more than a half a minute. I had my kids with me, and they never left my side. That much I do remember.
The next thing I remember was being back in the limo, on our way to the Browns, and it felt almost like a time-cut in a movie - I wasn't sure how I had gotten there. On the other hand, during the drive Justin spotted a Wendy's hamburger place, and announced that he was hungry. Sydney said she was hungry, too, so we pulled up to the drive-thru window and I ordered food for everyone.
I remember looking at my kids, at their smiling faces, and at the way they attacked their burgers, and thinking, "it's the little things in life that keep you going".
I got back to Encino late that night and turned on the news. There was footage of us at the church, and more footage of us at the cemetery, but I couldn't watch it without crying. I popped a couple of pills and went to bed.
The following morning, Friday, I got out and took a leak and went right back to bed.
Kardashian walked in with Robert Shapiro [another Simpson lawyer].
"I heard from the police this morning," Shapiro said.
"Yeah?"
"They've issued a warrant for your arrest. You're supposed to turn yourself in at 11."
I looked at the clock on the night table next to the bed. It was almost 10. I had an hour.
"Okay," I said. "I'll shower and get dressed."
Shapiro then told me that a couple of doctors were on their way to the house, to collect blood and hair samples for the police. I felt like I was in the middle of an episode of a bad TV movie, only it wasn't a movie. I just shrugged. I was too numb to say anything.
Kardashian broke the awkward silence. "AC and Paula (Simpson's model girlfriend Paula Barbieri) are downstairs," he said.
"Okay," I said. "I'll get ready."
Then Shapiro spoke again. "OJ," he said, "it's just you and us in this room at the moment, and I don't know if we'll get another chance like this. I need to know. Is there anything you want to tell us?"
"No," I said. "I've told you everything. I'm not hiding anything. "You know everything I know, and everything I've told you is the truth."
Shapiro didn't look real happy about my response, but he didn't push. He told me that the doctors would be there any minute, and that he'd wait for me downstairs, and then he left the room.
When I got downstairs, the place was crawling with people. Paula looked up and started crying the moment she saw me.
AC was there, too, and so was the psychiatrist. He asked me how I felt and told him I was fine, but I should have told him the truth: I felt hopelessly lost.
Then the doctors showed up to collect their samples. They had a nurse with them, and I think I sat down and she took some blood. She took a lot of blood. I think she must have filled up four or five glass vials.
When she was done, I said I needed a moment to myself, and I excused myself and disappeared into the den. I called Judy Brown and told her that she needed to take care of the kids till this was resolved, then I called Skip Taft, one of my lawyers, and asked him to work out the details with the Browns.
When we got off the phone, I found a legal pad and wrote a letter, in longhand, that filled four entire pages. I folded the letter and put it in an envelope and wrote across the front: To Whom It May Concern.
I gave it to Kardashian and told him not to open it till after.
"After what?" he said.
"Just after," I said. I didn't honestly know what I meant myself.
"When the time comes, you'll know."
I'm not sure what I meant by that, either, but it sounded right.
The doctors were still there - I think they still wanted a hair sample or something, and they were interested in taking another look at the cut on my hand - so I gave them what they needed.
Then Shapiro said it was time to go.
"I gave the cops my word that I'd have you at Parker Centre at 11, and it's already after 11," he said.
"I don't give a shit," I said. "What can they do to me now?"
I went back to the guestroom and got my black grip. My .357 Magnum was inside, along with my passport, about $10 in cash, and some pictures of Nicole and the kids. I looked at the pictures and started to cry, but there was a knock at the door and I dried my tears and tried to pull myself together.
Kardashian walked in. "Shapiro's waiting downstairs," he said.
"I know," I said.
"Take your time," he said, but he didn't really mean it. He left the room.
A few minutes later, still carrying my grip, I went downstairs and saw AC standing in the foyer, near the front door.
"Let's get out of here," I said.
"What do you mean?" he said.
"Let's just go," I said.
I walked out the front door and he followed me, and we climbed into his Bronco and pulled out. He didn't say anything.
He was my friend. He would do anything for me, and I would have done anything for him.
"Let's go by the house," I said.
"What house?" he said.
"Nicole's house," I said. He didn't ask why. He got on to the 405 Freeway and headed north. We got off at Sunset, and worked our way toward Bundy, but as we got closer we saw that most of the street was blocked off, and that the place was crawling with cops.
I told him to forget it and asked him to take me to the cemetery, and he looked at me, wondering why.
"I was so over-medicated that I don't remember a thing," I said. "I want to see the grave before they lock me up. I may never get another chance to see it."
We drove south to Mission Viejo, with me in the back seat, where I could lie down and close my eyes. We didn't talk. I found myself thinking back to what Nicole had told me that night in Laguna, right after Mothers' Day, when it was clear that we weren't going to be able to save our marriage.
Maybe we tried to get back together too soon, she had said. She looked incredibly sad. Just remembering the look on her face made me feel like crying.
I also remembered driving back to Los Angeles that night, and helping her put the kids to bed at her place. And I remembered the way she invited me into her bedroom and asked me to make love to her. It was the last time we made love, and just thinking about it was absolutely devastating.
Why hadn't we been able to make it work? What had we done wrong? How do other people do it?
As we got close to the cemetery, AC called my name and I opened my eyes. There were cops everywhere. He drove around to the far side to see if there was another way in, but there were cops there, too.
"They're looking for you," he said.
I reached across the front seat and turned on the radio, and it turned out he was right. I heard myself described as a fugitive.
AC drove another half-mile or so and pulled into an orange grove, where no one could spot us, not even from the sky. He got out to take a leak, and the moment he left the Bronco I reached for my grip. I unzipped it and pulled out the Magnum.
I was in tremendous pain, and I saw nothing but more pain ahead of me, and I decided to end it. I realised, I can make this stop. One shot to the f****** head and it's over.
STRANGELY ENOUGH, at that very moment Bob Kardashian was on national television telling the world about my pain.
When it appeared that I wasn't going to turn myself in, he had opened the four-page note I'd written earlier that day, and couldn't believe what he was reading.
I had asked him to not to open it till after, and I guess he thought the time had come. If I hadn't killed myself yet, I was probably about to.
I had taken the time to sit down and share some final thoughts. Kardashian was in the process of sharing those thoughts with the world:
"To whom it may concern: First, everyone understand I have nothing to do with Nicole's murder. I loved her, always have and always will. If we had a problem, it's because I loved her so much.
"Recently, we came to the understanding that for now we were not right for each other, at least for now. Despite our love we were different, and that's why we mutually agreed to go our separate ways. It was tough splitting for a second time, but we both knew it was for the best.
"Inside I had no doubt that in the future we would be close as friends or more. Unlike what has been written in the press, Nicole and I had a great relationship for most of our lives together. Like all long-term relationships, we had a few downs and ups. I took the heat New Year 1989 (Simpson was on record as having hit his wife, something he still denies) because that's what I was supposed to do. I did not plead no contest for any other reason but to protect our privacy and was advised it would end the press hype.
"I don't want to belabour knocking the press, but I can't believe what is being said. Most of it is totally made up. I know you have a job to do, but as a last wish, please, please, please, leave my children in peace. Their lives will
be tough enough. I want to send my love and thanks to all my friends. I'm sorry I can't name every one of you, especially AC, man, thanks for being in my life.
"Paula, what can I say? You are special. I'm sorry we're not going to have our chance. God brought you to me, I now see.
"I think of my life and feel I've done most of the right things. Whatever, the outcome, people will look and point. I can't take that. I can't subject my children to that. This way they can move on and go with their lives. Please, if I've done anything worthwhile in my life, let my kids live in peace from you (press).
"I've had a good life. I'm proud of how I lived. My mama taught me to do unto others. I treated people the way I wanted to be treated. I've always tried to be up and helpful, so why is this happening? I'm sorry for the Goldman family. I know how much it hurts.
"Nicole and I had a good life together. All this press talk about a rocky relationship was no more than what every long-term relationship experiences. All her friends will confirm that I have been totally loving and understanding of what she's been going through.
"At times I have felt like a battered husband or boyfriend but I loved her, make that clear to everyone. And I would take whatever it took to make it work.
"Don't feel sorry for me. I've had a great life, great friends. Please think of the real OJ and not this lost person.
"Thanks for making my life special. I hope I helped yours.
"Peace and love, OJ."
I HAD MEANT what I'd written. I'd had a wonderful life, but it was over now. It was time to check out. I looked at the Magnum in my lap and checked to make sure it was loaded. It was.
And just then I heard Dan Rather's voice on the radio: "We have now learned that the police have been to Mr Simpson's house six or seven times on domestic abuse calls."
And I just goddamn snapped: "What the f***, motherf*****!"
And that's when AC got back to the truck, still zipping up his fly, and saw the Magnum in my hand
"Man, put that f****** gun down!" he shouted. "What the f*** do you think you're doing with that thing?"
But I wasn't listening to him. I was listening to more of Dan Rather's bullshit: "We're now learning that Mr Simpson has a long history with the Los Angeles Police Department, yada yad yada."
And I'm shouting at the radio, "You ain't learned shit, motherf*****!" I almost put a bullet through the radio.
"What the f*** is going on?!" AC said, also hollering.
"Nothing!" I said. "Take me the f*** home! That changes everything. I'm not going to listen to any more of this bullshit!"
And AC got behind the wheel and pulled out, with me still fuming and venting. "Who the fuck do these people think they are?! They're supposed to be reporters. They hear one lie and if it's a lie they like, they goddamn share it with the world. Well, I'm sick to death of it!"
I wasn't thinking of killing myself any more. Depression had given way to rage. And we pulled out of the ORANGE GROVE, heading back toward the freeway, and AC picked up his cellphone and dialled 911.
"This is Al Cowlings," he said. "I've got OJ Simpson with me, and I'm bringing him in."
And wouldn't you know it - must have been some kind of cop GPS - the police were on our tail in minutes. The cemetery wasn't two miles behind us and they were already crawling up our asses.
And AC said, "Maybe we should pull over."
And I said, "No f****** way! You told them you were bringing me in, so bring me in already. Take me back to my house."
I was feeling angry. Defiant. The rage was fuelling me. I was ready to take on the world. There were more cops now, still following, and I leaned close to the window and looked up into the sky. I think I counted half-a-dozen choppers.
It seemed as if the whole world had turned out to watch. People were hanging off overpasses, cheering, holding up signs. GO JUICE!
I remember thinking, "When did they have time to make those signs?"
By that point, there were maybe a dozen squad cars with us, behind the Bronco, up ahead of us, on either side. AC didn't like it, and he slowed to a crawl. "OJ," he said. "I'm pulling over.
"No, you're not," I said. "You're taking me home."
I put the Magnum to my head, so the cops could see it, and AC again used his cellphone to call the cops.
"Back the f*** off," he said. "Can't you see the man's gonna kill himself?"
The whole thing took less than an hour. By then we were driving past the Wilshire off-ramp, and AC took the Sunset exit. If the cops had any doubts about where we were going, they knew now: OJ Simpson was heading home.
For a moment, cruising those familiar streets, I suddenly felt crushingly depressed again. A man spends his whole life trying to figure out what it all means, trying to make some sense of this business of living, and in the end he doesn't understand shit.
I missed Nicole. I was worried about the kids. There was a goddamn battalion waiting for us at Rockingham, and before AC had even killed the engine the cops had pretty much surrounded us.
I was pissed off again. I dialled 911. "You tell those motherf****** to back off!" I said.
The operator patched me through to someone at the scene, and I hollered at him for a while, but I couldn't see who I was talking to, and I'm not sure what I was trying to say.
Then I saw a sniper on the roof of a neighbour's house, and I swear to God, I almost lost it. The sons of bitches. What were they planning on doing? Taking me out when I stepped out of the Bronco?
I showed them the Magnum again, and I could see the cops tensing up, backing off.
"Put that f****** gun down," AC said. "You want to die?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe."
And I didn't know, to be honest. I was depressed. Then I was angry. Then I was depressed again. The shrink had told me that the pills were going to keep me from hitting bottom, but this felt awful close to bottom. And if bottom was worse than this, I didn't want to know about it.
A moment later, I felt the tears coming. "We should have tried harder," I said.
"What's that?"
"Nicole and me," I said. "I should have tried harder. Even when I thought I didn't love her, I loved her. It's just there were times I forgot."
AC didn't say anything, but I wasn't even looking at him. I was thinking about all those years with Nicole, most of them so good I wasn't sure I deserved them, and I was thinking about the way we'd gone and f***** everything up.
Like I said earlier, this is a love story, and like a lot of love stories it doesn't have a happy ending.
I got out of the Bronco and the cops moved in. They gave me a few minutes in the house, a chance to freshen up, then took me downtown. They booked me and took my prints and had me pose for a mug shot.
The flash blinded me, and I closed my eyes for a few seconds.
Nicole had written: "I want to be with you! I want to love you and cherish you, and make you smile.
"I want to wake up with you in the mornings and hold you at night. I want to hug and kiss you every day. I want us to be the way we used to be. There was no couple like us."
And I'm thinking:
"You were sure right about that, Nic.
There was no couple like us.
OJ FACING ANOTHER DAY IN COURT
OJ Simpson is in jail in Florida for allegedly breaching bail conditions after pleading not guilty to charges including robbery and kidnapping.
Simpson, originally due to appear in court in April on the charges, is now waiting to go before a judge on Wednesday about a bail violation. It is the latest twist in the bizarre saga of Simpson's life since his former wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, was found dead and nearly decapitated in 1994. Only a few days after his book, If I Did It, was published in the US late last year, Simpson was arrested for his part in an incident in a Las Vegas hotel room, where he and others allegedly confronted two men who were selling sports memorabilia which tracked Simpson's life as one of the most famous football players in the US.
Simpson, arrested at The Palms hotel-casino, was once again in a SUV, but this time under arrest and handcuffed.
Police allege that Simpson, accompanied by others with a gun, challenged collectors who were planning to sell stolen mementos, including his Hall Of Fame certificate and a picture of the running back with FBI supremo J Edgar Hoover.
Simpson, now 60, has said there were no guns involved - the police are not alleging that Simpson was armed - and that he and men he had met at a cocktail party were only retrieving items that belonged to him and which were about to be sold by unscrupulous traders. Since then, two of the men involved in the incident have done a plea deal with the police and will testify for the prosecution against Simpson.
If the prosecution is successful, Simpson stands to go to jail for 30 years or more - a prospect which was greeted with some enthusiasm by Fred Goldman.
"He's believed for years, decades, that he's entitled to do anything he wants," said Goldman to AP at the time, "and the legal system and society has basically agreed with him. This time, hopefully, he'll get what he deserves. He'll get jail time."
In reporting the case, Associated Press in the US said an audiotape was found which captured events in the hotel room and which allegedly has the former NFL star saying: "Don't let nobody out this room... think you can steal my (expletive) and sell it?"
