Remember that book that OJ Simpson almost published a short time ago where he went into detail of how he would have commited the murders? The manuscript is allegedly online here.
I’ll give you some excerpts. Here’s the intro:
The Luckiest Guy in the World
I’m going to tell you a story you’ve never heard before, because no
one knows this story the way I know it. It takes place on the night
of June 12, 1994, and it concerns the murder of my ex-wife, Nicole
Brown Simpson, and her young friend, Ronald Goldman. I want
you to forget everything you think you know about that night
because I know the facts better than anyone. I know the players.
I’ve seen the evidence. I’ve heard the theories. And, of course, I’ve
read all the stories: That I did it. That I did it but I don’t know I did
it. That I can no longer tell fact from fiction. That I wake up in the
middle of the night, consumed by guilt, screaming.
Man, they even had me wondering, What if I did it?
Well, sit back, people. The things I know, and the things I
believe, you can’t even imagine. And I’m going to share them
Here’s how some of their arguments went:
I think we had pretty close to a storybook marriage. We had a
few arguments, sure, like most couples, hut they never got out of hand.
After Justin was born, though, Nicole started getting physical
with me. She had that temper on her, as I said, and if something set
her off she tended to come at me, fists and feet flying. Mostly I’d
just try to get out of her way, but sometimes I had to hold her down
till she got herself under control. So, yeah—we argued. And we
could get pushy about it. And sometimes the arguments ended with
Nicole in tears. But more often than not they ended in laughter.
And how OJ was being stalked by Nicole:
When I got back to L.A., Nicole and I got into what I often
think of as our Period of Confusion. This was early April, a month
before Mother’s Day, more than a year before the murders, and
Nicole pretty much began stalking me. She would drive by the
house late at night, and if Paula’s truck wasn’t out front she’d ring
the bell. Like a fool, I would let her in. That thing that wasn’t supposed
to happen again was happening again—two and three times
a week. It was messing me up. All the old feelings were coming
back, and I kept fighting them, but Nicole was relentless about getting
me back. Still, whenever she broached the subject, I would cut
her off. “We’re not getting back,” I said. “We’re just doing this.”
And the night of the murder:
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