Manuscript of OJ Simpson’s “If I Did It”

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:

“Who the fuck are you?” I said.
“I, uh—I just came by to return a pair of glasses,” he replied,
stammering.
“Really? A pair of glasses, huh?”
“Yes,” he said. He was carrying an envelope. “Judy left them at
the restaurant. I’m a waiter at Mezzaluna.”
“So it’s Judy, is it? You’re on a first-name basis with Judy.”
At that moment, the gate behind Goldman squeaked again.
Charlie walked into the narrow space. He was carrying the knife.
“Everything cool here?” he asked. “I saw this guy walking through
the gate, and I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t going to be
any trouble.”
“This motherfucker wants me to believe that he’s here dropping
off a pair of Judy’s glasses,” I said.
“I am,” Goldman said, appearing increasingly nervous. He
held up an envelope. “Look for yourself.”
“And then what?” I said. ‘You were going back to the resta
urant?”
“No,” he said. “My shift’s over. I’m just leaving these here and
going home.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t expect anything,” he said. “I’m telling you the truth.”
“You’re a fucking liar!” I shouted.
“I’m not. I swear to God.”
“She’s got candles burning inside. Fucking music playing.
Probably a nice bottle of red wine breathing on the counter, waiting
for you.”
“Not for me,” Goldman protested.
“Fuck you, man! You think I’m fucking stupid or something?!”
Suddenly the front door opened. Nicole came outside, alerted
by our raised voices. She was wearing a slinky little cocktail dress,
black, with probably not much on underneath. Her mouth fell
open in shock. She looked at me, and she looked at Goldman, and
she looked at Charlie, just beyond. Goldman was pretty well
trapped. Charlie stood between him and the rear gate, and I was
barring his way to the front.
“O.J., what the fuck is going on?”
I turned to look at Nicole. “That’s what I want to know,”
I said.
Kato, the dog, came wandering out of the house. He saw me
and wagged his tail, then he saw Goldman and also wagged his tail.
I looked at Goldman, steamed, and Charlie moved closer, the knife
still in his hand. I think he sensed that things were about to get out
of control, because I was very close to losing it.
“I’m listening, motherfucker!” I said to Goldman.
“O.J.!” Nicole hollered. “Leave him the fuck alone! What are
you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to Chicago.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“Hey, man,” Goldman said. “That’s not necessary.”
Charlie piped in. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here, O.J.”
“I asked you a question, motherfucker. What are you doing
here? You delivering drugs?”
“Leave him alone, O.J.!” Nicole shouted.
“I hear half – you assholes are dealing on the side,” I said.

Nicole came at me, swinging. “Get the fuck out of here!” she
said. “This is my house and I can do what I want!”
“Not in front of my kids, you can’t!”
“Fuck you!”
“No, fuck you. I gave you everything you could ask for, and
you fucked it all up.”
She came at me like a banshee, all arms and legs, flailing, and
I ducked and she lost her balance and fell against the stoop. She fell
hard on her right side—I could hear the back of her head hitting
the ground—and lay there for a moment, not moving.
“Jesus Christ, O.J., let’s get the fuck out of here!” Charlie said,
his voice cracking.
I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he
thought I was going to hit him, because he got into his little
karate stance. “What the fuck is that?” I said. “You think you can
take me with your karate shit?” He started circling me, bobbing
and weaving, and if I hadn’t been so fucking angry I would have
laughed in his face.
“O.J., come on!” It was Charlie again, pleading.
Nicole moaned, regaining consciousness. She stirred on the
ground and opened her eyes and looked at me, but it didn’t seenlike
anything was registering.
Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me
blocking my view. “We are fucking done here, man—let’s go!”
I noticed the knife in Charlie’s hand, and in one deft move
I removed my right glove and snatched it up. “We’re not going
anywhere,” I said, turning to face Goldman. Goldman was still
circling me, bobbing and weaving, but I didn’t feel like laughing
anymore.
“You think you’re tough, motherfucker?” I said.
I could hear Charlie just behind me, saying something, urging
me to get the fuck out of there, and at one point he even reached
for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook him off, hard, and
moved toward Goldman. “Okay, motherfucker!” I said. “Show me
how tough you are!”
Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened,
but I can’t tell you exactly how. I was still standing in
Nicole’s courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn’t
remember how I’d gotten there, when I’d arrived, or even why I was
there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital—with little
Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping
balls into my neighbor’s yard; Paula, angry, not answering her
phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly
shit about Nicole’s behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive
from Rockingham to the Bundy condo.
And now? Now I was standing in Nicole’s courtyard, in the
dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my
own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt
strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I
couldn’t get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of
me was covered in blood, but it didn’t compute. Is this really blood?
I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?

I was more confused than ever. What the hell had happened
here? Then I remembered that Goldman guy coming through the
back gate, with Juditha’s glasses, and I remembered hollering at
him, and I remembered how our shouts had brought Nicole to
the door . . .
Nicole. Jesus.
I looked down and saw her on the ground in front of me,
curled up in a fetal position at the base of the stairs, not moving.
Goldman was only a few feet away, slumped against the bars of the
fence. He wasn’t moving either. Both he and Nicole were lying in
giant pools of blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It
didn’t seem real, and none of it computed. What the fuck happened
here? Who had done this? And why? And where the fuck was I when
this shit went down?

5 Comments

  1. When OJ was acquitted, something became pretty clear to me: a lot of black people feel mistreated by the legal system — not in a reasonable way, but completely out of their minds… The legal system is broken, and it treats poor black and white people very badly. But that you can feel so mistreated, that you’d CHEER for a man to get away with killing his ex-wife and her boy toy — whoa Nellie, that’s way out of control.

  2. What the fuck happened here?

    Who had done this? And why?

    I don’t know but : Kato, the dog is my principal suspicious …

  3. Eel, yes, you are absolutely right. Years of mistreatment have turned into a pathology that is gonna take a long time to get past…

  4. The OJ case and the reaction to it baffles me. I have* an opinion from the scraps of info I’ve seen that fits better than ‘OJ did it’, but I know enough to know that I don’t know the answer. My opinion may well change if I knew everything the jury knew – but I don’t see that admission of limitations from anywhere else. Everyone’s an armchair expert and critical thinking is not compulsory. (I mean especially so in this case, I know it applies to pretty much everything anyway.)

    This book is shockingly bad taste, agreed, but to tout it as proof of guilt is ridiculous. If a journalist had written that, people wouldn’t be running around saying that the journalist was the culprit, and if OJ had written a book called “Enough already, I didn’t do it”, people would not be running around expecting that to be taken as truth either.

    The murder chapter sums it up nicely – any idiot could have written that from the details available, it proves nothing. Now, if some little detail turns up in there that isn’t public info, then I’ll be interested… until then, it is ‘just’ bad taste and nothing to do with truth of the subject matter.

    *actually, ‘had’ would probably be more accurate. I remember practically nothing of the details that swayed me at the time, just that I thought it a much more complete explanation.

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