“It wasn’t always supposed to be what it turned out to be,”
said OJ. “Right in the beginning, when I first had the idea, all I really
wanted to do was to destroy those documents. Back then, of course, there wasn’t
much in the way of computers, no internet. Companies kept everything on paper.
If a man owed several million dollars in tax debt, for example, the only record
of that would probably be in just one or two files, stored in one drawer of an
office. Perhaps in some cases they might have made a copy, but that was the
exception rather than the rule. If you could get at those documents, somehow
make them disappear, then – whoosh! – your debt would disappear too.
“So my first plan was something a little more ‘small scale’.
Maybe assemble a team of crack commandos who had been incarcerated for a crime
they didn’t commit. I figured they could go into the office undercover, maybe
as post-boys, coffee slaves, or something, and one could get at the files while
the others created a diversion by hanging from a window, starting a fire, or
maybe shooting up the water cooler. I dunno: I guess I just let my imagination
run away with me. Next thing I knew I was envisioning Arabs, airplanes, secret
CIA plots, and the whole building in rubble.
“Somewhere in that pile of rubble would be my documents –
hopefully shredded and singed beyond repair – and the image of it fair made my
lips get licked, to think of that weight off my mind.
“You ever been in debt?” he said. “It’s awful. It’ll drive a
man to extremes. I did what I had to do. I guess I’ve always done what I had to
do. That’s what made me the greatest running back the NFL has ever seen. First
player to rush two thousand yards in a season. Highest average yards per game.
You gots to do what you gots to do in this world. There ain’t no crime in
that.”
“What about the rumours,” I said, “that they were also
storing all the documents and evidence relating to that, uh, court case you
were involved in back in ’94? You remember?”
“Sure I remember,” he said, “hard to forget a thing like
that, no matter how much you try. You think being a few million dollars in debt
is tough – try being on the stand for something you hadn’t done, with some
bitch lawyer looking to nail you to her cross and have you burn. But the glove
didn’t fit, man – and that’s the whole case right there. No way I could’ve done
it: they tried to stick it on me and the damn thing didn’t fit: it barely even
went over my fingers. Idiots,” he chuckled, “trying to stick that glove on me,
right there in court. But the whole world saw: I ain’t no small-handed
motherfucker, like Trump.”
OJ was silent for a while. He’d been getting himself riled
up with talk of his debts and the murders he’d so astonishingly been found
innocent of. Now he tried to calm himself down.
“Listen,” he said quietly, almost whispering, “don’t you
ever wonder…if the glove didn’t fit me, and would only fit a guy with smaller
hands, then where is that guy? Who was it who actually did the crime?
“One thing you got to ask yourself is: where was Trump the
night of those murders? How would the glove have fitted him, if they’d had him
on the stand, as I tried to get Cochran to do?
“But it was all a plot, man: these things go deeper than
even I know, and I’m in pretty deep. At least, I think I am, the shit I’m gonna
tell you. CIA. Alien reptilians. The goddamn queen of England . And Osama bin Laden? That
motherfucker weren’t no Saudi prince or whatever they said he was: nigger was a
goddamn ROBOT.
“Why’d you think it took them so long to kill him? I’ll
tells you why: there were like SEVEN of him, all the goddamn same. You ever
seen Stingray or Captain Scarlet or goddamn Thunderbirds? You watch an episode
of that where they’ve got some dancin’ little Arab puppet playing the bad guy
and tell me you don’t see a resemblance. The clues are right there in your
face: they love to do that, to make a mockery of people. Gives them a kick,
stickin’ references in TV shows and movies where anyone can see them: you just
gotta watch a few Disney films to know what I’m talking about. And, believe me,
I seen ‘em ALL.”
“But listen,” he said, growing quiet again, “I’m saying too
much. I gots to get this off my chest, wipe the slate clean before I face my
Lord – but I get the feeling the phone’s not the best place to do it. They
probably got this thing bugged. Probably listening to every word we say. I
shouldn’t have called you in the first place: I’m sorry, bro, but your life’s
most likely in danger. CIA are motherfuckers, believe me: if they can knock
down JFK like that, what are they gonna do to a nobody like you?
“I mean, I know I’m safe – I’m The Juice! And any CIA guy
wants to take out The Juice he’s gonna have a riot on his hands. They wouldn’t
even dream of it: the whole country’d be in flames – but for somebody like
you…who’s gonna notice when you’re gone? Who’s gonna raise a stink? Who’s gonna
bring attention to the fact that it weren’t no ‘natural causes’, that you got
two damn bullet holes in the back of your head.
“Listen,” he says, “I got an idea. I think you should come
out here. Come visit me and we’ll do some talking face to face. By the time I
get out of here – just eight sweet weeks – probably you’ll have the whole book
done and dusted and we’ll be ready to go into print. Then you can come stay at
mine. I got a sweet crib, man. Pool, chandeliers, a twelve-foot tall statue of
me in the garden. Bar stocking anything you want. Bitches and hos left right
and center, suckin’ on whatever hole you tell ‘em to. You’ll love it.”
“Ah,” I said, “there might be a problem with that.”
“Say what?” he shouted. “Don’t you be holding out on OJ. Why
the fuck not? What, you don’t like bitches? You don’t wanna stay in no palace,
ungrateful motherfucker?”
“It ain’t that,” I said – and then corrected myself. “It’s
not that,” I said, “it’s that…I’m not actually allowed into America . I got banned, back when I
was in my early-twenties. Got deported, like three times, and they banned me
for twenty years. Still got three years left till it’s cleared. And even then,
I don’t know if I’ll get in.”
“Ho ho ho,” said OJ, chuckling away, “you one bad
motherfucker. What did you do? Punch some bitch in the face? Rob a liquor
store?”
“OJ,” I said, “can you do me a favour?”
“Sure, man: you name it.”
“Can you stop saying the word ‘bitch’. I don’t like it. It
doesn’t feel good.”
“Bro,” he said, and then he went quiet. I could hear him
breathing. And then maybe sobbing a little.
He sniffed.
“You’re right, man; I’m sorry. I just…I been watching too
many TV shows and movies where homeboys be talking like that, be saying ‘bitch’
and ‘nigger’ and shit. I guess it sort of leeched into me, and particularly
today: I like totally binge-watched the entire first series of The Wire.
“The other thing,” he said, sniffing a little, “is…I just
miss her, you know. I wish she was still here. That I could see her again. And
I guess not having her around makes me weirdly angry, and I take it out on
womenfolk in general, and that’s not fair.”
“Nicole?” I said.
“Who?” he said.
“Your ex-wife,” I said, “the one you…were married to.”
“Shit,” he said, “not her. Fuck her. I’m glad she’s…but, no,
not her: my mom. I miss her. I only ever wanted her to notice me, to make her
proud. And she was proud, I know. Even in my down times, the times I went
wrong, she was still proud of me. But…I dunno: I just wanted more. She wasn’t
there enough, you know? I can’t even explain it. But I guess I been acting that
out with women all my life.”
He went quiet again. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t
say anything. Seemed like the right thing to do, to just leave a bit of space
there. Let him ponder. Let him let the words he had spoken sink in a little,
settle in his brain.
Seemed like there might be something of a realisation there;
a breakthrough, even, if he could only –
“In any case,” he said, “fuck that shit. It’s just a word,
man, and if you got a problem with that word – with any word – then it’s you
you need to be looking at, not me. Words don’t mean anything, right? Apart from
in the head of the listener – and the way you respond to them is your
responsibility, ya feel me? If you want to react, that’s your choice. But there
ain’t no inherent feeling in words, it’s just your conditioning that makes you
react so. So man up; you know what I’m saying?”
“But it does feel bad,” I said, “and certain words do grate,
do seem loaded with a certain vibration, or, at least, to express something of
the mind or the sentiment of the speaker, and that does sometimes feel
unpleasant, in the ears and the being of the listener – ie, me.”
“Like ‘fuck’, for example?”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s true. Sometimes I hear someone saying
that word over and over and it’s like being jabbed in the ribs, like a little
dagger in the brain.”
“Okay,” he says, “but what about when you hear someone say
‘fuck’ in some other language? In goddamn French or Spanish or something?
Whadda they say? ‘Puta’? ‘Merde’? ‘Pinchi’ something or other? Does that ‘feel
bad’? Or does it…well, here’s what it does for me: it makes me laugh. Seems
like some child’s word. Literally don’t mean a thing.”
I thought about this. It seemed like he had a point. To hear
people swearing in another language…he was right! There weren’t no ‘bad
vibrations’. It just made me giggle.
And yet…there does seem something there when I hear some guy
effin’ and jeffin’ in English. Particularly “bitch” and “cunt” and “fuck”.
I needed some more time to think about this.
Also, I thought we might be getting slightly off topic.
“But, hey,” said OJ, chuckling again, “if you don’t like it,
I’ll try and keep it to a minimum. I want us to get on, you know? You seem like
an okay guy. I’d like it if we could be friends. I can’t promise I won’t never
say no ‘bitch’ again – but I’ll do my best. Fair?”
“Fair,” I said.
He was surprising me. He was full of surprises.
And I wondered what it said about me that I was more
surprised that OJ Simpson had made me rethink a long held belief I’d had about
communication and language, and that I’d seen him demonstrate some sensitivity
with regard to human interaction, than the fact that he was actually, genuinely
the mastermind behind the destruction of the World Trade Center.
“So what was I saying?” said OJ. “Something about…oh yeah,
so the thing is, some time in about 1997 they moved a bunch of those court
records over to WTC7, and that complicated matters somewhat. Also…”
“Why didn’t you just get someone to go in there and destroy
those particular records?” I said.
“What?”
“Rather than having this incredibly complex scheme to
destroy the entire World
Trade Center
“Yeah, yeah,” said OJ, “I hear ya, and I thought of that,
but…well, as you said, that sort of thing didn’t go so well for Nixon, did it?
And, more than that, even, things started to snowball somewhat once George got
involved. It weren’t just about my documents anymore. We were gonna kill all
kinds of birds with them two stones – slash – planes. George took my original
scheme and made it into something else. Something that was supposed to not just
get rid of my debts, but bring in a whole load of money. Enough that I’d never
have to do an after dinner speech or armed robbery ever again.”
“George Bush?” I said. “W or Senior?”
“Sh,” he said, “let’s just leave it at that. But, listen.
I’m gonna work on that little deportation problem of yours. I’ll talk to some
people. I wanna get you over here And soon.
“Leave it to OJ, man,” he said, “Orenthal James’ll fix it
for you.”
He put the phone down. Or, rather, he touched the place on
the screen that ends the call.
No one puts the phone down anymore, do they? All that would
do would leave the other person able to hear what they did next, what they
said.
Probably bad mouth the person they’d just been talking to.
Or fart or something; maybe sing a silly song, out of tune, or talk to
themselves.
“La-di-da-di-da” – that sort of thing.
An hour later, OJ rang back.
“I got it fixed,” he said – and now this was exciting news.
After all these years of being banned from the US, of fantasising about meeting
some rich girl, some lawyer, some official with their fingers in all the pies
who would pull some strings, throw some money at the issue, and have me once
more able to waltz through an American airport without skulking afraid like the
dog what’s shit in his master’s slippers, my passport all gleaming and new, and
a visa granting me ‘access all areas’ ‘cos, friends in high places, and enough
money, you can make any problem disappear.
God bless you OJ!
“Are you ready?” he said. “Here’s what you’re gonna do.
Number one, get a flight to Canada :
Vancouver or
somewhere out west. Two: make your way to the mountains. Three: walk through
the mountains over the border and my man AC’ll be there the other side in my
Bronco to pick you up. Then he’ll drive you down here to Nevada and bring you out to see me. He’ll
have a room booked for you at the Lovelock Inn. They got free wifi, free donuts
and brownies for breakfast. You can stay there a month or so – we’ve arranged a
special rate – but after that…well,” he said, “funds only stretch so far.”
“But don’t worry about money,” he said, “I got plenty more
on its way. I just need to…free up a few loose ends.”
“Don’t you mean ‘tie up’?” I said.
“Tie up. Yeah. Tie up some obstructions and get the cash
flow a-flowin’ once more.
“That sound good to you?”
“Walking through the mountains across the US border?”
“Right,” he said.
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