Homeless Friend posted:

exmarx posted:

just learned that alan dershowitz was on his legal team lol

Aglet56 posted:

spell out your oj theory

Some Guy TT posted:

my oj theory is that the lapd is racist and lazy and decided that oj did it because that involved doing the least work

DMCrimson posted:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cw2RvJWGs7M&t=64s

Some Guy TT posted:

When you're white like me, and you believe that O. J. Simpson did not kill Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman, life can get very, very lonely. Nearly all of your friends think you've taken a vacation from reality. They caution you not to repeat your belief in his innocence in public, and certainly not in this book.

White people are very upset about the O.J. verdict. Very upset. But why? Because a killer was set free? That happens every day. Because O.J. beat his wife? Excuse me, that's going on next door to you. Right now. Have you called the police yet, or do you just not want to "get involved"?

If you are black, you already know the reasons why White America is so angry at the O.J. verdict, and you probably know what I'm about to say. Feel free to skip ahead to the next chapter.

I have never believed O. J. Simpson, with his own hands, killed these two people. I do believe he is one of the biggest pieces of poo poo walking the planet Earth, but that only puts him in the company of about 10 million other men who abuse women and the other billion or so of us who let them get away with it.

We don't want to acknowledge that, as a society, we let O.J. get away with beating the crap out of Nicole. Only after she was left dead and mutilated on a sidewalk on South Bundy Drive did we get on our high horse and demand justice. Did we want justice, or absolution for our inaction?

All of these questions have led me to wonder if it is possible in America for us to fairly judge an evil man. In other words, if this man O.J. commits nine evil acts (physical beatings, threats, trespassing, forced entry, psychological abuse, destruction of property, stalking, window−peeping, and adultery)—but he does not commit the tenth one (murder)—does he deserve to be found innocent of the one crime he didn't commit? Or, because we failed to punish him for the other nine crimes he was responsible for, does that give us the right to get out the noose and hang him now . . . because we screwed up?

I don't think so. I know most of you believe he did it, and I respect why you may feel that way—it sure appears the son of a bitch was right there that night with all his sick anger and jealousy—but what if he wasn't? None of us, including me, knows for sure if he was involved. Only O.J. and Kato the Akita Dog know if he committed this horrible crime. I'd like to walk you through my reasoning as to why O.J. probably didn't do it—and what the larger implications of this case are for those of us who live in this very divided America.

1. Nothing the L.A. Police Say Should Ever Be Believed.

This is one of the most corrupt, dishonest, racist, and violent police forces in the world. Case after case from the LAPD and the L.A. Sheriff's Department during the past decade does nothing but point up what a bunch of thugs many of those who wear that black uniform are. Nothing has amazed me more during the O.J. ordeal than how otherwise intelligent, liberal−minded people have forgotten what the term "L.A. police" means.

Please allow me to remind you of the following:

In 1993, L.A. police officers killed Michael James Bryant, a popular Pasadena barber, asphyxiating him in the backseat of a police car after hog−tying and beating him. The coroner ruled his death a homicide.

In June 1992, an unarmed African−American tow−truck driver, John L. Daniels Jr., pulled into a Chevron service station on the corner of Florence and Crenshaw—−just two miles from the flashpoint of the April 1992 riots. While pumping gas, he was approached by two white L.A. motorcycle police officers, including Douglas Iversen, a fifteen−year veteran with a history of misconduct. After an argument over his registration, Daniels became exasperated and tried to leave. He was promptly shot dead in his truck by Iversen. Area residents described Daniels's death as a public execution, according to writer Mike Davis in the Los Angeles Times. Iversen was not fired until March 1995.

Between 1988 and 1994, in at least eight cases, female police officers alleged that they were sexually assaulted by men in the LAPD. One police officer allegedly raped two female counterparts while off duty, shoving a 9−millimeter pistol into one woman, ice cubes into the other.

In 1985, Officer Ronald L. Benegas pleaded guilty to burglary in connection with an LAPD burglary ring involving twelve officers. Benegas, who admitted to committing more than a hundred burglaries while on duty, said that he and another officer would break store windows using marbles fired from slingshots. Then, while ostensibly responding to the alarms, they would steal the merchandise.

In 1991, a commission headed by now−Secretary of State Warren Christopher confirmed the commonplace use of excessive force and systemic racism throughout the LAPD.

And, of course, there was the beating of Rodney King, which I don't need to rehash for you on these pages.

I have felt, long before O.J., that anything the L.A. Police Department says must, at first, not be believed. For any of us to believe another individual, we have to trust them. Have the L.A. police earned your trust? Because they have violated that trust, I am forced to presume they are lying whenever they speak, and only when they can prove that they are not lying can I believe their version of anything.

I don't understand why so many people have believed the version of events that took place on Bundy that night as laid out by this corrupt department. What miracle did they perform to gain the trust of so many Americans?

The "police version" of Ron's and Nicole's murders was developed, in part, by a detective named Mark Fuhrman. "Oh, if only the prosecution hadn't called Fuhrman!" That's what people like to say. As if Fuhrman was no more than a "tactical error" instead of perhaps the root of what is wrong here. The day the "Fuhrman tapes" were played in Judge Ito's courtroom to determine whether the jury should hear them, I happened to be watching the trial live. The tapes were so damaging to the efforts by the media to convict OJ. in the court of public opinion that no network newscast that night played them verbatim and in full. The New York Times did not run a transcript of them the next day. Unless you were watching TV live at eleven−thirty that morning, the full text of what Fuhrman said was kept from you. Here are the uncensored highlights from Mark Fuhrman's taped conversations with screenwriter Laura McKinney.

(Keep in mind that the jury never heard any of these remarks by Fuhrman.)

Mark Fuhrman (referring to a suspect): "[I]f I would have arrested the son of a bitch, I would have killed him. If I ever see the son of a bitch and we're alone, I would kill him. . . . [D]ead men tell no tales."

Mark Fuhrman: "Most real good policemen understand that they would just love to take certain people and just take them to the alley and just blow their brains out."

Mark Fuhrman: "We stopped the choke because a bunch of niggers have a bunch of those organizations in the South End and because all niggers were choked out and killed— twelve in ten years. Really extraordinary, isn't it?"

Mark Fuhrman: "Westwood is gone. The niggers have discovered it."

Mark Fuhrman: "There is going to be a massacre in the future and they know that. There is the Rolling Sixties, a friend of the family group, they went into a sporting goods store and stole fifty Uzis, 3,000 rounds."

Mark Fuhrman: "First thing, anything out of a friend of the family's mouth for the first five or six sentences is a loving lie. . . . You keep choking him until he tells you the truth. You know, it is kind of funny, but a lot of policemen will get a kick out of it."

Mark Fuhrman: "We basically got impatient with him being so loving stupid. ... So we .. .just went the 'scenic route' to the station. . . . Dana goes, 'No blood, Mark.' 'No problem, not even any marks, Dana.' Just body shots. Did you ever try to find a bruise on a friend of the family? It's pretty tough, huh?"

Mark Fuhrman: " [W] hen he gives me his driver's license, I'll just rip the fucker up."

Mark Fuhrman: "I had sixty−six allegations of brutality. . . . We grabbed a girl that lived there. . . .Grabbed her by her head and used her as a barricade. Walked up and told them, 'I got this girl, I'll blow her fuckin' brains out if you come out with a gun.' Held her like this, threw the bitch down the stairs. ... I must have three or four thousand pages of internal investigations [on me] out there."

Yes, this is the same man who found the Isotoner gloves and the tiny spots of blood in the dark, and entered O.J.'s property without a warrant. And 77 percent of white America still believes the Official Story.

2. The Rich and Famous Have Never Committed Capital Murder.

Don't get me wrong. The rich are the biggest murderers throughout history. But I'm not talking about killing in the abstract (like Kissinger being responsible for the deaths of countless Vietnamese and Cambodians, or the Ford Motor Company producing Pintos they knew might explode on impact); I mean actual, with−your−own−hands, thought−out−in−advance capital murder.

Can you think of a single rich, famous celebrity in the history of this country who has committed first−degree murder?

Go ahead, I'm waiting. And don't give me relatives of celebrities, like Marlon Brando's son (he killed his sister's boyfriend in a fight), Andy Williams's wife (Claudine Longet divorced Andy and then "accidentally" killed Olympic skier Spider Sabich), Lana Turner's daughter (Cheryl stabbed Lana's abusive boyfriend, Johnny Stompanato, when he was threatening her), Fatty Arbuckle (a victim of William Randolph Hearst's smear campaign, Fatty was found innocent), John du Pont (who was certainly rich but not a celebrity, and completely unknown outside the wrestling community when he killed Dave Schultz), or Sid Vicious (a doped−up Brit who got a room in the Chelsea Hotel where he offed girlfriend Nancy and then killed himself).

I want you to name an actual American celebrity (not their relative) who is a multimillionaire and who, not in the "heat of the moment," but with cold−blooded planning, murdered another human being.

The truth is, there isn't one. Trust me, this is the safest group of people to be around. Put me on a subway car full of these fat cats any day! Force me to live in a tenement high−rise with the heads of Disney and Paramount and their top box office stars and I'll never lock my doors! You never have to be in fear of your life in their presence because they would never risk losing the lifestyle to which they've grown so accustomed.

Of course, the rich and famous do a lot of despicable things—cheat, lie, steal, do drugs, commit suicide, beat their wives, abandon their kids, take all the good parking spaces— but the one crime they never commit is premeditated murder.

Why? Because they would have to get their hands dirty!

If there is one thing I've learned in my brief Hollywood career, it's that these people never get their hands dirty. They do not do a drat thing for themselves. I mean nothing. They have so much money sitting around that they never have to lift a finger. Whether, as The New Republic points out, it's Pia Zadora having her assistant shave her armpits, or Liz Taylor boasting she has never set foot in a bank, or Henry Kissinger taking his dog for a walk and having his bodyguard walk behind him to scoop up the poop, or Bruce Willis requiring twenty−two personal assistants on the set of Billy Bathgate, these people never lift a finger to do anything. The list of jobs they hire others to do for them is amazing. You will never see a celebrity:

Pick up their dirty underwear. A person in O.J.'s position has not done a load of laundry in years—if ever. He has never had to pick up his soiled Jockeys, strip his skanky bed, or wipe his snot off the wall.

Carry their own bags. From the driver who picks him up at his house, to the "special services" personnel from the airlines who greet him at the curb, to the first−class flight attendants who lift his crap up into the overhead bin, O.T. has not had to carry anything but a nine−iron and a football in all his adult life.

Walk their dog. In the building where I live in New York, each morning and evening a group of professional dog−walkers arrive to take the miniature poodles downstairs to deface our sidewalk. These dog−walkers earn a good living doing this.

De−grout their toenails. I doubt O.J. has ever had some underpaid Mexican paint his toenails, and I'll bet he hasn't had to clean the gunk out from under any naillike surface on his body since moving to Brentwood.

Raise their kids. Some celebrity couples have multiple nannies in the house who wake the kids in the morning, do their homework with them after school, and tuck them in at night. The parents will often call in their "good nights" on the phone in the child's room. Employees of the parents are sent to the private school to take notes and discuss their children's grades.

Do their shopping. It was no accident that most of the presidential candidates this year didn't know how much a gallon of milk cost. These people haven't set foot inside a Safeway in decades. Remember George Bush at the checkout scanner? Just imagine these wealthy weenies trying to work an ATM machine!

Cook. Why do that when you can get Kato to drive through McDonald's with you in your Rolls−Royce on the cook's day off?

Dial a phone number. No matter which celebrities I have had meetings with in Hollywood, they will invariably yell out to an assistant, "Get so−and−so on the line for me!" I have never seen any of these people dial a telephone number on their own. If you want to see a blank stare, ask any of them to tell you their fax number.

Kill an ex−spouse. If the rich actually get to the point where they feel compelled to eliminate the person they were once married to, they would never, ever do this job themselves—not when there are so many unemployed, desperate individuals around who are willing to off just about anyone for two hundred dollars. To do the job yourself would jeopardize your social position—and no matter how crazy you are, you're always sane enough to have this in the forefront of your mind. ("Rule Number One: I can do anything I want . . . except kill someone in cold blood with my own hands.")

The rich and famous are so removed from what the rest of us have to go through. Ask a celebrity to give his or her Zip Code. They can't. Ask them what the credit limit is on their MasterCard, and they'll say, "What's a MasterCard?" If they have any kind of credit card, it's the Platinum Card from American Express, which requires the holder to pay the entire amount charged at the end of every month. The rich have no need to carry a balance from month to month, paying only a bit at a time, like the rest of us schlumps.

If O.J. was involved with these murders (and I don't think he was), there is no way he committed them himself. Just as he paid a guy to wipe down his hot tub twice a week, he would have hired it done.

3. The Killer Was Smart, Not Stupid like O.J.

Whoever committed this crime knew what they were doing. Next time you're in L.A., take a spin down Bundy on a Sunday evening in front of Nicole's condo. Man, this is one busy street! It's practically a major thoroughfare, connecting San Vicente and Wilshire. A car passes by her place about once every five seconds. People are out walking their dogs (Nicole lived in the downscale part of Brentwood, where residents walk their own dogs), and there is a lot of activity in the neighborhood around 10:00 P.M. The killer (or killers) pulled off a grisly double murder where one of the victims put up quite an intense struggle, and there was not a single witness. No murder weapon was ever recovered. No blood−soaked clothes (the slashing of Ron and Nicole spewed about two gallons of human blood out onto the killer and the crime scene) were ever found. This person (and his possible accomplice) knew exactly what he was doing.

Now take OJ. Simpson. The guy's day begins at 6:00 a.m. at the Riviera Country Club where he plays eighteen holes of golf. Later, after a few rounds of gin rummy in the clubhouse, he goes home, picks up his July issue of Playboy, and decides he has to talk to the centerfold, Traci Adell, whom he has never met. So he tracks her down in Maryland, where she's making a film, and they talk for forty−five minutes. ("He started talking about his ex−wives," she said later in an interview. "And he made a little joke about how I'm not his typical type. He said he'd dated blondes.") He stays on the phone with Traci for too long and, like a jerk, shows up late for his daughter's dance recital. He is videotaped afterward looking upbeat and happy, talking to Nicole and the kids. He later gets Kato to go to McDonald's with him. Now the guy is tanked up on a Big Mac and a large order of fries. He has to get ready and leave to go to the airport in less than an hour and a half.

So, if we are to believe the prosecution, he leaves himself only thirty minutes to drive over to Nicole's, commit the murders, and get back so he can shower, pack, and head off to LAX. To commit the murder, he doesn't take the weapon of choice among us nonprofessionals—the handgun (quick, easy, no bloodstains on your Ralph Lauren polo shirt). He takes a big knife!

Oh, and he forgets that he is black. Here we have a BLACK guy supposedly wandering around Brentwood on a busy street at night, wearing a black knit hat and black gloves, carrying a big knife.

And, without anyone seeing him, he brutally and repeatedly stabs two strong, healthy young people only twenty−five feet from the street. He then gets rid of the knife and all the clothes, goes back home, showers, packs, and calmly gets into the limo for the ride to the airport, without a bruise on him.

I know OJ. is big and black, so that may be enough for some of you to believe the above is possible. God knows, we all poo poo a brick whenever we see a Big Black Guy walking toward us in the middle of the night!

But what if OJ. were white? Would you feel just the slightest bit different? If that incredible scenario had been told to you about, say, Frank Gifford or Marv Albert, would you be so quick to rush to judgment? Or if the victim had been O.J.'s first wife, a black woman, do you think this case would have received the same intense media attention and public outcry? Please, answer honestly.

4. I Always Lie to the Driver.

One of the perks that comes with working in Hollywood is The Car they send to pick you up. The first time this happened to me, after Roger &Me was released, I hopped into the front seat with the driver—which made him very nervous because the rules say you are to sit in the backseat while he drives you. When I got out, I went to pay him, and he laughed and said it was covered by the studio. If you are from the working class, you'll remember the embarrassment you experienced that first time you flew on a plane and, not knowing any better, got out your wallet to pay the stewardess for the meal.

These drivers, by and large, are a creepy bunch. I hate to say that because it's such a lovely job and I'm sure they're treated very poorly by the rich farts they drive around. But in the past year, on various trips to L.A., I have been subjected to a desperate Rupert Pupkin−type appeal by a driver to put him in my next film, an offer to join the Church of Scientology, two accidents, a driver who asked me to wait in the car while he went in to fence some "hot" jewelry, and a driver who chewed my ear off about having been arrested that morning for child abuse and how he was going to "hunt down that oval office of an ex−wife and teach her a thing or two." When he didn't return to pick me up, I was stranded alone, two hours from the city. I called the car service to tell them he had probably abandoned me so he could go back to beat up his ex−wife whom he called a "oval office."

"Well, sir," replied his boss, "she is." I told this moron that as long as women were treated in this manner, the world would not be safe for them. I then asked the studio the next day never to use this service again, and they agreed, costing the limo company, I hope, thousands of dollars of business.

Which brings me to Alan Park, O.J.'s driver on the night of the murders. The prosecution hailed him as their star witness. He testified that he just kept ringing the bell and there was no answer. There was no light on in the bedroom. Then he saw a black man going in the front door. (Marcia Clark says Park saw a man walk across the lawn, but Park never testified to this.) He said that he buzzed O.J. again, and O.J. told him over the intercom that he had overslept (O.J. denies this), and that he had just taken a shower.

Either way, "I was in the shower" is just one of those lies you tell the drivers who want you to come out and get in their car as soon as they get there. These drivers always show up a half hour early and bug the hell out of you because as soon as they can get rid of you they can make more money by squeezing in another pickup.
My policy is never to answer their call until I'm ready to leave. And when I come down I always make up some weird excuse. ("Sorry, but I had Fidel Castro on the phone, and you know, vou can never get him to shut up.") God help me if any of these drivers ever believe me or are called to testify against me ("Yes, your honor, he was on the phone with Castro for hours and when he entered the limo he seemed fidgety and not entirely lucid.")

It turns out that, from where Park was sitting, he could not see the bedroom window because it was in the back of the house. Yes, that was O.J. walking in the front door—so what? Of course O.J. lied to him. That's what you're supposed to do with the driver.

5. Why the Cops Planted the Evidence.

In spite of the above−listed crimes committed by the LAPD, I do not believe the reason they planted the glove, socks, and blood was because they are evil. I honestly trust that they believed in their heart of hearts that O.J. committed these murders. But by 5:00 A.M., six hours after the murders, having combed the area for the weapon and waking neighborhood residents out of bed to try to find a witness, they knew that they were without a case. They also knew that O.J., in the past, had beaten Nicole, so it was more than likely he was the prime suspect. But, they probably surmised, this guy was rich and famous and would definitely beat the rap, so they knew they had to strengthen their hand against a judicial system they perceived as unfair.

So a glove mysteriously turns up at the murder site and on the side of O.J.'s house. Though blood−soaked, it picks up no dirt or leaves from the ground. Apparently, O.J. was sneaking around the back of his house and the glove—a rather tight−fitting glove, as we saw at the trial—just fell off his hand and dried itself on the way to the ground so that no dirt would stick to it.

Then O.J. apparently went into his house, which is filled with white carpet. To avoid getting bloodstains on this carpet (none were discovered), he either put on a jet pack and flew upstairs to his bedroom, or had some Totes handy near the front door, which he slipped on and then got rid of later.

Once in the bedroom, he found a way to dispose of all of his clothes except his socks and, like most guys, left them right out in the open for someone to pick up−—like the L.A. police.

None of O.J.'s blood was found on Nicole's gate the night of the murder, but somehow I guess OJ. was able to sneak out of the L.A. County Jail and go back there and bleed all over the gate, because two weeks later, on July 3, a spot of O.J.'s blood suddenly appeared on that gate and was photographed by the police. I have heard of this happening to statues of the Blessed Virgin in various churches throughout the world, but I had never considered the spiritual powers of OJ.

I'm sure that Detective VanAtter meant to walk two doors down the hall to turn O.J.'s blood over to the lab after it was drawn from The Juice, but he got distracted, dropped the blood sample in his pocket, and headed out twenty miles to the crime scene. An honest mistake, just like when 1.5 cc of that blood came up missing. Probably the humidity in VanAtter's pocket—a place I'd never want to see the inside of—caused the stuff to evaporate.

There is a logical explanation for everything—just as there had to be when the L.A. cops planted evidence in these cases:

Sylvester Scott was arrested in March 1987 after Los Angeles sheriffs deputies left a plastic bag filled with cocaine inside his car during a search. Scott testified at the L.A. Sheriffs Department corruption trials of the early 1990s.

Former sheriff Robert Sobel also testified that on four or five occasions, deputies stole cocaine that had been stored as evidence and replaced it with a substance resembling cocaine, then planted the cocaine in the homes or cars of individuals they wanted to arrest.

Thirty members of the L.A. Sheriff's Department have been federally prosecuted for planting evidence, writing false police reports, and using excessive force against suspects.

In the case of Clarence Chance, police coerced witnesses into manufacturing evidence against him. As a result, he was convicted of and wrongly served more than seventeen years in jail for a murder he did not commit.

This little trick of planting the goods is not unique to L.A.:

The Mollen Commission, which spent twenty−two months investigating police corruption in New York City, concluded in a 1994 report that falsification of evidence and perjury were probably the most common types of police corruption facing the city's criminal justice system.

In 1995, more than fifteen New York City police officers in Harlem's 30th Precinct were indicted for or pleaded guilty to falsifying evidence or lying about how or where they found evidence. Subsequently, about 125 defendants were cleared of wrongdoing. Among themselves, officers nicknamed this widespread practice "testilying."

New York State troopers were recently convicted of participating in an evidence−tampering scheme that involved planting fingerprints at crime scenes to falsely implicate suspects.

In 1995, in Philadelphia, six police officers pleaded guilty to corruption charges, including planting false evidence and lying under oath. This has resulted in overturning more than sixty criminal cases, including that of a fifty−four−year−old grandmother imprisoned for three years after police officers planted narcotics in her row house.

6. That White Ford Bronco.

Ninety million people are tuned in to watch the performance of a white Ford Bronco during a police chase—and the thing can't go over forty miles per hour?! Pity the poor executives at Ford, back in Detroit, watching this abomination on national TV and screaming at the tube, "Step on it, Juice!"

I wonder how many people know about the prosecution's internal memo—not released until after the jury's verdict— that confirmed that they knew O.J. and Al Cowlings had gone to Nicole's grave on that Bronco ride (the police traced O.J.'s cellular phone and learned that he was at the cemetery).

And why was it we didn't find out until after the trial, from the same prosecutor's memo, that Al Cowlings actually pulled the Bronco over on the freeway when the first police cars arrived behind him? When Cowlings got out and saw that the police were drawing their guns, he dove back into the Bronco and took off. Why was this information withheld?

And what about the passport, the money, the gun, and the disguise? A lot of people I know, including myself, always carry their passports in their briefcases or purses— hey, you never know! The rich always carry a huge wad of money on them, and half of this country (myself not included) is packing heat. And the disguise? Hey, I never said O.J. wasn't weird. Maybe it was just tossed in the back of the Bronco from his last date with a Playboy centerfold.

7. If You Had Killed Someone and the Jury Miraculously Let You Off, Would You Be Calling In to Every Talk Show and Acting Like a Jerk?

Hell, no, I'd be out of Dodge like a lightning bolt, counting my blessings. You would never hear a peep from me again. But if I were truly innocent, and the majority of the country still didn't believe me after a jury of my peers said that I was, I might be acting a little crazy, too. If you've seen OJ's video or his appearance on Black Entertainment Television, you'd have to pause and wonder if just maybe he didn't commit these crimes. If you have an open mind, his evidence and explanation are quite convincing.

8. Look at Who's Whining About Playing the "Race Card"!

So Johnnie Cochran played the "race card." From what deck was this card dealt? From the one we white people stacked! We knew exactly what Cochran was doing because we've been dealing that card on Black America their entire lives. The deck is, and always has been, stacked against O.J. and every other person whose skin color isn't white. I couldn't have been happier to see Johnnie Cochran talk directly to the black jurors and remind them that the oppressive system that assaults them every day is the same system that constantly plants evidence, lies, and frames black citizens to the point where nearly half a million of them are behind bars in this country.

The only reason O.J. isn't one of them is that he had the money to fight it. People complain that O.J. got off because he was rich. In fact, his wealth was only an equalizer that somewhat leveled the playing field in the courtroom. The prosecution always has more money and resources than the defense; even in this case, the DA spent more than the defense. O.J. Simpson's wealth was his only hope to make up for the fact that he was black.

People went crazy when Johnnie Cochran compared the Idaho−bound Mark Fuhrman's attitude to that which brought about the Holocaust. Well, why the hell not? I believe it is our responsibility to shout down bigotry and racism wherever it exists, especially when it involves those who propose a "final solution." (Remember witness Kathleen Bell? She said Fuhrman told her about wanting to round up all blacks and set fire to them.) We dishonor the memory of the Holocaust and its victims whenever we stand silent and allow this type of hatred to go unchecked.

It is more than ironic that O.J. spent most of his life sucking up to the white establishment, playing golf with them, making sure most of his friends were white, living with them in Brentwood, marrying one of them, and exclusively dating them after his divorce.

O.J., if you are reading this, I have to say you tried harder than any black man I know to be one of us—AND A LOT OF loving GOOD THAT DID YOU! Within hours of the first TV report on the murders, you, The Most Loved Black Man in White America, were suddenly booted back to the ghetto faster than you can say H. Rap Brown. God, it must have been awful, all those years of smiling at the country club while listening to really stupid, racist white people. All those years of trying to make sure that those white people you were around felt relaxed enough in your presence. They let you sit on their corporate boards, they let you into the best restaurants in town—and in an instant, they took it all away from you.

And now, even after all this, you're still trying to please them. Look at you, promising now to go out and find the real killer. Hey, that's their job. What you should be doing is getting some help, 'cause you've got a real problem with women. I hear there are a lot of good shrinks in L.A.—or maybe you shouldn't wait. Just pick up the phone and call me (you can get my number from your former agent who is also my former agent). Or try the Alternatives to Violence Program at (310) 493−1161. They are especially equipped to help men like you who mistake women for a doormat.

As for the rest of us, O.J., I guess we share the collective guilt of not punishing you for beating Nicole. Each time she called 911, our representatives (the police) would show up at your door, say, "Hey, Juice," give you a pat on the back, get your autograph, and leave. The one time you actually got dragged into court, you got a $700 fine and "community service." You call that "paying your dues"?

Really? How 'bout if I came over tonight and beat the crap out of your daughter until she's so black and blue she can't shut her right eye? Would seven hundred bucks and a little community service sit okay with you? Think about how that would feel next time you open your mouth about "all this nonsense" regarding battered women.

Did you commit those murders? I don't think so. But you have helped the nation confront a number of ugly truths about itself and reminded us, once again, that we still live in two separate Americas—one white, the other black. For that, I, and even those who are sure of your guilt, are grateful.

Some Guy TT posted:

When you're white like me, and you believe that O. J. Simpson did not kill Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman, life can get very, very lonely. Nearly all of your friends think you've taken a vacation from reality. They caution you not to repeat your belief in his innocence in public, and certainly not in this book.

White people are very upset about the O.J. verdict. Very upset. But why? Because a killer was set free? That happens every day. Because O.J. beat his wife? Excuse me, that's going on next door to you. Right now. Have you called the police yet, or do you just not want to "get involved"?

If you are black, you already know the reasons why White America is so angry at the O.J. verdict, and you probably know what I'm about to say. Feel free to skip ahead to the next chapter.

I have never believed O. J. Simpson, with his own hands, killed these two people. I do believe he is one of the biggest pieces of poo poo walking the planet Earth, but that only puts him in the company of about 10 million other men who abuse women and the other billion or so of us who let them get away with it.

We don't want to acknowledge that, as a society, we let O.J. get away with beating the crap out of Nicole. Only after she was left dead and mutilated on a sidewalk on South Bundy Drive did we get on our high horse and demand justice. Did we want justice, or absolution for our inaction?

All of these questions have led me to wonder if it is possible in America for us to fairly judge an evil man. In other words, if this man O.J. commits nine evil acts (physical beatings, threats, trespassing, forced entry, psychological abuse, destruction of property, stalking, window−peeping, and adultery)—but he does not commit the tenth one (murder)—does he deserve to be found innocent of the one crime he didn't commit? Or, because we failed to punish him for the other nine crimes he was responsible for, does that give us the right to get out the noose and hang him now . . . because we screwed up?

I don't think so. I know most of you believe he did it, and I respect why you may feel that way—it sure appears the son of a bitch was right there that night with all his sick anger and jealousy—but what if he wasn't? None of us, including me, knows for sure if he was involved. Only O.J. and Kato the Akita Dog know if he committed this horrible crime. I'd like to walk you through my reasoning as to why O.J. probably didn't do it—and what the larger implications of this case are for those of us who live in this very divided America.

1. Nothing the L.A. Police Say Should Ever Be Believed.

This is one of the most corrupt, dishonest, racist, and violent police forces in the world. Case after case from the LAPD and the L.A. Sheriff's Department during the past decade does nothing but point up what a bunch of thugs many of those who wear that black uniform are. Nothing has amazed me more during the O.J. ordeal than how otherwise intelligent, liberal−minded people have forgotten what the term "L.A. police" means.

Please allow me to remind you of the following:

In 1993, L.A. police officers killed Michael James Bryant, a popular Pasadena barber, asphyxiating him in the backseat of a police car after hog−tying and beating him. The coroner ruled his death a homicide.

In June 1992, an unarmed African−American tow−truck driver, John L. Daniels Jr., pulled into a Chevron service station on the corner of Florence and Crenshaw—−just two miles from the flashpoint of the April 1992 riots. While pumping gas, he was approached by two white L.A. motorcycle police officers, including Douglas Iversen, a fifteen−year veteran with a history of misconduct. After an argument over his registration, Daniels became exasperated and tried to leave. He was promptly shot dead in his truck by Iversen. Area residents described Daniels's death as a public execution, according to writer Mike Davis in the Los Angeles Times. Iversen was not fired until March 1995.

Between 1988 and 1994, in at least eight cases, female police officers alleged that they were sexually assaulted by men in the LAPD. One police officer allegedly raped two female counterparts while off duty, shoving a 9−millimeter pistol into one woman, ice cubes into the other.

In 1985, Officer Ronald L. Benegas pleaded guilty to burglary in connection with an LAPD burglary ring involving twelve officers. Benegas, who admitted to committing more than a hundred burglaries while on duty, said that he and another officer would break store windows using marbles fired from slingshots. Then, while ostensibly responding to the alarms, they would steal the merchandise.

In 1991, a commission headed by now−Secretary of State Warren Christopher confirmed the commonplace use of excessive force and systemic racism throughout the LAPD.

And, of course, there was the beating of Rodney King, which I don't need to rehash for you on these pages.

I have felt, long before O.J., that anything the L.A. Police Department says must, at first, not be believed. For any of us to believe another individual, we have to trust them. Have the L.A. police earned your trust? Because they have violated that trust, I am forced to presume they are lying whenever they speak, and only when they can prove that they are not lying can I believe their version of anything.

I don't understand why so many people have believed the version of events that took place on Bundy that night as laid out by this corrupt department. What miracle did they perform to gain the trust of so many Americans?

The "police version" of Ron's and Nicole's murders was developed, in part, by a detective named Mark Fuhrman. "Oh, if only the prosecution hadn't called Fuhrman!" That's what people like to say. As if Fuhrman was no more than a "tactical error" instead of perhaps the root of what is wrong here. The day the "Fuhrman tapes" were played in Judge Ito's courtroom to determine whether the jury should hear them, I happened to be watching the trial live. The tapes were so damaging to the efforts by the media to convict OJ. in the court of public opinion that no network newscast that night played them verbatim and in full. The New York Times did not run a transcript of them the next day. Unless you were watching TV live at eleven−thirty that morning, the full text of what Fuhrman said was kept from you. Here are the uncensored highlights from Mark Fuhrman's taped conversations with screenwriter Laura McKinney.

(Keep in mind that the jury never heard any of these remarks by Fuhrman.)

Mark Fuhrman (referring to a suspect): "[I]f I would have arrested the son of a bitch, I would have killed him. If I ever see the son of a bitch and we're alone, I would kill him. . . . [D]ead men tell no tales."

Mark Fuhrman: "Most real good policemen understand that they would just love to take certain people and just take them to the alley and just blow their brains out."

Mark Fuhrman: "We stopped the choke because a bunch of niggers have a bunch of those organizations in the South End and because all niggers were choked out and killed— twelve in ten years. Really extraordinary, isn't it?"

Mark Fuhrman: "Westwood is gone. The niggers have discovered it."

Mark Fuhrman: "There is going to be a massacre in the future and they know that. There is the Rolling Sixties, a friend of the family group, they went into a sporting goods store and stole fifty Uzis, 3,000 rounds."

Mark Fuhrman: "First thing, anything out of a friend of the family's mouth for the first five or six sentences is a loving lie. . . . You keep choking him until he tells you the truth. You know, it is kind of funny, but a lot of policemen will get a kick out of it."

Mark Fuhrman: "We basically got impatient with him being so loving stupid. ... So we .. .just went the 'scenic route' to the station. . . . Dana goes, 'No blood, Mark.' 'No problem, not even any marks, Dana.' Just body shots. Did you ever try to find a bruise on a friend of the family? It's pretty tough, huh?"

Mark Fuhrman: " [W] hen he gives me his driver's license, I'll just rip the fucker up."

Mark Fuhrman: "I had sixty−six allegations of brutality. . . . We grabbed a girl that lived there. . . .Grabbed her by her head and used her as a barricade. Walked up and told them, 'I got this girl, I'll blow her fuckin' brains out if you come out with a gun.' Held her like this, threw the bitch down the stairs. ... I must have three or four thousand pages of internal investigations [on me] out there."

Yes, this is the same man who found the Isotoner gloves and the tiny spots of blood in the dark, and entered O.J.'s property without a warrant. And 77 percent of white America still believes the Official Story.

2. The Rich and Famous Have Never Committed Capital Murder.

Don't get me wrong. The rich are the biggest murderers throughout history. But I'm not talking about killing in the abstract (like Kissinger being responsible for the deaths of countless Vietnamese and Cambodians, or the Ford Motor Company producing Pintos they knew might explode on impact); I mean actual, with−your−own−hands, thought−out−in−advance capital murder.

Can you think of a single rich, famous celebrity in the history of this country who has committed first−degree murder?

Go ahead, I'm waiting. And don't give me relatives of celebrities, like Marlon Brando's son (he killed his sister's boyfriend in a fight), Andy Williams's wife (Claudine Longet divorced Andy and then "accidentally" killed Olympic skier Spider Sabich), Lana Turner's daughter (Cheryl stabbed Lana's abusive boyfriend, Johnny Stompanato, when he was threatening her), Fatty Arbuckle (a victim of William Randolph Hearst's smear campaign, Fatty was found innocent), John du Pont (who was certainly rich but not a celebrity, and completely unknown outside the wrestling community when he killed Dave Schultz), or Sid Vicious (a doped−up Brit who got a room in the Chelsea Hotel where he offed girlfriend Nancy and then killed himself).

I want you to name an actual American celebrity (not their relative) who is a multimillionaire and who, not in the "heat of the moment," but with cold−blooded planning, murdered another human being.

The truth is, there isn't one. Trust me, this is the safest group of people to be around. Put me on a subway car full of these fat cats any day! Force me to live in a tenement high−rise with the heads of Disney and Paramount and their top box office stars and I'll never lock my doors! You never have to be in fear of your life in their presence because they would never risk losing the lifestyle to which they've grown so accustomed.

Of course, the rich and famous do a lot of despicable things—cheat, lie, steal, do drugs, commit suicide, beat their wives, abandon their kids, take all the good parking spaces— but the one crime they never commit is premeditated murder.

Why? Because they would have to get their hands dirty!

If there is one thing I've learned in my brief Hollywood career, it's that these people never get their hands dirty. They do not do a drat thing for themselves. I mean nothing. They have so much money sitting around that they never have to lift a finger. Whether, as The New Republic points out, it's Pia Zadora having her assistant shave her armpits, or Liz Taylor boasting she has never set foot in a bank, or Henry Kissinger taking his dog for a walk and having his bodyguard walk behind him to scoop up the poop, or Bruce Willis requiring twenty−two personal assistants on the set of Billy Bathgate, these people never lift a finger to do anything. The list of jobs they hire others to do for them is amazing. You will never see a celebrity:

Pick up their dirty underwear. A person in O.J.'s position has not done a load of laundry in years—if ever. He has never had to pick up his soiled Jockeys, strip his skanky bed, or wipe his snot off the wall.

Carry their own bags. From the driver who picks him up at his house, to the "special services" personnel from the airlines who greet him at the curb, to the first−class flight attendants who lift his crap up into the overhead bin, O.T. has not had to carry anything but a nine−iron and a football in all his adult life.

Walk their dog. In the building where I live in New York, each morning and evening a group of professional dog−walkers arrive to take the miniature poodles downstairs to deface our sidewalk. These dog−walkers earn a good living doing this.

De−grout their toenails. I doubt O.J. has ever had some underpaid Mexican paint his toenails, and I'll bet he hasn't had to clean the gunk out from under any naillike surface on his body since moving to Brentwood.

Raise their kids. Some celebrity couples have multiple nannies in the house who wake the kids in the morning, do their homework with them after school, and tuck them in at night. The parents will often call in their "good nights" on the phone in the child's room. Employees of the parents are sent to the private school to take notes and discuss their children's grades.

Do their shopping. It was no accident that most of the presidential candidates this year didn't know how much a gallon of milk cost. These people haven't set foot inside a Safeway in decades. Remember George Bush at the checkout scanner? Just imagine these wealthy weenies trying to work an ATM machine!

Cook. Why do that when you can get Kato to drive through McDonald's with you in your Rolls−Royce on the cook's day off?

Dial a phone number. No matter which celebrities I have had meetings with in Hollywood, they will invariably yell out to an assistant, "Get so−and−so on the line for me!" I have never seen any of these people dial a telephone number on their own. If you want to see a blank stare, ask any of them to tell you their fax number.

Kill an ex−spouse. If the rich actually get to the point where they feel compelled to eliminate the person they were once married to, they would never, ever do this job themselves—not when there are so many unemployed, desperate individuals around who are willing to off just about anyone for two hundred dollars. To do the job yourself would jeopardize your social position—and no matter how crazy you are, you're always sane enough to have this in the forefront of your mind. ("Rule Number One: I can do anything I want . . . except kill someone in cold blood with my own hands.")

The rich and famous are so removed from what the rest of us have to go through. Ask a celebrity to give his or her Zip Code. They can't. Ask them what the credit limit is on their MasterCard, and they'll say, "What's a MasterCard?" If they have any kind of credit card, it's the Platinum Card from American Express, which requires the holder to pay the entire amount charged at the end of every month. The rich have no need to carry a balance from month to month, paying only a bit at a time, like the rest of us schlumps.

If O.J. was involved with these murders (and I don't think he was), there is no way he committed them himself. Just as he paid a guy to wipe down his hot tub twice a week, he would have hired it done.

3. The Killer Was Smart, Not Stupid like O.J.

Whoever committed this crime knew what they were doing. Next time you're in L.A., take a spin down Bundy on a Sunday evening in front of Nicole's condo. Man, this is one busy street! It's practically a major thoroughfare, connecting San Vicente and Wilshire. A car passes by her place about once every five seconds. People are out walking their dogs (Nicole lived in the downscale part of Brentwood, where residents walk their own dogs), and there is a lot of activity in the neighborhood around 10:00 P.M. The killer (or killers) pulled off a grisly double murder where one of the victims put up quite an intense struggle, and there was not a single witness. No murder weapon was ever recovered. No blood−soaked clothes (the slashing of Ron and Nicole spewed about two gallons of human blood out onto the killer and the crime scene) were ever found. This person (and his possible accomplice) knew exactly what he was doing.

Now take OJ. Simpson. The guy's day begins at 6:00 a.m. at the Riviera Country Club where he plays eighteen holes of golf. Later, after a few rounds of gin rummy in the clubhouse, he goes home, picks up his July issue of Playboy, and decides he has to talk to the centerfold, Traci Adell, whom he has never met. So he tracks her down in Maryland, where she's making a film, and they talk for forty−five minutes. ("He started talking about his ex−wives," she said later in an interview. "And he made a little joke about how I'm not his typical type. He said he'd dated blondes.") He stays on the phone with Traci for too long and, like a jerk, shows up late for his daughter's dance recital. He is videotaped afterward looking upbeat and happy, talking to Nicole and the kids. He later gets Kato to go to McDonald's with him. Now the guy is tanked up on a Big Mac and a large order of fries. He has to get ready and leave to go to the airport in less than an hour and a half.

So, if we are to believe the prosecution, he leaves himself only thirty minutes to drive over to Nicole's, commit the murders, and get back so he can shower, pack, and head off to LAX. To commit the murder, he doesn't take the weapon of choice among us nonprofessionals—the handgun (quick, easy, no bloodstains on your Ralph Lauren polo shirt). He takes a big knife!

Oh, and he forgets that he is black. Here we have a BLACK guy supposedly wandering around Brentwood on a busy street at night, wearing a black knit hat and black gloves, carrying a big knife.

And, without anyone seeing him, he brutally and repeatedly stabs two strong, healthy young people only twenty−five feet from the street. He then gets rid of the knife and all the clothes, goes back home, showers, packs, and calmly gets into the limo for the ride to the airport, without a bruise on him.

I know OJ. is big and black, so that may be enough for some of you to believe the above is possible. God knows, we all poo poo a brick whenever we see a Big Black Guy walking toward us in the middle of the night!

But what if OJ. were white? Would you feel just the slightest bit different? If that incredible scenario had been told to you about, say, Frank Gifford or Marv Albert, would you be so quick to rush to judgment? Or if the victim had been O.J.'s first wife, a black woman, do you think this case would have received the same intense media attention and public outcry? Please, answer honestly.

4. I Always Lie to the Driver.

One of the perks that comes with working in Hollywood is The Car they send to pick you up. The first time this happened to me, after Roger &Me was released, I hopped into the front seat with the driver—which made him very nervous because the rules say you are to sit in the backseat while he drives you. When I got out, I went to pay him, and he laughed and said it was covered by the studio. If you are from the working class, you'll remember the embarrassment you experienced that first time you flew on a plane and, not knowing any better, got out your wallet to pay the stewardess for the meal.

These drivers, by and large, are a creepy bunch. I hate to say that because it's such a lovely job and I'm sure they're treated very poorly by the rich farts they drive around. But in the past year, on various trips to L.A., I have been subjected to a desperate Rupert Pupkin−type appeal by a driver to put him in my next film, an offer to join the Church of Scientology, two accidents, a driver who asked me to wait in the car while he went in to fence some "hot" jewelry, and a driver who chewed my ear off about having been arrested that morning for child abuse and how he was going to "hunt down that oval office of an ex−wife and teach her a thing or two." When he didn't return to pick me up, I was stranded alone, two hours from the city. I called the car service to tell them he had probably abandoned me so he could go back to beat up his ex−wife whom he called a "oval office."

"Well, sir," replied his boss, "she is." I told this moron that as long as women were treated in this manner, the world would not be safe for them. I then asked the studio the next day never to use this service again, and they agreed, costing the limo company, I hope, thousands of dollars of business.

Which brings me to Alan Park, O.J.'s driver on the night of the murders. The prosecution hailed him as their star witness. He testified that he just kept ringing the bell and there was no answer. There was no light on in the bedroom. Then he saw a black man going in the front door. (Marcia Clark says Park saw a man walk across the lawn, but Park never testified to this.) He said that he buzzed O.J. again, and O.J. told him over the intercom that he had overslept (O.J. denies this), and that he had just taken a shower.

Either way, "I was in the shower" is just one of those lies you tell the drivers who want you to come out and get in their car as soon as they get there. These drivers always show up a half hour early and bug the hell out of you because as soon as they can get rid of you they can make more money by squeezing in another pickup.
My policy is never to answer their call until I'm ready to leave. And when I come down I always make up some weird excuse. ("Sorry, but I had Fidel Castro on the phone, and you know, vou can never get him to shut up.") God help me if any of these drivers ever believe me or are called to testify against me ("Yes, your honor, he was on the phone with Castro for hours and when he entered the limo he seemed fidgety and not entirely lucid.")

It turns out that, from where Park was sitting, he could not see the bedroom window because it was in the back of the house. Yes, that was O.J. walking in the front door—so what? Of course O.J. lied to him. That's what you're supposed to do with the driver.

5. Why the Cops Planted the Evidence.

In spite of the above−listed crimes committed by the LAPD, I do not believe the reason they planted the glove, socks, and blood was because they are evil. I honestly trust that they believed in their heart of hearts that O.J. committed these murders. But by 5:00 A.M., six hours after the murders, having combed the area for the weapon and waking neighborhood residents out of bed to try to find a witness, they knew that they were without a case. They also knew that O.J., in the past, had beaten Nicole, so it was more than likely he was the prime suspect. But, they probably surmised, this guy was rich and famous and would definitely beat the rap, so they knew they had to strengthen their hand against a judicial system they perceived as unfair.

So a glove mysteriously turns up at the murder site and on the side of O.J.'s house. Though blood−soaked, it picks up no dirt or leaves from the ground. Apparently, O.J. was sneaking around the back of his house and the glove—a rather tight−fitting glove, as we saw at the trial—just fell off his hand and dried itself on the way to the ground so that no dirt would stick to it.

Then O.J. apparently went into his house, which is filled with white carpet. To avoid getting bloodstains on this carpet (none were discovered), he either put on a jet pack and flew upstairs to his bedroom, or had some Totes handy near the front door, which he slipped on and then got rid of later.

Once in the bedroom, he found a way to dispose of all of his clothes except his socks and, like most guys, left them right out in the open for someone to pick up−—like the L.A. police.

None of O.J.'s blood was found on Nicole's gate the night of the murder, but somehow I guess OJ. was able to sneak out of the L.A. County Jail and go back there and bleed all over the gate, because two weeks later, on July 3, a spot of O.J.'s blood suddenly appeared on that gate and was photographed by the police. I have heard of this happening to statues of the Blessed Virgin in various churches throughout the world, but I had never considered the spiritual powers of OJ.

I'm sure that Detective VanAtter meant to walk two doors down the hall to turn O.J.'s blood over to the lab after it was drawn from The Juice, but he got distracted, dropped the blood sample in his pocket, and headed out twenty miles to the crime scene. An honest mistake, just like when 1.5 cc of that blood came up missing. Probably the humidity in VanAtter's pocket—a place I'd never want to see the inside of—caused the stuff to evaporate.

There is a logical explanation for everything—just as there had to be when the L.A. cops planted evidence in these cases:

Sylvester Scott was arrested in March 1987 after Los Angeles sheriffs deputies left a plastic bag filled with cocaine inside his car during a search. Scott testified at the L.A. Sheriffs Department corruption trials of the early 1990s.

Former sheriff Robert Sobel also testified that on four or five occasions, deputies stole cocaine that had been stored as evidence and replaced it with a substance resembling cocaine, then planted the cocaine in the homes or cars of individuals they wanted to arrest.

Thirty members of the L.A. Sheriff's Department have been federally prosecuted for planting evidence, writing false police reports, and using excessive force against suspects.

In the case of Clarence Chance, police coerced witnesses into manufacturing evidence against him. As a result, he was convicted of and wrongly served more than seventeen years in jail for a murder he did not commit.

This little trick of planting the goods is not unique to L.A.:

The Mollen Commission, which spent twenty−two months investigating police corruption in New York City, concluded in a 1994 report that falsification of evidence and perjury were probably the most common types of police corruption facing the city's criminal justice system.

In 1995, more than fifteen New York City police officers in Harlem's 30th Precinct were indicted for or pleaded guilty to falsifying evidence or lying about how or where they found evidence. Subsequently, about 125 defendants were cleared of wrongdoing. Among themselves, officers nicknamed this widespread practice "testilying."

New York State troopers were recently convicted of participating in an evidence−tampering scheme that involved planting fingerprints at crime scenes to falsely implicate suspects.

In 1995, in Philadelphia, six police officers pleaded guilty to corruption charges, including planting false evidence and lying under oath. This has resulted in overturning more than sixty criminal cases, including that of a fifty−four−year−old grandmother imprisoned for three years after police officers planted narcotics in her row house.

6. That White Ford Bronco.

Ninety million people are tuned in to watch the performance of a white Ford Bronco during a police chase—and the thing can't go over forty miles per hour?! Pity the poor executives at Ford, back in Detroit, watching this abomination on national TV and screaming at the tube, "Step on it, Juice!"

I wonder how many people know about the prosecution's internal memo—not released until after the jury's verdict— that confirmed that they knew O.J. and Al Cowlings had gone to Nicole's grave on that Bronco ride (the police traced O.J.'s cellular phone and learned that he was at the cemetery).

And why was it we didn't find out until after the trial, from the same prosecutor's memo, that Al Cowlings actually pulled the Bronco over on the freeway when the first police cars arrived behind him? When Cowlings got out and saw that the police were drawing their guns, he dove back into the Bronco and took off. Why was this information withheld?

And what about the passport, the money, the gun, and the disguise? A lot of people I know, including myself, always carry their passports in their briefcases or purses— hey, you never know! The rich always carry a huge wad of money on them, and half of this country (myself not included) is packing heat. And the disguise? Hey, I never said O.J. wasn't weird. Maybe it was just tossed in the back of the Bronco from his last date with a Playboy centerfold.

7. If You Had Killed Someone and the Jury Miraculously Let You Off, Would You Be Calling In to Every Talk Show and Acting Like a Jerk?

Hell, no, I'd be out of Dodge like a lightning bolt, counting my blessings. You would never hear a peep from me again. But if I were truly innocent, and the majority of the country still didn't believe me after a jury of my peers said that I was, I might be acting a little crazy, too. If you've seen OJ's video or his appearance on Black Entertainment Television, you'd have to pause and wonder if just maybe he didn't commit these crimes. If you have an open mind, his evidence and explanation are quite convincing.

8. Look at Who's Whining About Playing the "Race Card"!

So Johnnie Cochran played the "race card." From what deck was this card dealt? From the one we white people stacked! We knew exactly what Cochran was doing because we've been dealing that card on Black America their entire lives. The deck is, and always has been, stacked against O.J. and every other person whose skin color isn't white. I couldn't have been happier to see Johnnie Cochran talk directly to the black jurors and remind them that the oppressive system that assaults them every day is the same system that constantly plants evidence, lies, and frames black citizens to the point where nearly half a million of them are behind bars in this country.

The only reason O.J. isn't one of them is that he had the money to fight it. People complain that O.J. got off because he was rich. In fact, his wealth was only an equalizer that somewhat leveled the playing field in the courtroom. The prosecution always has more money and resources than the defense; even in this case, the DA spent more than the defense. O.J. Simpson's wealth was his only hope to make up for the fact that he was black.

People went crazy when Johnnie Cochran compared the Idaho−bound Mark Fuhrman's attitude to that which brought about the Holocaust. Well, why the hell not? I believe it is our responsibility to shout down bigotry and racism wherever it exists, especially when it involves those who propose a "final solution." (Remember witness Kathleen Bell? She said Fuhrman told her about wanting to round up all blacks and set fire to them.) We dishonor the memory of the Holocaust and its victims whenever we stand silent and allow this type of hatred to go unchecked.

It is more than ironic that O.J. spent most of his life sucking up to the white establishment, playing golf with them, making sure most of his friends were white, living with them in Brentwood, marrying one of them, and exclusively dating them after his divorce.

O.J., if you are reading this, I have to say you tried harder than any black man I know to be one of us—AND A LOT OF loving GOOD THAT DID YOU! Within hours of the first TV report on the murders, you, The Most Loved Black Man in White America, were suddenly booted back to the ghetto faster than you can say H. Rap Brown. God, it must have been awful, all those years of smiling at the country club while listening to really stupid, racist white people. All those years of trying to make sure that those white people you were around felt relaxed enough in your presence. They let you sit on their corporate boards, they let you into the best restaurants in town—and in an instant, they took it all away from you.

And now, even after all this, you're still trying to please them. Look at you, promising now to go out and find the real killer. Hey, that's their job. What you should be doing is getting some help, 'cause you've got a real problem with women. I hear there are a lot of good shrinks in L.A.—or maybe you shouldn't wait. Just pick up the phone and call me (you can get my number from your former agent who is also my former agent). Or try the Alternatives to Violence Program at (310) 493−1161. They are especially equipped to help men like you who mistake women for a doormat.

As for the rest of us, O.J., I guess we share the collective guilt of not punishing you for beating Nicole. Each time she called 911, our representatives (the police) would show up at your door, say, "Hey, Juice," give you a pat on the back, get your autograph, and leave. The one time you actually got dragged into court, you got a $700 fine and "community service." You call that "paying your dues"?

Really? How 'bout if I came over tonight and beat the crap out of your daughter until she's so black and blue she can't shut her right eye? Would seven hundred bucks and a little community service sit okay with you? Think about how that would feel next time you open your mouth about "all this nonsense" regarding battered women.

Did you commit those murders? I don't think so. But you have helped the nation confront a number of ugly truths about itself and reminded us, once again, that we still live in two separate Americas—one white, the other black. For that, I, and even those who are sure of your guilt, are grateful.

Some Guy TT posted:

When you're white like me, and you believe that O. J. Simpson did not kill Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman, life can get very, very lonely. Nearly all of your friends think you've taken a vacation from reality. They caution you not to repeat your belief in his innocence in public, and certainly not in this book.

White people are very upset about the O.J. verdict. Very upset. But why? Because a killer was set free? That happens every day. Because O.J. beat his wife? Excuse me, that's going on next door to you. Right now. Have you called the police yet, or do you just not want to "get involved"?

If you are black, you already know the reasons why White America is so angry at the O.J. verdict, and you probably know what I'm about to say. Feel free to skip ahead to the next chapter.

I have never believed O. J. Simpson, with his own hands, killed these two people. I do believe he is one of the biggest pieces of poo poo walking the planet Earth, but that only puts him in the company of about 10 million other men who abuse women and the other billion or so of us who let them get away with it.

We don't want to acknowledge that, as a society, we let O.J. get away with beating the crap out of Nicole. Only after she was left dead and mutilated on a sidewalk on South Bundy Drive did we get on our high horse and demand justice. Did we want justice, or absolution for our inaction?

All of these questions have led me to wonder if it is possible in America for us to fairly judge an evil man. In other words, if this man O.J. commits nine evil acts (physical beatings, threats, trespassing, forced entry, psychological abuse, destruction of property, stalking, window−peeping, and adultery)—but he does not commit the tenth one (murder)—does he deserve to be found innocent of the one crime he didn't commit? Or, because we failed to punish him for the other nine crimes he was responsible for, does that give us the right to get out the noose and hang him now . . . because we screwed up?

I don't think so. I know most of you believe he did it, and I respect why you may feel that way—it sure appears the son of a bitch was right there that night with all his sick anger and jealousy—but what if he wasn't? None of us, including me, knows for sure if he was involved. Only O.J. and Kato the Akita Dog know if he committed this horrible crime. I'd like to walk you through my reasoning as to why O.J. probably didn't do it—and what the larger implications of this case are for those of us who live in this very divided America.

1. Nothing the L.A. Police Say Should Ever Be Believed.

This is one of the most corrupt, dishonest, racist, and violent police forces in the world. Case after case from the LAPD and the L.A. Sheriff's Department during the past decade does nothing but point up what a bunch of thugs many of those who wear that black uniform are. Nothing has amazed me more during the O.J. ordeal than how otherwise intelligent, liberal−minded people have forgotten what the term "L.A. police" means.

Please allow me to remind you of the following:

In 1993, L.A. police officers killed Michael James Bryant, a popular Pasadena barber, asphyxiating him in the backseat of a police car after hog−tying and beating him. The coroner ruled his death a homicide.

In June 1992, an unarmed African−American tow−truck driver, John L. Daniels Jr., pulled into a Chevron service station on the corner of Florence and Crenshaw—−just two miles from the flashpoint of the April 1992 riots. While pumping gas, he was approached by two white L.A. motorcycle police officers, including Douglas Iversen, a fifteen−year veteran with a history of misconduct. After an argument over his registration, Daniels became exasperated and tried to leave. He was promptly shot dead in his truck by Iversen. Area residents described Daniels's death as a public execution, according to writer Mike Davis in the Los Angeles Times. Iversen was not fired until March 1995.

Between 1988 and 1994, in at least eight cases, female police officers alleged that they were sexually assaulted by men in the LAPD. One police officer allegedly raped two female counterparts while off duty, shoving a 9−millimeter pistol into one woman, ice cubes into the other.

In 1985, Officer Ronald L. Benegas pleaded guilty to burglary in connection with an LAPD burglary ring involving twelve officers. Benegas, who admitted to committing more than a hundred burglaries while on duty, said that he and another officer would break store windows using marbles fired from slingshots. Then, while ostensibly responding to the alarms, they would steal the merchandise.

In 1991, a commission headed by now−Secretary of State Warren Christopher confirmed the commonplace use of excessive force and systemic racism throughout the LAPD.

And, of course, there was the beating of Rodney King, which I don't need to rehash for you on these pages.

I have felt, long before O.J., that anything the L.A. Police Department says must, at first, not be believed. For any of us to believe another individual, we have to trust them. Have the L.A. police earned your trust? Because they have violated that trust, I am forced to presume they are lying whenever they speak, and only when they can prove that they are not lying can I believe their version of anything.

I don't understand why so many people have believed the version of events that took place on Bundy that night as laid out by this corrupt department. What miracle did they perform to gain the trust of so many Americans?

The "police version" of Ron's and Nicole's murders was developed, in part, by a detective named Mark Fuhrman. "Oh, if only the prosecution hadn't called Fuhrman!" That's what people like to say. As if Fuhrman was no more than a "tactical error" instead of perhaps the root of what is wrong here. The day the "Fuhrman tapes" were played in Judge Ito's courtroom to determine whether the jury should hear them, I happened to be watching the trial live. The tapes were so damaging to the efforts by the media to convict OJ. in the court of public opinion that no network newscast that night played them verbatim and in full. The New York Times did not run a transcript of them the next day. Unless you were watching TV live at eleven−thirty that morning, the full text of what Fuhrman said was kept from you. Here are the uncensored highlights from Mark Fuhrman's taped conversations with screenwriter Laura McKinney.

(Keep in mind that the jury never heard any of these remarks by Fuhrman.)

Mark Fuhrman (referring to a suspect): "[I]f I would have arrested the son of a bitch, I would have killed him. If I ever see the son of a bitch and we're alone, I would kill him. . . . [D]ead men tell no tales."

Mark Fuhrman: "Most real good policemen understand that they would just love to take certain people and just take them to the alley and just blow their brains out."

Mark Fuhrman: "We stopped the choke because a bunch of niggers have a bunch of those organizations in the South End and because all niggers were choked out and killed— twelve in ten years. Really extraordinary, isn't it?"

Mark Fuhrman: "Westwood is gone. The niggers have discovered it."

Mark Fuhrman: "There is going to be a massacre in the future and they know that. There is the Rolling Sixties, a friend of the family group, they went into a sporting goods store and stole fifty Uzis, 3,000 rounds."

Mark Fuhrman: "First thing, anything out of a friend of the family's mouth for the first five or six sentences is a loving lie. . . . You keep choking him until he tells you the truth. You know, it is kind of funny, but a lot of policemen will get a kick out of it."

Mark Fuhrman: "We basically got impatient with him being so loving stupid. ... So we .. .just went the 'scenic route' to the station. . . . Dana goes, 'No blood, Mark.' 'No problem, not even any marks, Dana.' Just body shots. Did you ever try to find a bruise on a friend of the family? It's pretty tough, huh?"

Mark Fuhrman: " [W] hen he gives me his driver's license, I'll just rip the fucker up."

Mark Fuhrman: "I had sixty−six allegations of brutality. . . . We grabbed a girl that lived there. . . .Grabbed her by her head and used her as a barricade. Walked up and told them, 'I got this girl, I'll blow her fuckin' brains out if you come out with a gun.' Held her like this, threw the bitch down the stairs. ... I must have three or four thousand pages of internal investigations [on me] out there."

Yes, this is the same man who found the Isotoner gloves and the tiny spots of blood in the dark, and entered O.J.'s property without a warrant. And 77 percent of white America still believes the Official Story.

2. The Rich and Famous Have Never Committed Capital Murder.

Don't get me wrong. The rich are the biggest murderers throughout history. But I'm not talking about killing in the abstract (like Kissinger being responsible for the deaths of countless Vietnamese and Cambodians, or the Ford Motor Company producing Pintos they knew might explode on impact); I mean actual, with−your−own−hands, thought−out−in−advance capital murder.

Can you think of a single rich, famous celebrity in the history of this country who has committed first−degree murder?

Go ahead, I'm waiting. And don't give me relatives of celebrities, like Marlon Brando's son (he killed his sister's boyfriend in a fight), Andy Williams's wife (Claudine Longet divorced Andy and then "accidentally" killed Olympic skier Spider Sabich), Lana Turner's daughter (Cheryl stabbed Lana's abusive boyfriend, Johnny Stompanato, when he was threatening her), Fatty Arbuckle (a victim of William Randolph Hearst's smear campaign, Fatty was found innocent), John du Pont (who was certainly rich but not a celebrity, and completely unknown outside the wrestling community when he killed Dave Schultz), or Sid Vicious (a doped−up Brit who got a room in the Chelsea Hotel where he offed girlfriend Nancy and then killed himself).

I want you to name an actual American celebrity (not their relative) who is a multimillionaire and who, not in the "heat of the moment," but with cold−blooded planning, murdered another human being.

The truth is, there isn't one. Trust me, this is the safest group of people to be around. Put me on a subway car full of these fat cats any day! Force me to live in a tenement high−rise with the heads of Disney and Paramount and their top box office stars and I'll never lock my doors! You never have to be in fear of your life in their presence because they would never risk losing the lifestyle to which they've grown so accustomed.

Of course, the rich and famous do a lot of despicable things—cheat, lie, steal, do drugs, commit suicide, beat their wives, abandon their kids, take all the good parking spaces— but the one crime they never commit is premeditated murder.

Why? Because they would have to get their hands dirty!

If there is one thing I've learned in my brief Hollywood career, it's that these people never get their hands dirty. They do not do a drat thing for themselves. I mean nothing. They have so much money sitting around that they never have to lift a finger. Whether, as The New Republic points out, it's Pia Zadora having her assistant shave her armpits, or Liz Taylor boasting she has never set foot in a bank, or Henry Kissinger taking his dog for a walk and having his bodyguard walk behind him to scoop up the poop, or Bruce Willis requiring twenty−two personal assistants on the set of Billy Bathgate, these people never lift a finger to do anything. The list of jobs they hire others to do for them is amazing. You will never see a celebrity:

Pick up their dirty underwear. A person in O.J.'s position has not done a load of laundry in years—if ever. He has never had to pick up his soiled Jockeys, strip his skanky bed, or wipe his snot off the wall.

Carry their own bags. From the driver who picks him up at his house, to the "special services" personnel from the airlines who greet him at the curb, to the first−class flight attendants who lift his crap up into the overhead bin, O.T. has not had to carry anything but a nine−iron and a football in all his adult life.

Walk their dog. In the building where I live in New York, each morning and evening a group of professional dog−walkers arrive to take the miniature poodles downstairs to deface our sidewalk. These dog−walkers earn a good living doing this.

De−grout their toenails. I doubt O.J. has ever had some underpaid Mexican paint his toenails, and I'll bet he hasn't had to clean the gunk out from under any naillike surface on his body since moving to Brentwood.

Raise their kids. Some celebrity couples have multiple nannies in the house who wake the kids in the morning, do their homework with them after school, and tuck them in at night. The parents will often call in their "good nights" on the phone in the child's room. Employees of the parents are sent to the private school to take notes and discuss their children's grades.

Do their shopping. It was no accident that most of the presidential candidates this year didn't know how much a gallon of milk cost. These people haven't set foot inside a Safeway in decades. Remember George Bush at the checkout scanner? Just imagine these wealthy weenies trying to work an ATM machine!

Cook. Why do that when you can get Kato to drive through McDonald's with you in your Rolls−Royce on the cook's day off?

Dial a phone number. No matter which celebrities I have had meetings with in Hollywood, they will invariably yell out to an assistant, "Get so−and−so on the line for me!" I have never seen any of these people dial a telephone number on their own. If you want to see a blank stare, ask any of them to tell you their fax number.

Kill an ex−spouse. If the rich actually get to the point where they feel compelled to eliminate the person they were once married to, they would never, ever do this job themselves—not when there are so many unemployed, desperate individuals around who are willing to off just about anyone for two hundred dollars. To do the job yourself would jeopardize your social position—and no matter how crazy you are, you're always sane enough to have this in the forefront of your mind. ("Rule Number One: I can do anything I want . . . except kill someone in cold blood with my own hands.")

The rich and famous are so removed from what the rest of us have to go through. Ask a celebrity to give his or her Zip Code. They can't. Ask them what the credit limit is on their MasterCard, and they'll say, "What's a MasterCard?" If they have any kind of credit card, it's the Platinum Card from American Express, which requires the holder to pay the entire amount charged at the end of every month. The rich have no need to carry a balance from month to month, paying only a bit at a time, like the rest of us schlumps.

If O.J. was involved with these murders (and I don't think he was), there is no way he committed them himself. Just as he paid a guy to wipe down his hot tub twice a week, he would have hired it done.

3. The Killer Was Smart, Not Stupid like O.J.

Whoever committed this crime knew what they were doing. Next time you're in L.A., take a spin down Bundy on a Sunday evening in front of Nicole's condo. Man, this is one busy street! It's practically a major thoroughfare, connecting San Vicente and Wilshire. A car passes by her place about once every five seconds. People are out walking their dogs (Nicole lived in the downscale part of Brentwood, where residents walk their own dogs), and there is a lot of activity in the neighborhood around 10:00 P.M. The killer (or killers) pulled off a grisly double murder where one of the victims put up quite an intense struggle, and there was not a single witness. No murder weapon was ever recovered. No blood−soaked clothes (the slashing of Ron and Nicole spewed about two gallons of human blood out onto the killer and the crime scene) were ever found. This person (and his possible accomplice) knew exactly what he was doing.

Now take OJ. Simpson. The guy's day begins at 6:00 a.m. at the Riviera Country Club where he plays eighteen holes of golf. Later, after a few rounds of gin rummy in the clubhouse, he goes home, picks up his July issue of Playboy, and decides he has to talk to the centerfold, Traci Adell, whom he has never met. So he tracks her down in Maryland, where she's making a film, and they talk for forty−five minutes. ("He started talking about his ex−wives," she said later in an interview. "And he made a little joke about how I'm not his typical type. He said he'd dated blondes.") He stays on the phone with Traci for too long and, like a jerk, shows up late for his daughter's dance recital. He is videotaped afterward looking upbeat and happy, talking to Nicole and the kids. He later gets Kato to go to McDonald's with him. Now the guy is tanked up on a Big Mac and a large order of fries. He has to get ready and leave to go to the airport in less than an hour and a half.

So, if we are to believe the prosecution, he leaves himself only thirty minutes to drive over to Nicole's, commit the murders, and get back so he can shower, pack, and head off to LAX. To commit the murder, he doesn't take the weapon of choice among us nonprofessionals—the handgun (quick, easy, no bloodstains on your Ralph Lauren polo shirt). He takes a big knife!

Oh, and he forgets that he is black. Here we have a BLACK guy supposedly wandering around Brentwood on a busy street at night, wearing a black knit hat and black gloves, carrying a big knife.

And, without anyone seeing him, he brutally and repeatedly stabs two strong, healthy young people only twenty−five feet from the street. He then gets rid of the knife and all the clothes, goes back home, showers, packs, and calmly gets into the limo for the ride to the airport, without a bruise on him.

I know OJ. is big and black, so that may be enough for some of you to believe the above is possible. God knows, we all poo poo a brick whenever we see a Big Black Guy walking toward us in the middle of the night!

But what if OJ. were white? Would you feel just the slightest bit different? If that incredible scenario had been told to you about, say, Frank Gifford or Marv Albert, would you be so quick to rush to judgment? Or if the victim had been O.J.'s first wife, a black woman, do you think this case would have received the same intense media attention and public outcry? Please, answer honestly.

4. I Always Lie to the Driver.

One of the perks that comes with working in Hollywood is The Car they send to pick you up. The first time this happened to me, after Roger &Me was released, I hopped into the front seat with the driver—which made him very nervous because the rules say you are to sit in the backseat while he drives you. When I got out, I went to pay him, and he laughed and said it was covered by the studio. If you are from the working class, you'll remember the embarrassment you experienced that first time you flew on a plane and, not knowing any better, got out your wallet to pay the stewardess for the meal.

These drivers, by and large, are a creepy bunch. I hate to say that because it's such a lovely job and I'm sure they're treated very poorly by the rich farts they drive around. But in the past year, on various trips to L.A., I have been subjected to a desperate Rupert Pupkin−type appeal by a driver to put him in my next film, an offer to join the Church of Scientology, two accidents, a driver who asked me to wait in the car while he went in to fence some "hot" jewelry, and a driver who chewed my ear off about having been arrested that morning for child abuse and how he was going to "hunt down that oval office of an ex−wife and teach her a thing or two." When he didn't return to pick me up, I was stranded alone, two hours from the city. I called the car service to tell them he had probably abandoned me so he could go back to beat up his ex−wife whom he called a "oval office."

"Well, sir," replied his boss, "she is." I told this moron that as long as women were treated in this manner, the world would not be safe for them. I then asked the studio the next day never to use this service again, and they agreed, costing the limo company, I hope, thousands of dollars of business.

Which brings me to Alan Park, O.J.'s driver on the night of the murders. The prosecution hailed him as their star witness. He testified that he just kept ringing the bell and there was no answer. There was no light on in the bedroom. Then he saw a black man going in the front door. (Marcia Clark says Park saw a man walk across the lawn, but Park never testified to this.) He said that he buzzed O.J. again, and O.J. told him over the intercom that he had overslept (O.J. denies this), and that he had just taken a shower.

Either way, "I was in the shower" is just one of those lies you tell the drivers who want you to come out and get in their car as soon as they get there. These drivers always show up a half hour early and bug the hell out of you because as soon as they can get rid of you they can make more money by squeezing in another pickup.
My policy is never to answer their call until I'm ready to leave. And when I come down I always make up some weird excuse. ("Sorry, but I had Fidel Castro on the phone, and you know, vou can never get him to shut up.") God help me if any of these drivers ever believe me or are called to testify against me ("Yes, your honor, he was on the phone with Castro for hours and when he entered the limo he seemed fidgety and not entirely lucid.")

It turns out that, from where Park was sitting, he could not see the bedroom window because it was in the back of the house. Yes, that was O.J. walking in the front door—so what? Of course O.J. lied to him. That's what you're supposed to do with the driver.

5. Why the Cops Planted the Evidence.

In spite of the above−listed crimes committed by the LAPD, I do not believe the reason they planted the glove, socks, and blood was because they are evil. I honestly trust that they believed in their heart of hearts that O.J. committed these murders. But by 5:00 A.M., six hours after the murders, having combed the area for the weapon and waking neighborhood residents out of bed to try to find a witness, they knew that they were without a case. They also knew that O.J., in the past, had beaten Nicole, so it was more than likely he was the prime suspect. But, they probably surmised, this guy was rich and famous and would definitely beat the rap, so they knew they had to strengthen their hand against a judicial system they perceived as unfair.

So a glove mysteriously turns up at the murder site and on the side of O.J.'s house. Though blood−soaked, it picks up no dirt or leaves from the ground. Apparently, O.J. was sneaking around the back of his house and the glove—a rather tight−fitting glove, as we saw at the trial—just fell off his hand and dried itself on the way to the ground so that no dirt would stick to it.

Then O.J. apparently went into his house, which is filled with white carpet. To avoid getting bloodstains on this carpet (none were discovered), he either put on a jet pack and flew upstairs to his bedroom, or had some Totes handy near the front door, which he slipped on and then got rid of later.

Once in the bedroom, he found a way to dispose of all of his clothes except his socks and, like most guys, left them right out in the open for someone to pick up−—like the L.A. police.

None of O.J.'s blood was found on Nicole's gate the night of the murder, but somehow I guess OJ. was able to sneak out of the L.A. County Jail and go back there and bleed all over the gate, because two weeks later, on July 3, a spot of O.J.'s blood suddenly appeared on that gate and was photographed by the police. I have heard of this happening to statues of the Blessed Virgin in various churches throughout the world, but I had never considered the spiritual powers of OJ.

I'm sure that Detective VanAtter meant to walk two doors down the hall to turn O.J.'s blood over to the lab after it was drawn from The Juice, but he got distracted, dropped the blood sample in his pocket, and headed out twenty miles to the crime scene. An honest mistake, just like when 1.5 cc of that blood came up missing. Probably the humidity in VanAtter's pocket—a place I'd never want to see the inside of—caused the stuff to evaporate.

There is a logical explanation for everything—just as there had to be when the L.A. cops planted evidence in these cases:

Sylvester Scott was arrested in March 1987 after Los Angeles sheriffs deputies left a plastic bag filled with cocaine inside his car during a search. Scott testified at the L.A. Sheriffs Department corruption trials of the early 1990s.

Former sheriff Robert Sobel also testified that on four or five occasions, deputies stole cocaine that had been stored as evidence and replaced it with a substance resembling cocaine, then planted the cocaine in the homes or cars of individuals they wanted to arrest.

Thirty members of the L.A. Sheriff's Department have been federally prosecuted for planting evidence, writing false police reports, and using excessive force against suspects.

In the case of Clarence Chance, police coerced witnesses into manufacturing evidence against him. As a result, he was convicted of and wrongly served more than seventeen years in jail for a murder he did not commit.

This little trick of planting the goods is not unique to L.A.:

The Mollen Commission, which spent twenty−two months investigating police corruption in New York City, concluded in a 1994 report that falsification of evidence and perjury were probably the most common types of police corruption facing the city's criminal justice system.

In 1995, more than fifteen New York City police officers in Harlem's 30th Precinct were indicted for or pleaded guilty to falsifying evidence or lying about how or where they found evidence. Subsequently, about 125 defendants were cleared of wrongdoing. Among themselves, officers nicknamed this widespread practice "testilying."

New York State troopers were recently convicted of participating in an evidence−tampering scheme that involved planting fingerprints at crime scenes to falsely implicate suspects.

In 1995, in Philadelphia, six police officers pleaded guilty to corruption charges, including planting false evidence and lying under oath. This has resulted in overturning more than sixty criminal cases, including that of a fifty−four−year−old grandmother imprisoned for three years after police officers planted narcotics in her row house.

6. That White Ford Bronco.

Ninety million people are tuned in to watch the performance of a white Ford Bronco during a police chase—and the thing can't go over forty miles per hour?! Pity the poor executives at Ford, back in Detroit, watching this abomination on national TV and screaming at the tube, "Step on it, Juice!"

I wonder how many people know about the prosecution's internal memo—not released until after the jury's verdict— that confirmed that they knew O.J. and Al Cowlings had gone to Nicole's grave on that Bronco ride (the police traced O.J.'s cellular phone and learned that he was at the cemetery).

And why was it we didn't find out until after the trial, from the same prosecutor's memo, that Al Cowlings actually pulled the Bronco over on the freeway when the first police cars arrived behind him? When Cowlings got out and saw that the police were drawing their guns, he dove back into the Bronco and took off. Why was this information withheld?

And what about the passport, the money, the gun, and the disguise? A lot of people I know, including myself, always carry their passports in their briefcases or purses— hey, you never know! The rich always carry a huge wad of money on them, and half of this country (myself not included) is packing heat. And the disguise? Hey, I never said O.J. wasn't weird. Maybe it was just tossed in the back of the Bronco from his last date with a Playboy centerfold.

7. If You Had Killed Someone and the Jury Miraculously Let You Off, Would You Be Calling In to Every Talk Show and Acting Like a Jerk?

Hell, no, I'd be out of Dodge like a lightning bolt, counting my blessings. You would never hear a peep from me again. But if I were truly innocent, and the majority of the country still didn't believe me after a jury of my peers said that I was, I might be acting a little crazy, too. If you've seen OJ's video or his appearance on Black Entertainment Television, you'd have to pause and wonder if just maybe he didn't commit these crimes. If you have an open mind, his evidence and explanation are quite convincing.

8. Look at Who's Whining About Playing the "Race Card"!

So Johnnie Cochran played the "race card." From what deck was this card dealt? From the one we white people stacked! We knew exactly what Cochran was doing because we've been dealing that card on Black America their entire lives. The deck is, and always has been, stacked against O.J. and every other person whose skin color isn't white. I couldn't have been happier to see Johnnie Cochran talk directly to the black jurors and remind them that the oppressive system that assaults them every day is the same system that constantly plants evidence, lies, and frames black citizens to the point where nearly half a million of them are behind bars in this country.

The only reason O.J. isn't one of them is that he had the money to fight it. People complain that O.J. got off because he was rich. In fact, his wealth was only an equalizer that somewhat leveled the playing field in the courtroom. The prosecution always has more money and resources than the defense; even in this case, the DA spent more than the defense. O.J. Simpson's wealth was his only hope to make up for the fact that he was black.

People went crazy when Johnnie Cochran compared the Idaho−bound Mark Fuhrman's attitude to that which brought about the Holocaust. Well, why the hell not? I believe it is our responsibility to shout down bigotry and racism wherever it exists, especially when it involves those who propose a "final solution." (Remember witness Kathleen Bell? She said Fuhrman told her about wanting to round up all blacks and set fire to them.) We dishonor the memory of the Holocaust and its victims whenever we stand silent and allow this type of hatred to go unchecked.

It is more than ironic that O.J. spent most of his life sucking up to the white establishment, playing golf with them, making sure most of his friends were white, living with them in Brentwood, marrying one of them, and exclusively dating them after his divorce.

O.J., if you are reading this, I have to say you tried harder than any black man I know to be one of us—AND A LOT OF loving GOOD THAT DID YOU! Within hours of the first TV report on the murders, you, The Most Loved Black Man in White America, were suddenly booted back to the ghetto faster than you can say H. Rap Brown. God, it must have been awful, all those years of smiling at the country club while listening to really stupid, racist white people. All those years of trying to make sure that those white people you were around felt relaxed enough in your presence. They let you sit on their corporate boards, they let you into the best restaurants in town—and in an instant, they took it all away from you.

And now, even after all this, you're still trying to please them. Look at you, promising now to go out and find the real killer. Hey, that's their job. What you should be doing is getting some help, 'cause you've got a real problem with women. I hear there are a lot of good shrinks in L.A.—or maybe you shouldn't wait. Just pick up the phone and call me (you can get my number from your former agent who is also my former agent). Or try the Alternatives to Violence Program at (310) 493−1161. They are especially equipped to help men like you who mistake women for a doormat.

As for the rest of us, O.J., I guess we share the collective guilt of not punishing you for beating Nicole. Each time she called 911, our representatives (the police) would show up at your door, say, "Hey, Juice," give you a pat on the back, get your autograph, and leave. The one time you actually got dragged into court, you got a $700 fine and "community service." You call that "paying your dues"?

Really? How 'bout if I came over tonight and beat the crap out of your daughter until she's so black and blue she can't shut her right eye? Would seven hundred bucks and a little community service sit okay with you? Think about how that would feel next time you open your mouth about "all this nonsense" regarding battered women.

Did you commit those murders? I don't think so. But you have helped the nation confront a number of ugly truths about itself and reminded us, once again, that we still live in two separate Americas—one white, the other black. For that, I, and even those who are sure of your guilt, are grateful.

Aglet56 posted:

okay but even with all of that, isn't it pretty suspicious that oj was suicidally despondent in the white bronco and kept saying "I'm the only one who deserves to get hurt" and stuff like that

Son of Sorrow posted:

No, it isn't. OJ Simpson was an innocent man falsely accused. All you're doing with this is tarnishing the memory of a great football player, content creator, and popular celebrity. Be better.

Son of Sorrow posted:

No, it isn't. OJ Simpson was an innocent man falsely accused. All you're doing with this is tarnishing the memory of a great football player, content creator, and popular celebrity. Be better.

I. M. Gei posted:

what

post hole digger posted:

sounds like its actually you who is the greatest rusher... to judgement.

post hole digger posted:

sounds like its actually you who is the greatest rusher... to judgement.

post hole digger posted:

sounds like its actually you who is the greatest rusher... to judgement.

post hole digger posted:

sounds like its actually you who is the greatest rusher... to judgement.

post hole digger posted:

sounds like its actually you who is the greatest rusher... to judgement.

post hole digger posted:

sounds like its actually you who is the greatest rusher... to judgement.

Some Guy TT posted:

3. The Killer Was Smart, Not Stupid like O.J.

(USER WAS PUT ON PROBATION FOR THIS POST)

Aglet56 posted:

okay but even with all of that, isn't it pretty suspicious that oj was suicidally despondent in the white bronco and kept saying "I'm the only one who deserves to get hurt" and stuff like that

post hole digger posted:

sounds like its actually you who is the greatest rusher... to judgement.

Some Guy TT posted:

When you're white like me, and you believe that O. J. Simpson did not kill Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman, life can get very, very lonely. Nearly all of your friends think you've taken a vacation from reality. They caution you not to repeat your belief in his innocence in public, and certainly not in this book.

White people are very upset about the O.J. verdict. Very upset. But why? Because a killer was set free? That happens every day. Because O.J. beat his wife? Excuse me, that's going on next door to you. Right now. Have you called the police yet, or do you just not want to "get involved"?

If you are black, you already know the reasons why White America is so angry at the O.J. verdict, and you probably know what I'm about to say. Feel free to skip ahead to the next chapter.

I have never believed O. J. Simpson, with his own hands, killed these two people. I do believe he is one of the biggest pieces of poo poo walking the planet Earth, but that only puts him in the company of about 10 million other men who abuse women and the other billion or so of us who let them get away with it.

We don't want to acknowledge that, as a society, we let O.J. get away with beating the crap out of Nicole. Only after she was left dead and mutilated on a sidewalk on South Bundy Drive did we get on our high horse and demand justice. Did we want justice, or absolution for our inaction?

All of these questions have led me to wonder if it is possible in America for us to fairly judge an evil man. In other words, if this man O.J. commits nine evil acts (physical beatings, threats, trespassing, forced entry, psychological abuse, destruction of property, stalking, window−peeping, and adultery)—but he does not commit the tenth one (murder)—does he deserve to be found innocent of the one crime he didn't commit? Or, because we failed to punish him for the other nine crimes he was responsible for, does that give us the right to get out the noose and hang him now . . . because we screwed up?

I don't think so. I know most of you believe he did it, and I respect why you may feel that way—it sure appears the son of a bitch was right there that night with all his sick anger and jealousy—but what if he wasn't? None of us, including me, knows for sure if he was involved. Only O.J. and Kato the Akita Dog know if he committed this horrible crime. I'd like to walk you through my reasoning as to why O.J. probably didn't do it—and what the larger implications of this case are for those of us who live in this very divided America.

1. Nothing the L.A. Police Say Should Ever Be Believed.

This is one of the most corrupt, dishonest, racist, and violent police forces in the world. Case after case from the LAPD and the L.A. Sheriff's Department during the past decade does nothing but point up what a bunch of thugs many of those who wear that black uniform are. Nothing has amazed me more during the O.J. ordeal than how otherwise intelligent, liberal−minded people have forgotten what the term "L.A. police" means.

Please allow me to remind you of the following:

In 1993, L.A. police officers killed Michael James Bryant, a popular Pasadena barber, asphyxiating him in the backseat of a police car after hog−tying and beating him. The coroner ruled his death a homicide.

In June 1992, an unarmed African−American tow−truck driver, John L. Daniels Jr., pulled into a Chevron service station on the corner of Florence and Crenshaw—−just two miles from the flashpoint of the April 1992 riots. While pumping gas, he was approached by two white L.A. motorcycle police officers, including Douglas Iversen, a fifteen−year veteran with a history of misconduct. After an argument over his registration, Daniels became exasperated and tried to leave. He was promptly shot dead in his truck by Iversen. Area residents described Daniels's death as a public execution, according to writer Mike Davis in the Los Angeles Times. Iversen was not fired until March 1995.

Between 1988 and 1994, in at least eight cases, female police officers alleged that they were sexually assaulted by men in the LAPD. One police officer allegedly raped two female counterparts while off duty, shoving a 9−millimeter pistol into one woman, ice cubes into the other.

In 1985, Officer Ronald L. Benegas pleaded guilty to burglary in connection with an LAPD burglary ring involving twelve officers. Benegas, who admitted to committing more than a hundred burglaries while on duty, said that he and another officer would break store windows using marbles fired from slingshots. Then, while ostensibly responding to the alarms, they would steal the merchandise.

In 1991, a commission headed by now−Secretary of State Warren Christopher confirmed the commonplace use of excessive force and systemic racism throughout the LAPD.

And, of course, there was the beating of Rodney King, which I don't need to rehash for you on these pages.

I have felt, long before O.J., that anything the L.A. Police Department says must, at first, not be believed. For any of us to believe another individual, we have to trust them. Have the L.A. police earned your trust? Because they have violated that trust, I am forced to presume they are lying whenever they speak, and only when they can prove that they are not lying can I believe their version of anything.

I don't understand why so many people have believed the version of events that took place on Bundy that night as laid out by this corrupt department. What miracle did they perform to gain the trust of so many Americans?

The "police version" of Ron's and Nicole's murders was developed, in part, by a detective named Mark Fuhrman. "Oh, if only the prosecution hadn't called Fuhrman!" That's what people like to say. As if Fuhrman was no more than a "tactical error" instead of perhaps the root of what is wrong here. The day the "Fuhrman tapes" were played in Judge Ito's courtroom to determine whether the jury should hear them, I happened to be watching the trial live. The tapes were so damaging to the efforts by the media to convict OJ. in the court of public opinion that no network newscast that night played them verbatim and in full. The New York Times did not run a transcript of them the next day. Unless you were watching TV live at eleven−thirty that morning, the full text of what Fuhrman said was kept from you. Here are the uncensored highlights from Mark Fuhrman's taped conversations with screenwriter Laura McKinney.

(Keep in mind that the jury never heard any of these remarks by Fuhrman.)

Mark Fuhrman (referring to a suspect): "[I]f I would have arrested the son of a bitch, I would have killed him. If I ever see the son of a bitch and we're alone, I would kill him. . . . [D]ead men tell no tales."

Mark Fuhrman: "Most real good policemen understand that they would just love to take certain people and just take them to the alley and just blow their brains out."

Mark Fuhrman: "We stopped the choke because a bunch of niggers have a bunch of those organizations in the South End and because all niggers were choked out and killed— twelve in ten years. Really extraordinary, isn't it?"

Mark Fuhrman: "Westwood is gone. The niggers have discovered it."

Mark Fuhrman: "There is going to be a massacre in the future and they know that. There is the Rolling Sixties, a friend of the family group, they went into a sporting goods store and stole fifty Uzis, 3,000 rounds."

Mark Fuhrman: "First thing, anything out of a friend of the family's mouth for the first five or six sentences is a loving lie. . . . You keep choking him until he tells you the truth. You know, it is kind of funny, but a lot of policemen will get a kick out of it."

Mark Fuhrman: "We basically got impatient with him being so loving stupid. ... So we .. .just went the 'scenic route' to the station. . . . Dana goes, 'No blood, Mark.' 'No problem, not even any marks, Dana.' Just body shots. Did you ever try to find a bruise on a friend of the family? It's pretty tough, huh?"

Mark Fuhrman: " [W] hen he gives me his driver's license, I'll just rip the fucker up."

Mark Fuhrman: "I had sixty−six allegations of brutality. . . . We grabbed a girl that lived there. . . .Grabbed her by her head and used her as a barricade. Walked up and told them, 'I got this girl, I'll blow her fuckin' brains out if you come out with a gun.' Held her like this, threw the bitch down the stairs. ... I must have three or four thousand pages of internal investigations [on me] out there."

Yes, this is the same man who found the Isotoner gloves and the tiny spots of blood in the dark, and entered O.J.'s property without a warrant. And 77 percent of white America still believes the Official Story.

2. The Rich and Famous Have Never Committed Capital Murder.

Don't get me wrong. The rich are the biggest murderers throughout history. But I'm not talking about killing in the abstract (like Kissinger being responsible for the deaths of countless Vietnamese and Cambodians, or the Ford Motor Company producing Pintos they knew might explode on impact); I mean actual, with−your−own−hands, thought−out−in−advance capital murder.

Can you think of a single rich, famous celebrity in the history of this country who has committed first−degree murder?

Go ahead, I'm waiting. And don't give me relatives of celebrities, like Marlon Brando's son (he killed his sister's boyfriend in a fight), Andy Williams's wife (Claudine Longet divorced Andy and then "accidentally" killed Olympic skier Spider Sabich), Lana Turner's daughter (Cheryl stabbed Lana's abusive boyfriend, Johnny Stompanato, when he was threatening her), Fatty Arbuckle (a victim of William Randolph Hearst's smear campaign, Fatty was found innocent), John du Pont (who was certainly rich but not a celebrity, and completely unknown outside the wrestling community when he killed Dave Schultz), or Sid Vicious (a doped−up Brit who got a room in the Chelsea Hotel where he offed girlfriend Nancy and then killed himself).

I want you to name an actual American celebrity (not their relative) who is a multimillionaire and who, not in the "heat of the moment," but with cold−blooded planning, murdered another human being.

The truth is, there isn't one. Trust me, this is the safest group of people to be around. Put me on a subway car full of these fat cats any day! Force me to live in a tenement high−rise with the heads of Disney and Paramount and their top box office stars and I'll never lock my doors! You never have to be in fear of your life in their presence because they would never risk losing the lifestyle to which they've grown so accustomed.

Of course, the rich and famous do a lot of despicable things—cheat, lie, steal, do drugs, commit suicide, beat their wives, abandon their kids, take all the good parking spaces— but the one crime they never commit is premeditated murder.

Why? Because they would have to get their hands dirty!

If there is one thing I've learned in my brief Hollywood career, it's that these people never get their hands dirty. They do not do a drat thing for themselves. I mean nothing. They have so much money sitting around that they never have to lift a finger. Whether, as The New Republic points out, it's Pia Zadora having her assistant shave her armpits, or Liz Taylor boasting she has never set foot in a bank, or Henry Kissinger taking his dog for a walk and having his bodyguard walk behind him to scoop up the poop, or Bruce Willis requiring twenty−two personal assistants on the set of Billy Bathgate, these people never lift a finger to do anything. The list of jobs they hire others to do for them is amazing. You will never see a celebrity:

Pick up their dirty underwear. A person in O.J.'s position has not done a load of laundry in years—if ever. He has never had to pick up his soiled Jockeys, strip his skanky bed, or wipe his snot off the wall.

Carry their own bags. From the driver who picks him up at his house, to the "special services" personnel from the airlines who greet him at the curb, to the first−class flight attendants who lift his crap up into the overhead bin, O.T. has not had to carry anything but a nine−iron and a football in all his adult life.

Walk their dog. In the building where I live in New York, each morning and evening a group of professional dog−walkers arrive to take the miniature poodles downstairs to deface our sidewalk. These dog−walkers earn a good living doing this.

De−grout their toenails. I doubt O.J. has ever had some underpaid Mexican paint his toenails, and I'll bet he hasn't had to clean the gunk out from under any naillike surface on his body since moving to Brentwood.

Raise their kids. Some celebrity couples have multiple nannies in the house who wake the kids in the morning, do their homework with them after school, and tuck them in at night. The parents will often call in their "good nights" on the phone in the child's room. Employees of the parents are sent to the private school to take notes and discuss their children's grades.

Do their shopping. It was no accident that most of the presidential candidates this year didn't know how much a gallon of milk cost. These people haven't set foot inside a Safeway in decades. Remember George Bush at the checkout scanner? Just imagine these wealthy weenies trying to work an ATM machine!

Cook. Why do that when you can get Kato to drive through McDonald's with you in your Rolls−Royce on the cook's day off?

Dial a phone number. No matter which celebrities I have had meetings with in Hollywood, they will invariably yell out to an assistant, "Get so−and−so on the line for me!" I have never seen any of these people dial a telephone number on their own. If you want to see a blank stare, ask any of them to tell you their fax number.

Kill an ex−spouse. If the rich actually get to the point where they feel compelled to eliminate the person they were once married to, they would never, ever do this job themselves—not when there are so many unemployed, desperate individuals around who are willing to off just about anyone for two hundred dollars. To do the job yourself would jeopardize your social position—and no matter how crazy you are, you're always sane enough to have this in the forefront of your mind. ("Rule Number One: I can do anything I want . . . except kill someone in cold blood with my own hands.")

The rich and famous are so removed from what the rest of us have to go through. Ask a celebrity to give his or her Zip Code. They can't. Ask them what the credit limit is on their MasterCard, and they'll say, "What's a MasterCard?" If they have any kind of credit card, it's the Platinum Card from American Express, which requires the holder to pay the entire amount charged at the end of every month. The rich have no need to carry a balance from month to month, paying only a bit at a time, like the rest of us schlumps.

If O.J. was involved with these murders (and I don't think he was), there is no way he committed them himself. Just as he paid a guy to wipe down his hot tub twice a week, he would have hired it done.

3. The Killer Was Smart, Not Stupid like O.J.

Whoever committed this crime knew what they were doing. Next time you're in L.A., take a spin down Bundy on a Sunday evening in front of Nicole's condo. Man, this is one busy street! It's practically a major thoroughfare, connecting San Vicente and Wilshire. A car passes by her place about once every five seconds. People are out walking their dogs (Nicole lived in the downscale part of Brentwood, where residents walk their own dogs), and there is a lot of activity in the neighborhood around 10:00 P.M. The killer (or killers) pulled off a grisly double murder where one of the victims put up quite an intense struggle, and there was not a single witness. No murder weapon was ever recovered. No blood−soaked clothes (the slashing of Ron and Nicole spewed about two gallons of human blood out onto the killer and the crime scene) were ever found. This person (and his possible accomplice) knew exactly what he was doing.

Now take OJ. Simpson. The guy's day begins at 6:00 a.m. at the Riviera Country Club where he plays eighteen holes of golf. Later, after a few rounds of gin rummy in the clubhouse, he goes home, picks up his July issue of Playboy, and decides he has to talk to the centerfold, Traci Adell, whom he has never met. So he tracks her down in Maryland, where she's making a film, and they talk for forty−five minutes. ("He started talking about his ex−wives," she said later in an interview. "And he made a little joke about how I'm not his typical type. He said he'd dated blondes.") He stays on the phone with Traci for too long and, like a jerk, shows up late for his daughter's dance recital. He is videotaped afterward looking upbeat and happy, talking to Nicole and the kids. He later gets Kato to go to McDonald's with him. Now the guy is tanked up on a Big Mac and a large order of fries. He has to get ready and leave to go to the airport in less than an hour and a half.

So, if we are to believe the prosecution, he leaves himself only thirty minutes to drive over to Nicole's, commit the murders, and get back so he can shower, pack, and head off to LAX. To commit the murder, he doesn't take the weapon of choice among us nonprofessionals—the handgun (quick, easy, no bloodstains on your Ralph Lauren polo shirt). He takes a big knife!

Oh, and he forgets that he is black. Here we have a BLACK guy supposedly wandering around Brentwood on a busy street at night, wearing a black knit hat and black gloves, carrying a big knife.

And, without anyone seeing him, he brutally and repeatedly stabs two strong, healthy young people only twenty−five feet from the street. He then gets rid of the knife and all the clothes, goes back home, showers, packs, and calmly gets into the limo for the ride to the airport, without a bruise on him.

I know OJ. is big and black, so that may be enough for some of you to believe the above is possible. God knows, we all poo poo a brick whenever we see a Big Black Guy walking toward us in the middle of the night!

But what if OJ. were white? Would you feel just the slightest bit different? If that incredible scenario had been told to you about, say, Frank Gifford or Marv Albert, would you be so quick to rush to judgment? Or if the victim had been O.J.'s first wife, a black woman, do you think this case would have received the same intense media attention and public outcry? Please, answer honestly.

4. I Always Lie to the Driver.

One of the perks that comes with working in Hollywood is The Car they send to pick you up. The first time this happened to me, after Roger &Me was released, I hopped into the front seat with the driver—which made him very nervous because the rules say you are to sit in the backseat while he drives you. When I got out, I went to pay him, and he laughed and said it was covered by the studio. If you are from the working class, you'll remember the embarrassment you experienced that first time you flew on a plane and, not knowing any better, got out your wallet to pay the stewardess for the meal.

These drivers, by and large, are a creepy bunch. I hate to say that because it's such a lovely job and I'm sure they're treated very poorly by the rich farts they drive around. But in the past year, on various trips to L.A., I have been subjected to a desperate Rupert Pupkin−type appeal by a driver to put him in my next film, an offer to join the Church of Scientology, two accidents, a driver who asked me to wait in the car while he went in to fence some "hot" jewelry, and a driver who chewed my ear off about having been arrested that morning for child abuse and how he was going to "hunt down that oval office of an ex−wife and teach her a thing or two." When he didn't return to pick me up, I was stranded alone, two hours from the city. I called the car service to tell them he had probably abandoned me so he could go back to beat up his ex−wife whom he called a "oval office."

"Well, sir," replied his boss, "she is." I told this moron that as long as women were treated in this manner, the world would not be safe for them. I then asked the studio the next day never to use this service again, and they agreed, costing the limo company, I hope, thousands of dollars of business.

Which brings me to Alan Park, O.J.'s driver on the night of the murders. The prosecution hailed him as their star witness. He testified that he just kept ringing the bell and there was no answer. There was no light on in the bedroom. Then he saw a black man going in the front door. (Marcia Clark says Park saw a man walk across the lawn, but Park never testified to this.) He said that he buzzed O.J. again, and O.J. told him over the intercom that he had overslept (O.J. denies this), and that he had just taken a shower.

Either way, "I was in the shower" is just one of those lies you tell the drivers who want you to come out and get in their car as soon as they get there. These drivers always show up a half hour early and bug the hell out of you because as soon as they can get rid of you they can make more money by squeezing in another pickup.
My policy is never to answer their call until I'm ready to leave. And when I come down I always make up some weird excuse. ("Sorry, but I had Fidel Castro on the phone, and you know, vou can never get him to shut up.") God help me if any of these drivers ever believe me or are called to testify against me ("Yes, your honor, he was on the phone with Castro for hours and when he entered the limo he seemed fidgety and not entirely lucid.")

It turns out that, from where Park was sitting, he could not see the bedroom window because it was in the back of the house. Yes, that was O.J. walking in the front door—so what? Of course O.J. lied to him. That's what you're supposed to do with the driver.

5. Why the Cops Planted the Evidence.

In spite of the above−listed crimes committed by the LAPD, I do not believe the reason they planted the glove, socks, and blood was because they are evil. I honestly trust that they believed in their heart of hearts that O.J. committed these murders. But by 5:00 A.M., six hours after the murders, having combed the area for the weapon and waking neighborhood residents out of bed to try to find a witness, they knew that they were without a case. They also knew that O.J., in the past, had beaten Nicole, so it was more than likely he was the prime suspect. But, they probably surmised, this guy was rich and famous and would definitely beat the rap, so they knew they had to strengthen their hand against a judicial system they perceived as unfair.

So a glove mysteriously turns up at the murder site and on the side of O.J.'s house. Though blood−soaked, it picks up no dirt or leaves from the ground. Apparently, O.J. was sneaking around the back of his house and the glove—a rather tight−fitting glove, as we saw at the trial—just fell off his hand and dried itself on the way to the ground so that no dirt would stick to it.

Then O.J. apparently went into his house, which is filled with white carpet. To avoid getting bloodstains on this carpet (none were discovered), he either put on a jet pack and flew upstairs to his bedroom, or had some Totes handy near the front door, which he slipped on and then got rid of later.

Once in the bedroom, he found a way to dispose of all of his clothes except his socks and, like most guys, left them right out in the open for someone to pick up−—like the L.A. police.

None of O.J.'s blood was found on Nicole's gate the night of the murder, but somehow I guess OJ. was able to sneak out of the L.A. County Jail and go back there and bleed all over the gate, because two weeks later, on July 3, a spot of O.J.'s blood suddenly appeared on that gate and was photographed by the police. I have heard of this happening to statues of the Blessed Virgin in various churches throughout the world, but I had never considered the spiritual powers of OJ.

I'm sure that Detective VanAtter meant to walk two doors down the hall to turn O.J.'s blood over to the lab after it was drawn from The Juice, but he got distracted, dropped the blood sample in his pocket, and headed out twenty miles to the crime scene. An honest mistake, just like when 1.5 cc of that blood came up missing. Probably the humidity in VanAtter's pocket—a place I'd never want to see the inside of—caused the stuff to evaporate.

There is a logical explanation for everything—just as there had to be when the L.A. cops planted evidence in these cases:

Sylvester Scott was arrested in March 1987 after Los Angeles sheriffs deputies left a plastic bag filled with cocaine inside his car during a search. Scott testified at the L.A. Sheriffs Department corruption trials of the early 1990s.

Former sheriff Robert Sobel also testified that on four or five occasions, deputies stole cocaine that had been stored as evidence and replaced it with a substance resembling cocaine, then planted the cocaine in the homes or cars of individuals they wanted to arrest.

Thirty members of the L.A. Sheriff's Department have been federally prosecuted for planting evidence, writing false police reports, and using excessive force against suspects.

In the case of Clarence Chance, police coerced witnesses into manufacturing evidence against him. As a result, he was convicted of and wrongly served more than seventeen years in jail for a murder he did not commit.

This little trick of planting the goods is not unique to L.A.:

The Mollen Commission, which spent twenty−two months investigating police corruption in New York City, concluded in a 1994 report that falsification of evidence and perjury were probably the most common types of police corruption facing the city's criminal justice system.

In 1995, more than fifteen New York City police officers in Harlem's 30th Precinct were indicted for or pleaded guilty to falsifying evidence or lying about how or where they found evidence. Subsequently, about 125 defendants were cleared of wrongdoing. Among themselves, officers nicknamed this widespread practice "testilying."

New York State troopers were recently convicted of participating in an evidence−tampering scheme that involved planting fingerprints at crime scenes to falsely implicate suspects.

In 1995, in Philadelphia, six police officers pleaded guilty to corruption charges, including planting false evidence and lying under oath. This has resulted in overturning more than sixty criminal cases, including that of a fifty−four−year−old grandmother imprisoned for three years after police officers planted narcotics in her row house.

6. That White Ford Bronco.

Ninety million people are tuned in to watch the performance of a white Ford Bronco during a police chase—and the thing can't go over forty miles per hour?! Pity the poor executives at Ford, back in Detroit, watching this abomination on national TV and screaming at the tube, "Step on it, Juice!"

I wonder how many people know about the prosecution's internal memo—not released until after the jury's verdict— that confirmed that they knew O.J. and Al Cowlings had gone to Nicole's grave on that Bronco ride (the police traced O.J.'s cellular phone and learned that he was at the cemetery).

And why was it we didn't find out until after the trial, from the same prosecutor's memo, that Al Cowlings actually pulled the Bronco over on the freeway when the first police cars arrived behind him? When Cowlings got out and saw that the police were drawing their guns, he dove back into the Bronco and took off. Why was this information withheld?

And what about the passport, the money, the gun, and the disguise? A lot of people I know, including myself, always carry their passports in their briefcases or purses— hey, you never know! The rich always carry a huge wad of money on them, and half of this country (myself not included) is packing heat. And the disguise? Hey, I never said O.J. wasn't weird. Maybe it was just tossed in the back of the Bronco from his last date with a Playboy centerfold.

7. If You Had Killed Someone and the Jury Miraculously Let You Off, Would You Be Calling In to Every Talk Show and Acting Like a Jerk?

Hell, no, I'd be out of Dodge like a lightning bolt, counting my blessings. You would never hear a peep from me again. But if I were truly innocent, and the majority of the country still didn't believe me after a jury of my peers said that I was, I might be acting a little crazy, too. If you've seen OJ's video or his appearance on Black Entertainment Television, you'd have to pause and wonder if just maybe he didn't commit these crimes. If you have an open mind, his evidence and explanation are quite convincing.

8. Look at Who's Whining About Playing the "Race Card"!

So Johnnie Cochran played the "race card." From what deck was this card dealt? From the one we white people stacked! We knew exactly what Cochran was doing because we've been dealing that card on Black America their entire lives. The deck is, and always has been, stacked against O.J. and every other person whose skin color isn't white. I couldn't have been happier to see Johnnie Cochran talk directly to the black jurors and remind them that the oppressive system that assaults them every day is the same system that constantly plants evidence, lies, and frames black citizens to the point where nearly half a million of them are behind bars in this country.

The only reason O.J. isn't one of them is that he had the money to fight it. People complain that O.J. got off because he was rich. In fact, his wealth was only an equalizer that somewhat leveled the playing field in the courtroom. The prosecution always has more money and resources than the defense; even in this case, the DA spent more than the defense. O.J. Simpson's wealth was his only hope to make up for the fact that he was black.

People went crazy when Johnnie Cochran compared the Idaho−bound Mark Fuhrman's attitude to that which brought about the Holocaust. Well, why the hell not? I believe it is our responsibility to shout down bigotry and racism wherever it exists, especially when it involves those who propose a "final solution." (Remember witness Kathleen Bell? She said Fuhrman told her about wanting to round up all blacks and set fire to them.) We dishonor the memory of the Holocaust and its victims whenever we stand silent and allow this type of hatred to go unchecked.

It is more than ironic that O.J. spent most of his life sucking up to the white establishment, playing golf with them, making sure most of his friends were white, living with them in Brentwood, marrying one of them, and exclusively dating them after his divorce.

O.J., if you are reading this, I have to say you tried harder than any black man I know to be one of us—AND A LOT OF loving GOOD THAT DID YOU! Within hours of the first TV report on the murders, you, The Most Loved Black Man in White America, were suddenly booted back to the ghetto faster than you can say H. Rap Brown. God, it must have been awful, all those years of smiling at the country club while listening to really stupid, racist white people. All those years of trying to make sure that those white people you were around felt relaxed enough in your presence. They let you sit on their corporate boards, they let you into the best restaurants in town—and in an instant, they took it all away from you.

And now, even after all this, you're still trying to please them. Look at you, promising now to go out and find the real killer. Hey, that's their job. What you should be doing is getting some help, 'cause you've got a real problem with women. I hear there are a lot of good shrinks in L.A.—or maybe you shouldn't wait. Just pick up the phone and call me (you can get my number from your former agent who is also my former agent). Or try the Alternatives to Violence Program at (310) 493−1161. They are especially equipped to help men like you who mistake women for a doormat.

As for the rest of us, O.J., I guess we share the collective guilt of not punishing you for beating Nicole. Each time she called 911, our representatives (the police) would show up at your door, say, "Hey, Juice," give you a pat on the back, get your autograph, and leave. The one time you actually got dragged into court, you got a $700 fine and "community service." You call that "paying your dues"?

Really? How 'bout if I came over tonight and beat the crap out of your daughter until she's so black and blue she can't shut her right eye? Would seven hundred bucks and a little community service sit okay with you? Think about how that would feel next time you open your mouth about "all this nonsense" regarding battered women.

Did you commit those murders? I don't think so. But you have helped the nation confront a number of ugly truths about itself and reminded us, once again, that we still live in two separate Americas—one white, the other black. For that, I, and even those who are sure of your guilt, are grateful.

(USER WAS PUT ON PROBATION FOR THIS POST)

Some Guy TT posted:

was thinking of posting the second part but somebody snitched on me to lobster shirt so i dunno seems kind of risky

i wonder what the greatest running back in nfl history would advise me to do hmmm yeah probably shouldnt do that actually

Some Guy TT posted:

i wonder what the greatest running back in nfl history would advise me to do hmmm yeah probably shouldnt do that actually