What had started out as a potential blessing for our side went sour once we got down to thrashing out the terms for this field trip. Once again, Lance Ito let us down.
The logical time for our viewing was at night, when, of course, the murders occurred. But Ito made us do it in broad daylight, when Bundy would seem like Main Street USA. Thus the jurors would get no sense of the danger Nicole was in as she descended that small flight of steps into darkness.
The only way Ito would allow us the Bundy visit was if we allowed the defense their “fair share”-which meant taking the jurors to Rockingham. I emphatically did not want the jury to visit O. J. Simpson’s estate. What was the point? The only areas of possible significance at Rockingham were Kato’s room and the south pathway where the glove had been found. I allowed that it might also be marginally useful for the jury to see the layout of the exterior from Allan Park’s point of view. But there was absolutely no reason for them go inside the house. The jury-especially this jury-would be so dazzled by Simpson’s wealth that it was certain to erect yet another barrier to their ever imagining him a killer.
But the defense argued that an on-scene viewing of the master bedroom was necessary because the bloody socks had been found at the foot of Simpson’s bed. And so, Ito decreed that the itinerary would include Rockingham as well.
Lance Ito’s magical mystery tour began that morning under the Criminal Courts Building, in the lot where the sheriffs bring in the prisoners. It’s a dreary, cavernous place that has always reminded me of Hieronymus Bosch’s vision of hell. A fitting starting point for this junket. Chris, Hank, Scott, Cheri, and our investigators were waiting for me. We all took one van. The defense followed in another. The defendant himself was loaded into one of the sheriff’s cars. The jurors brought up the rear in a bus.
Lance appeared to be having the time of his life. He was ordering deputies around and conferring imperiously with the troops. He’d taken great pains to arrange the security precautions for this outing. But I had no idea what lengths he’d gone to until our little caravan neared the freeway. I’d curled up across a couple of empty seats, trying to catch a few more winks, when I heard Scott Gordon murmur, “Geez!”
I raised my head to an amazing scene. The Ten West was totally empty! In fact, it appeared to have been cleared for miles ahead. Once again, O. J. Simpson had managed to sweep the traffic from the Los Angeles freeways. I swore under my breath. Ito’s sense of pomp and overweening self-importance had turned this into a Spielberg production.
We cruised past Mezzaluna. I was disappointed we didn’t have a chance to stop there. The deputies hadn’t thought to pack us anything to drink, and I’d hoped for a little break to duck into the nearby Starbucks for a cup of coffee. Now I saw that was out of the question anyway. The sidewalks were packed ten deep with spectators straining to get a glimpse of us.
Finally, we arrived at Bundy, where the jurors were issued their instructions. They were to view the site in perfect silence-no questions. Fine. But Ito hadn’t allowed us to make the walk-through clear enough to eliminate the need for questions. We’d asked the court for permission to attach photos of the bodies and evidence on the spots where they had been found; Ito had refused. So we just had to hope that those images were searing enough that even these jurors couldn’t fail to remember them now.
What, I wondered, would they see when they looked at this narrow lot, its cement walkway long since scrubbed clean of carnage? For one thing, they had to be struck by how small the place was. Everyone seeing Bundy for the first time remarks upon that. The enclosure where the bodies were found was incredibly tiny. It was difficult to imagine one killer and two victims scuffling in that space. Forget the possibility of two killers. It couldn’t happen.
As usual, the jurors’ faces were devoid of expression. Certainly no signs of mental lightbulbs popping. Only one juror, a white man named Tracy Kennedy, was madly scribbling notes. One young black man, Michael Knox, wore a cap and a jacket that read “San Francisco 49ers.” Simpson, of course, hails from that city and once played for the Niners.
Tell us, Mr. Knox. Could you telegraph your sympathies any more clearly?
The jurors were taken in groups of four and five through Nicole’s condo. One lawyer was allowed to tag along with each group. I hadn’t been there since the week of July 4. Now, as I walked in the door, I was shocked. The place was totally bare.
The Brown family, in their haste to put the past behind them, had stripped it to the walls. There was nothing to remind these jurors that a warm, vital woman had once lived here. This played into the defense’s hands very nicely. It’s so much easier to acquit someone of murder when you have no feeling for the victim as a real person. Nicole Brown had been erased from her own home.
It got worse. I’d wanted the jurors to see what a short drive it was between Bundy and Rockingham, to reinforce our contention that Simpson could have made the trip home within five minutes.
No dice. For “security” reasons, we had to take a circuitous detour. I could scarcely contain my fury. The point of this kind of field trip is to allow the jury to see the pertinent scenes under conditions as close as possible to those at the time of the murders. But here, nothing was the same. Not the condo, not the route, not the time of day-and certainly not Rockingham.
The defense, of course, was looking forward to showing off that mansion, hoping the jurors would ask themselves, Why would a guy throw all this away over a woman? Over our objections the defense had also arranged to have the jury go through Simpson’s trophy room. Ito’s justification? That Ron Shipp had testified to “the magnetism of this particular room.” So now the jurors would have a chance to be equally awed by the symbols of the defendant’s victories on the gridiron.
My only consolation was the thought that the jury would be filing past that wall of photos: Simpson with white fat-cat CEOs, Simpson with white celebrities, Simpson with his white golfing buddies, and, above all, a picture of Nicole on the ski slopes with their children. Those images, at least, would serve as a reminder of how completely the defendant had checked out on the black community.
At Nicole’s condo, O. J. Simpson had managed to keep a surprisingly low profile. By law, a defendant can’t be excluded from a jury view. The Browns had objected so strenuously to the idea of his walking through Nicole’s condo, however, that he’d agreed to stay in the cruiser, out of sight of the jury.
When we reached Rockingham, however, Simpson played the lord come home to the manor. He was supposed to be shackled at the wrists or ankles. This is standard procedure. In fact, a smart defense attorney will often advise his client not to go out on the walk-through for this very reason. You don’t want him paraded before the jury dragging his chains like Marley’s ghost. But in this case, someone had apparently prevailed upon the Sheriff’s Department to leave the cuffs off. As Simpson strolled the grounds with Robert Kardashian, the deputies walked a few respectful paces behind him.
Simpson was so full of swagger that he ventured inside the garage and lifted the tarp that covered his red Ferrari. He turned to a deputy and smirked, “Do you know what TestaRossa means?”
There was sniggering all around. And I thought to myself, Right. Anything O. J. Simpson wants to do is fine, as long as the guys think it’s funny.