The Death Of OJ Simpson

Cancer is awful. It killed my mother. It nearly killed my Dad. And now, it has claimed another victim. Cancer just killed OJ Simpson.

Most people deeply affected by his crimes will understandably celebrate his demise. I certainly will not miss him. But cancer is an insidious disease. I’ve seen firsthand how it gradually destroys a life, how it painstakingly sucks all the joy out of even the most positive, upbeat person like my Mom. And how chemotherapy drained the energy out of my Dad. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, even a murderer like OJ Simpson.

And make no mistake about it. He killed his ex-wife. He destroyed Ron Goldman. We’ve seen the photos. We know the evidence. Remove all the racial politics of the time. There’s no doubt what Simpson did.

There’s a scene in the original Barbershop where Cedric The Entertainer’s flamboyant character, known for his outspokenness, blurts out what everybody in Ice Cube’s shop is thinking but won’t say:

“We know OJ did it.”

Everybody knew.

The Simpson murder trial was a spectacle, not genuine justice. It was about misplaced loyalty towards a man who did not want to be seen as Black until he was in trouble. It was about a historically wronged community who picked the wrong champion to defend, one they knew deep down was completely unworthy of their support, all to stick it to a system of white supremacy that protected him the entire time and remains mostly unchanged.

To understand who OJ Simpson was and how he came to be, you only need to see one film, the Oscar-winning documentary OJ: Made In America, one of the greatest cinematic achievements of all time.

Over the course of eight gripping hours, we learn so much about one of the most consequential public figures in history, a man who grew up in a broken home and then went on to break two more of his own.

The story of OJ Simpson is the story of a man who grew up with no boundaries, who spent his dysfunctional childhood mostly left alone with his friends unsupervised because his exhausted, hardworking, divorced mother needed to take on three jobs just to keep him fed, housed and clothed.

His estranged father was gay, a revelation that had a profound impact on how he viewed masculinity and which his ex-wife Nicole Brown believed was a major factor in his horrendous abuse towards her.

Simpson came to fame, of course, as a young football star destined for the NFL where he would thrive as a running back despite never winning a Super Bowl. Although he hated the bitterly cold winters in Buffalo, the team he played for the most, it never affected his game. He retired a legend.

Coming of age in the 60s and 70s, Simpson was a shrewd operator and a moral coward. While other Black athletes were prominent in the civil rights movement putting their own careers on the line for racial justice and equality, Simpson calculatedly avoided being associated with them. He infamously asserted, “I’m not Black, I’m OJ.” And he openly used racial epithets against other African Americans he wanted nothing to do with.

Like many sociopaths, he was charming and likeable. It led to a pioneering and highly lucrative endorsement deal with Hertz rent-a-car. He was seen as completely non-threatening to white America who openly embraced him. As he ran through airport after airport in TV ad after TV ad, delighted honkies would shout, “Run, OJ, run!”

He made movies like Capricorn One and The Naked Gun Trilogy. His success on the field led to a second life as a sideline reporter for NFL broadcasts. He seemed to live a charmed life.

You had to read The National Enquirer to learn the truth like the time he beat up Nicole on New Year’s Eve 1989 which was not picked up by more respectable mainstream media.

It wasn’t until four and a half years later when he murdered her and Ron Goldman in a terrifyingly intense rage that we all learned what the Enquirer had uncovered this entire time. He was no hero. He was garbage.

OJ: Made In America offers another telling moment about Simpson’s treatment of Nicole right from the very start of their relationship. On their first date, he was so rough with her that her clothes were all torn and ripped. Try as she did to love him as he was, once that was impossible she tried even harder to leave him, finally divorcing him and moving on with a new partner.

We don’t know very much about Simpson’s first marriage to a Black woman which also ended in divorce. Did he abuse her, too? As far as we know, he didn’t which isn’t unusual, by the way. Toxic men don’t necessarily abuse all their partners.

But when it came to Nicole, OJ couldn’t let go. He began stalking her, even watching her be intimate with her new beau from outside her own window. After reaching his breaking point, Simpson successfully disposed of the murder weapon, a large knife, but left behind a trail of blood that sadly was not enough to convict him in the eyes of a mostly Black jury with a misguided agenda to keep him out of prison. Fuck you, Mark Fuhrman.

The OJ Simpson story is also one of uncomfortable irony, the story of a Black man who wanted to seamlessly blend in with white America, who wanted nothing to do with Black causes, who was actually good friends with a number of LAPD officers both white and Black.

While white America was enraged by his violence, Black America, for the most part, was in denial, hoping for once that one of their own would not be locked away. But he wasn’t one of their own. He was OJ. He was a wife beater and a double murderer, an obscenely wealthy star who basked in his own undeserved immunity. He was only Black when he needed outside support.

I will never forget October 3, 1995. I was in College at the time hanging out at our cable FM radio station. Someone came in saying they were about to announce the verdict so we all rushed out and hurried to the end of the hall where a staircase led to a lounge where students hung out in between classes.

There were no seats available so we had to stand and bend over uncomfortably just to see the TV. There was an impatient hush amongst the crowd. Surely, he’s fucked, I thought.

He wasn’t. As soon as the jury foreman stumbled out the not guilty verdict an offensive and collective cheer rang out like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I was so fucking disgusted.

We had a closed circuit TV station that had monitors all over the school. They usually broadcasted college sports when they weren’t showcasing computer graphics announcing college events and activities. But that day every monitor was tuned to the trial on CNN.

As I walked past one, Simpson’s obnoxiously smiling face was still on TV so I gave it the finger, a powerless gesture that didn’t change anything. But it was how I felt, how a lot of us felt including a number of dissenting Black folks who may or may not have been as vocal. It was a lonely position since it curiously felt like we were in the minority.

Three years later, Simpson would finally meet his match in court. He would lose a civil trial that was brilliantly litigated by Daniel Petrocelli who later co-wrote an excellent book about the experience. Snippets of his preliminary hearing testimony would later air in a terrific A&E doc that showed just how badly the Los Angeles DA’s office bungled their own prosecution.

There were a couple of things Petrocelli and his team uncovered that Marcia Clark and company missed. Simpson had written a book in the 70s where he bragged in his typical cavalier fashion that he was a very good liar, that it came easily to him.

And then, there were the shoes. Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman’s killer left behind bloody shoeprints at the murder scene just outside her house. The shoes turned out to be really expensive Bruno Magli’s that only a few hundred people were wearing at the time. When confronted by Petrocelli, OJ claimed he would never wear such “ugly-ass shoes”.

But the lawyer had an extensive amount of photos of him wearing them at numerous NFL football games as he was performing his duties as a sideline reporter for NBC. I’ll never forget the bewildered look OJ gave when Petrocelli showed him the photos. His eyes widened considerably. If only this had happened at the criminal trial.

Simpson wasn’t exactly warmly embraced following these two cases. No one in Hollywood would hire him for parts (his last legitimate gig, an early 1994 pilot for a cancelled series about navy seals, remains unreleased) so he would have to take whatever cheap, demeaning gig he could get.

The most memorable was a ghostwritten book bizarrely named If I Did It. Because he owed the Goldmans tens of millions from the civil case, they took ownership eventually re-releasing it with the If shrunk within the top of the next word I and adding the subtitle “Confessions Of The Killer.” Simpson asserted he had an accomplice named Charlie who tried to talk him out of confronting Nicole and that he conveniently blacked out during her actual murder so he couldn’t actually confess to anything specific.

Judith Regan, the book’s publisher, then sat down with him for a TV interview, the very idea of which completely pissed off so many people, including the Goldmans, the Fox network foolishly yanked it, effectively cancelling its broadcast. Regan was understandably furious. She said she did it hoping he would admit culpability. It would eventually be aired more than a decade later on the same network. The increasingly weird Simpson did not come off as innocent or credible.

And then over a decade later, after numerous screw-ups that in two instances led to a couple of light fines, he fucked up again in the dumbest of ways. OJ and a few of his goons decided to confront a sports memorabilia seller who was in possession of some of his artifacts. Claiming they were stolen from him, OJ decided to take them back by force. The FBI was paying very close attention.

He was soon arrested. The man who got away with committing a double murder would eventually be convicted on the 13th Anniversary of his wrongful acquittal, a point that was not lost on me nor one of his criminal defense lawyers in OJ: Made In America.

After nearly a decade in prison, he would charm the authorities into paroling him. That part of the story, his life after incarceration, inspired another great A&E doc that revealed disturbing things about Simpson like how he would talk to an invisible Nicole on a plane ride clearly feeling haunted by his actions, dark thoughts that went otherwise unexpressed publicly. (He never fully confessed.) Consider it a spiritual sequel to Made In America.

Simpson, who died two days ago surrounded by family at age 76, one year older than my Mom, had apparently been sick with prostate cancer since last year. It’s a terrible disease even when it affects someone as depraved and monstrous as him.

We need to find a cure for all cancers. We need a better justice system that stops protecting the rich and the terminally toxic. We need to stop disproportionately ruining the lives of so many far less privileged folks of colour, especially the innocent ones. And from the beginning of their lives we need to teach boys to be kind to girls, to respect everyone’s boundaries including their own.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Friday, April 12, 2024
3:17 a.m.