.

Where's the Knife, O.J.?

And where's a good 'trial of the century' when you need one?

I admit it—I still want to know. I mean, O.J. promised not to rest until he found Nicole's killer... well?? THE GUY IS RESTING (in prison for another crime, perhaps, but still...)

Over 15 years later and I am still curious as to what happened to the knife, where the bag that was placed by the limo went, what the pounding on Kato's guest house wall was, and whether or not Marcia Clark was sleeping with Chris Darden.

The year was 1994, and my ex-husband (who was not my husband yet but simply my "living in sin" boyfriend) and I were in New York watching The Knicks NBA finals (Pat Riley was the coach and Ewing was my guy) when at the bottom of the screen was this white Bronco...

And the rest, as they say, is history. I knew from the moment that Bronco chase started, I was hooked. I could feel it in my veins. The excitement, the curiosity, the answer to the absolute boredom that had taken over my own life. 

Finally I had a reason to get up in the morning! Yes! Let the O.J. trial begin!

And it did. In January of 1995.

It was perfect. My pre-husband/boyfriend was busy doing a play in New York while I was wondering if I had committed career suicide by moving from Los Angeles, where I was at the start of my feature film career, back to New York where I had nothing going on AT ALL.

Why did I move just when my first movie was made and I should've been riding that wave for at least the next few years? Because...  "I was in looooove."

Lord.

So, my days were spent in front of the television on the Upper West Side, drinking coffee and watching the O.J. trial. I was fixated. I loved it. Everything about it. It was like the best soap opera ever.

Seriously, you can't create a better cast of characters.  Racist Mark Fuhrman, knucklehead Kato, the grieving Goldman family, Denise Brown, "the brunette version of Nicole" (they must've stated that at least a hundred times), the devoted housekeeper, the guy who knew what time he heard the barking dog because of his obsessive television-watching schedule, the two defense experts, Barry Scheck and Peter Neufeld, who looked like every writing team I had ever worked with, Judge Ito and, of course, the football legend himself.

I had my day planned out: I broke for lunch when they broke for lunch. Hit up Zabaars for a bagel, lox and cream cheese, then headed back to the apartment just in time for Greta Van Susteren to give her two cents on the day's events before heading back into the courtroom.

At night I couldn't sleep because I would replay the night of the murder in my head, desperate to be the one to figure out where the killer hid the knife.

Yes, folks, I really thought I could solve it. Like I was some sort of young Angela Lansbury riding around on my bike through New York hoping to fit together the pieces of a puzzle that no one else on the planet could.

OK, I was a little obsessed and a lot sick. Sick of my life.

It was 134 days of nonstop episodes of The People vs. Orenthal  James Simpson. I mean, c'mon, imagine if Modern Family or Family Guy or The Real Housewives of Orange County aired new episodes nonstop every day for 134 days—before the days of Tivo—tell me some of you wouldn't be dancin' in the streets.

I mean, sure I was neglecting my life, my relationship, my depression. But it was the greatest escape from my reality that I could have ever asked for.

I bring this up because, and I say this with all sincerity, I would give ANYTHING for that kind of distraction now.

With the crap that's going on in my life these days—the seemingly never-ending unemployment, the getting older, the extra five friggin' pounds, the fact that my daughter is almost out of her single digits... well,  134 days of a murder trial would be the perfect thing to take the edge off life.

And since this mama doesn't drink, smoke, shop or fu—OK, drink, smoke or shop—looking for something to take the edge off life is not easy these days.

I remember when the verdict was read and the shock and horror that overwhelmed me. Not so much because they let a murderer off ( which, we all know, they did) but because it was over. Really over.

What the hell was I going to do with all those hours in the day now? Yoga?

Noooo! I needed a fix! Something! Anything! And I went through what any good addict goes through... a nasty case of withdrawals.

I'd wake up and walk past the television in pure and utter grief. I missed seeing Marcia and Chris, Detectives Tom Lange and Ron Phillips, the chick who worked at Mezzaluna. Hell, I would've been happy with a glimpse of a court reporter.

But, alas, it truly was over. And then something so odd happened. Unexpected. So random.

I got a job.

Not just any job. I got a job writing for a soap opera in New York.

I had never written for soaps. The last time I watched one was when Luke and Laura got married on GH. But I met someone who knew someone who needed someone, and I became that someone.

So, as luck would have it, as one long real-life soap opera in Brentwood ended, a new make-believe one in a town called Bay City began.

My days became busy, my life became full and my need for an escape disappeared.

The other day I was on my way to a meeting, driving on Sunset toward the Palisades, panicking about how I was going to pay my bills, get a bunch of elementary school kids in shape for a looming talent show, qualify for more health insurance, get my hair cut... when I passed a street I hadn't thought about in years.

Rockingham Drive.

And for a brief moment I went back in time, remembering 1995, and forgetting, for just a brief moment, all my current worries.

And wouldn't you know it, once again, as though it were yesterday, one thought kept playing in my head...

Where did he put that damn knife?

Michael Calder June 08, 2011 at 04:23 PM
Bill, we are both white males. Let's tell the truth. Just two white guys talking. As a politically correct white liberal male you are the first to pee in your pants when suddenly confronted by three black males. Why is that Bill? The times you have looked for a place to live in Los Angeles, you've moved into the whitetist area you could afford. Each apartment building you considered renting in you made a mental check of how many negroes or how many mexicans lived there. If the number exceeded your personal quota you chose not to move into the complex. Why is that Bill? If you have or had a daughter about to enter middle school, you drove to the school to see how many mexican students went to the school. Somehow your daughter didn't enroll there. You are proud to tell the world your son attends an LAUSD High School if that school is El Camino but if your teenage son couldn't get into El Camino, you came up with excuses to enroll him in private school. You want to see a racist, look in the mirror Bill.
justin forbes June 09, 2011 at 06:34 AM
Susan, as always, such a generous, honest voice on a usually 'hot' topic...thank you for bringing me back...I was actually doing my annual summer "escape to southern california from New Orleans" and was skateboarding my friends empty pool when his wife came running outside yelling, "OJ is on the run!!" (does that tell you how long ago this was?) Haven't been on a skateboard in too long now...so anyway, my creative friends and I grabbed a paper and headed for kinkos. cut and paste and in an hour we had our very own custom "OJ Simpson says watch TV" shirts. (a big ol' picture of his mugshot was on the front, lettering done in a ransom note randomness. So for the next few times we wore these shirts...people of all shapes and sizes asked us where to find them. We lied, "oh, someplace on Melrose"...but had no intention of capitalizing on this tragedy. The trial sucked me in as well. Has it really been 15 years? I heard the knife was on a golf course in Florida... Love ya Sue, keep em coming!
Linda Rubin June 09, 2011 at 07:13 AM
From "The Onion.com" Educated Bigot That Much More Terrifying FAYETTEVILLE, AR—After arguing with a well-read, articulate racist Wednesday, area man Daniel Truett described the experience as "bone-chilling," telling reporters it was far scarier than any encounter with an ignorant bigot ever could have been. "I've met some intolerant assholes in my time, but never one who could quote passages from Booker T. Washington's Up From Slavery to make his point," said Truett, who raised objections to the man's racial prejudices, but found his opponent was able to anticipate each of his arguments and counter them point by point. "And the most terrifying part of all is that he's obviously intelligent enough to know he's a hateful, bigoted person, which means he must actually be okay with that fact." Later that evening, Truett felt even more conflicted after hearing the very same bigot perform an exquisite and nuanced rendition of the Dvorak cello concerto. http://www.theonion.com/articles/educated-bigot-that-much-more-terrifying,20630/
Becca June 09, 2011 at 02:19 PM
I wonder if this is actually Denise? Hmm.. Either way, what happened will never be forgotten. Nicole will never be forgotten, because you and your family didn't let that happen. As the next generation, I vow to you to continue your work so that this doesn't happen again. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure Nicole's memory is kept out there.
Cindy October 04, 2011 at 06:40 PM
I think the knife was in the golf bag that Robert Kardashian took & disposed of. Then he became OJs lawyer for a minute to ensure he couldn't be questioned as to what happened when OJ got back.

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