Free The Search for Justice by Robert L Shapiro Page B
Authors: Robert L Shapiro
’ll be able to get through
it.”
As I tried to figure out a way to help him, I suddenly remembered a conversation I ’d once had with Jack Nicholson. I ’d met
him while I was working on the Brando case and asked him about talking in front of a camera, about how to be effective and
not self-conscious. He told me, “The best help I ever got was from John Wayne. Years ago I was riding with him in an elevator
at the studio and asked what kind of advice he might give to a young actor. He just said, ‘Remember two things: Speak low,
and speak slow. ’” This was what I told Bob Kardashian.
When we got to the conference room—it was actually the former lobby of a bank in our office building—it was a mob scene. I
had spoken at press conferences before, but nothing like this. The camera lights were blinding, it was hot, and it was noisy.
But the room grew stone-cold silent when I walked up to the microphone. “O.J.,” I said, “wherever you are, for the sake of
your family, for the sake of your children, please surrender immediately. Surrender to any law-enforcement official at any
police station, but please do it immediately.”
I then detailed the events of the day, and Bob Kardashian quietly and slowly read O.J. ’s letter. His fingers gripping the
paper, he read it well. He told me later that his heart was about to come out of his throat.
Afterward, I faced the reporters and answered questions for about forty-five minutes. Then we all went upstairs to my office,
frustrated and sad. Where was O.J.? Kardashian speculated that perhaps he was headed for the Coliseum or USC, to kill himself
there as some type of symbolism. Or maybe he was going to Nicole ’s grave. After a few desultory minutes of conversation,
Keno drove Bob Kardashian home, everyone elsedrifted off, and I sat at my desk alone, trying to make sense of it all.
In four days I had gone from a cheerful party at the House of Blues to a murder investigation to a client I believed at this
very moment was committing suicide. Perhaps he was dead already. To top it off, the police were all but calling me a felon.
It was some small comfort the next day to read in the
Los Angeles Times
that we had conducted “the most captivating live press conference ever” in front of approximately ninety-five million TV
viewers. I felt many emotions as I stood in front of those cameras, but “captivating” wasn ’t on the list. I was hoping only
that O.J. was alive—hoping that he had been alive to hear me and Kardashian and that he would stay alive and come in on his
own.
An hour later, I was still sitting numbly at my desk. A little before seven, Peter Weil, one of my law partners, dropped by
the office. He had his son with him. “Boy, this has been a rough day for you,” Peter said.
“You have no idea,” I said.
“Are you going home soon?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, I have to wait. The press is still camped outside, I don ’t want to leave until they ’ve thinned out
a little. One press conference a day is plenty.”
“Bob, I have an idea,” Peter said. “I ’ll bring my car to the side entrance, and we ’ll sneak you out that way. They won ’t
be watching that door—security closes it at six—and they ’re not looking for my car, either.”
His plan worked. On the drive home, I tried to lift my spirits by talking with Peter ’s son, Adam, who was not quite nine.
I love my own boys so absolutely. What they think and what they care about is tremendously important to me, and so it was
a comfort to fall into easy conversation with young Adam. Very quickly I discovered that he was an avid baseball fan.
When we got to my house, I asked them if they would please wait a couple of minutes while I ran inside. I promised I ’d be
right back out. When I came through the front door,Linell was standing there. “Bob, what on earth is going on? Where are you going?”
“Just a minute,” I
it.”
As I tried to figure out a way to help him, I suddenly remembered a conversation I ’d once had with Jack Nicholson. I ’d met
him while I was working on the Brando case and asked him about talking in front of a camera, about how to be effective and
not self-conscious. He told me, “The best help I ever got was from John Wayne. Years ago I was riding with him in an elevator
at the studio and asked what kind of advice he might give to a young actor. He just said, ‘Remember two things: Speak low,
and speak slow. ’” This was what I told Bob Kardashian.
When we got to the conference room—it was actually the former lobby of a bank in our office building—it was a mob scene. I
had spoken at press conferences before, but nothing like this. The camera lights were blinding, it was hot, and it was noisy.
But the room grew stone-cold silent when I walked up to the microphone. “O.J.,” I said, “wherever you are, for the sake of
your family, for the sake of your children, please surrender immediately. Surrender to any law-enforcement official at any
police station, but please do it immediately.”
I then detailed the events of the day, and Bob Kardashian quietly and slowly read O.J. ’s letter. His fingers gripping the
paper, he read it well. He told me later that his heart was about to come out of his throat.
Afterward, I faced the reporters and answered questions for about forty-five minutes. Then we all went upstairs to my office,
frustrated and sad. Where was O.J.? Kardashian speculated that perhaps he was headed for the Coliseum or USC, to kill himself
there as some type of symbolism. Or maybe he was going to Nicole ’s grave. After a few desultory minutes of conversation,
Keno drove Bob Kardashian home, everyone elsedrifted off, and I sat at my desk alone, trying to make sense of it all.
In four days I had gone from a cheerful party at the House of Blues to a murder investigation to a client I believed at this
very moment was committing suicide. Perhaps he was dead already. To top it off, the police were all but calling me a felon.
It was some small comfort the next day to read in the
Los Angeles Times
that we had conducted “the most captivating live press conference ever” in front of approximately ninety-five million TV
viewers. I felt many emotions as I stood in front of those cameras, but “captivating” wasn ’t on the list. I was hoping only
that O.J. was alive—hoping that he had been alive to hear me and Kardashian and that he would stay alive and come in on his
own.
An hour later, I was still sitting numbly at my desk. A little before seven, Peter Weil, one of my law partners, dropped by
the office. He had his son with him. “Boy, this has been a rough day for you,” Peter said.
“You have no idea,” I said.
“Are you going home soon?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, I have to wait. The press is still camped outside, I don ’t want to leave until they ’ve thinned out
a little. One press conference a day is plenty.”
“Bob, I have an idea,” Peter said. “I ’ll bring my car to the side entrance, and we ’ll sneak you out that way. They won ’t
be watching that door—security closes it at six—and they ’re not looking for my car, either.”
His plan worked. On the drive home, I tried to lift my spirits by talking with Peter ’s son, Adam, who was not quite nine.
I love my own boys so absolutely. What they think and what they care about is tremendously important to me, and so it was
a comfort to fall into easy conversation with young Adam. Very quickly I discovered that he was an avid baseball fan.
When we got to my house, I asked them if they would please wait a couple of minutes while I ran inside. I promised I ’d be
right back out. When I came through the front door,Linell was standing there. “Bob, what on earth is going on? Where are you going?”
“Just a minute,” I