The Run of His Life: The People v. O. J. Simpson

1. DROP DEAD GORGEOUS

The geographic spine of Brentwood-indeed, the spine of wealthy West Los Angeles-is Sunset Boulevard. The legendary thoroughfare begins modestly, just a few blocks from the Los Angeles Criminal Courts Building, in the city’s forlorn downtown, where it begins its twenty-mile trek west to the Pacific Ocean. From downtown, it passes through the honky-tonk precincts of Hollywood and then moves ever upscale, through Beverly Hills and then to Bel-Air. When Sunset then crosses the San Diego Freeway, the air clears-literally. The next community is Brentwood, where ocean breezes scrub the pervasive smog from the sky. Here, in its last stop before the ocean, Sunset Boulevard shimmies along the base of the foothills that lead up to the Santa Monica Mountains. When planners first laid out Brentwood in the 1920s, their model was Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. The little roads that sprout from Sunset still follow the curves of the hills. Big houses have always been the rule in Brentwood, in the usual stylistic mix for wealthy Los Angeles: Normandy farmhouse; English Tudor; English Cotswold cottage; Spanish Colonial Revival. In one respect, the houses in Brentwood differ from their wealthy cousins in the Hollywood Hills or Beverly Hills. It is a less showy neighborhood, with fewer modernist architectural gestures and rococo European follies-a conservative place.

The iron law of real estate in Brentwood is simple and unchanging: North of Sunset, sometimes called Brentwood Park, is better than south. On February 23, 1977, O.J. Simpson bought a house on a prime corner lot at 360 North Rockingham for $650,000. (Real estate agents say the house is probably worth about $4 million in 1996.) The home reflects the stolid grandeur of the hilly neighborhood north of Sunset Boulevard: 6,000 square feet in a timber-and-stone frame, with an adjoining pool and tennis court. A six-foot-tall brick wall protects the house’s privacy. Some of Simpson’s monthly expenses, as revealed in legal papers from his 1992 divorce from Nicole, give a sense of the scale of the place: $13,488 annually for utilities; $10,129 for gardening; and $4,371 for “Pool-Tennis Court Services.”

Shortly after O.J. bought the house, he began seeing eighteen-year-old Nicole Brown, and then he separated from his wife, Marguerite. (At the time, O.J. was thirty and near the end of his professional football career.) O.J. and Marguerite divorced in 1979, the same year that their two-year-old daughter, Aaren, accidentally drowned in the pool at Rockingham. Nicole lived with O.J. in the Rockingham house for more than a decade, through their marriage in 1985, the birth of their daughter, Sydney, eight months later, and the birth of their son, Justin, in 1988. However, when they separated in February 1992, there was never any doubt that the house was his. As Simpson stated in a declaration filed as part of the divorce proceeding with Nicole, “Because of the nature of my estate and my existing obligations, I requested that [Nicole] sign a Prenuptial Agreement. There were substantial negotiations over a period of 7 to 9 months which resulted in a signed agreement essentially providing that all property rights would remain separate.”

So Nicole and the two children moved to nearby 325 Gretna Green Way, in a quiet and pleasant part of Brentwood without gated estates on the southern side of Sunset. Her new house reflected one of the most common styles for modern California homes-what might be called Discount Mission. Spray-on stucco lined the exterior walls, a few wooden beams spruced up the sides, and clay tiles covered the roof. A two-car garage dominated the front.

As their divorce litigation went forward in 1992, it became clear that Nicole had many years earlier made herself a hostage to O.J.’s fortunes. In the divorce proceeding, Nicole pressed O.J. for both child and spousal support, stressing her complete financial dependence on him. “I am not currently employed and spend my time caring for my two young children,” she declared in an affidavit. Her attorneys wrote in a brief that as a teenager, around the time she met Simpson, Nicole “worked as a waitress for two months. Prior to that, she worked as a sales clerk in a boutique. She worked there for a total of two weeks and did not make a single sale. These two jobs are the sum total of her employment experience.” In a court-ordered meeting with a “vocational counselor,” Nicole described herself as a “party animal” and said her personal goals were “to raise my kids as best I can; beyond that I haven’t thought about me.” She added, “I’m sure I will get a goal someday.” It wasn’t until Nicole was in her mid-thirties and divorced that she began to consider entering the business world. Her friend and fellow party animal Faye Resnick later reported in a book about Nicole that at the time of her death, the two women were hoping to open a coffeehouse in Brentwood called “Java Café or something like that,” with “poetry readings and fabulous teas and coffees.”

O.J. and Nicole’s divorce was settled without a trial. On October 15, 1992, the parties agreed that O.J., whose after-tax income amounted to $55,000 monthly (that is, $660,000 a year), would pay Nicole $10,000 a month in child support. Nicole kept title to a rent-producing condominium in San Francisco, and O.J. agreed to make a one-time payment to her of $433,750. “It is the intent of the parties,” the settlement stated, “that a substantial portion of this sum shall be used by [Nicole] for the acquisition of a residence.”

Real estate agents in Brentwood speak about the extraordinary intimacy of their relationships with their clients. The brokers are often women who have entered the business as a new career in midlife. According to an experienced agent, “People are so wrapped up in their houses here that you become their confessors. It’s amazing what I hear. People think nothing of telling their brokers that they were raped by their fathers.” Nicole Simpson quickly developed a close friendship with Jeane McKenna, who had been a broker in Brentwood since 1978. They had much in common: Both had been married to prominent athletes in Los Angeles. McKenna’s ex-husband is Jim Lefebvre, the former Dodger infielder, whom she had met when she was a flight attendant. When the two women met in October 1993, McKenna learned that Nicole had been divorced for about a year. After a period of on-and-off reconciliations with O.J., she was finally ready to buy her own place.

Nicole needed to move quickly on a purchase. She had sold the rental property in San Francisco, and to avoid taxes on the sale, she was required to invest the proceeds promptly in another rent-producing property. According to Jeane McKenna, “She was paying five thousand a month at Gretna Green, which had a pool and a guest house, so when she bought a new place, she wasn’t going to get everything she had before, but this would be her own.” As it turned out, McKenna had just what Nicole wanted.

In exasperation, Jeane McKenna used to refer to 875 South Bundy Drive as her “career listing”-the house she couldn’t sell. Bundy Drive is the main north-south artery of Brentwood, a noisy, busy, traffic-filled thoroughfare. McKenna’s property was the north side of a two-family condominium building in an area real estate agents refer to as the Brentwood flats or, sometimes, the poor man’s Brentwood. McKenna had had her name on a FOR SALE sign in front of that property for more than six months when she received a call from Nicole in October 1993. According to McKenna, “It’s not exactly an ace area of Brentwood, south of Sunset. The windows were double-paned so you couldn’t hear the noise on the street, and when I marketed the property, I told potential buyers, including Nicole, ‘You’re not going to be doing any outdoor entertaining, with all the buses and sirens screaming by.’ ” But the three-story condominium did have its advantages. It was modern, built in 1991, and it had a two-story living room, several skylights, and an assortment of high-end accoutrements, including a Jacuzzi, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, and a kitchen full of marble countertops. But McKenna couldn’t sell it until Nicole came along.

Nicole liked the Bundy condo, in part because of its location near a school. Nicole wanted to be close to a playground because her children would no longer have a yard. McKenna negotiated a deal for Nicole to buy the house for $625,000, but she wound up paying an additional $30,000. “The seller was this television producer who was in financial trouble, so Nicole had to pay all the seller’s closing costs, too,” McKenna explained. “She just really wanted that place.”

In January 1994, when Nicole moved into the Bundy condominium, her relationship with O.J. oscillated between reconciliation and a final breach, and the financial tensions between them escalated. The first point of conflict revolved around a man named Kato Kaelin. Although the Simpson affair made the name Kato synonymous with houseguest, his original relationship to Nicole was the more familiar one of tenant to landlord. Kaelin had rented her guest house at Gretna Green for five hundred dollars a month, a figure he could reduce somewhat by baby-sitting for her children. (During this period Sydney and Justin grew so fond of Kato that they named their pet Akita after him.) When Nicole moved to Bundy, she and Kaelin planned to continue the deal, with Kato paying to stay in a small guest suite wedged between the garage and kitchen. Shortly before the move, however, O.J. told Kaelin that although he had had no objections to his living in a separate guest house at Gretna Green, he didn’t want him living under the same roof as his ex-wife. Simpson’s solution was to give Kaelin a rent-free guest house at his home on Rockingham. O.J.’s offer thus simultaneously removed a potential rival for Nicole’s affections and took money out of his ex-wife’s pocket. It also led ultimately to Kaelin’s prominent place in the history of freeloading.

In May 1994, O.J. and Nicole’s final attempt at a reconciliation ended, leading to a financial controversy that dwarfed the dispute over Kato Kaelin. Around Memorial Day, less than six months after she and her children had settled into the Bundy condominium, Nicole called Jeane McKenna and said they would have to move out because O.J. was threatening to report her to the Internal Revenue Service.

When Nicole had sold her rental property in San Francisco she had invested the proceeds in the home on Bundy, but she apparently told the IRS that the new place was also a rental property. As a result, she had avoided tax on the initial sale. For tax purposes, she kept Rockingham as her official residence. Around Memorial Day, O.J. told her that he would no longer permit her to use his address. “He’s threatening to tell the IRS that I’m living in Bundy,” Nicole told McKenna. As a legal matter, O.J. seems to have had a point, but McKenna scoffed at the idea that Simpson would force his children to move for the second time in a year. “Oh yes he is,” Nicole told her broker. “Of course he is-the asshole.” In the entry in her diary for June 3, Nicole quoted the exact words of O.J.’s threat: “You hang up on me last nite, you’re gonna pay for this bitch, you’re holding money from the IRS, you’re going to jail you fucking cunt. You think you can do any fucking thing you want, you’ve got it comming-I’ve already talked to my lawyers about this bitch-they’ll get you for tax evasion, bitch, I’ll see to it. You’re not going to have a dime left bitch etc.”

On Monday, June 6, O.J. delivered on his threat. He put his warning in icily official terms, in a typed, formal letter to his ex-wife, which began: “Dear Nicole, On advice of legal counsel, and because of the change in our circumstances, I am compelled to put you on written notice that you do not have my permission or authority to use my permanent home address at 360 North Rockingham… as your residence or mailing address for any purpose… I cannot take part in any action by you that might intentionally or unintentionally be misleading to the Internal Revenue Service…” Nicole showed the letter to her friend Cynthia Shahian on June 7. Not surprisingly, Nicole was horrified by it-especially by the prospect of being forced to move out of Bundy so soon after she and her children had moved in. The same day Shahian saw the letter, June 7, Nicole also telephoned the Sojourn shelter for battered women in Santa Monica to report that she was being stalked by O.J.

On Thursday, June 9, on Nicole’s instructions, McKenna officially put 875 South Bundy up for lease, asking $4,800 a month. “Drop dead gorgeous 1991 townhome in the heart of Brentwood” was how McKenna described the property in the listing. Nicole told Jeane McKenna that if she stayed at Bundy, it would cost her $90,000 in taxes, which was just about all the money she had in the world. She didn’t want to sacrifice that stake, so she decided to look for a new place to live with her kids.

The following morning, Friday, June 10, Nicole spoke with her friend Ron Hardy, a bartender and host at several Los Angeles nightspots. Nicole explained that she was just about to leave to go look at houses with McKenna. “She was happy,” Hardy later recalled. “She said everything’s great, she hadn’t felt this good in a while. She felt that she had finally put O.J. behind her.” Nicole made dinner plans with Hardy for Monday night, then spent the rest of the day with McKenna seeking a place to lease. “We were together all day, looking at houses,” McKenna later recalled. “She knew the kids really liked Bundy and wouldn’t want to move, so she wanted to do something special for them, to give them something they would want-especially a pool. And by the end of the day, we found a place for her in Malibu, a one-story contemporary with a pool and a view of the ocean, for five thousand a month. I remember walking up the hill there with her. We were smoking. Nobody smokes in Brentwood, so we used to sneak it together, and she was saying, like she couldn’t really believe it, ‘I can really do this. I can lease the house and move. I can really do this.’ ”

Nicole called McKenna on Saturday night to ask when the FOR LEASE sign would go up in front of her condo. “She was anxious to have it up,” McKenna said, “because she wanted to get on with her life, but also because she wanted O.J. to see it, to say ‘Screw you’ to him.” As it turned out, McKenna was then in the process of switching real estate agencies, so she couldn’t locate an appropriate sign until the following day, Sunday, June 12. At about seven that evening, a colleague from McKenna’s new office dropped off a sign with her just as she was leaving for a dinner party. McKenna figured she would put it up at Nicole’s afterward. She put her hammer in the car.

McKenna’s dinner party was in Beverly Hills, so as she was driving home she had to decide which way she was going to turn on Bundy. “At the time,” McKenna remembered later, “I lived north on Bundy and she lived south. I remember looking at the clock in my car when I hit the intersection of Bundy and San Vicente. It was 10:15. It would have taken me five minutes to get to her house. I said, ‘Screw it, I’ll do it tomorrow.’ ”

On the night of June 12, 1994, Pablo Fenjves watched the top of the ten o’clock news with his wife, Jai, a costume designer, in their third-floor master bedroom. They lived about sixty yards north of Nicole Simpson’s condominium. Both Nicole’s and Fenjves’s backdoors opened onto the same alley, though they had never met. Nicole had moved into the neighborhood shortly after Fenjves. In fact, 875 South Bundy was on the market when Fenjves was looking at houses, and he had walked through it during his search. He had found it too narrow, too expensive, and too noisy, which were common opinions about the property.

Pablo Fenjves was forty-one years old in 1994 and starting to reap the benefits of many years’ toil in Hollywood. His parents, Holocaust survivors from Hungary, emigrated to Venezuela, and young Pablo went to Illinois for college and to Canada for a brief apprenticeship in journalism. From Montreal, he ventured to Florida in the late 1970s, where he went to work writing “human interest stories” for the National Enquirer. Even though the job brought him the opportunity to interview such notables as the world’s oldest Siamese twins (they were in their twenties and employed in a traveling freak show), Fenjves quickly soured on the Enquirer and left after about a year. He has since made his living writing screenplays.

Fenjves’s progress in the business was slow but steady. In 1986, he moved from the East Coast to an apartment in Santa Monica. There he began a long and fairly prosperous interlude in a sort of shadow Hollywood; he sold script after script, and they all languished unproduced, yet still he sold more scripts. Finally, as the 1990s began, his luck changed. The turning point came, at least in part, courtesy of the surefire topic of interracial romance. HBO Showcase bought (and made) The Affair, the story of a black soldier who falls in love with a white woman during World War II. Fenjves bought a BMW and a Mercedes and decided to move to Brentwood. Since Pablo Fenjves would spend “only” about half a million dollars on a home, he was pretty much limited to south of Sunset.

Sometime after 10:00 on the night of June 12, Pablo and Jai began to hear the sound of a dog barking. The actual time, Pablo later testified, was right around 10:15. A few moments later, Pablo walked downstairs to his study to fiddle with a script called The Last Bachelor, a romantic comedy about an amorous baseball player. Shortly before 11:00, he walked back up to the bedroom, where his wife had been watching Dynasty: The Reunion. The credits on the show were rolling, and the barking had still not stopped. Fenjves remembered the sound because it was not the ordinary chatter of a neighborhood dog.

The sound of the dog, Fenjves later testified, was like “a plaintive wail-sounded like a, you know, very unhappy animal.” Seven months before the murders, Fenjves had written a script called Frame-Up, a police drama that became a television movie on the USA Network. In the first scene of the screenplay, Fenjves wrote, “We hear the plaintive wail of a police siren.” In the best Hollywood tradition, Fenjves plagiarized, if only from himself, a line that had brought him a brief moment of renown.

Pablo Fenjves was not Nicole’s only neighbor who heard her grief-stricken Akita in the moments after 10:15. The “dog witnesses,” as they came to be known, reflected the peculiar nature of the neighborhood. Almost none of the residents, for example, had what most Americans would describe as a job-that is, a place of employment where one had to appear five days a week, eight hours a day. Rather, Nicole’s neighbors made their living as freelancers, mostly in the entertainment business-screenwriters, designers, and the like-and all were prowling for the big score that would catapult them north of Sunset. Many owned dogs, and in the atomized, car-oriented culture of Los Angeles, they tended to know only those neighbors who likewise walked their dogs. Finally, virtually every person in and around 875 South Bundy on the night of June 12 answered one question the same way: What were they doing at shortly after 10:00 P.M.? Watching television.

Steven Schwab watched reruns of The Dick Van Dyke Show seven nights a week. Like Fenjves, Schwab was a screenwriter. He had enjoyed less success in the business than Fenjves, however, and so lived more modestly, in an apartment on Montana Avenue, about three blocks from Nicole. The burly and bearded Schwab spoke in an almost eerie monotone, which seemed to match the extreme regularity of his habits. As he later testified, “During the week I would walk my dog between 11:00 and 11:30 so that when I got home I was able to watch The Dick Van Dyke Show on TV. On the weekends I walked the dog between 10:30 and 11:00 because The Dick Van Dyke Show ends at 10:30 on the weekend.” As June 12, 1994, was a Sunday, he set out with his dog, Sherry, shortly after his favorite program ended, at 10:30 P.M.

Schwab walked his regular route around the neighborhood, a circuit he followed as religiously as he did his television schedule. The route, he said, “is one that I designed to take about a half hour to get me home so I can watch whatever shows I want.” At about 10:55 P.M., when he passed the alley behind Nicole’s home, Schwab saw something unusual: a beautiful white Akita that was barking at a house. It paused to look at Schwab and then barked at the house again. Curious about the behavior and a little worried about this seemingly abandoned animal, Schwab approached the dog, let it sniff him, and examined its collar. He noticed that the collar was expensive-“It wasn’t something that I could afford to get for my own dog”-but it did not give a name or address. As he studied the dog more carefully, Schwab noticed something else. There was blood on all four of the animal’s paws.

Schwab couldn’t figure out where the dog belonged, so he just headed home. The Akita followed him. (In August 1994, the Akita would be “interviewed” by Sergeant Donn Yarnall, the chief trainer of the Los Angeles Police Department’s “K-9 Patrol.” Yarnall’s report described the dog as having a “very nice disposition” but “inadequate instincts or courage to protect his territory, owner or himself.”) With the dog right behind him, Schwab made it home shortly after 11:00, just after The Mary Tyler Moore Show had begun. Eight months later, Schwab remembered that “it was an episode that I had seen previously, involving Mary dating someone from a rival station.” Schwab told his wife, Linda, that a large dog had followed him home. “You’re kidding,” she said, but then he pointed to the Akita, which was waiting patiently on the landing outside their second-floor apartment. While Steven and Linda pondered what to do, they gave the dog some water. As they were talking, at about 11:40 P.M. the Schwabs’ neighbor Sukru Boztepe walked into the apartment complex. A freelance laser printer repairman who still speaks with the accent of his native Turkey, Boztepe and his Danish-born wife, Bettina Rasmussen, had hosted a garage sale with the Schwabs earlier that day.

After the two couples chatted for a few minutes, Boztepe agreed that he and his wife would keep the dog for the night. But when they took it inside, Boztepe later testified, the “dog was acting so nervous running around, scratching the door, and we didn’t feel comfortable sleeping with such a big dog in the apartment, and we decide to take the dog for a walk. So we took it.” They let the Akita lead them, and the dog pulled them back toward Bundy Drive-“It was getting more nervous and it was pulling me harder.” Just after midnight, the dog stopped in front of a gate on Bundy that was labeled 875. Boztepe remembered that the area was so dark that he never would have looked down the pathway behind the gate if the dog had not called his attention to it.

What did he see there?

“I saw a lady laying down full of blood.”