Excerpts from the OJ Simpson book. Surely a scheme to extract money from the gullible public. My understanding is Ron Goldman’s father is suing for the rights to the book. OJ has already pocketed near a million dollars in advance royalities. Definitely fiction and who was the ghost writer?
“Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what hap-
pened, but I can’t tell you exactly how. I was still standing in
Nicole’s courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn’t
remember how I’d gotten there, when I’d arrived, or even why I was
there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital—with lit-
tle Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping
balls into my neighbor’s yard; Paula, angry, not answering her
phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly
shit about Nicole’s behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive
from Rockingham to the Bundy condo.
And now? Now I was standing in Nicole’s courtyard, in the
dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my
own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt
strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I
couldn’t get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of
me was covered in blood, but it didn’t compute. Is this really blood?
I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?
I was more confused than ever. What the hell had happened
here? Then I remembered that Goldman guy coming through the
back gate, with Juditha’s glasses, and I remembered hollering at
him, and I remembered how our shouts had brought Nicole to
the door . . .
Nicole. Jesus.
I looked down and saw her on the ground in front of me,
curled up in a fetal position at the base of the stairs, not moving.
Goldman was only a few feet away, slumped against the bars of the
fence. He wasn’t moving either. Both he and Nicole were lying in
giant pools of blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It
didn’t seem real, and none of it computed. What the fuck happened
here? Who had done this? And why? And where the fuck was I when
this shit went down?
It was like part of my life was missing—like there was some
weird gap in my existence. But how could that be? I was standing
right there. That was me, right?
I again looked down at myself, at my blood-soaked clothes,
and noticed the knife in my hand. The knife was covered in blood,
as were my hand and wrist and half of my right forearm. That didn’t
compute either. I wondered how I had gotten blood all over my
knife, and I again asked myself whose blood it might be, when sud-
denly it all made perfect sense: This was just a bad dream. A very
bad dream. Any moment now, I would wake up, at home, in my
own bed, and start going about my day.”
