Gretna
Green place, he'd lived in the guesthouse, but on Bundy all he had
was a little maid's room, so she asked me if I'd put him up at one of
the three guest houses on my property. It was supposed to be tempo-
rary, until Kato could find a place of his own, and I told Nicole I was
glad to help out. Within a week, Kato was living at Rockingham.
Years later, when the trial got underway, somebody floated a
crazy story about this. They said that Nicole had offered Kato the
maid's room at the Bundy condo, and that he was game, but that I
didn't want them living under the same roof. Again, people didn't
seem to understand that—by that point—I had absolutely no
interest in reconciling with Nicole. After all, if I had wanted her
back, she would never have bought the place on Bundy. She and the
kids would have moved into Rockingham, which is what she'd been
hounding me about all along.
In short order, Nicole began to resent Kato. I don't know what
it was exactly, but he was living at the house, and she wasn't, and I
think that really pissed her off. I know it makes absolutely no sense,
but a lot of the shit we went through made no sense, and I think
my theory's as good as any.
Now there were two people at Rockingham that really pissed
her off: Michele and Kato. (Three if you count me.) But she kept
coming by anyway, mostly to hang out by the pool and to torment
me with her unhappiness. At one point, she told me, “O.J., when I
come by the house, I don't want to see either Michele or Kato. Kato
shouldn't even he on the property, and Michele should hide in her
room until I'm gone. You understand? When I'm around, I don't
want either of them around.”
I looked at her, wondering if she'd lost her mind. Who was she
coming by to tell me how to run my home? If she didn't want to see
Michele and Kato, she didn't have to come by at all. She could drop
the kids off out front, and I'd be glad to hang by the pool with
them. I told her as much, and she looked at me with such hatred I
thought she was going to leap off her lounge chair and attack me.
But she didn't attack me. She picked up her copy of People maga-
zine and ignored me.
To make matters worse, several of her close friends started
coming by to express concern about the shape she was in, as if I
could do something about it. Nicole was still hanging out with that
same bad crowd, they said, drinking too much and clearly doing
drugs. Every other day, I heard variations on the same theme: “O.J.,
you gotta do something about it. She needs help.”
But what could I do? Whenever I brought it up, which was
often, believe me, she told me she didn't want to hear it. Or
worse—she stormed out. As usual, everything was my fault. In her
mind, if I'd only let her move back into Rockingham, life would be
perfect. But I hadn't let her move back in, and all she had was her
friends—and a big tax problem. The tax problem was my fault, too,
of course. It was all my fault. Nicole's life was turning to shit
because I didn't love her, and she was certainly lovable, so the prob-
lem was me—I was responsible for everything.
One afternoon, she came by the house to drop off the kids so
she could run a few errands, and I thought she looked a little
glassyeyed. When the kids were out of earshot, I asked her if she
was okay. I did it nicely—not accusing her of anything, not con-
fronting her. “You know,” I said, “I'm hearing from a lot of people—
your friends mostly—that you're fucking yourself up with drugs
and shit. You want to talk about it?”
“Fucking myself up? That's crazy? What 'friends' are telling
you this?”
“People who are worried about you.”
She got mad. She said it was bullshit, that these socalled
friends of hers didn't know what they were talking about—that she
was in complete control.
To tell you the truth, I didn't have any concrete evidence to
back up the allegations. The woman looked worn down, yes, and
she was erratic, and sometimes she seemed completely out of
Green place, he'd lived in the guesthouse, but on Bundy all he had
was a little maid's room, so she asked me if I'd put him up at one of
the three guest houses on my property. It was supposed to be tempo-
rary, until Kato could find a place of his own, and I told Nicole I was
glad to help out. Within a week, Kato was living at Rockingham.
Years later, when the trial got underway, somebody floated a
crazy story about this. They said that Nicole had offered Kato the
maid's room at the Bundy condo, and that he was game, but that I
didn't want them living under the same roof. Again, people didn't
seem to understand that—by that point—I had absolutely no
interest in reconciling with Nicole. After all, if I had wanted her
back, she would never have bought the place on Bundy. She and the
kids would have moved into Rockingham, which is what she'd been
hounding me about all along.
In short order, Nicole began to resent Kato. I don't know what
it was exactly, but he was living at the house, and she wasn't, and I
think that really pissed her off. I know it makes absolutely no sense,
but a lot of the shit we went through made no sense, and I think
my theory's as good as any.
Now there were two people at Rockingham that really pissed
her off: Michele and Kato. (Three if you count me.) But she kept
coming by anyway, mostly to hang out by the pool and to torment
me with her unhappiness. At one point, she told me, “O.J., when I
come by the house, I don't want to see either Michele or Kato. Kato
shouldn't even he on the property, and Michele should hide in her
room until I'm gone. You understand? When I'm around, I don't
want either of them around.”
I looked at her, wondering if she'd lost her mind. Who was she
coming by to tell me how to run my home? If she didn't want to see
Michele and Kato, she didn't have to come by at all. She could drop
the kids off out front, and I'd be glad to hang by the pool with
them. I told her as much, and she looked at me with such hatred I
thought she was going to leap off her lounge chair and attack me.
But she didn't attack me. She picked up her copy of People maga-
zine and ignored me.
To make matters worse, several of her close friends started
coming by to express concern about the shape she was in, as if I
could do something about it. Nicole was still hanging out with that
same bad crowd, they said, drinking too much and clearly doing
drugs. Every other day, I heard variations on the same theme: “O.J.,
you gotta do something about it. She needs help.”
But what could I do? Whenever I brought it up, which was
often, believe me, she told me she didn't want to hear it. Or
worse—she stormed out. As usual, everything was my fault. In her
mind, if I'd only let her move back into Rockingham, life would be
perfect. But I hadn't let her move back in, and all she had was her
friends—and a big tax problem. The tax problem was my fault, too,
of course. It was all my fault. Nicole's life was turning to shit
because I didn't love her, and she was certainly lovable, so the prob-
lem was me—I was responsible for everything.
One afternoon, she came by the house to drop off the kids so
she could run a few errands, and I thought she looked a little
glassyeyed. When the kids were out of earshot, I asked her if she
was okay. I did it nicely—not accusing her of anything, not con-
fronting her. “You know,” I said, “I'm hearing from a lot of people—
your friends mostly—that you're fucking yourself up with drugs
and shit. You want to talk about it?”
“Fucking myself up? That's crazy? What 'friends' are telling
you this?”
“People who are worried about you.”
She got mad. She said it was bullshit, that these socalled
friends of hers didn't know what they were talking about—that she
was in complete control.
To tell you the truth, I didn't have any concrete evidence to
back up the allegations. The woman looked worn down, yes, and
she was erratic, and sometimes she seemed completely out of
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