The Run of His Life: The People v. O. J. Simpson by Jeffrey Toobin Page A
Authors: Jeffrey Toobin
Tags: United States, General, Social Science, History, 20th Century, Law, Legal History, Criminal Law
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get your blood. We found some in your house. Is that your blood that’s there?”
“If it’s dripped, it’s what I dripped running around trying to leave.… You know, I was trying to get out of the house, I didn’t even pay attention to it. I saw it when I grabbed a napkin or something, and that was it. I didn’t think about it after that.… That was last night when I was … I don’t know what I was … I was getting my junk out of the car. I was in the house throwing hangers and stuff in my suitcase. I was doing my little crazy what I do.… I mean, I do it everywhere. Anybody who has ever picked me up say that O.J.’s a whirlwind, he’s running, he’s grabbing things, and that’s what I’m doing.”
And after a few more desultory exchanges, the interview drew to a close. At 2:07 P.M. , Lange said, “We’re ready to terminate this.” LAPD investigators never had the opportunity to speak with O.J. Simpson again. The interview on June 13 had lasted thirty-two minutes.
It became known almost immediately that Simpson had given a statement to the detectives, and the news media’s legal “experts”—a group that became a ubiquitous presence in the case (and that often included me)—promptly excoriated Howard Weitzman for allowing his client to answer questions. This was understandable, for it rarely works to a prospective defendant’s advantage to commit himself to a single version of the facts at an early stage of the investigation. In the months afterward, Weitzman often said in his own defense that he had tried and failed to stop Simpson fromtalking. It is true that such a decision is always the client’s to make. And given Simpson’s vast ego, he undoubtedly thought he could talk his way out of trouble—and similarly, he probably dreaded the humiliating prospect of the police leaking word to the public that O.J. had been afraid to talk.
But the debate over Weitzman’s role missed the larger significance of the detectives’ interview of Simpson. The real lesson there concerned Vannatter and Lange—and the LAPD as a whole. In both the 1989 abuse incident and the murder case five years later, the police behavior suggested a fear of offending a celebrity. In the domestic-violence case on New Year’s Day, the officers could have—and probably should have—put handcuffs on O.J. as soon as they arrived on his doorstep. But they let him go upstairs to change out of his bathrobe—and then, inexplicably, allowed him to get into his car and drive off. (And Simpson, of course, was never punished for what might be seen as a rehearsal for his more celebrated flight from arrest in 1994.) Simpson was then prosecuted only because a single police officer out of the many who had seen the results of his past mistreatment of Nicole had the integrity to step forward. This crime then earned Simpson an almost comically inadequate punishment—an opportunity to network with the advertisers he longed to cultivate.
Then, on the afternoon of June 13, 1994, though Vannatter and Lange already had considerable evidence that O.J. Simpson was likely a murderer, they too treated him with astonishing deference. Time after time, as Simpson gave vague and even nonsensical answers, the detectives failed to follow up. The entire purpose of a police interrogation is to pin a suspect down, so that the prosecution can, if necessary later on, demonstrate in minute particulars that his story is false. An effective interrogation forces a suspect to repeat, in ever greater detail, his version of the facts. Incredibly, Vannatter and Lange never forced Simpson to account specifically for his whereabouts between the end of Sydney’s dance recital and his departure for the airport. (This failure allowed Simpson’s attorneys to claim later, as they did at various times, that their client spent this period sleeping, showering, and chipping golf balls in the dark.) The detectives never pressed him to describe completely what clothes
“If it’s dripped, it’s what I dripped running around trying to leave.… You know, I was trying to get out of the house, I didn’t even pay attention to it. I saw it when I grabbed a napkin or something, and that was it. I didn’t think about it after that.… That was last night when I was … I don’t know what I was … I was getting my junk out of the car. I was in the house throwing hangers and stuff in my suitcase. I was doing my little crazy what I do.… I mean, I do it everywhere. Anybody who has ever picked me up say that O.J.’s a whirlwind, he’s running, he’s grabbing things, and that’s what I’m doing.”
And after a few more desultory exchanges, the interview drew to a close. At 2:07 P.M. , Lange said, “We’re ready to terminate this.” LAPD investigators never had the opportunity to speak with O.J. Simpson again. The interview on June 13 had lasted thirty-two minutes.
It became known almost immediately that Simpson had given a statement to the detectives, and the news media’s legal “experts”—a group that became a ubiquitous presence in the case (and that often included me)—promptly excoriated Howard Weitzman for allowing his client to answer questions. This was understandable, for it rarely works to a prospective defendant’s advantage to commit himself to a single version of the facts at an early stage of the investigation. In the months afterward, Weitzman often said in his own defense that he had tried and failed to stop Simpson fromtalking. It is true that such a decision is always the client’s to make. And given Simpson’s vast ego, he undoubtedly thought he could talk his way out of trouble—and similarly, he probably dreaded the humiliating prospect of the police leaking word to the public that O.J. had been afraid to talk.
But the debate over Weitzman’s role missed the larger significance of the detectives’ interview of Simpson. The real lesson there concerned Vannatter and Lange—and the LAPD as a whole. In both the 1989 abuse incident and the murder case five years later, the police behavior suggested a fear of offending a celebrity. In the domestic-violence case on New Year’s Day, the officers could have—and probably should have—put handcuffs on O.J. as soon as they arrived on his doorstep. But they let him go upstairs to change out of his bathrobe—and then, inexplicably, allowed him to get into his car and drive off. (And Simpson, of course, was never punished for what might be seen as a rehearsal for his more celebrated flight from arrest in 1994.) Simpson was then prosecuted only because a single police officer out of the many who had seen the results of his past mistreatment of Nicole had the integrity to step forward. This crime then earned Simpson an almost comically inadequate punishment—an opportunity to network with the advertisers he longed to cultivate.
Then, on the afternoon of June 13, 1994, though Vannatter and Lange already had considerable evidence that O.J. Simpson was likely a murderer, they too treated him with astonishing deference. Time after time, as Simpson gave vague and even nonsensical answers, the detectives failed to follow up. The entire purpose of a police interrogation is to pin a suspect down, so that the prosecution can, if necessary later on, demonstrate in minute particulars that his story is false. An effective interrogation forces a suspect to repeat, in ever greater detail, his version of the facts. Incredibly, Vannatter and Lange never forced Simpson to account specifically for his whereabouts between the end of Sydney’s dance recital and his departure for the airport. (This failure allowed Simpson’s attorneys to claim later, as they did at various times, that their client spent this period sleeping, showering, and chipping golf balls in the dark.) The detectives never pressed him to describe completely what clothes
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