calls when I got home, after the kids were asleep. That was when the night shift began. First priority was the grand jury. But I also had to start drafting replies to a blizzard of motions coming our way from Shapiro’s office. Most of them were absolute garbage. I didn’t get to sleep until the early-morning edition of the L.A. Times was hitting the streets. On the front page, a story that read:
The task facing Dist. Atty. Gil Garcetti in the O. J. Simpson case is daunting and unparalleled: he must try to win murder convictions against an American sports legend well-known to the public for his grace and charm.
You’re tellin’ me.
If the grand jury was to indict, we needed to demonstrate that O. J. Simpson had the opportunity to commit these two murders; then we’d have to place him at the scene of the crime. That’s why I led Tuesday morning’s session with Jill Shively. Jill, a clerk for a film-supply company, had called the police the preceding week and told them she’d spotted O. J. Simpson in a white Bronco speeding northbound on Bundy right around the time of the murders. Talk about an alibi killer!
Jill Shively, I must say, seemed like a real gem. She was dressed neatly and conservatively for her testimony. She was articulate. She was confident. In fact, Scott Gordon, one of my fellow D.A.s, knew her because their children went to the same school.
Just before she took the stand, David asked Shively if she had told anyone that she had been called to testify. “No,” she told him. “Just my mother.”
“Are you sure?” he pressed her.
“Absolutely,” she said without hesitation.
If she could pin Simpson to that location, in that car, at that hour, it would be almost as good as having an eyewitness. So it was essential to nail down the time she saw him. On the witness stand, she did this beautifully. “I left my house at ten-forty-five P.M.,” she said.
“Why are you so certain?” I asked.
“Because I was trying to get to the store that closed at eleven and I wanted to get something to eat,” she said. Bingo. Vannatter and Lange had even checked with the store to confirm their closing time—another assurance that Shively was on the level.
Then she told her story. “A white Bronco runs the red light and goes through the intersection and almost hits me,” she said.
“Were you able to see the person seated in the Bronco?” I asked.
“Yes, I was,” Shively said. “It looked like he was mad, or angry.” She explained that the Bronco driver was unhappy because a third car—a Nissan—blocked his path. The Bronco driver screamed at the Nissan, “Get out of the way! Move the car!” Finally there was room to pull around the Nissan, and the Bronco sped away.
“Now, that whole intersection where you witnessed all these events, is it dark or is it well lit?” I asked.
“It’s well lit by streetlights and a gas station there,” she said.
“So were you able to see the driver very clearly?”
“I recognized him right away.”
I paused for a beat, because I wanted this next answer to have some dramatic effect.
And who is he?” I continued.
“I saw O. J. Simpson,” she said.
You get a jolt of adrenaline from a nice courtroom moment.
There was no reason to believe that I had just presented the grand jury with a flat-out lie.
But I had.
The next morning, I’d barely stepped out of the elevator on the eighteenth floor when reporters began asking me whether I’d seen the tabloid TV show Hard Copy the night before. It turns out that Ms. Shively—our alibi killer—had made an appearance. Despite having insisted to us that she had told only her mother about the Bronco incident, our star witness had found time to address several million television viewers, proudly displaying her grand jury subpoena for the cameras.
The news sent me reeling. But things got worse. On my desk was a fax from a television actor named Brian Patrick Clarke. He was claiming to have lost money to
The task facing Dist. Atty. Gil Garcetti in the O. J. Simpson case is daunting and unparalleled: he must try to win murder convictions against an American sports legend well-known to the public for his grace and charm.
You’re tellin’ me.
If the grand jury was to indict, we needed to demonstrate that O. J. Simpson had the opportunity to commit these two murders; then we’d have to place him at the scene of the crime. That’s why I led Tuesday morning’s session with Jill Shively. Jill, a clerk for a film-supply company, had called the police the preceding week and told them she’d spotted O. J. Simpson in a white Bronco speeding northbound on Bundy right around the time of the murders. Talk about an alibi killer!
Jill Shively, I must say, seemed like a real gem. She was dressed neatly and conservatively for her testimony. She was articulate. She was confident. In fact, Scott Gordon, one of my fellow D.A.s, knew her because their children went to the same school.
Just before she took the stand, David asked Shively if she had told anyone that she had been called to testify. “No,” she told him. “Just my mother.”
“Are you sure?” he pressed her.
“Absolutely,” she said without hesitation.
If she could pin Simpson to that location, in that car, at that hour, it would be almost as good as having an eyewitness. So it was essential to nail down the time she saw him. On the witness stand, she did this beautifully. “I left my house at ten-forty-five P.M.,” she said.
“Why are you so certain?” I asked.
“Because I was trying to get to the store that closed at eleven and I wanted to get something to eat,” she said. Bingo. Vannatter and Lange had even checked with the store to confirm their closing time—another assurance that Shively was on the level.
Then she told her story. “A white Bronco runs the red light and goes through the intersection and almost hits me,” she said.
“Were you able to see the person seated in the Bronco?” I asked.
“Yes, I was,” Shively said. “It looked like he was mad, or angry.” She explained that the Bronco driver was unhappy because a third car—a Nissan—blocked his path. The Bronco driver screamed at the Nissan, “Get out of the way! Move the car!” Finally there was room to pull around the Nissan, and the Bronco sped away.
“Now, that whole intersection where you witnessed all these events, is it dark or is it well lit?” I asked.
“It’s well lit by streetlights and a gas station there,” she said.
“So were you able to see the driver very clearly?”
“I recognized him right away.”
I paused for a beat, because I wanted this next answer to have some dramatic effect.
And who is he?” I continued.
“I saw O. J. Simpson,” she said.
You get a jolt of adrenaline from a nice courtroom moment.
There was no reason to believe that I had just presented the grand jury with a flat-out lie.
But I had.
The next morning, I’d barely stepped out of the elevator on the eighteenth floor when reporters began asking me whether I’d seen the tabloid TV show Hard Copy the night before. It turns out that Ms. Shively—our alibi killer—had made an appearance. Despite having insisted to us that she had told only her mother about the Bronco incident, our star witness had found time to address several million television viewers, proudly displaying her grand jury subpoena for the cameras.
The news sent me reeling. But things got worse. On my desk was a fax from a television actor named Brian Patrick Clarke. He was claiming to have lost money to
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