"I have to go to the LA County Courthouse to pick up some documents . Would you like to come along?"
You have to consider the emphasis ON and the spacing BETWEEN the words to grasp what Steve was saying.
"I have to go to the . . . . LA . . . . COUNTY . . . . COURTHOUSE . . . to pick up some documents. Would YOU like to come along?"
Would I like to come along? The LA County Courthouse was pretty much the center of the universe in July 1995. At least in the United States. Asking me to accompany him to the Courthouse was the equivalent of asking if I'd like a seat in the dugout at the World Series or on the sidelines at the Super Bowl. I wouldn't get on the playing field but I would get closer than I ever imagined.
For those too young to recall, Orenthal J Simpson, affectionately called OJ by just about everyone in the US--some because of his illustrious football career, some because of his Hertz rental-car commercials--was arrested in 1994. The Heismann-Trophy-winning NFL football player had been accused of killing his wife and her young friend and, even though the evidence made it appear fairly certain that he was guilty, the nation was involved in constant discussion about his guilt or innocence. Strangers debated every detail of the trial. It became our main entertainment. There was no need for soap operas. The trial was on all day. Those with jobs came home from work on the east coast to find the trial on the air live from Los Angeles. And then when the day's coverage ended, there was discussion from lawyers with a whole new profession as talking heads on news shows nightly. The country was obsessed with OJ Simpson.
I would never have gone to the courthouse without an alleged good reason. I saw myself as far too cool to visit or even ride by the Courthouse like a tourist. Too cool and too sensitive. Murder trials did not seem like an appropriate tourist destination but I didn't have to worry. I was visiting the Courthouse on official business. I would be no gawker, no tourist, no hanger-on. I had a valid, if weak, reason for being there. Steve did not really need help carrying a dozen documents.
I think we walked over because parking would have been an issue if we drove. Media vehicles had taken over the nearest parking lot. Some official must have checked Steve and me as we entered the courthouse. If not, the place would have been swarming with press and tourists. I don't recall how, but we were admitted. More impressive that summer than gaining admittance to the back room at Studio 54 in the seventies.
I don't recall the floor we went to. Something like five or six. Today, I did a search for "on what floor was the OJ Simpson trial held." The ninth--which made sense because I recall keeping an eye on the elevators in case the doors opened to reveal--what? Something OJ-related that would have story-telling value?
(I also did a search to see what day the prosecution rested which was Thursday, 7/6/1995. I checked because I was there the next day (when OJ was not) when the defense came to ask that the case be dismissed. It was not. So, apparently, this is my memory of 7/7/1995.)
After standing in the elevator lobby for a few minutes, I realized that not every elevator would stop. The real action was probably outside. "I think I will just wait for you out front." I left Steve in the Country Records office to do all the actual work.
On that day, to disappoint as many Angelenos and/or tourists as possible, all you had to do was step out of the LA County Courthouse and not be Robert Shapiro, Robert Kardashian, Johnny Cochran, (Defense), Marsha Clark or Christopher Darden (Prosecution). The disappointment when I exited was palpable. By the time I crossed the small patio area and climbed the few stairs to street level, all eyes had returned to the door. I passed through the gauntlet of photographers and tourists unnoticed. No, not so much unnoticed as rejected. People had put their cameras and their autograph books down. No one even suspected I was somehow OJ-related which, when I think about it, was a good thing.
The hard part came after I was outside. How could I hang around while not looking like a tourist? I was dressed in business attire. DC business attire. I was more formally dressed than anyone but the lawyers. Still, why didn't I bring a notebook? Or a folder? A smartphone would have come in handy, but I was there a decade too early. I looked at my watch regularly, but there was a limit even for someone making it clear she was waiting for someone. I tried not to stand out. Mostly I tried to take in the show that was going on around me while making it clear I was not part of it.
It was hard to ignore the spectacle outside the OJ Simpson trial. Hanging around at the entrance to the courthouse was a little bit like lingering in the open-air lobby of an office building with shops. There was plenty to buy. T-shirts. Hats. Buttons. I wish I'd written down both the inventory and what was printed on them. I suspect a lot of the writing was of a Free-OJ sentiment.
Tourists came by but business wasn't brisk. A lot of photography was going on and this was before everyone had a camera in their phone. The Jesus-Saves man who carried his sign in front of the courthouse every day had a national profile. Visitors posed with him. They posed with two luxury cars. I forget which one belonged to Shapiro. Maybe a Mercedes sedan? The Mercedes convertible that pulled up belonged to Johnny Cochran. His driver was happy to take pictures of tourists posing in front of it.
When the stars of the trial exited, excitement surged through the gauntlet, but there was no matching noise, no cheers for the lawyers headed out. I suspected the attorneys met with the press inside the courthouse. There remained, however, an assembled crowd to gawk at them. The loudest noise was cameras clicking.
Shapiro came first, expressionless, walking unnaturally slow. Making sure photographers got their shots? Who knows?
Cochran came a few minutes later walking at the same bizarrely slow pace. Did he pose with tourists? I think he did. He definitely traded pleasantries with them as he took off his jacket and slipped behind the wheel of his convertible. Did someone ride with him? No idea. It's too long ago to recall but, if not, what happened to his driver?
What left the biggest impression was what happened after Cochran pulled away. With the major players gone, it was time for the enterprise that was the OJ Trial to close for the weekend. As in any office on a Friday, the workers chatted. Two reporters asked the guy selling t-shirts what he was doing for the weekend. Theirs was not a perfunctory exchange. They knew each other's details, about their families, their travel. I bet a month later the reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer participated in this weekend ritual telling others about his visitors and the trip he was going to take, the trip on which he would be killed in a car accident. I read the press corps felt the loss. I bet everyone there felt that loss as employees in any organization would.
The groups were still saying their good-byes when Steve came out to meet me. Things were shutting down for the weekend as we walked away. The feeling was in the air.
I felt it was unseemly to observe this circus, yet I couldn't resist. Two people, young people, had died horribly to set this scenario in action. Theirs was a personal tragedy but I was observing a historical event. Not a battle or an election, but a phenomenon in the country's social history that would have a larger impact than any of us knew on that afternoon.
All in all, I am glad that I went along.
PS That day I only saw the defense team. Many years later when I began writing mysteries, I would run into Marcia Clark from the prosecution at conferences. She too had written crime novels.
