What made the case such an addictive fix—beyond even the sensational nature of the crime, the glitziness of the players, the almost irresistible pull of the question —was the voyeuristic kink it provided. It’s never the Angelina Jolies and Brad Pitts inviting production crews into their homes to install toilet cams in the bathrooms.It gave us the dirty little thrill of putting our eye to the keyhole, looking in on a world that we’d normally never have access to. And if you do get a legitimate contender, i.e., a person who actually achieved a level of success and renown, it’s a contender past his or her prime—an Ozzy Osbourne or a Paula Abdul or a Flavor Flav or a Hulk Hogan. was, of course, the original has-been/comeback kid, the prototype: an aging athlete with a dubious acting career, still a Somebody but on the downward slide to Nobodysville.(The National Society of Newspaper Columnists bestowed upon him that year’s “Sitting Duck Award.”) But the public also couldn’t get enough.
Were she and co-star—ahem, I mean co-counsel—Christopher Darden, a Younger Man at 38, more than just colleagues? It’s worth noting, too, that many of the soap operas O. knocked off the air temporarily were about to be knocked off a lot longer than that.(Boris Yeltsin’s first question when he met President Clinton in 1995: “Do you think O. So intense was the media scrutiny that, by the time the trial started, all those who were part of it had grown accustomed to being treated like something scraped onto a microscope slide.But when Judge Lance Ito decided to allow cameras in the courtroom, that sky-high self-consciousness was sent off into the stratosphere.Good at keeping out the riffraff, i.e., the nonwhite and the non-loaded, at pretending it was just a simple small town with simple small-town values in the middle of Sodom and Gomorrah Los Angeles. lived there, so did Meryl Streep and Harrison Ford and Michelle Pfeiffer. J.’s steady squeeze, even Nicole and Ron—gorgeous, every single one of them.Needless to say, Brentwood, particularly Northern Brentwood, the hoity-toitier half, turned up its nose at vulgar, flashy Hollywood, though you could hardly walk five feet without bumping into a celebrity. It had its share of behind-the-scenes celebrities, as well: Michael Ovitz, then the entertainment industry’s power broker with the mostest, and Gil Garcetti, the district attorney responsible for prosecuting O. Bernard Lewinsky called Brentwood home, too, for that matter, only no one cared yet because his daughter, Monica, wouldn’t land that fateful internship until July of ’95. and sometimes more than, Faye Resnick, who’d publish a memoir during the trial, was a local specialty: a woman bestowing upon a casual male acquaintance a blowjob. Or, rather, “gorgeous.” They were, additionally, “smokin’,” “slammin’,” “screamin’,” “bangin’,” “blazin’,” with “hard bodies” and “sick tans” and “killer hair.” Meaning they were those things and had those things yet at the same time they were not and did not. was less burning rubber than going for a spin, and the squad cars weren’t so much in panting pursuit as serene accompaniment, falling into graceful formation behind their leader, a Ford Bronco, the 1993 model, as white as innocence, as a lie. “He’s going to beat the shit out of me.”) He was, too, a cocksman supreme, giving out the hard yard left, right, and center to seemingly any and all comers, then flying into a jealous rage if Nicole so much as cast a glance in another guy’s direction.He must’ve cut to ribbons that hot blonde ex-wife of his and the hunky young waiter returning a pair of glasses her mom had left at the restaurant—yeah right, at that time of night? The defense cooked up some cockamamy theory involving Faye Resnick, who at the time of Nicole’s death, they said, was having a bad run with cocaine, and a drug deal gone south. The acquittal of the officers who beat Rodney King and the ensuing riots were only two years in the past.That thing with the Bronco and the black-and-whites on the freeway? Simpson had been a star, but as a star he’d never burned that bright.That wasn’t a car chase; it was a test run, a pilot episode, the taste that got us hooked, hyped, turned on, junked out, fiending for more, more, more. (There are a lot of TV movies on that résumé of his.) And when he did land a role in a hit—the Third-rate Hollywood, though, is what reality TV is all about.You had guys who’d been in the public eye for years: O.J., obviously, famous two times over for his exploits on the field and on the screen; Johnnie Cochran Jr., 56, on a serious hot streak after winning an acquittal for actor Todd Bridges on a murder rap, a sharp dresser and a smooth talker, dubbed “the best in the West” by (1990). Kato Kaelin, of course, the face of the trial, or at least the hair.