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Authors: Kary Mullis
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had their moments and the issue of the physical evidence had settled somewhere between “indeterminate” and “contrived if I heard it right.” It was a long way from the gory trail of blood with which Deputy D.A. Clark had opened her case.
Things were looking good for O.J. The prosecution was starting to fade. Marcia’s hair needed upgrading. But where can you go from curls?
I packed up my white shirts and coats and ties and rolled them down to my Acura, where the valet parking people probably didn’t know that I wasn’t going to testify. On the way out of town I stopped by a strip joint that I had frequented years ago when I was working in L.A. In the last few weeks, I had become aware that people recognized me. I decided I wouldn’t let that bother me.
I was having fun in the club, losing myself in the pleasures of the flesh. Every one of them was different, every one of them a little story in herself. I am easy to entertain, I thought. The possibilities are endless—tropical trees, sunsets, waves, females, quantum physics, crimes, biochemistry—then a flashbulb drew me out of my reverie. A woman sitting across from me had just snagged a photo of me enchanted by a pretty girl dancing in the nude. The bouncer was on the photographer right away. Cameras were not permitted. I thought he would usher her out. He took her camera and brought it to me. “What should I do with it, Doc?”
I was now known as the “DNA Doctor.”
After a few months, I would be less and less surprised. That night at the club I decided that my new public identity didn’t matter, and I wasn’t going to start acting any differently. “Give it back to her,” I said to the bouncer. He delighted in the concept, and he took it back to her without pulling out the film. It’s probably the only time he ever allowed anyone to get out of there with a photo. I nodded my head to the woman with the camera and continued enjoying the show.
I was ready to go, but I stayed another half hour just to let the bouncer know that I wasn’t leaving on account of the picture. When I left, he followed me out to the sidewalk. We chatted a few minutes about the case and whether I thought Simpson was guilty. I agreed with him that it would be good to hear O.J. testify. But I had learned a little bit about justice and police and people accused of crimes. We didn’t really have the right to make him come upfront and talk to us about it. Furthermore, we don’t have the right to conclude that, because he didn’t want to testify, he was guilty of something. At first it seems like a strange law. The defendant, who must know his whereabouts that night, is not required to tell us.
It seems weird until you think about how horribly askew the scales of justice can be. It’s a balance. In O.J.’s case, he was able, by spending most of his money, to bring a defense together that had more clout than the state, and more persistence. Persistence is the state’s big card. It’s what bureaucracy inevitably substitutes for brains. O.J. bought brains and persistence. Most of us couldn’t afford it.
Back on San Diego Freeway, heading for home. I figured that most trial watchers would remember me as the guy who smiled directly into the camera and waved. They were talking about me that day in the courtroom. I was sitting in the audience, and the camera had found me. I could see where it was pointing. Why should I ignore it? I looked up to the TV watchers of the world and waved. My mother thought it was cute.
Another day Mother had called and warned me against sleeping in the courtroom. “You were sleeping this afternoon,” she said. “I saw you.”
“Mother, what the hell are you talking about?”
“You had your head down on the table,” she continued. “They had the camera on you. It looks disrespectful, Kary, and that man was talking about DNA.”
“Oh. Shit!” I realized what she was talking about. “Mother, there’s a TV monitor right under the table in
Things were looking good for O.J. The prosecution was starting to fade. Marcia’s hair needed upgrading. But where can you go from curls?
I packed up my white shirts and coats and ties and rolled them down to my Acura, where the valet parking people probably didn’t know that I wasn’t going to testify. On the way out of town I stopped by a strip joint that I had frequented years ago when I was working in L.A. In the last few weeks, I had become aware that people recognized me. I decided I wouldn’t let that bother me.
I was having fun in the club, losing myself in the pleasures of the flesh. Every one of them was different, every one of them a little story in herself. I am easy to entertain, I thought. The possibilities are endless—tropical trees, sunsets, waves, females, quantum physics, crimes, biochemistry—then a flashbulb drew me out of my reverie. A woman sitting across from me had just snagged a photo of me enchanted by a pretty girl dancing in the nude. The bouncer was on the photographer right away. Cameras were not permitted. I thought he would usher her out. He took her camera and brought it to me. “What should I do with it, Doc?”
I was now known as the “DNA Doctor.”
After a few months, I would be less and less surprised. That night at the club I decided that my new public identity didn’t matter, and I wasn’t going to start acting any differently. “Give it back to her,” I said to the bouncer. He delighted in the concept, and he took it back to her without pulling out the film. It’s probably the only time he ever allowed anyone to get out of there with a photo. I nodded my head to the woman with the camera and continued enjoying the show.
I was ready to go, but I stayed another half hour just to let the bouncer know that I wasn’t leaving on account of the picture. When I left, he followed me out to the sidewalk. We chatted a few minutes about the case and whether I thought Simpson was guilty. I agreed with him that it would be good to hear O.J. testify. But I had learned a little bit about justice and police and people accused of crimes. We didn’t really have the right to make him come upfront and talk to us about it. Furthermore, we don’t have the right to conclude that, because he didn’t want to testify, he was guilty of something. At first it seems like a strange law. The defendant, who must know his whereabouts that night, is not required to tell us.
It seems weird until you think about how horribly askew the scales of justice can be. It’s a balance. In O.J.’s case, he was able, by spending most of his money, to bring a defense together that had more clout than the state, and more persistence. Persistence is the state’s big card. It’s what bureaucracy inevitably substitutes for brains. O.J. bought brains and persistence. Most of us couldn’t afford it.
Back on San Diego Freeway, heading for home. I figured that most trial watchers would remember me as the guy who smiled directly into the camera and waved. They were talking about me that day in the courtroom. I was sitting in the audience, and the camera had found me. I could see where it was pointing. Why should I ignore it? I looked up to the TV watchers of the world and waved. My mother thought it was cute.
Another day Mother had called and warned me against sleeping in the courtroom. “You were sleeping this afternoon,” she said. “I saw you.”
“Mother, what the hell are you talking about?”
“You had your head down on the table,” she continued. “They had the camera on you. It looks disrespectful, Kary, and that man was talking about DNA.”
“Oh. Shit!” I realized what she was talking about. “Mother, there’s a TV monitor right under the table in
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