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Authors: Robert L Shapiro
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gone into seclusion at Bob Kardashian ’s. I had never been there before, and
so I called Bob to tell him what was going on and to get directions, asking that in the meantime he not tell O.J. anything
until I got there.
The directions to Kardashian ’s were complicated. On theface of it, he lives only minutes from my neighborhood, but with the hills and the side streets, it was difficult to find.
It ’s a beautifully situated two-story home in the Encino hills, constructed of marble and granite, and when we finally found
it, Bob met me at the door, telling me O.J. was still asleep upstairs. He was on some medication, antianxiety or antidepressant,
something prescribed by Dr. Faerstein.
Kardashian ’s house is enormous, perhaps ten thousand square feet, with many rooms and long hallways. He led me to the guest
room where O.J. had been staying. When I woke him up, O.J. was groggy and somewhat confused as to why I was there. When he
learned the reason, he was stunned. I immediately called Dr. Faerstein and phoned Dr. Huizenga as well. There had been no
time to deal with O.J. ’s swollen lymph node, which could have been a precursor to cancer, and it was imperative also that
Huizenga take our own set of forensic samples—skin, blood, hair—for our own analysis and comparison. I knew that once O.J.
was actually in jail we probably wouldn ’t have the opportunity to do it. I also wanted Faerstein and Huizenga available for
O.J. ’s support when he surrendered. In addition, I wanted him reexamined by Baden and Lee, with more photographs. These photographs
wouldn ’t be for public consumption; they ’d be offered as defense evidence.
As everyone converged on Bob Kardashian ’s house, the day began to take on a tone of controlled chaos. Not frantic or hysterical—there
was too much to do, and too much at stake, for hysteria. Rather, it was tense but controlled, like a war room might have been,
or a hostage negotiation.
Kardashian, of course, was there, as was Kardashian ’s girlfriend, Denice Shakarian Halicki, Cathy Randa, Paula Barbieri,
and A.C. Cowlings, O.J. ’s old friend. I had known Paula for some time; she had once dated another client of mine. A sweet-natured
and quite beautiful young woman, whose emotional support was invaluable to O.J., she was primarily concerned that those around
him were doing what was necessary to protect him. I had known A.C. as well, running into him over theyears. He had grown up with O.J. in the Portrero Hill Housing projects in San Francisco and played football with him at both
USC and Buffalo. He was his oldest, closest, and most loyal friend. It seemed to be the kind of fierce, wordless friendship
in which one man knows what the other is about to say or do before he says or does it.
Los Angeles, for all its sprawl and speed, can often seem like any other town: a series of neighborhoods in which the same
people can run into each other for years and in which people ’s lives overlap, in joy and tragedy, just as they do all across
the country. On Friday, June 17, many of those lives were colliding under Bob Kardashian ’s roof. And each person thought
that what he or she had to do was the most important.
O.J. made endless phone calls; he needed to put his affairs in order, he wanted to talk to his kids, to his mother. By 9:30,
Huizenga and his nurses were taking blood from both of O.J. ’s arms simultaneously. Henry Lee, who needed body samples that
would address his investigation, was pulling out O.J. ’s hair and scraping his skin. Michael Baden, in the process of a painstaking
pathological examination, was taking pictures of his body. Paula was in and out of the room, talking quietly to O.J., trying
to comfort him.
I called Marcia Clark. “We ’re not going to make it to the Parker Center by ten.”
She said, “Bob, you ’ve got to make it by ten.”
“Look,” I said, “we know you ’re going to lock the man
so I called Bob to tell him what was going on and to get directions, asking that in the meantime he not tell O.J. anything
until I got there.
The directions to Kardashian ’s were complicated. On theface of it, he lives only minutes from my neighborhood, but with the hills and the side streets, it was difficult to find.
It ’s a beautifully situated two-story home in the Encino hills, constructed of marble and granite, and when we finally found
it, Bob met me at the door, telling me O.J. was still asleep upstairs. He was on some medication, antianxiety or antidepressant,
something prescribed by Dr. Faerstein.
Kardashian ’s house is enormous, perhaps ten thousand square feet, with many rooms and long hallways. He led me to the guest
room where O.J. had been staying. When I woke him up, O.J. was groggy and somewhat confused as to why I was there. When he
learned the reason, he was stunned. I immediately called Dr. Faerstein and phoned Dr. Huizenga as well. There had been no
time to deal with O.J. ’s swollen lymph node, which could have been a precursor to cancer, and it was imperative also that
Huizenga take our own set of forensic samples—skin, blood, hair—for our own analysis and comparison. I knew that once O.J.
was actually in jail we probably wouldn ’t have the opportunity to do it. I also wanted Faerstein and Huizenga available for
O.J. ’s support when he surrendered. In addition, I wanted him reexamined by Baden and Lee, with more photographs. These photographs
wouldn ’t be for public consumption; they ’d be offered as defense evidence.
As everyone converged on Bob Kardashian ’s house, the day began to take on a tone of controlled chaos. Not frantic or hysterical—there
was too much to do, and too much at stake, for hysteria. Rather, it was tense but controlled, like a war room might have been,
or a hostage negotiation.
Kardashian, of course, was there, as was Kardashian ’s girlfriend, Denice Shakarian Halicki, Cathy Randa, Paula Barbieri,
and A.C. Cowlings, O.J. ’s old friend. I had known Paula for some time; she had once dated another client of mine. A sweet-natured
and quite beautiful young woman, whose emotional support was invaluable to O.J., she was primarily concerned that those around
him were doing what was necessary to protect him. I had known A.C. as well, running into him over theyears. He had grown up with O.J. in the Portrero Hill Housing projects in San Francisco and played football with him at both
USC and Buffalo. He was his oldest, closest, and most loyal friend. It seemed to be the kind of fierce, wordless friendship
in which one man knows what the other is about to say or do before he says or does it.
Los Angeles, for all its sprawl and speed, can often seem like any other town: a series of neighborhoods in which the same
people can run into each other for years and in which people ’s lives overlap, in joy and tragedy, just as they do all across
the country. On Friday, June 17, many of those lives were colliding under Bob Kardashian ’s roof. And each person thought
that what he or she had to do was the most important.
O.J. made endless phone calls; he needed to put his affairs in order, he wanted to talk to his kids, to his mother. By 9:30,
Huizenga and his nurses were taking blood from both of O.J. ’s arms simultaneously. Henry Lee, who needed body samples that
would address his investigation, was pulling out O.J. ’s hair and scraping his skin. Michael Baden, in the process of a painstaking
pathological examination, was taking pictures of his body. Paula was in and out of the room, talking quietly to O.J., trying
to comfort him.
I called Marcia Clark. “We ’re not going to make it to the Parker Center by ten.”
She said, “Bob, you ’ve got to make it by ten.”
“Look,” I said, “we know you ’re going to lock the man
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