If you need proof that OJ got paid GOOD money to write this book, check out the attached. What a scam operation he has going on.
So readers, what do you think? Feel free to comment. Tell me I suck, whatever. You have a voice. Let it be heard.
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Denise Brown bailed on Oprah, that’s old news. But the Goldman’s will be on Oprah today and the Big O is spending an hour discussing the book. Should be interesting. I wish Denise hadn’t bailed, now THAT would have been a good show!
So readers, what do you think? Feel free to comment. Tell me I suck, whatever. You have a voice. Let it be heard.
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So who the hell is Pablo you wonder? He’s the ghost-writer OJ confessed to, or, um, sorry, told his “hypothetical” story to. You won’t believe this foreword, it’s almost as damning as the entire book. Here’s an excerpt of Pablo recounting his experience working with OJ:
The next morning, O.J. didn’t show. I called his handler, who couldn’t find him. He called several hours later to say he’d finally managed to track him down. O.J. was a little nervous about the day ahead, he explained, because he knew we were going to be talking about the night of the murders. “But don’t worry,” he said. “He’ll be there.”
O.J. showed up two hours later and had trouble focusing. He was restless and angry. At one point, he said, “You know what kills me? All the goddamn people who assumed I was guilty before they’d even heard my side.” He looked dead at me, waiting for a comment. We were alone in the hotel suite, and I looked at his hands. They were bigger than my head. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you were guilty then, and I still think you’re guilty.”
“I know you do, motherfucker!” he bellowed, but a moment later he was laughing. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he added.
He scooped up a handful of nuts and reached for a bottle of water, and I turned on the recorder. “We ought to get started,” I said.
He took a long time to respond, as if weighing his words. “You know I couldn’t have done this alone,” he said finally.
“Okay,” I said, my voice flat. “Who was with you?”
“I’m not saying I did it,” he said.
“Well, hypothetically, then. You couldn’t have done this alone. Someone was with you. Who would that be?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ve got to give him a name,” I said. “You want to call him `Charlie’?”
He shrugged. “Call him whatever the fuck you want.”
For the next few hours, it was like pulling teeth. From what I could tell, Charlie might have said something about Nicole that set O.J. off, and O.J. might have jumped into the Bronco, taking Charlie along for the short drive to the Bundy condo. And yes, O.J. said, he parked in the alley, maybe, and maybe he grabbed the knit cap and the gloves before stepping through the broken rear security gate into the courtyard of Nicole’s condo. That was a small detail, admittedly, this business about the gate being broken, but it was new to me.
In short order, I heard other details with which I was unfamiliar. That Ron Goldman arrived on the scene a few moments later, for example, and that he subsequently found himself trapped between O.J. and Charlie. And that Ron was into martial arts-that “karate shit,” as O.J. put it.
I heard that Nicole, alerted by O.J.’s raised voice, had come to the front door, and that her large Akita had trotted into the courtyard and wagged its tail when it saw Ron. That’s what they call a telling detail. It meant the dog knew Ron. Maybe.
O.J. looked suddenly upset. “I don’t know what the hell you want from me,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you that I sliced my ex-wife’s neck and watched her eyes roll up into her head.”
****************
So readers, what do you think? Feel free to comment. Tell me I suck, whatever. You have a voice. Let it be heard.
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