As I’ve said, Dennis Fung had failed to collect all of those samples when he did his first sweep of the vehicle on July 14; we didn’t get the rest until September 1. This now left Scheck an opening to contend that they had been planted on the later date. Problem was, photos taken on both dates showed blood spots in absolutely identical configuration. You would have needed a skilled counterfeiter to pull that one off.
So, I pointed out to the jury, the defense had neatly jettisoned that theory and tried another. In this version of reality, O. J. Simpson had reached over the console and bled on it with his left hand-and then, on the same spot, Mark Fuhrman wiped the glove bearing the blood of the two victims. That’s why all the blood was mixed.
In order to wrap your mind around this theory, you’d have to believe that Fuhrman had filched a glove from Bundy, hidden it in his pocket until he got to Rockingham, slim-jimmed the door of the Bronco, slipped into it unnoticed, and rubbed the bloody glove on the console.
“If you wanted to sell this story in Hollywood,” I told that jury, “they wouldn’t buy it because it’s so incredible.”
I continued ticking off absurdities until I got to the bottom line: You could forget the DNA. Even if you put it aside, the People had amassed such an archive of circumstantial evidence that a reasonable juror could vote to convict even if he or she had slept right through the scientific testimony.
“I have one more exhibit I would like to show you,” I told the jury. “This is entitled ‘Unrefuted Evidence.’ And I think that this will bring home to you the power of the evidence in this case.”
The Unrefuted Evidence idea was the brainchild of Bill Hodgman. And it was brilliant. Show the jury, in the aggregate, all the strange occurrences, the bizarre coincidences, for which the defense had no explanation whatsoever. The evidence had been arranged in the shape of a pyramid and mounted on a magnetic board. It was so heavy two men had to carry it to the easel.
“This is evidence,” I continued, “which has not been contested by any contradictory evidence.”
•First of all, opportunity… between 9:36 [1] and 10:53, the defendant’s whereabouts are unaccounted for. No dispute about that. Nobody’s contradicting that.
•Kato Kaelin saw the defendant wearing a dark sweat suit at 9:36. No contradictory testimony about that.
•The defendant tried to call Paula Barbieri on his cell phone from the Bronco at… 10:03. There’s no contradictory testimony as to that fact.
•Allan Park buzzed the intercom at Rockingham at 10:40, at 10:43, and at 10:49. There was no answer. No testimony contradicts that.
•Kato Kaelin heard the three thumps on his wall at 10:51 or 10:52. That testimony isn’t contradicted.
•Allan Park saw the person in dark clothes, six feet, 200 pounds, walk across the driveway at 10:54, walking into the house, testimony that is uncontradicted. Two minutes after the thumps heard by Kato, uncontradicted testimony.
•And at 10:55, when Allan Park got out of his limo to go and buzz the defendant, the defendant finally answered. That testimony, ladies and gentlemen, is uncontradicted.
“What this testimony proves,” I argued, “is not only that the defendant was not home, but it proves he was not sleeping. And it proves that he lied about it… to create an alibi for himself. You don’t need to do that unless you’ve been doing something… that you need to hide.”
The coincidences were too blatant to ignore. Defendant wears same shoe size as killer. Defendant wears same brand of glove as killer. Killer drops blood to the left of his shoe prints. Defendant has a fresh cut on his left hand immediately after the murders.
Evidence that all remained uncontradicted.
Fibers consistent with the Bronco carpet found on the knit cap and the Rockingham glove. Blue-black cotton fiber (presumably from a sweatsuit worn by Simpson) found on Ron Goldman’s shirt, Simpson’s socks, and the Rockingham glove. Hair consistent with the defendant’s found on the knit cap and Ron Goldman’s shirt.
All uncontradicted!
Even now, as I think back on that pyramid-that mountain-of evidence, it blows my mind. How could anyone fail to see?
The objections from the defense were flying fast and furious. Ito was slapping them down at every turn. I got to the point where I wouldn’t even stop and wait for a ruling. I just talked over them. The jurors seemed absolutely riveted. They didn’t budge. They never blinked, sighed, or moved a muscle. For once, I felt that they were actually listening.
By now, I was running on fumes. But the end was in sight. And now, at last, I was about to speak to what this case was really about: the two dead human beings for whom we sought justice. I let them guide me through the rest of my rebuttal.
“Usually,” I told the jury, “I feel like I’m the only one left to speak for the victims. But in this case, Ron and Nicole are speaking to you. They’re speaking to you and they’re telling you who murdered them.
“Nicole started to speak before she even died. Remember, back in 1989, she cried to Detective Edwards, ‘He’s going to kill me…’ The children were there.
“In 1990, she made a safe deposit box, put photographs of her beaten face and her haunted look in a safe deposit box along with a will. She was only thirty years old! How many thirty-year-olds [do] you know who do that? A will? A safe deposit box? It’s like writing ‘In the event of my death.’ She knew…
“Nineteen ninety-three, the 911 tape; the children were there. He was screaming… she was frightened.
“I think the thing that perhaps was so chilling about her voice is that sound of resignation… inevitability. She knew she was going to die.
“And Ron-he speaks to you. [By] struggling so valiantly, he forced his murderer to leave the evidence behind that you might not ordinarily have found. And they both are telling you who did it-with their hair, their clothes, their bodies, their blood. They tell you he did it. He did it. Mr. Simpson. Orenthal Simpson. He did it.
“They told you the only way they can. Will you hear them or will you ignore their plea for justice? Or, as Nicole said to Detective Edwards, ‘You never do anything about him.’ “
I looked at the faces of my jury.
“Will you?”
I gestured to Jonathan.
For several weeks now, the team had been pulling together a montage, a sort of visual history of this crime. Over the images, we’d decided that we would play the 911 tapes. Although I’d seen bits and pieces of this opus as it was coming together, I didn’t feel the full power of it until this morning, when Jonathan hit the “play” button.
You heard “Emergency 911,” then the static confusion on the caller’s end. The thumps of blows landing on flesh. Then, the more frantic pleas of the 1993 call. “He’s O. J. Simpson. I think you know his record. He’s fucking going nuts.” All the while, on the large screen, we showed the photo of Nicole taken after the beating of 1989. She was lifting her hair to reveal the full extent of the damage to her face. Her eyes were downcast, as if in shame. Then, the photo of her smeared with mud. Cut to the Bundy trail, the knit cap, a close-up of Ron’s shirt. Behind those images, O. J. Simpson’s voice rose to a peak of rage. Suddenly, the audio stopped, and all that was left was a picture of Nicole’s body curled in a pool of blood. We held on that image for thirty seconds in complete silence.
There was sobbing throughout the courtroom. But all I could think was, It’s over.