The Murder of O.J. Simpson

The Murder of O.J. Simpson / Southern Justice

I suppose the best way to tell you this story is to start from the beginning. Actually, even now, even after everything I’ve seen and heard, I can hardly believe it myself. When Frank, that’s my brother, told me his plans and what he needed for me to do, I thought he was crazy. He had to be kidding. But I soon realized he was dead serious.

There I go, getting ahead of myself, already. I believe that I’m a little bewildered about everything that’s happened during the past few days, so please try to tolerate my confusion. Let me try to put things in the proper prospective.

My name is Jessie James; No, not that Jessie James, just plain ole Jessie James. My father’s name was Billy Ray James, and I guess he thought it would be quite funny to name his son after the great outlaw. It’s been the brunt of jokes against me for most of my life. And to make matters even worse, the Old Man, in his twisted wisdom, named my brother, Frank.

Frank and Jessie James, that’s us. Now with names like that, you might guess that nothing good would come of us. And you’d probably be right. We grew up in the rugged hills of North Georgia, near the resort town of Helen. Our mother died when we were seven and I imagine that Daddy raised us the best he could with the limited resources that he had.

The Old Man worked part time as a carpenter for my Uncle Blake, Dads older brother. He didn’t work very often; it interfered with his drinking time. But he got in enough hours to keep us from starving to death; Barely. He always managed to have a couple of bottles of Old Crow setting around the house, though. And believe me, he was never shy about drinking the stuff.

I’ve always heard that the son of a drinker, becomes a drinker, but I’ve never had the urge for the stuff myself. Although I haven’t spent a lot of time with Frank during the past several years, I don’t think he’s much interested in drinking either.

On the days that Daddy decided to work, was about the only times that I recall seeing the Old Man sober. Uncle Blake insisted that he not drink on the job if he was going to be a part of his crew. I think he’d made that rule after Daddy got drunk while finishing a deck on a cabin for an old Yankee couple that had retired to the mountains after working all their lives up in Ohio or some place.

Anyway, just a few days after the deck was completed, the old woman opened the French doors leading out to her new balcony. Carrying a fresh cup of coffee, she stepped out onto the deck and sat down in one of those overstuffed lawn chairs. I suppose that she was delighted with her new home, and at that time, even the deck that the Old Man built, or at least that’s the way the story was conveyed to me. At any rate, she’d just sat down and took a short sip of the coffee. Then gently rested the cup on the new glass top patio table they’d just bought. A calm, easy feeling rushed threw her as she relaxed and soaked up the beauty of the mountains. It was a lot different than the rushed and hurried life they’d recently left behind, I presume.

Unfortunately, the old woman’s peaceful feelings of tranquillity and serenity were ephemeral, though. Within minutes, the timbers of the deck began to snap and crackle. When she felt the tall deck sway slightly, she rushed to the door and hurried inside. As her second foot left the lofty structure, the deck separated from the cabin and tumbled noisily down the mountain. It missed slamming into another cabin by only a few feet before it finally disintegrated into rubble.

When the frighten couple unloaded their anger against my uncle on the telephone moments after the near tragedy, they informed him that the idiot he’d sent out to build the deck was so drunk that he could hardly stand up. They threatened lawsuits and demanded their money back.

Uncle Blake calmed the old couple down by giving them a full refund and rebuilding the deck, by another one of his carpenters, of course. He even had to buy them a new high-dollar patio table and chairs. I’ll never forget how mad he was when he jumped down Daddy’s throat. As far as I know, the Old Man never even considered taking another sip while doing any kind of work for his brother.

Even on the occasions that Daddy did work, it was rare that he could put in a full day. Without a little nip of alcohol periodically throughout the day to calm his nerves, his hands shook so bad that he could barely hold a hammer. He called the persistence trembles the shakes.

Sometimes he’d have to get Frank or me to open his bottles of whiskey for him. He’d sit at the tiny kitchen table and fumble with the lid awhile, then without success he’d hold out the bottle with his quivering hand and say, “A’law, these shakes got me so bad, I can’t do nuthen. Here boy, open this.”

I’d take the bottle and give the cap an easy twist as he watched like a hunger dog waiting for a bone. Always with a non-filter Camel cigarette hanging from his mouth, he’d reach out and grasp the bottle with his stained fingers and quickly down a few sips. After a few minutes and several drinks of the stuff, the trembling in his hands stopped.

Frank and I grew up in a dilapidated four-room shack on Route 17, about ten miles south of Helen. Our little hut was so far back in the mountains that it bordered the Chattahoochee National Forest. Of course, there were a lot of other kids in that part Georgia that were poor too, but Frank and I were definitely at the bottom of the social chain.

We wore whatever clothes we could get our hands on, mostly hand-me-downs from Uncle Blake’s boys. We ate the free school lunches, and ignored the best we could the shameless and continuous fun-making jokes from the other students. ”Hold you’re lunch money! Here comes the James Boys,” was one of their favorite remarks. I bet I heard that one a thousand times.”

As you may have guessed already, neither Frank nor I liked school very much. Like a chip off the old block, we avoided school like the Old Man avoided work. Out of any semester during our educational years, it was not uncommon for us to miss thirty or forty days of school. Daddy didn’t care if we went or not. Our dislike for the place showed up every time in our report cards too. I know for a fact that I never made a grade above a D; And I don’t think Frank did either.

When I was sixteen years old, I went to work for my Uncle Blake as a laborer. In less then one year, I’d saved up enough money to buy an old clunker of a pickup truck, and I left the hills for good. I moved to Atlanta and rented a cheap apartment near Stone Mountain. For years, I jumped from one worthless job to another, until I finally started selling cars at a little place in Cobb County called Doc’s Used Cars.

Doc, the owner of the place, and I hit it off like a father and son. I was flipping burgers at a McDonalds Restaurant down the street from the car lot at the time, and I noticed a Salesman Wanted sign out on Doc’s portable marquee. So I thought, what the hell, you never know till you ask.”

I whipped my old truck into Doc’s and got out. When I introduced myself to the owner, Doc cracked up.
“Well, Hello, Jessie James,” Doc said with a roar. “I’m Doc Holiday.” He wasn’t kidding either. I guess his old man was about like mine. That was three years ago and I’ve worked here ever since.

I realize that selling cars is not the most glamorous profession a person can have, but it’s clean work, and it pays enough money to get by. I don’t suppose Donald Trump or the Kennedy’s will ever feel threatened by my immense wealth, but I’m doing Okay.

Frank, on the other hand, decided to stay in the hills. He’s two years older than I am, so he went to work for Uncle Blake before I did. Today, he’s one of my uncle’s best carpenters. Unlike Daddy, though, Frank works most everyday. He shared a small rental house with one of his coworkers for a couple of years, but when the Old Man died from lung cancer awhile back, he smoked till the very end, Frank moved back into the old shack.

The old home place, which is a very elegant description of the shabby dwelling, sits on a ten-acre plot of land that was given to my parents by my mother’s father. My grandfather died before I was borne, so I never had the opportunity to meet him. I’m sure that the only reason that the Old Man was able to hang on to the property, though, was because he didn’t owe anything on it. He just had to scrape up the meager amount of cash necessary to pay the property taxes once a year. Granddad must have known his son-n-law pretty good, because one of the stipulations of the land gift to them was that they could never use the property as collateral to borrow money. Good thinking, Grandpa!”

At any rate, Frank showed up in Atlanta a few days ago. Him and a couple of his redneck mountain buddies, Eugene Waters, everyone just called him booger, and believe me, you don’t want to know why, and Eddie Yates. I remembered them both from growing up near Helen, but I didn’t know they were running chums of my brother, though, until they pulled into the used car lot where I work.

Booger was driving the old black Chevy van. It had dark tinted windows and a Rebel Flag license plate mounted on the front. I was just wrapping up the sell of a 1997 Mustang to a new customer when Frank came walking into the showroom. I can’t tell you how surprised I was to see him. In all the years I’ve been in Atlanta, Frank had come down to visit me once.

A few years ago, Frank had taken a week off from work for a vacation. He spent it staying with me. Although, looking back, I can’t say that we visited very much, though. I gave him an extra key to my apartment when he arrived so he could come and go as much as he wanted, and I told him to make himself at home. Frank spent most of the days of his vacation sleeping on my couch, and all of his nights were spent at one of Atlanta’s many strip joints.

Once during his stay, Frank was out all night. He came in about the time I was getting ready for work. Doc had planned an early sales meeting for that morning and I was scheduled to be there a little earlier than normal. I was just pouring my first cup of coffee when I heard Frank’s key turning in the lock.

I stood there with wet hair and wearing only a towel as Frank and three luscious looking dancers strolled through the door. Frank was grinning from ear to ear and his friends were not bothered in the least by the way I was dressed. In fact, I think they kinda liked it. Ah, but that’s another story. I will admit that I didn’t make it to work that day, though.

Anyhow, when I saw Frank entering the showroom, I hastily handed the keys for the Mustang to the customer and went to greet my brother. He was dressed in a clean, white tee shirt and a faded pair of Levi’s. Frank has never been a slave to fashion, but with his hair recently cut, he looked neat and casual.

“Hey, Bro,” Frank said as I approached.

“Hello, Frank!” I said with an excited smile and extended out my hand. “What in the world are you doing here?” We shook hands briefly, that’s about as close as we ever got to a family hug.

“Can’t a guy come to visit his little brother?” Frank asked proudly.

“I wish you’d told me that you were coming. I would’ve planned something special for us to do.”

Frank shifted his weight slightly, and almost in a whisper said, “Come on outside, I need to talk to you.”

I followed Frank out through the wide glass doors of the showroom. My new customer was busy transferring his personal items from the cluttered hatchback trunk of his old Pontiac Firebird to the clean and empty trunk of the Mustang. I paused long enough to thank the young boy again for his business and slipped him a few of my business cards. “If you know anybody else that may be needing a new ride, how bout sending ‘em my way,” I said with my best-used car salesman smile. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

The young man took the cards gingerly and stuffed them into his shirt pocket. “I’ll do that,” he said. Then he continued with moving the disordered collection of treasures.

Frank had only gained a few steps ahead of me, so I easily caught up with him. He led me to the driver’s side of the van where Booger and Eddie were waiting. Other than the new customer, we were the only ones in the parking lot.

“How ya doin’, Jessie?” Booger asked causally, his grip never leaving the steering wheel.
“I’m doing fine, Booger. Little surprised to see you boys, though.”
“Hey, Jessie,” Eddie called from somewhere in the back of the van.
“Hello, Eddie,” I said, slightly sticking my head through the open window to see him.

We huddled around the driver’s side window for awhile. From the appearance of Booger’s van, I’m sure it looked like a drug deal was going down to anybody that happened to be passing by.

“What time you getting off today?” Frank asked nervously. “We really need to talk to you.”

“I can get off about any time, Frank. Why? What’s up?

Frank glanced around the parking lot uneasily again, as if someone could be lurking behind one of the shining used cars. “No, not here,” he said cautiously. “You still living at the same place?”

“Yea,” I said hesitantly, getting a little nervous with him. I couldn’t imagine what these guys wanted with me. I didn’t mind putting my brother up for a few days, but I didn’t know about his companions. Both of them had reputations back home that was much less than desirable.

Booger hadn’t changed in all of the years I’d known him. He still looked like the hoodlum I’d met back in grade school. His blond hair was long and shaggy and several days late for a washing. He wore a Georgia Bulldog’s cap and a black tee shirt with a Marijuana leaf design on the front. His skin was rough and tarnished and showed the expression of extended neglect. The recent addition of piercing through his bottom lip and left eyebrow certainly didn’t do anything to improve his appearance either.

“You boys going to be in town awhile? I asked Frank, suspiciously. “I don’t have a lot of room, ya know.”

“No, it ain’t nothing bout staying at you’re place,” Frank assured me. “We’ve already been in town a few days. In fact, where planning on leaving just as soon as we can.” He slowly eyed the parking lot again. “We just need to talk to you,” he said all most in a whisper. “I need your help with something.”

Considering their restless demeanor, I really didn’t like the way that sounded. Frank and his pals watched me closely. I suppose that they wanted to gage my reaction to Frank’s statement. Studying Frank’s face, I realized that I’d never seen him so tense before. Even when the Old Man died, Frank handled it stoically and with much less stress then he was showing now.

“Well, let me get signed out,” I said, pointing back toward the showroom. “I can be home in a few minutes,” I added, trying to relieve the tension.

“We’re goin’ to head on over to your place then, Bro,” Frank said, giving everyone a nervous glance. I remember where it’s at. You come on just as soon as you can. Okay?”

The van was parked in my assigned spot when I pulled into the apartment complex. Already being inconvenienced by the sudden and unexpected company from the hills, I drove on into the overflow lot and killed the engine.

By the time I walked back to my apartment, Frank and his band of uninvited associates were tapping their toes impatiently, and pacing the sidewalk in front of my door like a new dad in the waiting room.

“Come on in,” I said, putting the key into the lock and giving it an easy turn. They followed me inside and closed the door. Frank and I sat on the couch as Booger settled into the matching chair to my right. Eddie remained standing near the window beside the door. He shifted his attention between observing us and glancing out the window through the open blind.

After setting there silently for a full minute in an uncomfortable wonder, I finally asked, “Okay, what’s going on?”

My three fidgety guests gave each other an uneasy stare and their eyes at last relaxed on me. “What is it?” I asked again.

Frank finally shrugged slightly then stood up. “Come on back in the bedroom, Bro. We’ll talk back there.” He shifted in that direction. “You boys wait here while I talk to my brother,” Frank announced. “Eddie, go ahead and bring in that satchel.”

Totally confused, I followed Frank into my small bedroom and set down on the edge of the bed. Frank remained standing and leaned back casually against the dresser to my right and crossed his arms. “I’ve got some things I need to tell you and I want you to listen real close,” Frank said calmly. “Don’t jump to any conclusions, and just wait till you hear me out. Okay?”

I agreed as Eddie pecked on the door and handed Frank a large tattered brief case. Frank accepted the big container, closed the door again, and tossed it gently on the bed.

“Do you remember O.J. Simpson?” Frank asked.

“Sure, Frank. He’s the football player that killed his wife and that other guy.”

Frank nodded agreeably. “Did you know that he’s been in Atlanta for the past few days?” Frank asked.

“Well,” I said hesitantly, “I haven’t wasted a lot of time thinking about it. But I did see something about it on the news last night. He’s in town for some kind of golf tournament or something, isn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “Do you recall after he got off for killing those people how we talked about somebody would probably kill him before too long?”

I nodded. Somehow that subject had come up the last time Frank was down here and we’d talked about it for awhile. I’ve always been a believer in live and let live, so matters of injustice or taking up arms to crush the wrongful transgressions of other has never cost me a minute of sleep, but I did recall how animated Frank was when he said, “Someone should kill him.”

“We’ve got him, Jessie,” Frank said coldly.

I stared blankly at my brother, not believing that I had heard him correctly. “What do you mean? You’ve got him?”

“Open the case,” Frank instructed.

My eyes focused on the large brief case beside me on the bed. Uncertain of what to do, my attention jumped from the case, then back to Frank, then back to the case again. What the hell was Frank talking about? And what did he mean? We’ve got him.

“Open the case,” Frank said again.
Reluctantly, I reached out to release the snaps that bound the big, black case. What ever was in there must have been bulky because the latches refused to budge. I apply pressure to the top of the container and tried again. Pulling firmly on the fasteners, they finally clicked. Instantly, relieved from the enormous constraint, the lid snapped open one full inch and then stopped.

Frozen. Afraid to move and uncertain if I wanted to know anymore, I stared at the brief case. I couldn’t see what was inside the satchel without lifting the lid further. I felt my heart pounding and my thoughts raced back to what Frank had said, “We’ve got him.” Could he really mean that they had O.J. Simpson, or was it something else he was talking about? This case was bigger than a normal brief case but it couldn’t hold a person.

I looked back at Frank with uncertainty. “What’s going on, Frank? What are you talking about?

“Go ahead, Jessie. Open it.”

My gaze returned to the case and I saw my trembling hands move toward it. I could feel the cold sweat on my palms as I slowly raised the lid. The container was stuffed with cash, one hundred-dollar bills. Thousands of them packed neatly in the case that was at least eight inches deep. Each carefully arranged stack was wrapped with a green band with $10,000 printed on it.

Attentively placed on the top and to the right of the piles was a large plastic baggy carefully sealed with a hand written letter inside. The letterhead was from the Atlanta Hilton Hotel. I looked at it closer and the letter began, To Whom It May Concern.

“My God, Frank. What is this?” I finally gasped.

“You remember how O.J. clamed to be broke when the families of the murdered victims took him to civil court?”

I nodded that I did. Speechless, I returned my stare to the brief case while Frank continued.

“Well the son-of-bitch was lying. He wasn’t broke. There’s more than two million dollars in there.”

“But how, Frank? How did you get this?”

“I told you, Jessie. We’ve got him. He’s knocked out, out there in the van right now. And he had this money with him. Hell, he’s afraid to put it in the bank because of the law suits, and he’s afraid to leave it anywhere because somebody might steal it. He’s been carrying that around for years.”

I returned my attention to Frank. “You’ve got O.J. Simpson out there in Booger’s van right now?” I asked with astonishment.

“That’s right.”

“But how did you get him?” I demanded. “ Where did you get him? What’s he doing? Just waiting out there while you come in here and tell me all this stuff. What are you going to do with him?

“Calm down, Bro. You don’t need to know all the details. We’ve got him and that’s that. As far as what we’re going to do with him, don’t you worry about that either. It’s time the fucker paid for what he did. I’m going to take care of that personally. You know what it’s like back in the hills. When I put him in the ground, God won’t even be able to find Mr. O.J. on judgement day.”

“You’re going to kill him?” I snapped. I couldn’t believe what Frank was saying. Was this the brother that I had grown up with? I didn’t know him at all. I couldn’t imagine him doing such a thing.

“It’s about time that somebody did, Jessie. He killed those people and that confession right there confirms it.”

My eyes returned to the plastic baggy. “That’s his confession? Why did he confess to you?”

“Cause he was scarred to death, Jessie. He cried like a baby and told us everything. It’s all there. We made him write it out. He’s even told where he hid the murder weapon up in Chicago. I bet it’s still there too.”

“Why don’t you let the police handle it then, Frank? I pleaded.

“They can’t do nothing, Jessie. The bastard has already beaten the rap. Remember? They can’t try him again. It’s time for justice to be done, and I’m going to do it.”

My mind raced, but I couldn’t think of a solution. Jessie was right. Even with the confession, there was nothing the police could do. After a long pause, I finally asked, “what is it that you want me to do, Frank?”

“That letter has got to get into the hands of the media, Jessie. We can’t waist anymore time running around Atlanta. Me and the boys have already talked about it and we want you to take a share of that money, that’s over five-hundred thousand dollars. All we want you to do is make sure that the news people find out about that confession.”

“Is he dead now, Frank?” I asked curiously.

“No, we’ve just got him sedated right now, Jess. Eddies Grandma has the Big C just like Daddy did. We’ve got him loaded down with some of her Morphine. He doesn’t know what world he’s in. But we want to get him out of town right now.”

Frank reached down to the case and pulled out the plastic baggy and layed in gently on the bed. “You just make sure that somebody in the news gets this.” He pulled a pair of thin latex gloves from the back pocket of his Levi’s and tossed them on top of the letter. “The only finger prints on that letter belong to O.J. so make sure you use these when you remove it from the baggy, Okay?”

Hesitantly, I nodded in agreement.

“That’s important, Jessie. Don’t forget.” Frank started removing some of the large stacks of money. I watched with amazement as he built a hefty pile of the carefully wrapped cash and placed it beside the letter in front of me. Then he closed the case.

“One other thing, Jessie,” Frank said softly. “Don’t rush out and start buying up everything. People might wonder where your sudden wealth came from. Just put it up and spread out your spending over a lifetime. Call it a cushion for a rainy day, okay?”

I nodded again.

“We didn’t come down here and do what we’re doing for the money. Hell, we didn’t even know that he had any. We’ll just call it a bonus, our fee for ridding the world of a killer.”

Frank picked up the brief case, which had to be a lot lighter than it was before because the stack that remained on the bed was enormous. I’d never seen so much money in my life. Still dazed, I stood and shook my brother’s hand. “I’ll do my best, Frank,” I finally said.

“I know you will, Bro.”

Frank opened the bedroom door and left. I stared at the money for what seemed like forever before I finally reached out and touched it. There were piles and piles of the stuff. Maybe more than I could ever spend. I thought about how many times I’d struggled to pay my little car payments, my light bills, my rent, and to buy every other little meager thing that I owned. Was I really going to be part of this? I could pick up the phone right now and call 911. They’d have the van pulled over before it could even make to the interstate, I thought. Would it be worth turning in my brother to save the life of O.J. Simpson?

I picked up the plastic bag and looked at the letter. The handwriting was bold and heavy, but very neat. I read the first few paragraphs. O.J. described in detail how he had followed his ex-wife home and caught up with her, as she was about to go into her home. He’d stopped her at the door and a violent argument unfolded. When she told him to, “Go fuck himself,” and turned away, he pulled out the knife and cut her throat.

On and on, the letter explained every horrible moment of the terrible event. I didn’t have to read it all to realize that O.J.’s safety was not worth destroying my brother’s life. O.J. was a killer and deserved what ever was going to happen to him. It would not be my place to save him.

My attention returned to the cash. What was I going to do with all that money? I couldn’t just leave it setting there. Stuffing it under the mattress didn’t seem like a very good idea either. This was a problem that I never figured I would have. Where do you put a half million dollars in ill-gotten cash?

I finally decided that I would rent a safety deposit box as soon as possible. I’d just go down to Bank South and tell them that I need a place to hide over a half million dollars of the late O.J. Simpson’s money. Surely they would be happy to accommodate me with that.

In the meantime, though, I’d have to put the cash somewhere. I gathered it up and stuffed it into the bottom of my dirty laundry hamper and threw in some old underwear to cover it. If someone happened to break-in to my apartment before I could arrange a box at the bank, then maybe my dirty clothes would be the last place they’d want to look.

After giving another uncertain glance toward the letter and the pair of gloves, I went back into my living room. Of course, Frank and his mountain companions were gone by then and my apartment looked empty and cold. I went to the window and looked outside. The van was gone. I wondered if O.J. was still asleep. For a minute, a feeling of sympathy for the murderer rushed over me. The mountains of North Georgia were dense and deep, they went on and on. Frank was right about that too. If they buried him up there, no body would ever find him.

It was after midnight when I took the letter and went out to my car. I drove by the Atlanta Constitution News Paper building and circled the block a few times. People were still busily moving in and out of the main entrance. I parked down the block and waited. Just like a thief casing his prey, I watched the doors closely for hours. What the hell were so many people doing in there in the middle of the night, I wondered.

By three o’clock in the morning, I’d given up on getting the letter inside the Constitution’s offices. I drove through the nearly empty streets to the WSB Television Station down on Peachtree Street. They are the local ABC affiliate and one of the most popular news programs in Atlanta. Their building looked deserted.

Slowly I drove around the block a few times checking to see if there were any kind of cameras that would capture me on tape. There were none, at least that I could see. The parking lot was empty except for a few personal cars and several of their news vans with the big satellite dishes mounted on top. WSB-TV Channel 2 was boldly printed on the side of each one of them.

Even though I didn’t see any cameras, I was afraid to pull into the parking lot. I passed the building again and drove on down the street a couple of blocks. When I noticed a small apartment building on the same side of the road as the station, I pulled in. Breathing deeply, I surveyed the scene. Not a soul was stirring. The occasional passing traffic was light and almost non-existent.

I wondered where O.J. was right now, as I carefully put on the latex gloves and gently remove the confession from the protective wrapper. Although I was confident that there were no cameras, I pulled the Atlanta Brave’s Baseball cap snuggly over my head and pulled it down as far I could to hide my face and opened the door.

Discreetly, I moved rapidly the two blocks back to the station, holding the letter firmly by my side with my gloved hand. In the distance, I watched the approaching headlights and they caused my heart to pound. Casually I entered the WSB’s parking lot and eased in beside one of their many vans and waited for the car to pass.

Safe again, I left the shadows and moved quickly toward the main entrance of the station. I gave the doorknob a gentle twist, but as I figured, it was locked. Uncertain of what to do, I rolled the letter neatly into a loose tube and placed it securely between the knob and the door jam. Someone would have to find it.

I scanned the street slowly for any approaching cars, but there were none. Pulling the gloves from my hands, I left the dark property of the station and nonchalantly returned to my car. Now, I’d just have to wait and see.

I was just beginning to think that no one had found the handwritten letter. I watched the news closely everyday and not a word was being said about it. I hadn’t heard a word from Frank since they had left Atlanta. I’m sure that he was wondering about it too.

Then, suddenly, three days later, the news of O.J.’s confession exploded like the blast from ten thousand atomic bombs. It was everywhere. The cable news networks dedicated their entire broadcast to the on-going investigation. It dominated the news. I assume the letter was immediately reported to the police and they had followed up on the location in Chicago where the letter indicated the murder weapon was stashed.

CNN caught the recovery of the knife and O.J.’s bloody clothes on tape and it was repeatedly run on their endless coverage of the unfolding events. He had wrapped the knife in the clothes and stuffed them into a small crevice near the El, Chicago’s mass transit system. It was less than two blocks from the O’Hare Hotel, the place O.J. stayed after arriving in Chicago the night of the murders. Without having the confession and the location of the knife, it would have never been found.

Reports stated that O.J.’s rental car had been left at the Atlanta Airport’s long term parking lot. “I’m not sure how Frank had pulled that off. But the police were speculating that after leaving the note at the TV station, O.J. drove to the airport and boarded a plane under an assumed name.

Although the police admitted that even if O.J. could be found, there was nothing they could do with him. After all, he’d already been found innocent of the crimes. That didn’t stop the world from asking, though, “where is O.J.?”

Last night I was sitting in my apartment watching the latest events on CNN. Someone had claimed to have spotted O.J. riding the Tubes in London and yet another person had seen him walking on The Great Wall of China. Speculations of sightings of him were coming in from all over the world.

Just as I was flipping the remote to MSNBC, my telephone rang.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hey, Bro. Looks like you held up your end of the bargain.”
“Hello, Frank. How did you do with the things on your end?”
“Like I said, Jessie, I took care of it. I’ve got some off time coming in a few weeks, maybe I’ll come down and we’ll do some catching up on things. There’s a few night spots I missed the last time anyway.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it, Frank.”

“See you then, Bro,” Frank said.

Now, as I sit at Doc’s and patiently wait for my next customer, I must admit that if I don’t sell a car today, it’ll be okay. Moving quickly through the headlines of the paper, I carefully scan the classifieds. Maybe I’ll buy a little boat.

The End.