On Thursday, I headed toward South Bundy Drive in Brentwood, where the two-fold homicide occurred. O.J. Simpson was dead at 76. Furthermore, that popular scene of savagery was frightfully tranquil on a gleaming spring day in Los Angeles.
I composed almost quite a while back about the boorish slayings of Nicole Earthy, colored Simpson, and her companion Ron Goldman at her townhouse and the scandalous preliminary that penetrated into the most touchy pieces of the public mind, uncovering clashing perspectives about race and policing and big name and legitimate correspondence.
There were ridiculous components of O.J. Simpson’s “preliminary of the hundred years,” from the observer Kato Kaelin, the houseguest with the iced shag who had featured in the satire “Ocean Side Fever,” to passing judgment on Spear Ito, who was such a self-centered camera hoard that he became known as Judge Itomaniac.
Be that as it may, I generally considered it an extraordinary American misfortune. It had reverberations of “Othello,” the most abrasive work at any point composed on the tragic defect of desire.
Othello was a legend, a person of color cherished for his endeavors on the field, a man who vanquished racial mishaps, overwhelmed his fans, and took off to incredible levels.
He was hitched to a lovely, more youthful lady. Yet, because of Iago—a representative of the overall who was envious himself since he was ignored for an advancement for another confidant—Othello was harmed with desire, unfit to adapt to the evil presences in his mind.
Desdemona, his better half, was confounded in light of the fact that Othello was turned up over bogus data. Her worker, Emilia, made sense of the fact that desirous individuals “are not ever envious for the purpose, however desirous they’re. It is a beast, generated upon itself, brought into the world on itself.”
Othello killed Desdemona while still adoring her.
A year after O.J.’s. murder preliminary, I remained in line behind the football legend’s attorney, Johnnie “In the event that the glove doesn’t fit, you should clear, said Cochran at Bill Clinton’s subsequent debut. Cochran, who went about like the Simpson case were a social equality battle much the same as Earthy v. Leading Body of Instruction, would before long have his own show on Court television.
A surge of people enthusiastically moved toward Cochran, needing to have their photos taken with the legal counselor who got O.J. off.
Big name bests all. Or then again, practically all.
O.J. got away from it in his criminal preliminary but not in his common preliminary; however, he never suffered the consequence or communicated any retribution.
He didn’t, nonetheless, get away from the slander of numerous Americans who felt that he pulled off murder.
In 1995, as a cleared O.J. plotted to restore himself, I felt that the casualties had become mixed up in the bazaar.
I drove an hour outside Los Angeles to the Climb burial ground in Lake Timberland. There were bougainvilleas, carnations, sunflowers, and daisies piled on the plain, dull marble marker at Nicole Earthy’s grave. Individuals had left teddy bears and rosaries.
One young man composed a note promising he could never be spiteful to a lady when he grew up. A mother composed a note guaranteeing Nicole that her two children would be alright: “Your kids’ divine messengers will deal with them.”
I conversed with a lady named Teresa Myers, who stood gazing at the grave for quite a while. “Perhaps she’s in an ideal situation now since she’s settled,” Myers told me. “Yet, perhaps she’s not on the grounds that she knows now that no one can contact him.”
At the point when I left South Bundy on Thursday, I said a little petition for the people in question and their families. Fred Goldman, Ron’s dad, said after knowing about O.J.’s. passing, “No incredible misfortune.”
I feel something very similar.
