KILLER SMILE
As his parole hearing proved, the Juice can still cast a spell with his celebrity
THE outcome of O.J. Simpson’s parole hearing, broadcast live Thursday, was clear from the very beginning, when chairperson Connie Bisbee addressed him not as Inmate #1027820 but as a star.
“I’m a little nervous, so bear with me,” she said. It was an odd ceding of power: After all, there’s no law requiring televised parole hearings. But Simpson doesn’t just occupy a singular nexus between celebrity and the criminal justice system; there’s never been a figure like him in American life.
Bisbee wasn’t alone in being starstruck. Her colleague, parole board member Adam Engel, wore an NFL tie. When Bisbee mistakenly declared Simpson 90 years old, she corrected herself with an overly folksy tone, like she’d just bumped into an old friend at a cocktail party.
“You look great for 90!” Bisbee exclaimed. “How ’bout we take two decades off and call you 70?”
This was entertainment under the guise of legal proceeding.
Such was the theater it seemed Simpson was in the same room as his parole board. In fact, the whole thing was done via teleconference, O.J. testifying from Lovelock Correctional Center in Nevada, the parole board two hours away in Carson City. You’d never know it — not once was anyone seen addressing a screen instead of a person.
Simpson was shot often looking contrite, shoulders slumped, head bowed, the parole board of four seated at a table that seemed several feet above him.
Bisbee set the tone for everything to follow. “Mr. Simpson,” she said, smiling, “you are getting the same hearing that everyone else gets.” The gallery laughed at her obvious lie. Everyone else doesn’t get a livestream hearing, oddsmakers placing bets or the chance to sway public opinion. The fiction remains seductive. It’s odd, given we spent much of last year re-litigating O.J. Simpson through two highly popular, critically acclaimed projects: Ryan Murphy’s multi-part fact-based FX drama “The People vs. O.J. Simpson,” and Ezra Edelman’s Oscar-winning eight-hour docuseries “O.J.: Made in America.” Both carefully explained and ultimately dismantled the O.J. Simpson myth. Both left the unmistakable impression that he was guilty of the savage murders in 1994 of his ex-wife Nicole Brown Simpson and her friend Ronald Goldman. In both, he is portrayed as remorseless.
Bytheendof2016, it seemedasthough America had finally cometo terms with Simpson and what he signified about us: race relations then and now, our often toxic relationship with fame and mass media and, from a 20-year rearview, the inevitable not-guilty verdict.
Somehow, rather than diminishing Simpson’s star power, those projects strengthened it. Suddenly O.J. was no longer a lowlife criminal rotting away in prison, forgotten and irrelevant. He was back at the forefront of American pop culture. Little did we know then that his chances for imminent parole had perversely increased.
At Thursday’s hearing, both sides knew what roles they had to play: Simpson, contrite and vulnerable, the parole board, powerful and impervious.
Given this drama and subtext, it’s easy to forget the actual crime: In 2008, Simpson was convicted of armed robbery, kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, burglary and conspiracy for barging into a Las Vegas hotel room and threatening a sports-memorabilia dealer named Bruce Fromong. Simpson was sentenced to 33 years in prison, with eligibility for parole in nine.
At the time, conventional wisdom rightly held that Simpson’s harsh sentence was retribution for his 1995 acquittal, even though Simpson was found civilly liable for the deaths in 1997. Fred Goldman, Ron’s father, says they’ve seen less than 1 percent of the $33.5 million Simpson was ordered to pay. Goldman was unmoved by Simp- son’s pleas for parole.
“He’s the same person,” he told “CBS This Morning.”
Simpson’s testimony proved it. On display was the narcissism, the excuses, the complete lack of empathy, the entitlement. He used the minimizing language so common among criminals: It just “happened.” “We didn’t break into any room” — they walked in.
Guns were brandished? Wow, that was the first O.J. washearing about that. Why didn’t he complete his Commitment to Change course, or attend, as he promised, AA? He’s been busy. “I recently became commissioner of the softball league . . . My agenda was full here. I don’t have much time to sit around.”
Did they know he’s a devout Baptist now? He leads services. He mediates disputes. “I’ve basically led a conflictfree life,” he said. Not one parole board member challenged him.
Just once did the monster come out, when board member Tony Corda said Simpson’s version of events differed from the record.
Simpson lowered his eyebrows and leaned into the microphone, eyes stone. “IT’S BEEN RULED LEGALLY BY THESTATE OF CALIFORNIA THAT IT WASMYPROPERTY,” he bellowed.
Corda blanched and stammered a response while Simpson quickly corrected himself, the happy face reemerging. By the way, did the board know what Simpson had done for Fromong’s mother?
“When his mother was terminal ly ill— she was a fan—I’ d call her and sing to her .”
There it is. To O.J. Simpson, the dying mother of a son held at gunpoint by Simpson’s cronies was a fan.
After a seemingly proforma private meeting, the parole board freed Simpson. Now, the O.J. who spent much of his post-1995 life as a social pariah reemerges into a different cultural landscape, ready for his next narrative: the redemption arc.
The only question: Do we, like the Nevada parole board, buy it?