Maui. June 1994. I had just come in from a dip in the Pacific and flicked on the TV. There it was. On every station; the big news from the mainland. The wife of football star O.J. Simpson and a Brentwood waiter named Ron Goldman had been found murdered. And suspect number one was the Juice. I had no intention of spending my last island day in front of the tube, so after the initial headline, that was about it for my O.J. attention span. With the exception of 9/11, I never get caught up in media-frenzied public events. I saw maybe three minutes of Ronald Reagan's weeklong departure, an overextended farewell that out hoopla'd the final Friends episode.
A few weeks after Maui, we found ourselves in Philadelphia at the wedding of Ned Nalle, Universal Television executive, and his bride, Karen, a friend of the family. A rather large crowd of guests was preparing for the ceremony, but something on television was distracting them: a white Bronco crawling down LA's 405 freeway, 10 minutes from my house. Half the LAPD followed. I was amazed at how enamored with this stupidity everyone was. I thought, "We're in Maui when he commits the crime, and now we're out of town again when he's about to get busted." But thanks to the media, we couldn't escape the noise. No one could.
Along came the trial and, of course, the whole nation watched. Judge Ito, that fat goofball posing for the camera, the attorneys, jokers all, making a mockery of the justice system. Remember the legendary glove testimony? If it does not fit, you must acquit. Poetic? No, pathetic, but we bought it, crook, lie and stinker. It was the evening of the day of the glove, and Joyce and I have been invited to a dinner party at the Nalles', who live about two blocks from O.J.'s place in Pacific Palisades. Five couples. Besides the Friends and Nalles, there were Mr. and Mrs. William Shatner, actor Parker Stevenson and his lady and, I kid you not, F. Lee Bailey.
Shatner and I hit it off. I watched every episode of Star Trek when it first aired in 1966 and continued to follow it through seasons two and three. It only lasted three seasons. Amazing. Think anyone will be watching reality TV reruns 30 years from now? Three years?
So we were sitting on the sofa, laughing it up. I was calling Shatner "Captain." In walked Bailey and his dark-haired mistress. "I need a drink!" he blurted. "I'll bet he does, after that performance today," I whispered to the Captain. Shatner had the same gleam in his eye he used to get when he had the Romulans on the run.
"Listen, Lonn," he said. "Do you think we should talk to him about the trial?" "Hey, you're the Captain," I replied. "You can do anything." We watched Bailey swill a Scotch, then a second. "He's getting buzzed," I observed. "Yeah," Shatner said, smiling. "Let's do it!"
I felt like Spock following my captain into battle. I wasn't even introduced to Bailey before the conversation commenced. He put out his hand and Shatner shook it. "Hello, Bill," said F. Lee. A couple moments of small talk, and then the captain laid out a line I have mimicked in person a hundred times. You have to imagine this line in choppy, exaggerated Kirk-speak, because that's how he delivered it: "Listen, Lee. The blood. Good God, man, IT'S EVERYWHERE!" Where's a video camera when you need one, because this is reality TV. Bailey slurred a response that I remember blaming disgraced cop Mark Fuhrman for "planting everything." "You'll see. Furman's an evil man, Bill."
Shatner shrugged. We headed back to the sofa. "That was awesome, Captain!" I said. "What a jerk that guy is!"
Shatner just giggled.
Years later—Westwood, 1999—I was standing in line for a movie when I heard this voice behind me; it was low, creepy, gravely familiar. I turned around and there was O.J. with a couple of friends, chuckling. I called Joyce. "We're not going to this movie," I said, "The karma here just went very bad. How 'bout dinner?" Pretty much everyone believes O.J. did it. But, 10 years after the gruesome killings, reserve a scathing indictment for the people who fed these media monsters. The millions not just in America but around the globe who've nothing better to do than fixate on the crimes and misdemeanors of the famous. The line from the White Bronco to reality TV describes the descent of our culture into a morass of empty junk.
Ronald Reagan was buried in Simi Valley after a weeklong processional covered extensively by TV. Ronald Goldman's remains rest about five miles down the road, in Agoura Hills. Let's hope both have had enough film at 11.