VANGUARD INCARCERATED PRESS: The First O.J. Book

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by Bev Abbad

I got the idea for an O.J. Simpson book long before all the others came out. The inspiration came in a flash at three in the morning as I lay awake on ‘B’ row in L.A. County Jail’s Highpower section. The only sounds on the row of 25 one-man cells were the cockroaches scurrying across the concrete floor, the same floor worn smooth by thousands, perhaps millions of feet that have tread there. I was certain I wasn’t the only one in Highpower that wasn’t able to sleep that night. Over on ‘G’ row, O.J. had to be having at least a twinge of remorse.

This was exactly to the day the one-year anniversary of the death of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman. It wasn’t O.J.’s problems that were keeping me awake, however. By coincidence it happened to be my wedding anniversary. I’d lost my wife and kids when I’d gotten myself arrested a year before, and I was agonizing over how a guy could get himself so screwed up and leave such a devastating trail of heartbreak and sorrow in his wake.

All that made me think about O.J., and that’s when it dawned on me that I was in the perfect position to write the very first, original, and now—long-lost and forgotten—O.J. Book. I used to be a reporter, crime beat stuff, local politics, fires, murders, drug busts. Back in the late 70’s Miami was a hotbed of coke smuggling, Cuban refugee intrigue, and retired mobsters showing up here and there in the hotels on Miami Beach. Not too exciting really, but a stepping stone for a kid on his way to bigger things. Little did I know at the time that my path would dead-end in a cell in L.A. County.

One of the things you learn in the news business is what makes a good story. And I had a whopper. Every news outlet in the known universe was camped out in front of the jail or courthouse as O.J.’s tale of sex, fame, jealousy and murder played out on the front pages of the L.A. Times and all the others. This was a circus, and I had a front row seat.

I was up front on ‘B’ row with Plexiglas windows directly in front of my cell and a perfect view of the entrance to Highpower 1700-1750. I could see anybody that came and went, and not only that, from my vantage point I could see directly into the guard’s booth where a five-inch video monitor of ‘G’ row monitored the Juice’s every move. He had the whole row to himself, an exercise bike on the tier and full run of that entire row. For being in jail, O.J. had it pretty good, especially compared to the rest of us. He was treated extremely well.

It was that dichotomy in living conditions and treatment that led me to believe I had a really good angle from which to write. I’d write not only about O.J. and the trial, but also about the inside story of the inner workings of the L.A. County Jail and what was really going on in regards to treatment and the disparity between a celebrity inmate and the rest of us. The real deal about the belly of the beast. And there was the title: Deep Inside the Belly of the Beast.

I’d write a chapter on the brutality of L.A. County and what all the rest of us were experiencing, then I’d write what O.J. was experiencing. I figured 20 chapters of 10 pages ought to do it. I could knock that out in no time. If I could broker a deal without calling attention to what I was working on, I might just be able to parlay the project into enough capital to buy my way out of this mess. I figured it would easily be a million-seller, even at a modest royalty rate, plenty to hire the kind of lawyer I needed to purchase a little legal justice.

And believe me, the amount of justice you’re going to get in L.A. is equivalent to the amount you’re able and willing to pay. I’ve seen guys who weren’t even remotely guilty get a life term, or worse. Others walk free, trailing the blood of their victims behind. O.J. did a county year for double murder.

In my time in county I was in seven riots; saw numerous stabbings, murders, slashings, rapes, beatings, and the worst kind of filth, maltreatment and brutality. In Highpower we had the worst of the worst, the most violent and dangerous guys you could ever meet. Ironically, there were also some of the most honorable, respectful and stand-up guys there as well. You learned a lot about respect on those rows. How to give it and get it. It was something you better learn; if you didn’t you wouldn’t last long. I was in L.A. County six years, five of which were in Highpower. I’ve never seen so much violence, drugs or money in my life. Before or since.

The gang shotcallers were raking in $10,000 a week, from inside a cell. They were hiring the best lawyers, smuggling in the best dope, and arranging for private attorney visits at the courthouse … with the attorney’s ‘legal assistants’ in tow. It seemed the qualifications for legal assistant included being young, female, and willing. Believe me, O.J. wasn’t the only one with money taking advantage of the system. I thought all of that might be interesting to readers, and I got to work.

I began writing and taking careful notice of every move O.J. made. He was in court nearly every day, and non-court days he spent in the visiting room where he had his own booth. He and Shapiro and the blonde assistant would be out there all day long. He couldn’t stand being in that cell, even if he did have the whole tier to himself. He was escorted by five guards, coming or going anywhere he went. There are guys in Highpower, and even on the mainline, who wouldn’t think twice about making a name for themselves by doing the Juice in. Not that it would be easy. O.J. was still in good shape, and being an NFL leading rusher takes special abilities. He nearly carried Buffalo to the Superbowl all by himself one year, no small feat. But, there are some stone-cold killers in Highpower, and that’s no exaggeration. I saw a guy get stabbed 75 times, get up off the floor and keep fighting. I’ve felt the reverberation of the floor when a head was smashed into the concrete, 20 cells down. If these guys want to get you, they’ll find a way.

The book was coming along pretty well, and I needed to make contact with someone who could broker it, get it typed, edited and published. I started calling around to all the Beverly Hills and Century City attorneys, using the premise that I was looking to hire them. Then, when they’d come to visit, I’d lay out the scheme. It didn’t take long before I got a bite. A very well-known and expensive Century City attorney saw the potential in the plan. I could wrap the manuscript fairly quickly; he’d take it from there. Within a few days he was back with an offer based solely on the concept I’d presented verbally. It was from a tabloid, $100,000 for the story, and they wanted pictures.

The plan was to slip me a miniature camera, I’d take what shots I could and they’d even provide bribe money to offer to some of the guards if they could get a shot of his cell. It was all doable, I could smuggle the camera, probably bribe the overnight guard. There was only one thing that would prevent the deal from going through … me. I turned it down. I didn’t want to sell out to a tabloid; I wanted to hold out for the millions a book deal would bring. We turned the deal down and went for the bigger play. That was the kind of money I knew I’d need to buy my way out of this mess; my lawyer agreed, and I got back to work. Juice was back and forth to court; the TV coverage was overwhelming and free advertising for the book. I was interweaving stories of jailhouse exploits and the horrors of being inside with the O.J. story. I was knocking out five pages a day and things were moving along smoothly. What could possibly go wrong?

When they showed up at my cell 15 deep in riot gear, I had the feeling the jig was definitely up, and I was the one getting jigged. Somehow they had gotten wind of the project, not the tabloid offer, just the writing-the-story part. But that was enough to unleash a response worthy of comparison to the plagues of Egypt. They gaffled me up and swept me away to the darkest, dankest most desolate far off corner of the jail, as far away from O.J. as they could get me … Highpower overflow.

Twenty-five one man cages on the third floor, mice and rats roaming in the thousands; nothing but crazies and hardcore program failures. There was an inch of water on the floor, no showers for weeks at a time. No phone calls or civil rights. They cell-fed, and if they ran out of trays they weren’t coming back. I was in the last cell on the last tier of the unit. I kept working.

I used stubs of pencil and gnawed away the wood with fingernails and teeth. I used any scrap of paper I could get my hands on and for the next 30 days I wrote. There was absolutely nothing else to do. I was so weak from hunger and neglect; all I wanted to do was sleep. Depression was a constant threat, and I fought it off long enough to get the manuscript done.

My investigator came for a visit and I slipped it to him with instructions to get it to the attorney, get it typed and edited and dealt to a publisher. Two weeks later I saw the investigator again and asked how it was going. He replied, “Oh, that was a really good story!” Wait, what? I was stunned because the instructions were clear. I asked “You read it?” He answered, “Yeah, I’m a bit of a writer myself … I submitted some stuff to Reader’s Digest but was rejected.”

The alarm bells were going off in my head … the big ones, the kind in auditoriums and gyms that they used to signal some imminent disaster like hurricanes or nuclear bomb attacks. I tried to remain calm and politely requested that he please get the manuscript to the attorney as soon as possible. He assured me that would be done.

A year and three court-orders later, the investigator handed over my hand-written manuscript in court. I’m pretty sure he had sold the story to the tabloids; I had read one that was eerily similar that had some fake studio composite cut-and-paste depiction of O.J.’s cell—it was tacky.

By that time it didn’t matter anyway. The trial of the century was over and everybody and their neighbor’s brother had written an O.J. book. My window of opportunity had slammed shut and been double-secured with one of those locks they shoot bullets through, and I was locked inside with it.

I read all the other ones: Clark, Darden, Bugliosi, and others. None of them came close to the real drama of actually being inside, actually living in the same unit with the Juice. It was all very anti-climactic. I got myself moved over to the pro-per side with all the other guys representing themselves. At least I got out of exile and could go to the law library for an hour or two each day. The verdict was a surprise to those of us on the inside. It was a masterful job by Johnny Cochran. Regardless of how you feel about O.J.’s guilt or innocence, you would hope if you ever found yourself in dire legal circumstances someone would fight so diligently for your freedom. That’s rare.

I’ve moved on since those days to state prison and pursued other writing projects, spent a lot of time on self-discovery and improvement. Ironically, although the First O.J. Book was never published, the essay on the writing of it won a PEN Award and was the catalyst for other writings. O.J. went and did his thing in Florida and Vegas, and eventually did some time and got out. I’m on my 14th book and have switched to prisoner self-help and rehabilitation with the American Prisoner series.

The memories of those days in L.A. County some 25 years ago seem so distant now. In this retelling, knowing what I know now, turning down that $100,000 seems like a bit of a bad choice. But, we learn to live with the decisions we make, no matter how monumentally irrational and ignorant they appear in hindsight. And, we learn valuable lessons from our experiences and adversities faced.

Over these past years there have been many experiences, and lessons. Some just as intriguing and monumental as those encountered during the writing of the First O.J. Book. I had thought that my 14th book would be my last … but, maybe there’s more yet to tell.

Republished from “Perspectives from the Cell Block: An Anthology of Prisoner Writings” – edited by Joan Parkin in collaboration with incarcerated people from Mule Creek State Prison.

About The Author

Disclaimer: the views expressed by guest writers are strictly those of the author and may not reflect the views of the Vanguard, its editor, or its editorial board.

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