Welcome to Nicole's House...

Saturday, 3 October 2015

After THAT Verdict, Dominick Dunne Goes in Search of the Ghost of Brentwood...

A young woman named Moya Rimp, whom I met during the Simpson trial, called to tell me that she and her mother, Pauline Rimp, a prominent real-estate woman in Brentwood, had moved into Nicole Brown Simpson's condo, the scene of the murders, in order to help the Brown family sell it. The Browns are eager to get rid of the condo, although as yet there have been no takers.

"What's it like living there?" I asked. "Very strange. Tourists are still coming by to look at it. When I walk the dog, I meet all these people in the neighborhood who tell me things. There's one who swears she saw O.J. talking to Ron and Nicole before the murders, but she wouldn't come forward."

Moya Rimp invited me for dinner, I went. Robert Altman, the film director, and his wife, Kathryn, were also there...


With the reverence of a docent at the Getty Museum, Moya Rimp showed us through the condo. "This is where Nicole's exercise equipment was," she said stopping in an area outside the master bedroom. We stared at the empty space, then moved on.

"Now we're entering Nicole's bedroom. That was her bed, and beyond, in the bathroom, you can see her tub, which was filled with water that night and had lit candles around the edge." We became caught up in her surreal thrall.

As many times as I had walked by the condo and looked at the pictures of the crime scene, I was still amazed at how large the place is - 3,400 square feet - and how small the killing area is.

I perched on the spot outside the picture window where Simpson would have sat when he reportedly spied on Nicole prior to the killings. It was the perfect place for a voyeur...

"We think he was watching Nicole through the window on the night of the murders before she came outside," said Moya Rimp.

In the ill-lit, eerie space, I felt as if I could almost hear the scuffling of rubber-soled Bruno Magli shoes and sneakers in the dirt and on the walkway. "This is where Ron fell," said Moya. "That's where Nicole was."

As I looked at the scene, remembering the horrifying photographs shown in court, I didn't want to be there anymore, and we went inside.

Dominick Dunne
Three Faces of Evil 
Vanity Fair 
(June 1996)





After THAT Verdict, the Nightmare Makes a Return Home to Rockingham...

By the time I got to Rockingham it was dark, some time after 8.00pm. The media mob had descended there, predictably, and engulfed the neighborhood. As far as the eye could see there were news vans, trucks, satellite dishes, and swarms of reporters from practically every country in the world.

The house itself had been barraged with deliveries from friends, well-wishers and, we later learned, journalists trying to get inside. Flowers, telegrams, pizzas, ice cream, cakes - everything imaginable was delivered to the house. 

Before long, it was discovered that the tabloids had made floral deliveries and planted microphones inside the flowers. Other reporters ordered deliveries of various items to be made so they could try to sneak inside when the gates opened, or at least shout questions. Before long, all deliveries had to be left outside the front gate and examined by the security guards.

Those guards opened the gate for me and I went inside. I had only thing on my mind - to see O.J. The first person I saw inside the house was Larry Schiller, who was there because he had exclusive rights with a tabloid for pictures of O.J. on the day of his acquittal...

I spotted Cathy. She said O.J. was upstairs in his bedroom. The party was winding down by the time I got there, as it had been going on most of the day. I greeted a few people, and then quickly went up to the bedroom. The door was ajar. I knocked and walked in.

O.J. was lying on the bed propped up against some pillows. Gretchen Stockdale, whom O.J. later dated, was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking quite stunning. 

Gretchen testified in the trial about a voicemail O.J. left for her on the night of the murders. Because Gretchen was jaw-droppingly beautiful, prosecutor Marcia Clark probably assumed she would have the IQ of a raisin. But Gretchen got on the witness stand and dismantled Clark. Everybody on the defense team was blown away. Marcia kept trying to corner her and make her look stupid, but she just couldn't do it...


O.J. lit up when he saw me enter his bedroom. "Michael Gilbert!" he called out, and pulled me right onto the bed on top of him, hugging and kissing me...

Somebody brought me a glass of champagne. We all talked and bantered for probably two hours about the verdict and our reactions when it was read. People always ask me about O.J.'s own response to the verdict that night, and all I can remember is that he said he was extremely happy. I don't remember specifically what his words were. I do remember that at one point he looked around his bedroom and said, "This is so good, to be back in my own bedroom, in my own bed." He was euphoric.

Around midnight, I excused myself and told O.J. I would be back in the morning. He hugged me goodbye and thanked me again. I said goodbye to Gretchen and the others, left the party, and drove to my hotel, totally exhausted. 

As I lay on my hotel bed, I thought: "Wow. It's all over. It's done. The nightmare is finished. We can all get back to real life now. Everything is going to be normal again."

Mike Gilbert
Confession. How I Helped O.J. Get Away With Murder

Saturday, 13 June 2015

A Peek Inside the Abode of a Has-Been...

Brentwood was definitely not my neck of the woods. The conventional wisdom about this upscale 'hood was that it was a place where people air-kissed, compared implants, and did lunch. During my stint in Beverly Hills, I discovered that the cliches were pretty much true.

The hills north of Sunset were jammed with multimillion-dollar estates hidden behind many millions more dollars' worth of landscaping. All to create the illusion of privacy. The farther north you went, and the higher you climbed into the hills, the narrower the streets became, and the more obscure the street signs were. I strained to find Rockingham Drive.

There was a cruiser parked up ahead, where a uniformed officer directed traffic. A few civilians milled around outside an iron security gate. Some of them had the nervous, unfed look of reporters. Still, the scene was not exactly bustling with activity. I got the impression that the main show had come and gone.

I slipped unnoticed past the press and through the gate, where I got my first look at the larger Tudor-style house overhung with old eucalyptus trees. The manicured grounds seemed to glow an unnatural shade of green in the midday light. In one corner of the lawn stood a child's playhouse. O.J. Simpson might be a has-been, I thought, but he must still be bringing in serious bucks to manage the upkeep on this place.

A white Ford Bronco sat nosed into the curb on Rockingham. Extending up the driveway from the rear of the vehicle was a trail of reddish-brown spots. The rust-colored droplets stopped several yards short of the house. The front door was open and in the foyer I could see more droplets. They appeared to be blood. Gingerly, careful to disturb nothing, I stepped inside.


Search warrant or no, it always felt weird to me to walk into the house of a stranger. But there's also a voyeuristic fascination: what a person chooses to surround himself with tells you a lot about him. This interior of O.J. Simpson's house was exquisitely appointed with overstuffed white furniture, Lalique glass, and Berber carpeting. And yet the place gave off a faint odor of mildew and neglect.

"Hey, Marcia, come upstairs. I want to show you something." It was Brad Roberts. I followed him up the spiral staircase, where the wall was lined with photographs, mostly shots of O.J. Simpson with various fat cats.

It was on that stairway that I got my first look at the face of Nicole Brown Simpson.

She was blond, with handsome, almost mannish, features. Her hair, teeth, and skin all had that gloss peculiar to the West Side elite. In some of the photos she was with a pair of lovely brown-skinned children, a boy and a girl. They all wore ski attire. Her face was difficult to read. The expression in all the photos was uniformly happy, but her eyes were glazed. She had - how would you describe it  - a thousand-yard stare.

By now,  I knew that the Simpson had been divorced for two years. I found it peculiar that he still had her pictures everywhere. The photos of my ex were long gone from the walls and end tables.

I peeked into the master bedroom suite. From that vantage point I could see only the top and one side of the bed. Brad Roberts knelt on the floor. He reached under the box spring and, using his fingertips, pulled out a framed photo. It showed Nicole and her husband in evening dress.

"Is that the way you found it?" I asked.
"Yep," he replied. "Just like that. Facedown. Under the bed."
"Make sure they get a photo of that." I told him.

Marcia Clark
Without a Doubt
(New York: Penguin Books 1998)



Get a Life! A Brentwood State of Mind...

Brentwood, California, population 35,798, is the Los Angeles district where Marilyn Monroe's ambiguously debated death occurred thirty-two years previously in the early evening hours of August 4, 1962. Brentwood is also the psychic nexus of the O.J. Simpson/Nicole Brown saga, somewhere between 10.00 p.m and 11.00 p.m., June 12 1994.


Brentwood does not exist. Not technically. It is a hilly, canyoned Los Angeles suburb - a ZIP code: 90049. Letters sent to Brentwood will be returned to sender. Roughly 250 letters a day end up in the small, Northern California town of Brentwood, ZIP code 94513.

In the daytime, Brentwood is almost exclusively a city of women old and young, focused on a small band of retail strip along San Vicente Boulevard. There are women peppered with hunky aspiring actors and slinky actresses springing about from auditions to gym.

Brentwood gives the impression of being a 1970s future utopia, one with a secret at its core, perhaps a pleasant secret and perhaps an unpleasant secret, but a secret that nonetheless remains fiercely protected. Brentwood, like Palm Springs, offers a version of an alternative future that might have occurred had certain factors not continued unchecked, futures that daily seem less probable.

It was into this neighborhood that Nicole Brown Simpson landed after her divorce, in a $650,000 condo near the noisy southwest corner of Bundy and Dorothy, on Bundy, a condo that would cost maybe $350,000 were it in most other parts of the city.

One Brentwood resident who grew up in Brentwood Heights (above Sunset: equidistant from Monroe's and Simpson's houses), now in his twenties, calls lower Brentwood a divorcée ghetto. Three of his best friends from high school had parents who divorced, and all three mothers ended up "in the ghetto. Only my own mother [also a divorcée] got to keep the house. She's the exception."

If people here are annoyed with O.J. Simpson, possible double murder aside, it is only because he broke the covenant of invisibility. The corner of Rockingham and Ashford is going to be a tourist attraction for the next one hundred years, like it or not. Will this effect land values? Yes. But in which way, who is to know? Michelle Pfeiffer, although she lives below Sunset, has already chosen to move away to avoid the hubbub.

Just outside the Union 76 station at the corner of Bundy and San Vicente, a donation of a dollar, say, purchases you a photocopied sheet of "Poems for Nicole Simpson" by a local street entrepreneur wearing a felt-tip-pen-on-cardboard sign saying: MORE POEMS ABOUT NICOLE SIMPSON. Business in brisk. Locals say, "At least he's offering something original and new."

On San Vicente Boulevard, dark rumors float about Brentwood's no-fat cafes, phone machines and the brightly lit aisles of the Vicente Market - rumors too dark, too dreadful to mention, for to speak the word is to give life, and who will spawn this monster?

Perhaps these rumors are true. Perhaps time will tell. Perhaps it will all be forgotten.

Meanwhile to hinder the "lookie-loo's", thru-traffic is blocked on both sides of Dorothy. An LAPD officer beside his motorcycle keeps traffic flowing.

The front of the alleyway in which the bodies of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Lyle Goldman were found has been screened off by a dozen or so dwarf plantings of Australian tree ferns and Nile lilies behind a new enclosure of green-plasticated chain-link fence that separates the walkway from the sidewalk (this part of Brentwood has sidewalks).

Signs put up by agitated neighbors saying "GET A LIFE" and "GO HOME THERE IS NOTHING 2 SEE" have been taken down. By August 4, late afternoon traffic no longer concertinas to a grind the way it did in the initial sensationalist frenzy of a few weeks ago. But it still slows down.

There are a few joggers and dog walkers - Brentwood's only two species of residential pedestrian - and all are wearing Walkmans.

It was a dogwalker who first found the murdered bodies.

Douglas Coupland

Wednesday, 14 January 2015

As Tee Makes Plans, the Story of Nicole's House Continues...

Firstly, I must say ‘Thank you’ to all for your kind wishes about my unanticipated and quick return to York last year and your messages of support about the attendant tribulations of having to move one’s abode, in 12th scale and otherwise have been much appreciated!

As you can see, my delightful fluff-ball has also fully recovered from the arduous task of moving nest...


In addition, I am happy to reassure those of you who having expressed particular concern about the safety of my secret stash of chocolate, that my supplies remain undiscovered, abundant and more importantly (for my waistline at least!) - untouched!

And now with several of my ‘Small Worlds’ also remaining untouched as it were; cocooned as bubble wrap pupae, a work shed in some semblance of order and a garden room designated for my exclusive use, I decided to reconsider the proposal offered by a colleague last year and accept a Mission: Possible...

For my mission, now that I have chosen to accept it, will see the creation of a contemporary Tudor-style house inspired by the photographic images of Nicole's former exquisite life-size home using only the bare pieces of MDF that form the Mountfield kit supplied by the Dolls House Emporium

A caveat of my mission is that I have been asked to keep a journal from ‘conception to completion’ that will detail my ideas for the interior design including paint samples, fabric swatches, kitchen planning, lighting, and oh, landscaping!

Did I tell you that I also have to create the garden?

It was perhaps rather apt that the reaction of a family member upon taking delivery of the three large boxes that arrived at my home one sunny Friday in June was “Flaming Hell!”…

And with the boxes now emptied of their contents, the dry-build is now complete…


As I plan to share my musings on the making of this miniature estate on this *BLOG*, I hope that you will continue to pop over for a visit when you can for the door will always be open!


 Bye for now!
Tee

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