Following the words “not guilty,” the street outside the courthouse in downtown Los Angeles rippled with an emotional tremble. The cops–mostly white–stared blankly as a swell of “Amen” and “Thank you Jesus” suffocated the TV microphones. Anxious faces waited to speak to the camera . . . “the folks” spewed forth. Some cried out in joy while others pointed at the camera and reporters in mockery . . . “heh, heh you were wrong.” They were all there: the old “conjurer women” casting spells . . . the false prophets . . . the fans . . . the thugs. The cameras turned on us, becoming guillotines. One woman in the crowd grabbed my hand and heralded, “Brother, we got freedom today!” I pulled back, not wanting to be confused with this black wave of euphoria. I felt sorry for all the true believers who embraced this man’s contention of innocence.
What I saw on the faces of my people was contentment: justice had worked and “We beat The Man at his own game.” These people–my people–were rubbing the faces of whites in the blood of two dead people. In the hours that followed I found myself in the unenviable position of explaining the massive black reaction to the verdict. All of my white colleagues wanted to know why people were celebrating as if President Lincoln had just freed them from Massah’s plantation. I couldn’t. How can one explain it? The pundits and the pollsters say African-Americans are angry at the criminal-justice system, that black women look at domestic violence more lightly than white women do and that we are generally more suspicious of police. It is more than that. This jury doesn’t speak for clear-thinking blacks in America. For me, there were no conspiracy theories; this wasn’t “Columbo” or “Murder She Wrote,” and the real murderer was not going to be revealed in the last five minutes. O.J., the powerful black Adonis carrying his ball to victory, was embraced as a “brother-man” despite the fact that he had nothing in common with any “brother” or “sister”-black or white–there.
I cringed in embarrassment at one juror’s press conference. In her jumbled words, “This was not a domestic-abuse case,” and if you wanted to try that get another courtroom. I asked her if she felt like a hero to black Americans. She smiled and nodded no. There was no reply when I asked if she believed in DNA. She noted that someone may have planted the glove at Rockingham, that she had concern about detective Vannatter holding on to blood and was thoroughly convinced that the gloves didn’t fit (". . . if it doesn’t fit, you must acquit"). A colleague smugly added, “and if it rhyme you do no time.” I wonder what she would have digested from the Bronco chase if it had been admitted. Could the LAPD have planted all that money, the passport and a disguise too?
I had the opportunity to see Los Angeles in all its post-O.J. glory. I interviewed O.J. supporters – many of whom were white-outside his tony Brentwood home. They were “carrying on,” drunk with happiness. One woman said she prayed so hard for O.J. it hurt her. Another sat quietly, flowers and a love note for O.J. in hand. At Bundy–the scene of the crime-flowers and condolences covered the ground where Nicole’s and Ron’s bloodied bodies once lay. One black woman there mumbled at me, “We gotta stop this denial . . . protecting these crazy fools . . . O.J., Tupac, Tyson, Michael . . . child this is a mess.” Precisely.
Fear and anger and denial had turned my people into a cynical mob. I watched as blacks from Los Angeles to Times Square to prestigious Howard University Law School cackled at the Gold-mans. That day everyone drank from the same 40-ounce beer bottle of bitterness, cynicism and rage. It was no longer about murder but about beating the system that had worked against them for so long. It was not a moment to “say it loud and clear I’m black and I’m proud.”
Some postulate that maybe now “my” people will get treated fairly–that in the end race relations will be better. They are wrong. Race relations are worse, and it’s worse for blacks than it is whites. Sadly, the cheering hordes of black sympathizers have confused power with justice, and while this victory may feel good now, it’s a battle percentages alone tell us we can’t win.
This “eye for an eye–payback is a bitch” sentiment will certainly come back to haunt us. We have embraced a gridiron hero who had long abandoned his community for Hollywood. He’d need a map to get back to “the ‘hood.” We held on to the hope of O.J. telling us his story on NBC News, but he said no and remains on the run. From his phone conversation with The New York Times we heard less about his declaration of innocence and more about his financial status. It’s nice to know that he still has his fancy bachelor pad and cool cars. “You go boy!” And pay-per-view can count me in on any one-on-one with Marcia or Darden. No amount of gauze or Vaseline on the camera’s lens is ever going to convince most of America of O.J.’s innocence.
Black supporters of O.J. allowed their anger–all 400 years of it-to dictate our own moral truth. Could have or would have became “did not.” He was O.J., the brother man, framed by The Man. We freed him. Now with open arms and a plate of Mama’s fried chicken and chitlins we know the prodigal son will return. If not, we’ll just pray for another miracle.
