Judith Regan Proposes Book Deal To OJ Simpson

Orenthal James Simpson sat in the polished black wood chair with fat arm rests and a green and black madras patterned cushion that was affixed to the seat. The chair presented itself as heavy, but when OJ sat in the chair and slid it a few inches to sit, the wood seemed to be hollow. OJ thought “Pottery Barn.” It was typical for corporations to buy stuff that looked good from a distance, but when up close the quality was suspect. He did not expect that of ReganBooks. Judith Regan sat in a similar chair with a higher back behind a black wood desk. The whole office seemed to have been ordered from a Pottery Barn catalog. This was the influence of Rupert Murdoch whose company owned ReganBooks. Murdoch was know to be cheap with anything that smelled of executive excess.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” said Judith Regan.

“Sure. It’s not like I am so busy,” said OJ with a smile. This had become the usual response from OJ when someone asked he was up to. He had decided that just to get through the day he woul dhave to have a sense of humor, self-humor, about his situation.

“You turn sixty next year,” said Judith.

OK, thought OJ. So she googled me. But it was still creepy.

“Yes. You got it,” said OJ.

“And I think you should start thinking about the written legacy you wish to leave,” said Judith as she tapped the end of a fat Mont Blanc fountain pen, an item that was not ordered from Pottery Barn.

“There’s already too much of a written legacy. I do not need more,” said OJ.

“May I make a proposition?” asked Judith.

“I used to get a proposition a day right after my acquittal. Now it is down to a proposition a month,” said OJ. He actually was amused by this fact, and smiled when he said it. OJ felt that everything was a gift after the acquittal, and so he was enjoying life.

“That is my point. When the propositions stop completely, you will have lost your opportunity to tell your story,” said Judith Regan.

“I told my story,” said OJ. OK, so he hadn’t really told his story. He told a story, but not the story. And it was not like anyone would believe him anyway. So why bother. The story he told stuck, at least with the jury, and so he was best to leave it at that.

“OJ, listen to me, you have a story to tell, and quite frankly I am not interested in you telling me or the public anything except for a hypothetical,” said Judith.

“A hypothetical?” said OJ.

“What if you did kill Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Brown, hypothetically speaking, of course. How would it have happened, or under what circumstances could it have happened at all. That is what I am interested in,” said Judith.

This woman was nuts, thought OJ. She wanted OJ to get drunk with the guys at a bar and laugh off a few “what ifs” about killing his wife. It seemed to OJ that Judith Regan was trying to throw more dirt into his grave.

“It sounds crazy,” said OJ.

Judith had picked up on a certain “wink” to the audience from OJ, as if he knew he had gotten away with murder, literally, and that he felt lucky and was going to not let anything bother him.

“Clearly you have come to terms with what has happened to you. That is evidence of a man who can sleep at night, a man whose conscious is clear. Given your contented sense of self, I would think that it would be a clear statement of pride to discuss a hypothetical circumstance where you could kill your wife, and it may very well be that you conclude that no such circumstance exists,” said Judith Regan with the sober determination of a college professor.

OJ slept just fine at night, more due to medication than a clear conscious.

“My conscious is clear,” said OJ.

“Think about how the media has ripped you of your pride. I know you may not think about this, but pride and honor are the last pillars that keep us standing. The media has struggled to de-construct you, removing your human foundation. You must re-build. You must regain your pride and your honor. And you must do it with a bold statement,” said Judith.

“De-construct? Human foundation? I am trying to….”

“Yes. Sorry. I get pedantic,” said Judith.

“Pedantic?” asked OJ.

“The point is I can have someone write the book, your record of pride and honor, and you can work with our writer to restore your manhood,” said Judith.

“My manhood is fine,” said OJ.

“Of course. No question. But the media has a way of changing your legacy, stripping you of something that you have, though no one knows it,” said Judith.

She’s got that right, thought OJ.

“Do I get money for this project?” asked OJ. Money was really the only issue remaining for OJ. Everyone wanted a piece of him. He was allowed to keep some money he made as it came in, but the civil judgments, the lawyer fees, the huge financial fallout from the criminal and civil trials had decimated his net worth. Indeed, OJ had no net worth.

“Of course there is money involved,” said Judith. Judith knew that OJ endured a constant financial strain, and money was usually the drug that got most people to agree to anything, even if it was for an outlandish proposal.

“I’ll think about it,” said OJ. That was also a standard response. It was celebrity speak for “yes” let’s proceed, but I have an out whenever I feel like it.

“Absolutely. But I will have my writer contact you. set up a meeting. Start the process. See if it goes anywhere. No cost to you,” said Judith.

“No cost to me? I thought I was getting paid?” said OJ.

“Actually, I will be glad to give you a retainer to meet with the writer for, let’s say, seven five-hour sessions. How about a two thousand per session,” offered Judith.

“How about three thousand, and I’d like you to pay a third party,” said OJ.

“Deal,” said Judith.

“This ain’t going to go anywhere, you know. It smells bad,” said OJ.

“We’ll make it smell good,” said Judith. She did not know whether to believe her own shit, but she at least got OJ to accept the idea and do the first step. One step at a time. That’s the way it worked.

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Lindsay Lohan In The First Person Driving To The Ivy

I sat at the wheel of the borrowed black Cadillac Escalade driving to the Ivy Restaurant. What I do is pull the car up to the garage around the corner, and then someone drives me one block to the restaurant where I get out and run in past all the photographers. Of course, the photographers all know I park my car around the corner, so they have two opportunities to accost me. Once when I dash from my car to the black Chevy Suburban that takes me to the Ivy, and then a second time when I get out of the Suburban and run into the Ivy. They have two chances to take my photo.

My hands were shaking. I am trying to quit smoking. My last cigarette was about four hours ago and I am already getting the shakes. Well, not really the shakes. I am just dying for a cigarette. I do not know how I let it happen, but I got up to almost two packs a day. That wasn’t good. But it happened so fast, and the damn little things just became part of my life like breathing. My palms were sweating all over the steering wheel. So I turned the corner onto North Robertson and saw the crowd of people in front of The Ivy. It looked like a busy afternoon, as usual. Mostly photographers, of course, and I saw three big video cameras too. They all recognized my Escalade, and started getting all excited and moving into position, thinking that I might stop and get out. But I didn’t. I did slow down though.

Now why did I do that? Why do I even come to the Ivy when I hate the crowd of photographers and the phony questions they ask to pretend that they are being nice or friendly. They don’t give a shit about me, really. If I had a heart attack right there in front of them, or fainted, they would love it. They would all be taking photos of me on the pavement dying or dead, not one helping or trying to revive me. The photo of me, Lindsay Morgan Lohan, unconscious or dead would be more important to them than helping me. The first thing they would do is run off and call US Magazine or People or some other fucking magazine that would offer thousands of dollars to these assholes for a photo of me dead.

I made the turn to get to the garage and wondered again why I was even coming to the Ivy. I mean, I come here like four times a week. Why? I know the vultures are all there waiting for me. I know this. And I hate it. So why do I do it? I must love it? No. I can’t love it. I hate it. Damn, I needed a cigarette. The Ivy is like this addiction. Driving in big black cars and pulling up to the crowd is like an addiction. I hate it. Yet I can’t stop doing it. I feel compelled. Where’s Harry? I need Harry, my boyfriend. Well, I am not sure he is still my boyfriend, but he does give me pills, and I need some pills right now. I like dropping them right before the photographers start snapping their flashes. It makes me say “hello” rather than “fuck you.” It’s important that I say something nice even though I want them all to go to hell. The pills help me say nice things. Pills are easier than cocaine. Harry started me on the cocaine, but it is really is a hassle. The cocaine makes me nice. The pills make me nice. But I didn’t have any pills. I didn’t have any cocaine. And I needed a cigarette. I did not feel very nice.

OK. Here’s the garage. And there they are. Maybe twenty people, all with cameras. Here I go. I have to race to the black Suburban and then be taken to the Ivy. One block. God I hate this. I need a cigarette. Where’s Harry?

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Lindsay Lohan Brought To Emergency Room Unconscious - Part Three

Continued From Yesterday.

Dr. Sarah Sheehan filled a hyperdermic by stabbing a small glass bottle with the needle.

“I am going to wake her. So tell me, what did she take for her pain? I need to know right now because I am giving her this medication and I do not want it to ract poorly with what she took,” said Dr. Sheehan.

Yikes. Now Harry Morton had to be honest. If he told the doctor a lie, and things went poorly, then he would be responsible. Dammit. Maybe she won’t give a shit where he had gotten the pills. Hell. Just be honest. There are times when you have to be honest.

“Oxycontin,” said Harry. There he said it. But he was not going ot tell the doc about the cocaine. That would be a mistake. She would have to report that one. But they won’t pick it up. The Oxycontin wold cover any sign of cocaine.

“Strong stuff. But this will wake her,” said Dr. Sheehan.

Harry did not know that Dr. Sheehan already suspected it was some kind of narcotic and that what she was giving Lindsay Lohan would not create a problem.

Dr. Sheehan jabbed the needle in Lindsay’s arm and pushed the plunger of the stimulant into her. A huge lungful of rancid air came out of Lindsay’s open mouth with a gurgling sound, as if the air pushed through mucus.

“Where, what, owwww, my arm,” said Lindsay Lohan as she stirred on the gurney.

“I think the arm is broken. We’ll have to take an x-ray. Hi. I am Dr. Sheehan. Your name?”

“What? My name? Is Harry here?” asked Lindsay, her eyes barely open because the lights were bright.

“Yes. I’m here,” said Harry.

“Your name?” asked Dr. Sheehan, who already knew who it was.

“Lohan. Lindsay Morgan Lohan,” said Lindsay.

“Well Lindsay, it appears you may have broken your arm. And it also appears that you have been combining a narcotic with alcohol. You shouldn’t do that. You came in here to the emergency room unconscious but with a strong heartbeat. And you are OK. But you should consider yourself lucky” said Dr. Sheehan.

“Narcotic? I don’t take narcotics,” said Lindsay.

“Your friend here, Harry is it, said you took Oxycontin. That is a very strong and addictive narcotic,” said Dr. Sheehan.

Dammit doc, thought Harry Morton. Did she have to get into this right now. He had introduced Lindsay to Oxycontin a few months ago, and he never fully explained to her that it was sort of a narcotic. But then, Lindsay was not stupid. She read the label. She could read. Harry was sure she had Googled “oxycontin.” It’s not like he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Although, he did tell her it that it was no big deal. Of course, he did not really take it. Oh, he told Lindsay he took it when she popped a pill or two. But he didn’t. Harry did not want to get addicted. He knew the stuff was strong. And the whole purpose was really to addict Lindsay. Well, not rally to addict her. Just to control her. To make her want Harry around. And so far it was working. In fact, he could not believe how well it was working. The sex games, the drugs – it all was keeping Lindsay Morgan Lohan close to him.

“Can I get this x-ray like now and get out of here. I want to go home and sleep,” said Lindsay. She was starting to wake up.

Good. Harry saw that the word “narcotic” had not fully landed in Lindsay’s brain, and she was already on to the next topic, which was to move on, get out of where she was, and find some new place to rest and make believe she was healthy.

“I want to take a shower. I have to wash my hair,” said Lindsay.

Great. Great. Now Lindsay was thinking purely of how she looked. The whole talk of drugs is history. At least for now.

“OK. I’ll have the nurse come in to prepare you for an x-ray. But I am gong to have to admit you for one night. You can have a private room. It is very private. And you can take a shower there,” said Dr. Sheehan.

“Thanks. Thank you so much, Doctor,” said Lindsay.

“You’re welcome,” said Dr. Sheehan, who then turned and walked out through the curtain, leaving Lindsay and Harry alone.

“You OK, sweetheart,” said Harry.

“No, asshole. I am not OK. I feel like shit. My arm is killing me. And I am here, back in the fucking hospital,” said Lindsay.

“I love you, Lindsay. And I will take care of you. I will make certain that you get out of here looking great, and you will have like a little cast or bandage on your arm and it will look like a fashion statement. It will be cool, with your long black flowing hair and great clothes with a little wrist cast. The media will love it and think you are strong,” said Harry.

“You think?” asked Lindsay.

“Leave it to me, baby. You will come out of this looking better than before. You are strong. And you are beautiful,” said Harry.

“And talented,” said Lindsay with a smile.

“Of course. And talented,” said Harry.

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Lindsay Lohan Brought To Emergency Room Unconscious - Part Two

Continued From Yesterday.

Harry Morton was not happy that Lindsay Lohan’s unconscious body, not to mention her exposed breast, was being publicly wheeled through a common area of the emergency room. He expected onlookers and photographers and a crowd to gather around his famous girlfriend. But oddly, no one noticed. Everyone seemed to be in their own world of pain and misery, doubled over, holding their arms, blood on shirts, head bandages. Lindsay Lohan with her long black matted hair with one arm dangling off the side of the gurney as it was pushed attracted on one’s attention.

Mario wheeled the gurney into a side room and pulled the white curtain that was suspended on an aluminum track hanging from the ceiling. Harry walked through the curtain.

“The doctor will be here in a minute. What happened?” asked Mario.

“Well, she slipped and hurt her arm and then…” said Harry.

Mario glanced at the girl’s arms. The left one dangling off the side looked bruised and slighted bent.

“This arm?” asked Mario.

“Yes,” said Harry.

“She does not have any bruise to her head. Any idea why she is unconscious?” asked Mario.

“Well. Well, you see, she was, well, she was drinking and got a little sloppy. And then in the bathroom she fell. She was unsteady. And that’s when she hurt her arm. She said her arm hurt and she wanted something to get rid of the pain,” said Harry.

“And you are? A relation?” asked Mario knowing full well he was not any relation. By this point, Mario had recognized the girl on the gurney. It was Lindsay Lohan. It was an easy ID once you spent a moment with her. But quite frankly, the girl looked so filthy and trashy that one would miss that a famous and glamorous movie star was lying unconscious on this gurney. Also, Harry, the idiot, brought Lindsay into the wrong emergency room.

“Just a friend. I’m just a friend,” said Harry.

“OK. I will get the doctor,” said Mario as he left through the curtain leaving Harry Morton and Lindsay Lohan alone.

Harry glanced around and saw he had a few minutes. He quickly searched Lindsay’s jean pockets. Her left pocket is where he found it. Lindsay had taken to carrying around the small solid gold vile Harry had given her for the purpose of storing an “on the road” stash of cocaine. In the mad rush to get Lindsay to the car and then to the hospital, he had forgotten all about it. Carrying the unconscious Lindsay Lohan was not as easy as one would think. Though slight, her sizeable breasts and the huge head of hair made the whole move quite awkward. And he was afraid he further damaged the arm when Harry through her into the back seat of his Mercedes.

Harry removed the gold vile filled with cocaine from Lindsay’s left jean pocket and tucked it into his own pocket. Anything else he forget? Think fast, thought Harry.

Dr. Sarah Sheehan walked through the curtain. She was wearing a white gown which was open exposing black slacks and a navy blue blouse, as well as black Nike tennis shoes.

“Hello. I am Doctor Sheehan. So I got some of the story. What did she take for her pain?” asked Dr. Sheehan as she took Lindsay Lohan’s pulse from Lindsay’s left arm that dangled off the side. As Dr. Sheehan took the pulse she visually examined the bruises.

“Well, doc, I told her that they were strong, you know,” said Harry. Should he tell the doctor? And how would he explain how the pills were there. Should he tell her? Damn. Harry had to think fast. But he was good at this. He was good at this.

To Be Continued.

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Lindsay Lohan Brought To Emergency Room Unconscious - Part One

The clock on the emergency room wall read 2:32. That was 2:32 on Sunday morning, September 17th, 2006. This was one of two emergency rooms of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. One emergency room was for the publicity shy emergencies, which were celebrities, the other was for everyone else. But when Harry Morton made a turn onto George Burns Road off Beverly Boulevard, he mistakenly followed the directions to the wrong emergency room, the one for the common folk like you and me. In the back seat of Harry’s black Mercedes Benz SUV was Lindsay Morgan Lohan. Lindsay was unconscious and breathing heavily. The heavy breathing was comforting to Harry. At least Lindsay was breathing. She was alive. And here he was at one of the best medical facilities on the planet earth, so this was all going to be OK. But when Harry pulled up to the front of the emergency room, and ran inside to announce what he had in the back seat, he immediately realized it was the wrong emergency room, the one that was crowded and open and without any security barriers protecting late night celebrity visits.

What the two male nurses found in the back seat of Harry’s car was a white girl with long black hair in a white bra, the strap hanging off her right shoulder. The girl was wearing fayed blue jeans, the zipper half-way pulled up exposing pink underpants. The girl was lying on her side and the long disheveled black hair was splayed all over her face and back seat. The girl’s right arm was hanging off the seat, her left arm pinned under her motionless body.

One of the nurses. Mario, took a pulse and then started to drag the body out of the car. The male nurses on employ were large and could pretty much handle any unconscious body, no matter how large and heavy. But this one was maybe 100 pounds, at best, much of the weight located in the large breasts. The girl’s feet were bare and appeared to have dried vomit on them. As they dragged the girl out of the back seat by pulling on her legs, the hair fell back off the girl’s face. Mario saw an open mouth with dried vomit on the cheeks and eyes that were oddly half open, though the girl was clearly unconscious.

“Is she OK?” asked Harry.

“I do not know,” said Mario.

Mario picked up the girl who was top heavy and with the assistance of the other male nurse, they placed the unconscious girl on a gurney. Mario was a tad rough with the maneuver, purposely, seeing if the girl could be jostled awake. But it did not happen. She was as limp and cooked cappelini, and when the girl settled on her back on the gurney, her bra partially fell off exposing her right breast, which bounced like Jello as Mario pushed the gurney quickly through the emergency room sliding glass doors. Harry Morton followed from behind.

To Be Continued.

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