DISGRACELAND - O.J. Simpson: Stolen Memorabilia, Armed Robbery, and Fake Gangsters

Episode Date: June 18, 2024

This is not the O.J. Simpson story you were expecting. This is the story of what happened after the former running back was acquitted of the murder of his ex-wife and her friend. It’s an insane story that involves sports memorabilia, ex-cons, a gun, a simple plan gone horribly wrong, and one of the most unbelievable armed robberies in Las Vegas’s sordid history.This episode contains themes that may be disturbing to some listeners, including domestic violence and graphic depictions of violence.To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com.To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership.Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTERFollow Jake and DISGRACELAND:InstagramYouTubeX (formerly Twitter) Facebook Fan GroupTikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about O.J. Simpson, but it's likely not the O.J. Simpson story you know. This O.J. Simpson's story takes place after he was acquitted for the grisly murder of his ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her friend Ron. on Goldman.

This is a story about O.J. Simpson and an armed heist that sounds like something out of a Cohen Brothers movie. It's a story about a group of bungling burglars, the seedy underbelly of Las Vegas, in a raid by federal agents. Before this story, though, there was a time when O.J. Simpson gracefully danced through NFL backfields to the sounds of record-breaking music, figurative music, but great music, No doubt. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Boss Fight, MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Big Girls Don't Cry by Furgy.

And why would I play you that specific slice of not actually Frankie Valley cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on September 13th, 2007. And that was the day O.J. Simpson led a rag-tag group of bumbling criminals into a tiny room at the palms in Las Vegas to steal valuable sports memorabilia at gunpoint. On this episode, bungling burglars, the underbelly of Las Vegas, and the squeezing of the juice himself, O.J. Simpson. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. Walter Alexander knew that it was futile to resist the siren call of a blackjack table. And why would he resist it?

He was in the one place in the world where the answer to every question was, yes. Deal me in. Yes. Hit me. Yes. Another G&T. Yes. Slot machine handled.

Why the fuck not? Crap's table. That's rock. Even his nickname sounded lucky whenever someone said it. No one called him Walter. They all called him Goldie. With a nickname like Goldie, how could he lose? The sound of the dice bouncing on the felt and the epileptic tension of flashing lights, the smell of mid-shelf cologne, unfiltered camels and Lysol. Vegas, baby, Goldie could see it, smell it, taste it. September 13th, 2007. When Goldie first stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac at McCarran Airport, the desert wind slapped him in the face.

It was hot and gritty, and the sun was relentless. It burned, it beat down. If desert heat is a dry heat, he thought to himself, then why the fuck am I soaking in sweat? He found shelter in the string of climate-controlled casinos along the strip. Inside, the sound of cards shuffling through dealer's fingers played like a loop in his head. Goldie was in town for a wedding, more like a four-day Bacchanal with a wedding as the cherry on top, if the promised verbal agenda stuck.

There'd be parties, booze, table games, luck would be a lady if he was lucky. It was going to be an episode. It was going to be a weekend of. Yes. And so, when Goldie's cell rang out of the blue, and he answered it and heard the voice of his golfing buddy, O.J. Simpson on the other line,

and OJ had this thing that needed to get done. There's no way Goldie was going to say no. He remembered that OJ was in Vegas for the same wedding. But OJ wasn't calling to talk about the impending nuptials. He had some more pressing business to discuss. Goldie, you gotta come by my room at the palms and bring Spence with you. Spence was Spencer,

aka Michael McClinton, another mutual friend whose checkered past included bus for illegal firearms, drug possession, and pimping. OJ sounded impatient. Time was wasting. Goldie and Spence needed to powwow with him pronto. Goldie told OJ to hang tight.

He tracked down Spence and they'd be over. Later that day, in his room at the palms, OJ laid it down straight for Goldie. in Spence. His friend, Tom Richio, co-owner of an auction house called Universal Rarities, had just delivered some fresh Intel, and the Intel was troubling. Two memorabilia dealers, known to Richie Al Beardsley and Bruce Fremone, were shacked up in room 1203 at the Palace Station, a hotel and casino a few minutes up the road from the palms, and they were sitting on a bunch of sought-after stuff. OJ stuff. Highly sought-after, highly-valued-faluable OJs.

Simpson's sports memorabilia. And that stuff was stolen. It didn't belong to them. It didn't belong to anyone but OJ. Or so OJ thought. Like the football he was carrying in 1973 when he rushed for over 2,000 yards and beat Jim Brown's

10-year record. And like the ring that had belonged to his late ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson. Like the signed photo of J. Edgar Hoover that had been a personal gift from the former FBI director. Missing stuff wasn't exactly new to OJ. Most of his personal belongings

flew the coop 10 years before in 1997, after he lost a wrongful death civil suit brought on by the families of his ex-wife Nicole and her friend Ron Goldman. OJ, of course, had been infamously acquitted of their murders only a year before that in 1996 and would have been dubbed the trial of the century. And though he came out on top on that murder trial,

he wasn't so lucky with the civil suit. He lost that, which meant that he owned $33.5 million in damages. He didn't have the money. So he defaulted on his mortgage. He was evicted from his Brentwood mansion, and the Goldman's then went after his assets. His 1968 Heisman trophy, gone.

His Pro Football Hall of Fame certificate. Gone. His beloved golf clubs. Adios. A gold Rolex watch, Skadouche. OJ wondered if some of those items were among the batch of memorabilia that Al Beardsley and Bruce Fremont were sitting on. Fuck him if he couldn't find out

because he was going to room 1203 at the past. palestation, and he was going to get his stuff back. He had already reached out to the L.A. branch of the FBI to find out if they wanted in on the operation. An undercover sting. He mentioned the sign J. Edgar Hoover photo, thought maybe it lended some street credit. Hoover had practically deputized O.J. on the spot when he gave it to him. At least that's what OJ. told them. The FBI had balked. Uh, no. So OJ. Sweetened the pot, they could stream the Sting live on TV. Ratings would be bananas. The feds told them. OJ that what he was proposing wasn't a sting and that they wouldn't be involved.

OJ knew he couldn't trust the FBI. The FBI didn't have his back. Could he trust Goldie and Spence? Would they help him? Did they have his back? Goldie had OJ's back. No problem, no questions necessary. Goldie had known OJ for about 10 years.

They met on a golf course. When they weren't golfing, they were partying. Goldie valued his friendship with OJ because it opened doors for him. He used his friendship as leverage when he interviewed for jobs. as a real estate agent and wanted to impress a potential firm. Goldie had O.J.'s back no matter what. Even in 2002, when OJ was caught Toulin his powerboat through the manate he protected waters of Biscayne Bay, Florida,

Goldie stood by his friend. Even when OJ refused to pay the $65 fine to move on with his life, OJ maintained his innocence, and Goldie maintained his loyalty. I've always got your back, juice, Goldie told him. But what about he, OJ asked, can you guys get some heat? And Goldie looked at Spence. It was an unexpected development. You won't need to use them at all, Jay had it.

Just keep them tucked in your belt, under your jacket, in case we need to flash him and let everyone know we mean business. Spence pulled his concealed weapons permit from his wallet. Yeah, don't you worry about that, he responded. I can bring plenty of heat. June 17, 1994, the 405 freeway, Los Angeles. The heat sat next to OJ on the back seat, a 357 magnum, loaded.

Next to the gun was his pattern. A change of clothes, fake gottee. He told Al Collings to keep driving. Al Collings, former linebacker who finished his professional football career in 1979 with the 49ers. The same year and same team as OJ tried to stay calm. Collings and OJ were running again, but this time it wasn't on the gridiron. This time, it was in a white Ford Bronco, going north on the 405 real slow, a thalinks of five o'clock. a phalanx of 5-0's pulling up the rear.

OJ was supposed to turn himself into the LAPD. Instead, he bolted, and the LAPD gave chase. The entire country watched. The two-hour 60-mile chase remains a monumental media event that captured the nation's collective attention. Cars pulled over on the side of the freeway to watch the Bronco drive by. Crowds appeared on bridge overpasses, homemade cardboard signs in hand,

encouraging the juice to keep on water. running. OJ's buddy, Bob Costas, cut into NBC's coverage of game five on the NBA finals to give a play-by-play. It was seen live on television coast to coast by around 95 million people. But this was no game. There was a warrant out for OJ's arrest. He'd been declared a fugitive, wanted for the brutal mirrors of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman. Their bodies have been found shredded outside Nicole's Brentwood condo just days earlier. OJ sat in shock in the Broncos. his back seat. His mind raced. He didn't know what the fuck he was doing. He told Al to keep driving. He looked out through the windshield at the 405. And the freeway lay ahead of them. A concrete turf

with no end zone in sight. O.J. Simpson came from out of nowhere. Clarence Stewart was pulling into a parking spot outside the palms in Las Vegas when OJ, his friend, jumped in front of his car. Clarence slammed on the brakes. It was around dinner time. O.J. needed a lift. He was headed to the Palis Station, just a few minutes down the road. Wouldn't take long. OJ was running late for a meeting. Well, it was more of a setup than a meeting. OJ told Clarence about the two memorabilia dealers,

Al Beardsley and Bruce Fremone, who were sitting on a bunch of his personal belongings in a room at the Palis Station. And that OJ's dealer friend, Tom Richieau, had set up this quote-unquote meeting with these other dealers under false pretenses. The dealers with the goods had no idea that OJ was involved or would be attending the meeting. Another of OJ's friends, Charlie Ehrlich, was posing as a prospective buyer. But of course, Charlie wasn't a real buyer.

OJ was running a sting. Plain and simple. The dealers had OJ's stuff, footballs and pictures and other memorabilia. OJ was going to take back what was rightfully his. Clarence was confused. He and OJ had been lounging at the Palm's Pool earlier in the day. Place was Party Town Central. OJ is sitting there in a cabana, random strangers asking if he was,

It was really him, the juice and the flesh, girls sitting on his lap for photos. Nothing like being acquitted for a double murder to lock down that celebrity game. The pool was all fun in games, so OJ didn't say a damn thing about a sting. Furthermore, it sounded a lot more like a steal than a sting. Clarence thought about that time a few years ago in 2005 when OJ was busted for stealing satellite TV. The feds raided his Miami home and found bootloaders. illegal devices specifically used to pirate cable. Direct TV had him over a barrel, 25 large in fines.

Not that Clarence was a goody two-shoots. Clarence knew about fucking up on an OJ-sized scale. Back in 87, Clarence tried to sell Coke to an undercover officer in Louisiana. He copped a guilty plea for possession. These days, he worked as a mortgage broker in Vegas and tried to fly a little strainer. But for OJ, sure, he'd fly crooked for a car. a hot minute. And so Clarence drove OJ over to the Palace Station along with Charlie, the guy who's posing as the buyer. Clarence brought his own friend Charles Cashmore along for the ride. And as the

four walked into the palestation's lobby, OJ said that Tom Ritchie would meet them inside. OJ. failed to mention that there were two other guys waiting for them inside as well. So it came as a shock to Clarence that not only were there two more characters in this burgeoning posse, but that they were packing heat as well. And those two guys were Goldie and Spence. Goldie and Spence weren't dressed casually like everyone else. They looked like Crocket and Tubbs from Miami Vice. Slick suits, one purple, one black, bulges at their sides

that told everyone they were packing. Spence had lent Goldie his 22 Beretta. Goldie had it stuffed at his waistband. Spence concealed a 45-caliber Ruger, semi-automatic. Whatever confidence, Clarence had been feeling earlier, suddenly slipped away. He didn't know what was going on anymore. He wasn't expecting guns. But OJ, assessing his makeshift six-man offensive line, was feeling confident.

He was ready. He was ready to reclaim what was rightfully his. He was going in jumbo, stacked. OJ's team made their way to room 1203. Al Beardsley and Bruce Fremone, the dealers inside the room, had no idea what was about to go down. It was 7.38 p.m., fourth in goal. In the hallway, OJ began to get upset. And the closer they got to the hotel room door, the more pissed off he became.

He took a deep breath so that he wouldn't fly into a rage. And then, OJ called an audible. He signaled to Spence. Flash your heat when you get in the room. Look menacing. Spence took the cue. No fucking around. It was time to rush.

The knock on the door and the door opened. Tom Richieau entered the room first with Charlie, the supposed sports collector. And then Goldie, and then Spence, Clarence, then Cashmore, and then a beam. And then, OJ walked in. Last, and the air went out of the room. Bruce Fremone was in the middle of a phone call. He dropped the receiver and it dangled on its cord. Al Beardsly unmissable at 6'6 and 300 pounds

couldn't believe he was face-to-face with his hero, O.J. Simpson. Spence had the Ruger in his hand. He pointed it around the room. Goldie frist Al. OJ looked at all the goods laid out on the bed. He wanted to find his. He saw footballs, some were signed, with the details of the records he'd broken while carrying them in a game.

He saw an All-American team ball. He was pretty sure that was his, too. He saw that one J. Edgar Hoover photo. He saw a Ziploc bag of his ties, fucking neckties, assholes. He saw shit that wasn't even his, signed Pete Rose Baseballs and Joe Montana lithographs. Don't let nobody out of this room, he said to no one in particular, eyes full scanning the tens of thousands of dollars of merchandise on the bed. The room itself was small, nothing fancy, $35 bucks a night.

that now there were nine men stuffed inside it. Some, like Goldie and Spence, were relishing the role of armed muscle. Others like Clarence and Cashmore didn't know what they were supposed to be doing. Al Beardsley and Bruce Fremone, meanwhile, were freaking the fuck out. Spence held his arm out and pointed the Ruger at Bruce. Bruce's face drained of blood. Spence thought about OJ's raged-up advice. Look menacing.

You guys are lucky we're not in L.A., he said. The 45 tight in his hand. If we were, you'd all be on the floor. On the floor, why, Clarence thought, watching the scene play out in disbelief. On the floor because this is a stick-up or on the floor because they'd all be dead. Al Beardsley, the unlucky sports memorabilia collector, made a move towards the bed. His hand went down where the shitty mattress met the shittier frame. Clarence panicked.

The dealer was going for his own gat. Clarence was sure of it. Clarence sprang into action within seconds had Al up against the wall. O.J. had turned his detention from the swag laid out on the bed to the commons. motion. Spence with the 45 drawn Clarence pinning the dealer, shit was getting out of hand. Chill, OJ said, thinking to himself about how best it toned down the excitement in the room. And maybe Spent should put the gun away. Maybe they should pack up and leave. It was supposed to have been so simple, so easy, in and out. But shit went south faster than a white

Bronco going north. OJ told the guys to bag up whatever they could. They needed to split. If they hung around much longer, the police would get involved. And police were the last thing, OJ Simpson needed. Brentwood, January 1st, 1989, 358 a.m. All was not quiet on New Year's Day at 360 North Rockingham Avenue. Nicole Brown Simpson was screaming bloody murder into her telephone. When the LAPD arrived, they found her hiding in the bushes outside her Brentwood mansion. She was in her bra and sweatpants. She was covered in mud. Her face was beaten, her lips, split, swollen cheek, blackened eye, large handprint on her neck. She kept repeating the same line over and over. He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me. It was the same exact line Nicole

had spoken on the 911 call that brought the police to her house in the first place. The LAPD was intimately familiar with 360 Rockingham. This was the ninth time the cops had been to that address for a domestic disturbance call. Sometimes there was shouting and other times. Like in 1985, there was a car smashed in with a baseball bat. When the police arrived that time, they found OJ still clenching the bat, still pulsing with rage. So naturally, Nicole found it insulting when on this the ninth time the cops had to ask her just exactly who was going to kill her. She awkwardly covered up her exposed body with her arms and she knew the cops knew, OJ.

She told him that her husband had kicked her, slapped her, he had tried to kill her. And every time she made a call like this to the LA fucking PD, they didn't do anything about it. They came out to the house, did this little song and dance, said what's up to OJ, and then everyone went back to whatever it was they were doing. This time needed to be different. This time, she demanded they arrest him. OJ appeared at the gate near the entrance to the house, half-dressed. He waved to the cops.

He told him not to worry. It was a family matter. No need to make a big deal out of it. He and Nicole could resolve it on their own. The cops pushed back. They were placing O.J. Simpson. and under arrest for beating his wife. He needed to get dressed and go with them.

O.J. backed away from the gate, but within seconds the cops had lost sight of him. He's going to kill me, Nicole repeated. A cop draped a blanket over her shoulders. Behind the house, a car engine started. It idled for a moment and then, the sound of hasty acceleration. Before the cops could put O.J. in cuffs, he was gone.

The rear lights of his blue Bentley faded down the back streets of Brentwood. Destination. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Bruce Ramon ran as fast as he could to the lobby of the palestation. He needed a phone. He needed the police. And he needed to call the police from the hotel lobby because his cell phone had been stolen by OJ.

Fucking Simpson, who had it, along with the All-American Team Football, the three game balls signed with significant dates, the J. Edgar Hoover photo, the neckties, the baseball signed by Pete Rose, and the Joe Montana lithographs. OJ.J.'s crew had busted in his Bruce Framong's hotel room and hastily thrown all that stuff into boxes and pillowcases. And then, before they left, not even ten minutes after they burst into the room, one of the guys with one of the guns, the one they called Goldie,

yanked the hotel room's phone cord out of the wall. OJ looked at Bruce and said, Give me your cell phone. Bruce knew OJ was just buying time to get the fuck back to wherever it was he was staying in Vegas. probably a nicer room than Bruce would ever see in his life. But now, standing in the lobby of the palestation waiting for police dispatch to answer his call, Bruce was livid. Did that just happen?

Had he been robbed at gunpoint by O.J. Simpson? OJ. walked out of the hotel room with something like $80 grand in merchandise. And as far as Bruce was concerned, no fucking way that shit belonged to OJ. Bruce had legally acquired that merchandise. When officers finally showed up, Bruce told them what happened. He had just been robbed by O.J. Simpson. One cop looked at the other. Chuckled, looked back at Bruce to determine if he was jerking their chains.

OJ Simpson, the cop said. Who else was here? Al callings? The other cop laughed. Yeah, should we put out an APB for a white Ford Bronco? Back at the palms, OJ Simpson was drunk. And he was trying to calm down his makeshift heist crew. The severity of what had just happened back in room 1203 was starting to hit them.

Even if OJ was trying to brush the whole thing off his shoulder. Charlie wondered if they'd all go to jail. Spence was trying to remember what crazy shit he'd shouted in the heat of the moment. Goldie regretted carrying a gun into the room. Clarence wanted to fly straight again. Don't worry, OJ was telling them. We got nothing to worry about. Just say there were no guns.

As long as there were no guns, we're cool. I didn't see any guns. Did you guys see any guns? And the other guys couldn't believe what they were hearing. Did OJ think this was a joke? Of course there were guns. Of course, Al Beardsley and Bruce Formone were on the phone to the cops right now, and it was only a matter of moments before the cops started picking them off one at a time.

OJ reminded them all that no matter what, the shit they took belonged to him. Well, okay, not the Pete Rose Balls or the Joe Montana photos and Bruce forming cell phone, but shit, most of it belonged to him. Nah, man, this isn't funny the crew was telling OJ. This is armed robbery. We're all going to get arrested. We're all going to jail. OJ sat silent for a moment.

Music faintly played over the PA in the Palms Lounge where they all sat together. He began to tune out the noises in the casino, the ringing bells, the tumbling dice, the cascading coins, and focused on the music. Just the music. He looked around the table. He looked into the eyes of the six guys who were trying to get him to see the light to face the music. It was in that moment that O.J. conceded silently to himself that perhaps he had done something truly horrible. June 12, 1994, 1145 p.m. 875 South Bundy Drive, Brentwood.

Secreu Bostep could hear music drifting from his neighbor's condo, real faint. He guessed that a window or door had been left open. He couldn't hear anything else. He stood on the sidewalk on South Bundy, his wife at his side. He held a Nikita on a leash. The dog wasn't his, and he wasn't so much walking the dog as the dog was walking. walking him. It led him here, and it stopped near a palm tree. A breeze blew through the thick palm leaves and quivered the security system warning sign that was planted in the front lawn. The dog had been found by Sukru's neighbor earlier in the evening. Its paws and legs were stained with blood. The dog appeared unharmed, though. Secru offered to watch the Akita overnight. It was

late, and they'd look for the owner in the morning. But the dog was restless. The dog was wanted to walk. So Sukru and his wife took the Akita for a late night stroll up the street, and it stopped here. 875, South Bundy. The dog panted as it stood still. It tilted its head and pricked up its ear. If Sukru had gone inside the house, he would have found lit candles glowing in the master bedroom, a drawn tub, TV on, a melting pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream, Two kids sleeping soundly upstairs. Sukuru looked to see if he could tell where the music was coming from. That's when he saw the blood.

It was splattered on the stone walkway, obscured by the darkness. It slashed a path all the way to the front door of the condo. That's where the body was. A woman's body slumped at the bottom of the stairs leading out of the condo. She was blonde and wore a short black dress. But Sukru wasn't focusing on the blonde or the black. It was the red that caught his eye. He could see the blood glistening in the moonlight.

It looked like someone had dumped a bucket of blood at the base of the woman's head. It had seeped into the gaps between each stone on the walkway. It seemed to be creeping up on the sidewalk, crawling its way into the light. The woman's body was tainted with blood splatter. Her entire face smothered in deep crimson. The knife wounds were everywhere. She had been stabbed in her throat, stuck deep in the jugular. There was a hole in her spine.

Her head was hacked up. throat was carved up. Her neck had been sliced so deeply, almost from ear to ear that her head was practically detached from her body. Suckru's stomach jumped to his throat. He squeezed one of his hands on the dog leash and the other onto his wife's hand. And that's when Suckro noticed another body, a man's, just a few feet away from the woman's. The body was dumped on the ground. One leg of his blue jeans was soaked in deep crimson red. His blue jeans weren't even blue anymore. And there was a gaping hole in his neck. He'd been stabbed in the chest and in the abdomen. He bled from his head and his face. He bled from his stomach and his legs. His blood oozed into the

ferns and dirt. And the Akita at the end of the leash just stood there, panting. It didn't bark or whine. Securu, too, was silent. He was a resident of Los Angeles, which meant that he knew all about the evil things that happened in the middle of the night and the evil people capable of it. Manson, the hillside strangler, the freeway killers, Richard Ramirez. Just like the Akita couldn't bark, Sukru couldn't describe what he was looking at, nor did he want to. All he knew was that it was the work of something undeniably evil and that it would haunt him forever. Everyone knew O.J. Simpson was guilty. The evidence was overwhelming. The testimony from his former friends was damning. His defense was laughably transparent. No matter where he tried to place himself on that fateful night in question or who he tried to lay blame on for the actions that were so obviously his, O.J. came up short in the eyes of the men and women selected to decide his fate. And so, On October 3rd, with the entire world watching, a jury of his peers found O.J. Simpson, guilty of all charges.

October 3rd, 2008, that is. Not October 3, 1995, when O.J. was originally on trial for the murders of his ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her friend Ron Goldman. No, O.J. was found guilty for his role in the 2007 robbery at the Palis Station in Las Vegas, in which he stole memorabilia that he thought rightfully belonged to him. For that, O.J. was guilty. Guilty of conspiracy to commit a crime. Guilty of burglary with a deadly weapon. Guilty of first-degree kidnapping with a deadly weapon.

In all, there were 12 counts, and this time, O.J. Simpson was found guilty of every single one of them. The Las Vegas judge called O.J. arrogant and ignorant. She sentenced him, along with Clarence Stewart, the only friend in the heist gang that didn't flip on OJ at the trial to at least 15 years in prison. She also made it clear that her ruling had absolutely nothing to do with the ruling that OJ had received 13 years ago to the day.

That would be the ruling of October 3, 1995. On that day, the phone rang at the West Los Angeles Bureau of the LAPD. The police were needed immediately. There was a developing situation. It was escalating. might get hurt. So the police were sent out, 360 North Rockingham Avenue, Brentwood. The cops knew that address all too well. But this time, unlike the other nine times they'd been called to OJ Simpson's home, the cops weren't called to referee a domestic disturbance. There was a party going on

at 360 North Rockingham and the cops were needed to provide protection. They were needed to provide protection for OJ Simpson. Earlier that day, OJ had been acquitted for the murder of his ex-Worth wife, Nicole, and her friend Ron Goldman. The verdict split the country in half. The trial had lasted over a year. It was both a monumental turning point in American media and also a total shit show. OJ. dominated the news from nightly newscast to interview shows and tabloids to pillars of upstanding journalism. Attorneys, judges, and witnesses were transformed into celebrities. The entire trial felt more like a scripted soap opera than real life. Over the course of the year, the trial became less about the murder or more about race in America, and specifically race in Los Angeles,

where the televised beating of Rodney King by LAPD officers and the subsequent riots in 1992 were still a fresh wound. Following the not guilty verdict on October 3, 1995, O.J. rode in a van back to his place on Rockingham up in Brentwood. Then the LAPD worked crowd control as more vehicles began to arrive. Rolls-Royces, limousines, tinted windows. Vans loaded with crates of champagne. The fancy cars snaked their way past hedgerows and wrought iron gates. The party went on into the night, but it didn't last for long. Despite OJ's acquittal, more than half of the country thought he'd done it.

A deal OJ had struck to be interviewed live on pay-per-view TV collapsed, and so did the $20 million payday that came along with it. He was dropped by his agent in the talent company that had represented him for two decades, and the exclusive Riviera country club didn't renew his membership. Brentwood neighbors put up makeshift signs leading to OJ's mansion. One sign read, Welcome to the neighborhood, home with a Brentwood butcher. Then the Goldman family took OJ to court for the civil suit the following year,

and that's when he lost it all. The mansion, the money, the memorabilia. As the new century dawned in the years dragged on, OJ, a free but financially ruined man, found he still had some friends out on the golf course. Friends that would play up his involvement at the center of the trial of the century as nothing more than a joke. Friends that would laugh each time he'd accidentally drop his golf glove on the green

and say, oops, OJ, you did it again. His friends, like OJ, had fallen from what they thought was grace. Ex-cons. Guys with records for controlled substances and illegal firearms. Guys busted for prostitution and for schemes to defraud investors. guys who weren't strangers to felony theft or slinging dope, guys that didn't believe the bullshit that the house always wins. Whether that proverbial house was the LAPD or a jury of one's peer, shit,

they all said, just look at OJ. And so, if OJ came to these ex-con golfing buddies with a shoddy-smashing grab plan to get his stuff back, and the proverbial house was a Vegas casino, they need to be worried. They'd say yes. Vegas was the place for yes, and there was no luck like OJ's luck.

OJ could defy the odds of a casino. He could be their rabbit's foot. But in Vegas, there was no luck. There was only disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page

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