O.J.’S CANCELED BOOK LEAKED ONLINE

I’m going to tell you a story you’ve never heard before, because no one knows this story the way I know it. It takes place on the night June 12, 1994, and it concerns the murder of my ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her young friend, Ronald Goldman. I want you to forget everything you think you know about that night because I know the facts better than anyone. I know the players. I’ve seen the evidence. I’ve heard the theories. And, of course, I’ve read all the stories: That I did it. That I did it but I don’t know I did it. That I can no longer tell fact from fiction. That I wake up in the middle of the night, consumed by guilt, screaming.

Detailing how he would have murdered Brown and Goldman, O.J. writes:

I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he thought I was going to hit him, because he got into his little karate stance. “What the f**k is that?” I said. “You think you can take me with your karate sh**?” He started circling me, bobbing and weaving, and if I hadn’t been so f**king angry I would have laughed in his face. “O.J., come on!” It was Charlie again, pleading. Nicole moaned, regaining consciousness. She stirred on the ground and opened her eyes and looked at me, but it didn’t seem like anything was registering. Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me blocking my view. “We are f**king done here, man-let’s go!”

I noticed the knife in Charlie’s hand, and in one deft move I removed my right glove and snatched it up. “We’re not going anywhere,” I said, turning to face Goldman. Goldman was still circling me, bobbing and weaving, but I didn’t feel like laughing anymore. “You think you’re tough, motherf**ker?” I said. I could hear Charlie just behind me, saying something, urging me to get the f**k out of there, and at one point he even reached for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook him off, hard, and moved toward Goldman. “Okay, motherf**ker!” I said. “Show me how tough you are!”

Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened, but I can’t tell you exactly how. I was still standing in Nicole’s courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there, when I’d arrived, or even why I was there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital-with little Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping balls into my neighbor’s yard; Paula, angry, not answering her phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly s**t about Nicole’s behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive from Rockingham to the Bundy condo. And now?

Now I was standing in Nicole’s courtyard, in the dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I couldn’t get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of me was covered in blood, but it didn’t compute. Is this really blood? I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?

Simpson writes of contemplating suicide during the infamous slow speed chase.

A.C. drove another half-mile or so and pulled into an orange grove, where no one could spot us, not even from the sky. He got out to take a leak, and the moment he left the Bronco I reached for my grip. I unzipped it and pulled out the Magnum. I was in tremendous pain, and I saw nothing but more pain ahead of me, and I decided to end it. “I realized, I can make this stop. One shot to the flicking [sic] head and it’s over.”

*In other O.J. news, the man trying to auction the suit he wore on verdict day has renewed his efforts to sell the clothing and is hoping to get at least six figures, reports TMZ.

The Goldman family sued to try and stop the sale, but according to the seller, Alfred Beardsley, the judge “didn’t buy it.” Beardsley says he is hoping to sell the suit privately, rather than leave it at open auction. Interested parties can call 818-259-7705 and make an offer.

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