The Conspiracy Against O.J. Simpson – a Satire

June 12, 1994

The Los Angeles Coliseum was dark when the first person, a pathologist, arrived by cab. He'd been contacted at the County Morgue by a supervisor and urged to depart immediately to assure getting a seat in the horrendously-large facility.

"Want me to wait?" the taxi driver asked. "Nothing's going on ... it'll be midnight in two hours."

The pathologist smiled and shook his head as he exited the cab and paid the fare. "We all know each other," he said, "and collaborate on these high-profile cases."

The cabbie stared at him, then shrugged and re-started the engine. The pathologist closed the door and watched the cab make a sweeping U-turn, as its headlamps cast ethereal silhouettes on the concrete walls of the empty monolith, then swooped past ticket booths, souvenir stands, and palm trees that dotted the area. As the cab neared an exit, darkness became glaring light at each of twenty parking lot entryways from headlamps of thousands of approaching buses, private coaches, passenger cars, pickup trucks, police cars, ambulances, and government vehicles.

The Coliseum lights flashed on, as a formation of several dozen helicopters flew overhead with flashing beacons. The pathologist watched them disappear over the parapet, picturing in his mind's eye their landing onto the Coliseum grass, emanating a colorful aura, mixed with eddies of dust whirling upward. Even though the rotors made a muffled pock-pock-pock sound, which receded after they'd passed overhead, the pathologist stood transfixed by the absolute silence, purposefulness, and apparent organization from the throngs of arriving vehicles. Fully-clothed SWAT teams appeared out of nowhere, and unlocked and swung open the gates with unified precision.

In only a few moments the parking lots were filled. Thousands and thousands of like-minded collaborators filed into the massive venue. The pathologist needed to quick-step into one of hundreds of fast-moving lines to assure himself of a seat. Already, the only remaining seats were in the upper tiers.

What a thrill to be involved, he thought. The carefully- made plan would unfold. It was going to happen. With everyone working together as a team. The first he'd attended on such a massive scale! He was part of the chosen elite to participate. There wasn't one person in attendance he couldn't trust.

Seated to his right were three Superior Court judges. On his left, a woman who worked as a 911 operator for the LAPD. Directly in front sat a paramedic from West Los Angeles. Behind him were five police officers from airport security. One's knees pressed against his back. Togetherness – a symbol of absolute unity. Next to them, two hematologists. And behind them, four lab technicians from the FBI facility. He spotted two assistant county coroners four rows down. Three others from Ventura County. They peered over their shoulders at him with thumbs raised. Beside them he recognized six baggage handlers, three ticket agents, and three building maintenance workers from LAX and Burbank Airport. Across the crowded aisle with his office staff sat the North American manager for an Italian shoe manufacturer, who waved his binoculars at him in recognition. Behind him sat a sports photographer and TV cameraman, who worked together at NFL games around the country.

Wherever the pathologist gazed, he saw no unfamiliar faces. Nine county jail turnkeys were seated next to four parking attendants from the City Hall garage. Everyone knew everybody. How else could this event be planned? The clandestine training was finally going to pay off. Secrecy was paramount. That had been pounded into all of them at every practice session. No one would ever find out.

When he'd gotten the notification call, he'd only been informed that a man and woman had been stabbed to death minutes earlier in the courtyard of an upscale condo in Brentwood. He already knew that the pre-plotted investigation/prosecution plan required multiple, glamorous locations, matched sets, a visible trail, a high-profile suspect, diverse principals, lots of blood, and absolute preparation for inventive enhancements.

"That's her ... she's the one that will prosecute!" the pudgy woman seated five rows down yelled. She pointed toward a slender, brunette with high cheekbones and a toothy grin, exiting a helicopter.

"She used to be a dancer ..." the pathologist heard from behind him.

"... to work her way through law school." a nearby judge interrupted. "She prosecuted a case in my courtroom last...