IN THE LATTER PART of April 2000, after being out of work for months, Jason was hired by a local bistro located just a few blocks from his bungalow in Venice Beach. Before Jason was hired, the small bistro was supposed to be open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but the original chef was unreliable, so the owner, an Englishman, could only open for breakfast and lunch. In despair, he turned to a recommendation for “a chef who is out of work—his name is Jason Simpson.” As a result, Jason was immediately hired.
According to the owner, “What an extraordinary piece of luck, to acquire somebody like Jason. He is going to go places in this business.”
At the bottom of the bistro’s business card and menu, it now read, “Executive Chef—Jason Simpson.”
Jason, like his father, O. J., making a touchdown in front of millions of people, had finally achieved his goal. Like O. J., his day of glory was at hand. Jason was no longer a sous chef; he was now an executive chef. The restaurant was small, but that wasn’t important to Jason. It was important to him that he finally made it to executive chef, accomplished by himself, alone, and without O. J.’s help.
In June of 2000, I made another trip to Los Angeles. My associate told me Jason’s trash was still not being put out on the street into the trash bins. I thought he might be taking it to work with him, disposing of it there. He may have been warned to be careful, aware that a private investigator was now looking into him as a possible suspect in the Bundy Drive murders.
On June 13, I arrived at Jason’s residence around 10:30 AM, knowing he would have to be leaving for his new job around 11 AM. Jason’s Jeep was parked in front of his bungalow.
At 11:30 AM Jason still had not come out of his residence, so, on my cell phone, I called his place of employment at the bistro. I was told that Jason was running late, but was expected momentarily. No, he hadn’t called in. By this time, the restaurant was already open for lunch. Where was Jason?
I got out of my parked car, wanting to see if Jason was still at home, knowing full well I couldn’t see his hidden bungalow. It was 12:10 PM as I walked past his gate and looked toward the back entry. There was no sign of him. I walked about eight to ten steps north on the sidewalk when I heard the sound of a gate opening and closing behind me. Was it Jason? The only way I would know would be to turn around and look. I knew this would be a mistake, but I had to know. I had to look.
I turned to see Jason standing on the sidewalk in front of his gate, not more than twenty feet away, staring right at me. Jason looked at me as if he thought he might know me, but wasn’t sure. You see, I had grown a beard since our last encounter, just prior to Christmas, at the Mélisse restaurant.
As we exchanged looks, Jason turned to his left and walked around the back of his Jeep. In his hand was his chef bag containing what I knew to be the tools of his trade, assorted razor-sharp chef knives. I watched as Jason got into the Jeep, and continued watching as he drove away and disappeared out of sight. Jason, now en route to his new job as executive chef at the local bistro was late again.
Suddenly it dawned on me: it had been six years and one day since the murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman. I couldn’t help but think:
Will it only be a short time before his temper again snaps, and he bubbles up in a fit of rage?
Was he already having trouble at work? I knew for sure he was late. That was obvious.
Will it be another Paul Goldberg situation?
Will someone else get hurt?
Will we finally all know the truth?
In October, I again flew back to Los Angeles, this time to meet with a professor of law at Loyola Law School. The professor had been cordial in agreeing to meet me, not knowing fully what the meeting was about, other than it concerned O.J. Simpson and the murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman.
I wasn’t so sure how he would feel after our meeting. It turned out, he couldn’t have been nicer. I think he fully understood my concerns. I shared with him my complete investigation, up to this point, into the murders and told him who I now considered to be a major suspect. After a lengthy meeting, it was decided my best approach to reopening the murder investigation did not lie with either the LAPD or the district attorney’s office, but through the California Attorney General’s Office. The professor offered to help me set up a meeting with the attorney general, or a member of his staff. As it turned out though, he was unable to help, leaving me, once again, on my own, attempting to seek justice in the murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman.
I was left with no choice; Gil Garcetti wasn’t interested, the LAPD wasn’t interested, and neither was the attorney general. I needed more evidence. A book about my investigation would be my only answer.
After returning to Dallas I started on my investigative report. I titled it O.J. is Guilty but Not of Murder. At the end of November 2000, I completed the manuscript. In the interim I submitted it to major publishers. Everyone liked the manuscript but believed that no one cared about O.J. Simpson any longer. As a result no one wanted to publish my book.
I felt I had come too far to give up. If I had to print the book myself, I was going to do just that. I was proud of what I had accomplished so far but I wasn’t through. Maybe with the book being published, the phone would ring and give me that final piece of evidence that might help me bring closure to this case.
In February 2001, as the book was being readied for release, I returned to Los Angeles and found that Jason Simpson had once again lost his job; he was no longer an executive chef at Angel’s Bistro. At that point I decided to interview the owner, Ron Harper.
When I sat down and talked to Mr. Harper, he told me that Jason just didn’t work out and was not eligible to be rehired. I could see by the look on his face that I didn’t need to go any further. It didn’t surprise me.
I realized Jason would never receive the solace he wanted so badly until he gets help. I felt I knew what was bothering him.
“Just after Jason left,” Mr. Harper told me, “I think it was in the latter part of January, a car pulled up a little before lunch around ten thirty or so. A well-dressed man came into my restaurant. I saw him bend over and pick up a menu. I asked if I could help him. He said, ‘I thought Jason Simpson was the chef?’
“‘No sir, he is no longer with us.’
“‘Do you know where he is?’
“‘No sir, I have no idea.’ The man threw down the menu, turned and walked out.” Ron said, “I watched him as he got into his car and drove away.”
“Did you recognize the man?”
“Oh yes, he was Gil Garcetti, the former district attorney.”
Garcetti had lost his reelection, yet he was looking for Jason Simpson. Why? I could only wonder, as I got back into my car, had Gil Garcetti heard of my forthcoming book, and might he be concerned if asked if he had ever interviewed Jason? Maybe he wanted to be able to say, “Yes, I personally interviewed Jason and found nothing to it.” Yet, now I knew the truth. Stopping by the little bistro had definitely paid off. Gil Garcetti was interested in Jason Simpson and to me that spoke for itself.
In 2001, after a major article on the front page of the Los Angeles Observer, showing me with a chef’s knife in my hand as the possible murder weapon in the murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman, I realized it was time for me to confront Jason . . . I had nothing to lose.
I drove over to Venice Beach and pulled up in front of Jason’s bungalow. As I parked the car, I realized it would be just him and me this time. I got out and slowly walked over to the chain-link gate. My heart began to race as I opened the gate and walked toward the back entrance. I hesitated, as just behind this gate I could see the outline of Jason’s small bungalow. The gate swung open slowly, I walked about five paces and was now at Jason’s front door. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen at this point. I reached up with my right hand and knocked on the door. There was no response. Just as I started to knock a second time the door suddenly opened. It wasn’t Jason. I had no idea who this man was. As I regained my composure, I said, “I’m looking for Jason Simpson.”
The man said, “I’m just the painter. The previous tenant just moved out.”
The painter stepped back, and I stepped inside. As I did, I couldn’t help but realize, by quickly looking around, how much time Jason had spent alone inside this small bungalow since the murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman. I could also picture, in my mind, all those bottles of liquor he had consumed, which I had gathered out of the trash for the past several years.
According to Jason’s neighbors, he moved out very quickly—overnight. One neighbor told me they thought it had been a quick decision on his part and understood that he had sold his Jeep and moved to Florida. As this neighbor spoke, I could not help but wonder if Jason had seen the front cover story in the L.A. Observer, and maybe that had caused him to make that abrupt decision to move out overnight, out of the jurisdiction of the Los Angeles Police Department.
It was time for me to sit down and write to District Attorney Steve Cooley one last time. Hoping, now, with all I had uncovered in nearly nine years, he would meet with me, and, in turn, ask for a formal grand jury hearing.
But this was not to happen. He was still not interested. His reply, “You have given me nothing I didn’t already know.”
That was not true and he knew it.