Chuck Battey: 30 years on, the O.J. Simpson trial is still indelible

Two decades and one year ago, the eyes of the free world were fixed on the courtroom where O.J. Simpson stood trial. In Los Angeles on a business trip and with an open day on my schedule, the thought occurred to me, “I need to see this for myself.” What happened next was worthy of the Ringling Brothers.

The excitement was palpable as I waited early that morning in the lobby of the L.A. County Courthouse.

The best show in Los Angeles was in the middle of its 14th smash-hit week and tickets were in high demand. I stood with an odd assortment of 30 aspirants for the seven coveted seats reserved for the general public at the O.J. Simpson trial.

Beside me was Dana, with whom I had worked an agreement to reduce the long odds of winning this lottery. If either of us gets in, we agreed, one would attend a half day and let the other take the court pass for the afternoon. Quickly, the strategy paid off: Dana’s number was the first to be called.

In quick succession, Dana and I were joined by a diverse collection of trial groupies winning this most competitive of lotteries. Second drawn was Foo Losipher, who gave every indication of having spent the previous night on a nearby park bench. Dressed in tattered clothes, with uncombed hair and a flowing gray beard, Foo clearly had wasted no time showering during his rush to get to the 7 a.m. O.J. lottery.

An experienced, surprisingly wise participant in the lottery process, Foo was disappointed by the last two numbers called by the buttoned-down (but clearly amused) county sheriffs. The sixth coveted slot was awarded to Adele — no, not that one. This one who confessed to having participated in all 50+ lotteries to date, winning seats in the public gallery seven times. Her knowledge of the trial and the personalities surrounding the courtroom would prove invaluable. “Watch her,” Foo warned, as she maneuvered forward to accept her gallery badge. “She’ll run over her own mother to get a good seat.”

With a practiced flair for the dramatic, the sheriff called out the seventh and final number. Squealing in delight, a man with the moniker Will B. King minced to the front to accept his allotted gallery pass. This is not the stuff of fiction. Google it, as they say. Standing about 6 feet tall, with the muscular body of a weight-room regular, Will was dressed in a pink floral dress, accessorized by pearls, a handbag, mismatched high-top basketball shoes and a bright pink bow in his thinning, short-cropped hair.

As we waited for the 9 a.m. start of that day’s session, the atmosphere around the courthouse took on the appearance of a Hollywood movie opening. Video lights illuminated the cloudy morning and still cameras clicked incessantly with the arrival of the lawyers.

Waving to the crowd and acknowledging familiar faces, defense attorney Johnnie Cochran strode purposely into the court building.

Lead defense attorney Robert Shapiro stepped out of a limousine with a broad smile. At this point, even laid-back Dana could not retain his composure and he elbowed his way through the crowd to ask Shapiro for an autograph.

Finally, prosecutor Marcia Clark slipped in the back entrance to the courthouse, unnoticed to all but Will B. King. “Marcia, I love your new hair,” he exclaimed, then adding, “I’ll see you in court.” Clark was momentarily shocked, then recovered her composure to smile ruefully and scurry into the elevator.

The rest of that day was well-documented in the media. Criminologist Dennis Fung endured a third consecutive day of meticulous cross-examination. Judge Lance Ito dismissed one juror, who promptly sold her story to a local TV station. And, yes, as many may remember, Will B. King was ejected from the courtroom after loudly accusing another gallery member (my new friend Dana, as it turned out) of sitting on his dress. You can Google that too.

As I returned to the courthouse at noon, to meet Dana and claim his gallery pass, I paused briefly to listen to Will B. King weave a mixture of mock dejection and outrage at his expulsion from court that morning for the benefit of a forest of boom microphones and news cameras.

Clearly reveling in his well-planned moment in the public spotlight, King concluded his monologue decrying the injustice of his treatment by reaching down the front of his dress and extracting one of two strategically-placed oranges. “My heart has been ripped out,” Will moaned melodramatically as he let the fruit drop to the ground.

As I suspected, the trial itself could not rival the drama and excitement outside the courtroom. Soon after Judge Ito rapped his gavel to start the afternoon session, I had thoroughly absorbed the sterile court atmosphere, studied the faces of the heretofore anonymous jurors (an attentive lot) and observed the moods of the participants. Even though it was his life on the line and not mine, O.J. appeared just as bored as I was.

Two hours was more than enough in the courtroom. I turned in my gallery pass at the first available break and stepped back onto the street and into the true main ring of this circus.

“Don’t Squeeze the Juice,” “Free O.J.” and “Let the Juice Loose” my T-shirts and buttons scream. But the best souvenirs are the memories of the uniquely California drama of the public gallery at the O.J. Simpson trial.

This story was originally published March 22, 2016 at 4:10 PM with the headline "Chuck Battey: 30 years on, the O.J. Simpson trial is still indelible."