There was a car chase. I had been in a bookstore that was empty except for the clerks, trying to find a book on classical history for my father. I went to buy it and the clerk said "Do you know where he is?" I had no idea what she was talking about. I must have been one of the three or four people in LA who wasn't watching the chase on TV. So she explained. I had to go under a freeway on my way home, and as I approached it I saw a lot of helicopters slowly moving along it. That's him, I realized. They're following his Ford Bronco or whatever it was, and he's going to be right above me as I go through the underpass. It was too late to avoid going under the freeway, and I kept thinking "Don't shoot, OJ, don't shoot . . . "
The whole city was caught up in it all. Months later a friend from England was visiting and wanted to go by his house, which was completely impossible because the police had it blocked of. They couldn't block off the place where his wife and her friend were murdered--it's on a very busy street. It was all tremendously sad.