Is usher dating anyone now

(Boris Yeltsin’s first question when he met President Clinton in 1995: “Do you think O. So intense was the media scrutiny that, by the time the trial started, all those who were part of it had grown accustomed to being treated like something scraped onto a microscope slide.

But when Judge Lance Ito decided to allow cameras in the courtroom, that sky-high self-consciousness was sent off into the stratosphere.

You had guys who’d been in the public eye for years: O.

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Everybody’s favorite himbo houseguest, maybe not the swiftest guy on the block but cute as a bug and with a nice way about him.

Kato was a joke, certainly the butt of enough of them.

Only 25 percent could identify Vice President Gore.

And though there’d be tell-all books and show-all spreads in both Faye Resnick’s and Paula Barbieri’s futures, it was Kato who seemed like the breakout star, hands down. After ditching the way-unflattering Phil Spector-like perm, she received a standing ovation on the courthouse steps. treatment at Hollywood hot spots like the House of Blues.

was less burning rubber than going for a spin, and the squad cars weren’t so much in panting pursuit as serene accompaniment, falling into graceful formation behind their leader, a Ford Bronco, the 1993 model, as white as innocence, as a lie. “He’s going to beat the shit out of me.”) He was, too, a cocksman supreme, giving out the hard yard left, right, and center to seemingly any and all comers, then flying into a jealous rage if Nicole so much as cast a glance in another guy’s direction.

He must’ve cut to ribbons that hot blonde ex-wife of his and the hunky young waiter returning a pair of glasses her mom had left at the restaurant—yeah right, at that time of night? The defense cooked up some cockamamy theory involving Faye Resnick, who at the time of Nicole’s death, they said, was having a bad run with cocaine, and a drug deal gone south. The acquittal of the officers who beat Rodney King and the ensuing riots were only two years in the past.

What would have been a story touched only by the scandal-jonesing, if-it-bleeds-it-leads tabloids—the kind of newspapers and magazines you’d line your dog’s litter box with if you had a particularly trashy, no-count dog—had become, thanks to the involvement of a man so famous he didn’t need a name, just a couple of dinky letters, front-page news for even the staidest and snootiest of publications. Still, if you watched the trial unfold on the tube rather than in the courtroom, i.e., weren’t a member of the jury and directly under Cochran’s sway, and fell on the honky side of the racial divide, the verdict seemed absolutely off its rocker. Which is, I think, the ultimate tribute to the story’s narrative pull: the audience stayed put until the final reel, not an empty seat in the house.

And the episode with the Bronco had kicked the story up another notch still. Don’t Drop the Soap Perhaps, though, the Simpson case worked better, or at least more satisfyingly, as a soap opera, which, of course, it was, too.

Cover the 405 in pulp and gore and fragments of bone? C.” Cowlings, reach unharmed his house on Rockingham Avenue—“the Rockingham estate,” as the talking heads were so fond of calling it—in Brentwood, where a 27-man SWAT team was waiting for him, a sniper with an AR-15 rifle hugging dirt in the kids’ playground out back. The murder had written all over it.) Instead of coming up with an alternative killer, they focused their efforts on making their client the victim. Not that the mixed nature of their message hurt it any. For the majority of Americans, certainly for the majority of white Americans, the ending was less a shocker than an outrage, a serious bummer any way you sliced it, but it wasn’t ignored.

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