1995. Summer. I’m 19, living in Dallas. It’s the summer of the OJ Simpson trial. I take a Greyhound bus twelve hours west to Roswell to retrieve the last of my shit from Mom and Pops’s house. My foster parents. The second set; the ones who saved my life.
At the terminal in Dallas, I meet a man. Black, late fifties, dressed in a gray suit and tie – but his sneakers are shoddy. Like, holes and worn soles kind of shoddy. He tells me he’s on OJ’s defense team. I find this dubious. Why is he taking a Greyhound? Why isn’t he in LA? And what the hell is up with those shoes? Would OJ have someone on his defense team who wears shoes that look like they were taken out of the garbage? But it feels rude to disbelieve this guy. I don’t want to be rude.