A close call in the court of public opinion | Sam Venable
Just now, I had to look up the exact date O.J. Simpson was acquitted of murder (Oct. 3, 1995) and the person who read aloud the jury’s “not guilty” decision (Los Angeles County Superior Court clerk Dierdre Robertson).
But I remember, with laser clarity, where I was at that moment (the Wagon Wheel Restaurant in Dandridge) and the thought coursing through every cell of my being (relief I wasn’t pounded into pulp.)
Close friends have repeatedly called my attention to this odd circumstance since Simpson, the fallen football hero and movie star, died of prostate cancer last month. Here’s what happened:
Like 99.9 percent of the country, I’d been following the Simpson trial and knew a verdict was to be announced that October day at 1 p.m., Eastern time. Unlike 99.9 percent, I had to file a newspaper column about public reaction. So I did what any sane writer, with hours to kill before deadline, would do.
I went fishing. Specifically, to Douglas Lake with country preacher and dearest of old friends Ray Hubbard.
No big deal. It didn’t matter where I was when the ruling came down; it would be easy to find folks to interview. Since Ray and I often ate at the Wagon Wheel and knew there was a TV on the counter, all I had to do was be front and center at the required hour.
What I didn’t expect, though, was half of Jefferson County to converge upon the same spot, at the same time, with the same intentions. Ray and I barely squeezed in the front door. The distant counter was blocked by caps, heads and shoulders.
“I gotta get closer,” I told him. With that - I’m not making this up - I dropped to the floor and crawled on hands and knees along one wall and around feet and legs. The seconds were ticking down when I surfaced near the counter.
The crowd hushed, but the tiny TV was barely audible. Somebody hollered, “Turn it up!” So I reached out, grabbed a knob and started to twist.
Whereupon the mob yelled, “NOT THAT ONE!”
In horror, I realized I had the channel knob, not volume control.
I hastily corrected. The verdict was read. The crowd reacted. I scribbled notes and quotes. Crisis averted.
Out in the parking lot, Ray upbraided me: “You idiot! If you’da changed that channel, they’da mopped up the floor with you!”
“Wouldn’t my ol’ buddy have come to my rescue?” I asked.
“No! You’da deserved it!” Ray snapped. Then he laughed. “But I was gonna pray real hard for you while they were doin’ it.”
Ray had a habit of coining nicknames for the places we visited. To the day he died, we never again ate at the Wagon Wheel Restaurant.
It was always the “Floor Crawler Café.”
Sam Venable’s column appears every Sunday. Contact him at sam.venable@outlook.com.
This article originally appeared on Knoxville News Sentinel: Sam Venable: A close call in the court of public opinion
