Fame And Fallout -- Christopher Darden Reflects On How Much His Life Has Changed Since The Simpson Trial

The letters arrive by the thousands. Some come with paintings or poems or nude photos. One woman sends a homemade pillow embroidered with the scales of justice. Some are mean, kinky or just plain weird.

But one letter, from a Seattle nurse, stands out.

The nurse tells Christopher Darden she is proud of him. She says she is an African-American woman who appreciates his courage and his fight for justice. She begs him to stay in the profession, as a role model for other African Americans.

"She clearly has a lot of integrity," Darden says, thinking about her letter and his missed opportunity as he sits down to a ham-and-cheese omelet yesterday in the Georgian Room at the Four Seasons Olympic Hotel.

This is what seems like his millionth interview, somewhere in the middle of his 20-city tour to promote his bestselling book, "In Contempt," his account of the O.J. Simpson trial that earned him a $1.3 million advance.

With less than 24 hours in a city, there's no time for a proper date. Knowing that, he arranged to meet the Seattle nurse at the airport when he flew in Wednesday night. At least they could have had a few minutes to chat on the ride back to the hotel.

She wasn't there.

Two years ago, this impromptu rendezvous with a letter-writing stranger would've seemed like someone else's life.

But two years ago, before Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman met their gruesome, untimely deaths, before O.J. Simpson

tried on the gloves, before the jury returned a verdict of not guilty and before the media glare exposed the depth of this country's racial divide, Darden was just a regular guy.

The fourth of eight kids in a working-class family, who grew up with the civil-rights movement, Darden was a civil servant, a prosecutor with the Los Angeles County District Attorney's Office, fighting without fanfare or television cameras to put away murderers, gangsters and bad cops.

"Life was so simple then," he says, smothering his omelet with ketchup and hot sauce and sipping from his glass of V-8 juice. "I could go where I wanted and nobody cared. Nobody paid attention."

They're paying attention now. During the trial, he was scrutinized, analyzed, criticized, admired and hated.

As the "trial of the century" wore on, Darden became a symbol for every side: one of justice and injustice, duty and betrayal, good and bad. He received death threats and love letters. One man spit right in his face.

"I could've done without it, that's for sure," he says. Forty this month, Darden is shorter than he looks on TV. His stubbly beard has begun to suggest gray. "The thing was a farce. It was a circus from day one. Who wants to be a part of that? I don't want that trial to be my legacy. I have to accomplish something greater."

After the "nine-month root canal" ended, when a man he says he knows in his heart was guilty walked free, Darden could've left Los Angeles and started to forget.

Instead, with help from a Spokane writer, Jess Walter, who slept on his couch for months, Darden went through it all again, moment by moment.

"There were things that needed to be said," he says. "I think there's a lot to be learned. I think I was given an opportunity to educate whites about blacks and about being black in America. About racism and about what it means to be a victim of it."

Another goal, he said, was to show other African Americans that progress has been made.

"We're reaching a point in time where we're going to be The Man. All across the country there are black police chiefs, black district attorneys, black mayors and perhaps, soon, a black president or vice president," he says. "I think we need to stop crying victim."

A law career as a way out

Darden's own dream of being an attorney began when he was just a child, growing up in a poor neighborhood in Richmond, Calif., on the northeastern shore of San Francisco Bay. Back then, becoming a lawyer was a way out.

But out was a long way off. First came running track, stealing half-dollars from his father's closet and taking his first bus trip to San Francisco. The ride home was in a cop car after one of his friends stole an apple from a tree on a vacant lot. It was early that Darden also learned he could hide his broken, rotten teeth if he didn't smile.

Darden says he thieved and connived his way through his youth. In college, he stole an umbrella and was chased blocks by police. He had to lie in a muddy field for three hours to avoid arrest. When the police finally gave up, Darden was humiliated and vowed he'd never do something that stupid again.

Instead, he dedicated himself to justice. When he finished law school he began to work at the prosecutor's office. After 13 years there, and the news that his older brother Michael had AIDS, Darden was just about ready to move on.

That's when his office decided to prosecute O.J. Simpson for murder.

The pained look was real

For nine months, Darden battled Simpson's attorneys in court and suffered harsh criticism and second-guessing outside the courtroom. The sour look on his face during the arduous trial was real. He was miserable.

But writing the book changed that. Darden says he is greeted warmly most everywhere he goes. Even those who think O.J. didn't do it, he says, tell him they understand he was just doing his job. He remains confident in the justice system and hopeful that the country is headed for a better place.

"My 15 minutes isn't over yet," he says. "I'll do what I can as long as I can."

Darden is teaching a trial advocacy course at Southwestern University School of Law in L.A. But he's also begun to flip through real-estate brochures in search of a house in San Francisco. And he's considering moving to Seattle for the summer, hiring a personal trainer and getting back in shape.

"It's beautiful and peaceful and maybe I can hang out with Sir Mix-a-Lot," he says in a softly sarcastic tone, mustering something close to a smile.

Seattle might just be the place. The mystery nurse has shown up at University Book Store for Darden's book signing. Tall and hip, clad in black, with funky sunglasses perched on her nose, 36-year-old Enid Moore explains that the missed airport appointment was a big misunderstanding. She waited for Darden's plane - until 2 a.m.

The crowded room fills with applause and cheers as Darden walks to an elevated table at the front of the line. Moore beams. Darden says something about the fight for justice and sits down to sign.

A few minutes pass before the man who has turned down dates with Robin Givens and Tyra Banks looks up and shoots Moore a hearty smile.