She’s rationalizing her decision to publish O.J. Simpson’s “fictional” book as some sort of
cathartic revelation for her kids:
My son is now twenty-five years old, my daughter fifteen. I wanted them, and everyone else, to have a chance to see that there are consequences to grievous acts. That the consequences of pain and suffering will ultimately be brought upon its perpetrators. And I wanted, as so many victims do, to hear him say “I did it and I am sorry.”
I didn’t know if he would. But I wanted to try. I wanted his confession.
I wanted the acknowledgment, not for me but for my son, so I could turn to him and say, “I’m sorry that he was not a father to you. I’m sorry that he could not teach you what it means to be a man. And, finally, he’s sorry too.”
You see, Judith was a victim of domestic violence. I’m sorry about that. No woman deserves to be physically abused.
But we’re not stupid, Judith. It’s not about confession; it’s about money. And like O.J., you’re obviously not above doing anything to get it. We remember that you published Jenna Jameson’s How to Make Love Like a Porn Star.