His Name Is Ron (40 page)

Dan explained to reporters, “The Goldmans never have expressed concern about whether funds will be available for them at the end of the trial. They're concerned about getting justice in this case, about getting a jury to declare Mr. Simpson responsible for the death of their son. It's not about money.”

In other words, it was not about
us
receiving money; it was about
him
being forced to pay for his murderous rage. Kim said, “Money is what he thrives on. If he has to write a check to us, even for a dollar, he will know it's because a jury decided he's the killer.”

Even if we realized a substantial judgment, my guess was that we would never see much of his money. First, we assumed that, even during the criminal trial, he and his attorneys had been making efforts to squirrel away what money he had, perhaps burying it in foreign accounts. Second, he claimed that his earning power had been thwarted, although we had financial experts ready to testify that there were still some people who are willing to “buy” anything that he has to “sell.” Third, there were rumors and other indications that some of his legal bills from the criminal trial remained unpaid. Robert Shapiro claimed that he was owed $500,000.

We conjectured that it might be a constant struggle to try to get money out of him. I said, “That's okay with me. If he is hiding money, he runs the risk of getting his ass in a wringer with the IRS.”

I told a friend: “I don't know how much money the killer has or where he has it buried. It will likely always be a struggle to get him to honor whatever judgment there might be against him, but the judgment lasts for ten years and can be renewed. I intend to put a hook in him that will last for the rest of his life, and I will drag him into court again and again if necessary. There is not enough that I can do to him to make his life miserable, a living hell.

“If that sounds vicious or vindictive, so be it.”

*   *   *

Even during the worst of times we are constantly amazed at the thoughtfulness of people and surprised at the impact Ron's murder has had on individuals who had never even met him. The second week in June, when we visited his grave, we discovered a blue notebook and a gold pen resting on Ron's headstone. The pen had a small angel attached to it. On the cover of the notebook was a message that suggested, “Use this angel pen if you wish to express for Ron, words, on the second anniversary of his passing. This book is offered to the Goldman family in hopes to ease and comfort your pain.” We had no idea who left it there.

Kim wrote a lovely note of appreciation inside the front cover, and we left the book there for a few days.

On the evening of June 12, the second anniversary of Ron's death, we gathered at the cemetery with our circle of friends. We retrieved the notebook and found it filled with the most amazing messages—written not only by friends but by strangers who feel a connection to Ron and to us. There were notes from people whose lives have been shattered by violence and domestic abuse. There were letters that share memories and tell us how Ron touched lives in one way or another. Many people recalled Ron's numerous small acts of kindness.

Kim read all the messages aloud.

One woman wrote: “… You had some kind of magic about you that just seemed to make anyone who came in contact with you smile. After bumping into you somewhere or coming to the shop to just talk, I'd leave feeling all was right with the world and I was a beautiful person. You could make an ugly troll with warts feel beautiful.”

That was the Ron we knew and loved.

Late that night Kim lay on her bed, thinking: Two years ago, right now, our fate was sealed. Our lives will never be the same. She knew that
Larry King Live
had scheduled a rerun of an interview with Chris Darden, and decided to watch the late telecast. She came downstairs. All the lights were off. A memorial candle flickered on the kitchen counter. Kim turned on the television. After watching a few minutes of the interview, she felt an overwhelming need to speak with Chris, so she called him.

“I'm watching you on
Larry King,”
she said.

“I never watch myself,” he replied.

They spoke at length about the sadness that they shared, about Kim losing Ron and about Chris losing his own brother to AIDS. The quiet conversation helped them both.

It is very sad that our youth have so few heroes outside of the sports arena. Our heroes and heroines should be teachers, scientists, policemen, and firefighters. And people like Chris Darden.

Father's Day was four days later.

I was still tired all the time. I tended to go to bed very late, feeling that if I got good and tired I would fall asleep more quickly. Still I tossed and turned. Still I woke at 2
A.M
. or 3
A.M
., and it took some time before I could fall asleep once more. Sometimes I just had to get up. This had been one of those nights.

Michael and Lauren prepared a bagel, some juice, cottage cheese, and fruit and presented me with breakfast in bed. It was part of a family tradition that includes cards and gifts later in the day, and an evening dinner out. But everyone sensed that I was vulnerable. No one knew whether or not to mention Ron, or Father's Day. Would it help or hurt? There was no correct answer, of course. The family kept a low profile.

As the morning progressed, I found myself wound tighter and tighter.

Sometime later I happened to glance into the backyard. I saw Lauren in the Jacuzzi and Michael, Patti, and Kim lying on lawn chairs, getting some sun. For no discernible reason the tranquil scene set me off, and I stormed outside. I could feel that red-hot anger was etched on my face as I exploded into a tirade the likes of which they had never experienced. I screamed, “I appreciate the fact that you brought me breakfast this morning, but no one has given me any gifts. You don't care about me. You didn't take any time to give me a card. None of you give a shit. The hell with all of you. I'm getting the hell out of here, goodbye. I don't give a goddamn.” Without giving anyone time to respond to my outburst, I turned and ran for my car.

Kim ran after me, begging me to stop. But I sped away.

Kim knew that tangible gifts are not, and never have been, important to me. What was going on was far deeper than that. She wanted to be compassionate and understanding, but she was furious with me. She felt that the lion's share of my anger was directed at her and that she had failed me in some way. At the same time she was weighed down by the unfairness of it all. With Ron gone, she often feels that she is all that I have left, and that is a constant source of anxiety for her.

I drove aimlessly, and much too fast. Kim and Patti called me several times on the car phone, but I did not want to talk and I did not want to come home.

As my anger slowly subsided I remembered that cards and gifts were always given out later in the day—much later. I began to realize what this was all about. Even though I had not awakened angry, desolation was still chewing me up inside.

Michael's high school graduation was on June 20. Earlier in the day he went by himself to the cemetery to talk to Ron for about a half hour.

That evening, as Michael was sitting with the other members of his senior class, ready to line up for the processional, he slipped off by himself and sat in a corner for a time, wishing Ron was there. Then he marched in with the rest of his class, forcing a smile on his face.

When the valedictorian said something about how all of the family and friends of the class of '96 were here, Michael said to himself: No, not everyone is here with me. He closed his eyes to hide the gathering tears. He knew that Ron would have been so proud of him. Ron's words came back to Michael: “Never give up. Always do your best because you won't have a second chance. Make things memorable and always make an impact.”

The last time Kim had attended an event at the school was at her own graduation in 1990, and she could not shake the mental image of Ron hugging her after the ceremony. She did not want to ruin the evening for Michael, or to inflict her tears on everyone, so she slipped away and sat by herself for a while at the side of the building. She relived every moment of her graduation night.

She remembered when I aimed a camera and asked Ron to pose for a photo with his sister. Ron had his arms around her. They were hugging, and he had a quirky little smile on his face. After I had snapped the picture, Ron had said, “Okay, let go.”

“No, I don't want to let go,” Kim had replied. “I love you and I don't want to let go.”

Michael was accepted by the University of Arizona. He confided to a friend: “Things are better around here, but tempers are still flaring and Kim's mood swings are getting harder and harder for me to take. Sometimes she will seem really up and happy and the next minute I'll say something
to her and she'll blow completely. And it feels like, no matter what happens, Fred is always on her side.

“Lauren is growing up and going through a lot of changes, too. I think we've gotten closer in the past year or so.

“I love everyone in my family with all my heart, but I am very anxious to go away to college and start a life of my own. I think that once I'm away, my family will have more respect for me and listen to my opinions. It's going to be hard, though, because I'm a real momma's boy, and I'll miss her very much. She hugs me and tells me how much she's going to miss me, and I'm going to miss her, too. But I can't help but be excited about getting away.”

Kim knew that it was time for her to leave also. She and Dakota found an apartment with Sarah Kupper. “Sarah is such a wonderful friend,” Kim remarked. “She is never judgmental, accepts my mood swings, and always understands.”

Just as happened to me on Father's Day, unexpected emotions continued to ambush Kim. Her friend Paul Geller took her to the beach on a lovely afternoon. As Paul was surfing, Kim looked out at the seemingly endless vista of water and found herself consumed by sadness. Methodically, she started picking up rocks, remembering all the times that she and Ron had done the same thing. They used to have a contest about trying to find the ugliest rock on the beach. Now doing this by herself brought an ache that was physical in its intensity. She missed her brother so much, and realized that there was nothing she could do about it. “It overwhelmed me,” she said. “I never know when these waves of emptiness will encompass me, but I have learned to expect them.”

THIRTY-ONE

We were surprised that, even with the passage of time, the public's passion did not seem to have changed one iota. Everyone still seemed to have a very strong opinion about the case. Total strangers continued to approach us, choked with emotion, to offer their support.

Of the thousands of letters we received, perhaps only one out of a hundred was negative. A few came from some who thought we should give up our quest for justice, either because they believed in the defendant's innocence or felt that our actions were futile. Some people advised that we should put this all behind us and get on with our lives. I do not believe this is possible. Ron's death left an incredible, gaping hole in our hearts, and we can never fill it.

Judge Alan Haber faced a gargantuan task. By now the paperwork surrounding the civil case dwarfed that of the entire criminal trial. Dan had slapped the killer with several phonebook-thick motions demanding that he respond to 480 oral queries, turn over scores of pieces of potential evidence, vouch for the authenticity of more than 500 items, and answer a lengthy written questionnaire.

Over the course of time the judge issued several important rulings. We won some and lost some, but one of our most critical victories was the judge's decree that, in order for the defense to employ its “conspiracy”
theory, it would first have to explain to the court precisely how it believed that evidence was planted, fabricated, or contaminated. He ruled that the defense attorneys had to review all the exhibits introduced as evidence in the criminal trial—from bloodstained socks to autopsy photos—and either admit the authenticity of each item or explain their reasons for challenging them. For example, the defense was required to show some tangible evidence that Ron's blood was planted in the defendant's Bronco or that DNA analysts had botched their tests. The defense could not simply present innuendo or inference to the jury. One of our attorneys declared, “O. J. Simpson can no longer hide behind unsubstantiated assertions.”

Under California's civil trial procedures, each side has one—and only one—opportunity to recuse a judge. We were not certain that we wanted to keep Judge Haber on the case, but we did not know how the defense felt about him either. It was an interesting chess match. Without question, we preferred that the defense use up its recusal privilege first.

Judge Haber's ruling on the “conspiracy” defense proved to be the final straw for Baker and Company. On July 17, the defense exercised its right to challenge one judge. Haber was removed from the case, and sixty-year-old Santa Monica Superior Court Judge Hiroshi Fujisaki was named to preside over the civil trial. The
Los Angeles Times
described him as “a gruff, tough jurist with a passion for motorcycles and an empathy for victims.”