His Name Is Ron (5 page)

Michael had no tears left, but he could not sleep either. When finally he stepped out of his room, he found his mother, Kim, and Lauren sitting on the floor, dazed and broken.

At about 2:00
A.M.
, Kim called her longtime friend Sarah Kupper. She wanted to be the one to inform her friends of the tragedy, and did not want them to hear about it on the news. Sarah, like Amy, dissolved into tears.

All night long Patti repeated, “Ron was murdered.”

All night long Kim cried.

All night long Michael remembered the sound of Lauren's scream.

At about 4:30
A.M.
Kim called a friend, Erika Johnson, in Chicago. Erika, half asleep and dazed, said that she had heard about the murders the night before, but would never have believed that one of the victims was the Ron Goldman she knew. She was devastated and offered to fly to L.A. immediately.

Kim could not wait for the sun to rise. Somehow she had convinced herself that when a new day dawned, the nightmare would be over.

THREE

But when the bright California sun finally rose, nothing had changed.

An early phone call from the police underscored the hideous reality. Two men who identified themselves as Detectives Tippin and Carr of the Los Angeles Police Department asked me to meet them at Ron's apartment. For legal reasons they needed a family member present when they looked around the apartment. I did not want Kim to come along, but she insisted; she just needed to be there.

Rob and Jim picked us up and drove us to 11663 Gorham, in Brentwood.

We arrived at apartment 3 before the detectives. We did not have a key, so the four of us silently paced back and forth in front of the locked door.

“It's like Ron's away on vacation,” Kim said softly.

I nodded through fresh tears. We sorted through a few pieces of junk mail that were in his mailbox.

Soon the detectives arrived. They were polite and pleasant, sympathetic to our anguish.

We had contacted the landlady, and she arrived to open the apartment for us. Tippin and Carr entered, but we held back, unsure that we wanted to be there. Finally I decided to go in. Kim, Rob, and Jim followed.

When I stepped from the front door into the living room I felt an overwhelming sense of closeness to Ron. He was all around us; his food, his
clothes, his furniture were here, but he was not. It was painful to realize that this was as close to him as I would ever get again.

The apartment was a still life. A glass of water and a half-eaten Mrs. Fields cookie sat on the coffee table. Is that the last thing he ate? Kim wondered. A list of foods, with their protein and carbohydrate contents, was taped to the refrigerator door. A meager supply of fat-free snacks were scattered on the countertop.

Kim picked up Ron's Rolodex and immediately checked the “S” section. She was surprised to find an entry that read: “Nicole Simp.,” followed by a phone number.

One of the many rumors floating around was that Ron was barefoot when he died, and Kim was obsessed by this. For a time, it was all she could think about. Ron never went barefoot. Finally she asked, “Did my brother have his shoes on?”

Carr replied, “Yes.”

A flashing light indicated that there were numerous messages on Ron's answering machine. The detectives took custody of the tape, and the Rolodex.

Ron's waiter's clothes—a pair of black slacks and a white shirt—were hung haphazardly on the bedroom door. Kim thought: This must have been the last thing he wore.

Wandering through the apartment, Kim felt like an intruder. It's so cold, empty, and lonely, she thought. It's as if life was stripped away in a flash.

In a drawer, Kim found a letter that she had once written to Ron. The sight of it brought some painful memories to mind, but she could not deal with them at this moment in time.

I felt as though I was sleepwalking and watching myself from some unknown place. As we prepared to leave, I glanced around the room. I simply could not accept that I would never see, hold, or touch my son again.

At home, no one knew quite what to do.

Our friends and neighbors were back in full force, bringing food, offering solace, taking care of details. The telephone rang incessantly. Barb and Andrea tried to field most of the calls.

Patti called one of my bosses at Reliable Container. “This is Patti Goldman,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know that Fred is not going to be in. His son was killed.”

“Okay,” the man said. Patti was dumbstruck by his bland reception to the news. “Did you hear me?” she asked.

“Yeah, okay,” he repeated.

“Okay, goodbye,” Patti said, hanging up the phone.

A few minutes later my boss called back and issued a lukewarm apology. “I'm sorry I reacted that way,” he said, “but I didn't really understand you. I'm so sorry.” His voice was flat.

Needing to be with her friends, Lauren decided to go to school. Sherri Berke picked her up and drove her there, along with Jamie and Julie. Graduation practice was scheduled in the morning, and this would be followed by the traditional round of yearbook signing. All of Lauren's friends and teachers were very supportive, but she could not hold back her tears. After a short time, she arranged to come home.

Michael skipped his final exam in U.S. history. He stayed at home, trying to sleep, trying to block out everything. He knew that all our friends were trying to help, but he just wanted to be alone, so he remained in his room for a time. After a while, overcome by a suffocating feeling, he slipped downstairs and out the door. Moving quickly, he walked the familiar route along Lindero Canyon Boulevard to the small shopping center several blocks away. He and Ron had walked this way often. Maybe once a week, while Ron was living at home, he had suggested that they take a walk, just so that Michael would have a chance to tell him what was going on in his life. They would wander through Vons grocery store, or the drugstore, or have a slice of pizza. Their favorite place was the Donut Inn. They rarely bought much of anything; mostly they just talked.

Ron could give a great pep talk. “Michael,” he would advise, “if you don't feel good about yourself, then no one else will feel good about you. You've got to walk with confidence to make people look at you with confidence.” He encouraged Michael to do his best in everything he tried. “Don't make the same mistakes I made,” he said once. “Finish college.” He pointed out that Michael was a good problem solver and a people person. “You know how to deal with people,” he said, “and that's going to take you far in life.”

But Michael did not know how to deal with people right now. As he neared the Donut Inn, he realized that he could not face anyone he might meet inside. So he turned around and retraced his steps, knowing that about halfway home there was a quiet area with a stone bench. When he reached the bench, he sat there alone, crying.

He thought about the last time he had spoken with Ron. Over the
phone, Ron had promised that he would come out to see Michael's last tennis match of the season. For Michael, Ron and tennis would always go together.

A strapping, well-built young man, Michael was one half of the top-seeded doubles team at Oak Park High School. Ron always called him “Sport” and praised his game, but in fact Michael knew that Ron was the superior tennis player. He remembered the first time he had played tennis with Ron. His older brother had made the game look easy. Sometimes Ron's serve hit with such force that Michael could not even see it.

During Michael's freshman year, when he learned that his school was looking for a tennis coach, he mentioned the fact to Ron. Ron interviewed for the job and was hired. Michael had been so proud that his big brother was going to coach his tennis team!

Michael was excited when the team assembled for the first day of practice. Ron was a good-looking, charismatic guy, and he was an ace tennis player. The school was just starting its tennis program and the kids were not expecting to work too hard, but Ron changed that attitude quickly. He turned out to be a tough coach who would not tolerate any whining or excuses. He made the boys work diligently at their game and then ordered them to run long and hard to develop stamina. He quickly earned their friendship, and their respect.

Another memory haunted Michael. He was the youngest brother, always looking up to Ron, Kim, and Brian. But Ron had moved out to a series of apartments. Kim had gone away to school, first in Santa Barbara and then in San Francisco. Brian was in college, back east. Michael recalled the moment when Ron had taken him aside and said, “Okay, Sport, you just went from the youngest brother to the oldest at home. You have to take care of Lauren now. It's your job. I'm leaving it to you. Don't disappoint me.”

Michael suddenly remembered that Lauren's junior high graduation was tomorrow night, and he wondered how she was going to get through that.

On a normal day, I drive past Pierce Brothers Valley Oaks Memorial Park twice, going to and from work. It is on Lindero Canyon Boulevard, in Westlake Village just off the entrance to the Ventura Freeway. But this was not a normal day. Would there ever be another? I wondered. Rob drove Jim, Patti, Kim, and me to the cemetery, where we had a 2:00
P.M.
appointment.

Nothing seemed real. Kim had always thought of me as being very strong—emotional, but strong—and now she witnessed me disintegrate
before her eyes. It was as if all the oxygen had been siphoned from my body. I could not hold my head up. My shoulders melted into my chest. I kept repeating: “It's not right. It should be me. You're not supposed to bury your children.”

Kim could not believe that we were making plans to bury her big brother. There was nothing anyone could say, nothing anyone could do, to lessen her grief.

The funeral director asked, “Does Ron have a mother?”

I replied, “Yes.”

“What is her name?”

“Sharon Rufo.”

“Where is she living? Does she live here?”

“No, in St. Louis.”

The director then informed us that, according to California law, he needed the signatures of both parents to proceed with the burial plans.

That confused us. “She hasn't seen Ron in years,” I commented. “I don't know if it's going to be that easy for me to get her signature.”

Kim called home and asked Joe to get Sharon's telephone number. She wrote it down and handed it to one of the funeral directors. He immediately called, but was told that Sharon was unavailable and would call back later.

Another gentleman reminded us about Jewish burial practices. Traditionally, he said, Jewish people do not embalm and the deceased is wrapped in a sheet. The coffin is plain—as earthlike as possible. Kim thought: Forget tradition, I want it to be nice. I want it to be dignified. I want Ron buried in a suit, not a sheet.

Lifeless and limp, running on empty, I left the room for a few minutes to use the bathroom. While I was gone the mortician approached Patti and Kim. He looked directly at Kim and explained, “I didn't want to say this in front of your father, but I have just spoken to the coroner. If you want Ron buried in a suit, the body will have to be embalmed. There is no way to keep him intact without embalming him. He is too badly cut up—the autopsy, you know—”

“—Go ahead, embalm him,” both Patti and Kim said quickly.

When I returned, Patti and Kim told me of their decision and why it was necessary. We had been too immobilized even to think about asking the authorities for details of the crime, so this was our first inkling of its vicious nature. The images that ran through my mind were more than I could bear. My son was gone, and now the thought of what he had endured filled me with even more intense anguish.

We needed to choose a coffin, but it was just too painful to consider. We walked into the room, pointed at a simple oak casket, and fled.

Television sets were on all through the house, and every channel seemed to be running constant reports about the murders.

Officials were refusing to identify any suspect publicly, but there were reports that police had found a blood-soaked glove at O. J. Simpson's estate, and they believed that the glove may have been worn by the killer. Police were saying very little about the crime, declining to offer a possible motive or to say exactly when the attack was believed to have occurred. Officers said only that there were signs of a struggle and that there was no evidence that the attack occurred during a robbery or a burglary.

Police revealed that they had been called to Nicole's townhouse, in the 800 block of South Bundy Drive, several times in the recent past to deal with domestic disputes between Simpson and his former wife. “It's an ongoing problem,” one officer said. We also learned that Simpson had pleaded no contest to a spousal-battery charge filed after he allegedly hit Nicole, kicked her, and threatened, “I'll kill you.” None of this seemed to make any sense. What did it have to do with Ron?

Were Ron and Nicole lovers? Absolutely not. Ron never hid those things from his family, especially his sister. Kim had no doubt that if the two had been involved in a romantic relationship, or even a close friendship, he would have confided in her, in all of us. In fact, it was a standing joke between Ron and Kim. Ron used to tell his dates that they had to meet Kim, to “pass muster,” and she told her dates the same thing about Ron.