His Name Is Ron (50 page)

Dan read portions of the letter aloud, over Baker's repeated objections, but opted not to include an inflammatory paragraph that disclosed, “You beat the holy hell out of me and we lied at the X-ray lab and said I fell off the bike, remember?” In any event, the letter was now in evidence, and the jury would have the opportunity to read every vivid word during its deliberations.

Dan asked the killer, “Isn't it true you've lied repeatedly to this jury … isn't it true you've lied repeatedly throughout your entire life?”

“No,” he replied.

A few minutes later Dan asked, “There were times when you were married to Nicole that you were unfaithful to her, isn't that correct?”

“From time to time, yes.”

“And that was dishonest on your part, wasn't it?” Dan continued.

“I think, morally, yes.”

“That was a lie, wasn't it, sir?”

The defendant responded, “I think morally it was dishonest of me, yes. I don't know if I would characterize it as a lie.”

As we ate lunch on Tuesday we had a chance to meet our next witness. He was Gerald Richards, the former head of the FBI's photo-analysis division. He smiled at Kim and said, “The defense is not going to be happy with me.”

That proved to be a gross understatement, for Peter Gelblum took Richards through some of the most gripping moments of the entire trial. Peter set up an easel in the courtroom and positioned a large chart listing the dozen “anomalies” that Groden had cited to indicate that the Scull photo had been altered. One by one, Peter asked Richards to explain these “anomalies” to the jury.

Richards responded in an animated, easy-to-comprehend manner. And he blew the defense case to smithereens.

For example, Groden had found what he characterized as suspicious scratch marks on the negative that did not align with scratches on other negatives. But Richards produced a Canon F1, the same model that Scull used, strode over to the jury, opened the back of the camera, and demonstrated how the film wavers as it is advanced. The Canon F1 is notorious for producing these variances in scratch marks, he said, and added pointedly that any first-year photography student would know it. Peter then stepped over to the chart and scratched a large “X” over this particular anomaly.

Groden had used the enlargements he made at Kinko's to declare that there were microscopic differences in the size of the Scull negative and other negatives on the roll. Richards demonstrated on the overhead projector how a photocopy machine itself distorts the size of a copy. Then he donned a sophisticated piece of headgear, demonstrated the proper way to measure size, and showed the jury that there was no anomaly. Peter drew another “X” on the chart.

Groden had noted that the Scull photo had a reddish tint, whereas other shots on the roll had a greenish tint. Richards pointed out the obvious. The photo in question showed the killer walking through the end zone, which was painted with the red Buffalo Bills insignia; the other photos were taken on the green football field. Peter drew another “X” on the chart.

Jurors leaned over the railing of the jury box, scribbling notes.

Kim thought: This man is like the science teacher who finally makes physics exciting! The spectators were mesmerized. Judge Fujisaki's jaw sometimes dropped open in amazement. On and on it went until all twelve of Groden's “anomalies” were crossed off the chart.

I said to myself: We kicked their butts. We're going to beat them!

The force of that thought surprised me. Until now I had been unwilling to voice that opinion to anyone—even to myself. Now I truly believed that we would gain the measure of justice that we so achingly desired.

*   *   *

When I arrived in court on Thursday I noticed the killer was wearing a garish pair of green and black loafers. Catching a reporter's eye, I asked, “Did you see—”

“—You mean
those
ugly-ass shoes?” the reporter said, chuckling.

Our next witness was Dr. Brad Popovich, a brilliant young man and a member of the board that certifies the work of DNA labs. Under direct examination by Tom Lambert, he reviewed the results of the three DNA labs that had worked on the case and arrived, independently, at the same conclusion. He declared definitively, “My opinion is, there is absolutely no evidence of any contamination whatsoever.”

Gerald Richards returned to testify—once again clearly and convincingly—that he had examined the thirty Flammer photos and found them to be authentic.

As we neared the end of our witness list, the killer disappeared. We speculated that he was afraid we would try to recall him to the witness stand to ask him about Nicole's letter. I chalked it up to one last act of cowardice.

Our final witness was FBI agent William Bodziak. He held in his hand a size 12 Bruno Magli shoe and compared it to eight enlargements of the Flammer photographs. He pointed out the similarities: “The sole is unique to Bruno Magli shoes … the upper portion of the shoe is unique to Bruno Magli shoes.” And finally, “My opinion is the shoes depicted in those eight exhibits are Bruno Magli … shoes.”

At 3:25
P.M.
Dan said, “We rest our case.”

I found myself suddenly, strangely choked up. The activity in the courtroom blurred before my eyes. Baker rested the defense case. Judge Fujisaki announced that closing arguments would begin next Tuesday, and the jury could expect to have the case by Thursday.

The words spun past my consciousness. Once again I thought: We're going to beat them. Then I commanded myself, Don't think that.

Court was adjourned.

It's all over, I thought. Period.

I was overwhelmed by the sense of finality.

As we walked across the street to the Doubletree, Dan put his arm around my shoulder. “Fred,” he said quietly, “there's no doubt. We proved to everyone that he killed your son. Do you know that?”

“Yes.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Dan was like a thoroughbred horse, ready to burst through the starting gate. “I'm anxious to give them hell,” he said. “I'm going to slam them with everything that is so incredibly obvious.”

It was Tuesday morning, January 21. We were at the Doubletree, awaiting the beginning of closing arguments. “I don't want to know what you're going to say,” I declared. “I want to hear it fresh in the courtroom.”

Patti was a cheerleader. “Go get him, Dan,” she encouraged.

After we crossed the street and entered the courtroom, I took a seat alongside our attorneys. Patti, her mother Elayne, Kim, and Kim's friend and co-worker Joanne Geller sat directly behind me. The killer took his position at the far end of the defense table, about a dozen feet to my left.

Prior to the session, Baker asked the judge for a favor. Later in the week, Robert Blasier would present a portion of the defense's closing argument. But he was recovering from back surgery and was confined to a wheelchair. Baker wanted Judge Fujisaki to allow Blasier's wife, Charlotte, into the courtroom because, he explained, “She is really his attendant.” But a few weeks earlier, Judge Fujisaki had banned Charlotte from the courtroom because she had been caught with an electronic device. Baker attempted to belittle this breach of security, labeling it “inadvertent, minor.” He said, “We would be most appreciative if she could be in the courtroom for the remaining days while Mr. Blasier is here and gives his final summation … and there is no objection from the plaintiff's counsel.”

Judge Fujisaki had a stern response. His decision to ban Charlotte
Blasier had nothing to do with the plaintiffs. “It has to do with maintenance of order in the courtroom,” he said, “and the court will not change its ruling. Bring the jury in.”

Blasier jumped into the fray, requesting an opportunity to bring the matter before another judge. But Judge Fujisaki snapped, “It's
my
courtroom, Mr. Blasier.” Once again, our respect for this judge increased.

Dan began his presentation by displaying, on the large overhead screen, a photograph of Ron, grinning as he held a baseball bat; I started to cry immediately. “By now, today,” Dan said, “Ron Goldman would have been twenty-eight years old, and I think he would have had that restaurant that he wanted to open.”

Next, Dan showed Nicole, smiling over her shoulder as she walked through a crowd. “Nicole Brown Simpson would have been thirty-seven years old,” he said, then added softly, “Nicole … will never see her children grow up.”

Suddenly Dan contrasted those glowing, vibrant pictures of life with the stark reality of death: There was Ron's body, crumpled around a tree stump; there was Nicole, curled in a pool of blood at the foot of her front stairs.

I doubled over, sobbing. I felt one of Patti's hands on my shoulder, offering me a Kleenex. I reached back to clutch her other hand.

Joanne broke down completely. This was her first exposure to these photographs. Elayne, her eyes rimmed with tears, rubbed Patti's and Kim's shoulders.

Kim's reaction was the same as it had always been: extreme anger. She glanced toward the killer and was sickened to see that he showed no emotion whatsoever. She thought: He has never acknowledged any sorrow over the fact that two human beings were brutally murdered.

Dan noted that neither Ron nor Nicole was able to take the witness stand. But, he declared, in “their last struggling moments” they “provided us the key evidence necessary to identify their killer.

“They managed to get a glove pulled off, a hat to drop off; they managed to dig nails into the left hand of this man, cause other injuries to his hand, forcing him to drop his blood next to their bodies as he tried to get away.

“And by their blood, they forced him to step, step, step as he walked to the back, leaving shoe prints that are just like fingerprints in this case that tell us who did this … unspeakable tragedy.

“So these crucial pieces of evidence after all are the voices of Ron and
Nicole speaking to us from their graves, telling us, telling all of you”—Dan pointed directly at the defendant and continued—“that there is a killer in this courtroom.”

The killer responded with an insolent stare.

We knew that Dan was good, but even we were not prepared for the passion and the brilliance of his closing argument. The courtroom was hushed. Jurors and spectators alike were riveted on every word he uttered, every move he made.

In a blistering series of rhetorical questions, Dan asked the jurors whether the defendant ever explained why his blood was at the crime scene, in his driveway, in his bathroom, or in his Bronco. Did he ever explain how the victims' blood got into his car or on a glove discovered at his home? Did he tell them why his hairs were entwined in the knit cap that lay by the bodies? Why were the victims' hairs found on the blood-caked Rockingham glove? What about the rare carpet fibers found at the crime scene, matching those from the defendant's Bronco? Did he explain why there were now thirty-one photographs showing him wearing the “ugly-ass” Bruno Magli shoes that he swore he had never owned?

Dan reminded the jury that one week earlier the defendant had had his chance to answer these questions. But, confronted with such conclusive evidence, what did he choose to address? He talked about breaking football records, winning awards, and playing golf.

Dan asked, “What kind of man … confronted with this bruised and battered picture of Nicole, says … I was just defending myself? … What kind of man takes a baseball bat to his wife's car … and then says he was not upset? … What kind of man says his deceased wife is lying when you heard her voice trembling on that tape? … What kind of man says cheating on your wife isn't a lie?”

In a strong, confident voice, Dan proclaimed, “Well, let me tell you what kind of man says those things. … A guilty man. A man with no remorse. A man with no conscience. This man is so obsessed with trying to salvage his image and protect himself that he'll come into this courtroom, knowing the whole world is watching, and he will smear the name and reputation of the mother of his children while she rests in her grave.

“This is a man, ladies and gentlemen, who I submit to you has lied and lied and lied to you about every important fact in this case.

“Every one.”

As Dan spoke, Baker and the killer muttered comments to each other. At times their voices were loud enough to carry across the courtroom. They
appeared to be making a conscious effort to disrupt Dan's rhythm. Their obvious arrogance and disrespect showed a clear contempt for anyone who would dare to oppose them.

In the spectators' section, some of the killer's family members once more busied themselves with word puzzles, even as Dan presented a riveting oration that he characterized as “a few sort of obvious observations.”

He said, “Bundy is the home of Nicole Brown Simpson. These murders didn't occur at—in a dark alley or parking lot or convenience store; they occurred right at her home, not far from her front door, which was left wide open, with the lights on inside…. There's no evidence of a burglary here, robbery, vandalism, or rape, or any kind of sexual assault. We're not dealing with that here….