His Name Is Ron (53 page)

Just as Baker's argument mimicked Johnnie Cochran's, Blasier paraphrased Barry Scheck. Rolling back and forth in his wheelchair, repeatedly butting up against Dan's seat at our table, Blasier used folksy metaphors in an attempt to convince the jury that his client had been framed. He made the incredible assertion: “They proved nothing. We proved everything to a certainty.”

But then he contradicted himself, acknowledging, “I'm not going to prove anything to you to an absolute certainty…. Nobody can do that.”

He reasoned that if the defense could prove that bits of the evidence were unreliable, the jury could disregard all of it, and he illustrated his point with a tasteless analogy: “If you have a plate of spaghetti and you find a cockroach in it, you don't have to really go and look for a second one to know that you can discard the plate of spaghetti.”

Blasier repeatedly referred to the murders as an “event,” and I was offended beyond measure. The butchering of my son was not an “event.”

The defense attorney constantly made the gigantic leap from stating a proposition to assuming that it was a fact. The defense had provided
no
evidence to prove contamination or conspiracy, yet the words were once more thrown about as if they meant something. What he is doing is criminal, I thought.

Blasier complained to the jury that a piece of paper at the murder scene was never collected, and insinuated that it could have led us to the real killer. He opined, “Maybe what's written on the back, if there is something written on the back, had something to do with why these killings occurred. Who knows?”

Kim and I both thought we knew. I scribbled a note and passed it to Kim: “O.J. was here?”

She wrote back: “Follow me to 360 Rockingham?”

Blasier acknowledged that the defense could not explain who allegedly tampered with the evidence—or, for that matter when, how, or why this massive conspiracy unfolded. Still, he insisted that the defense had proved enough anomalies to make it clear the evidence was not, in his words, “hunky-dory.” Then he added, “I mean, c'mon folks…. Good heavens.”

The presentation reached the height of absurdity when he commanded an assistant, “Bring me my Tinkertoys.” He was provided with a large
plastic bag. Reaching inside, he produced a cumbersome, multicolored replica of a DNA ladder, fashioned from Tinkertoys. He noted proudly, “My wife and I, my lovely wife, who is in the courtroom, spent last night painting these.” He tried to make the ponderous point that a DNA molecule contains some 6 billion “Tinkertoy” modules and to make a positive match one would have to compare all 6 billion—ignoring the simple truth that DNA tests comparing only a few molecules have proved utterly reliable. To Blasier, it seemed, the search for justice was child's play.

Judge Fujisaki's expressive face sported raised eyebrows and a puzzled half-smirk, as if he were silently saying to Blasier: Give me a break. Do you really expect to sell this load of manure to the jury?

As the courtroom filled following the lunch break, the killer stood, inches away, as Charlotte Blasier struggled to maneuver her husband's wheelchair through the swinging gate that separated the spectators from the attorneys. Not once did the killer offer to help. He simply shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on them.

We were told during lunch that the defense had complained about Judge Fujisaki's facial expressions. For the remainder of the afternoon session, he kept his eyes downcast.

Blasier's afternoon performance continued to be dull and full of dubious detail, without passion or conviction. At one point, I glanced back at his “lovely” wife, Charlotte, and realized that, during the “crowning glory” of her husband's career, she had nodded off. I noticed that Baker's eyes were also shut.

At times, Dan and the rest of our attorneys could not hide their reactions to the preposterous things Blasier was saying. Once, Dan simply shook his head in amazement.

Blasier turned to him and asked, “Is there something funny?”

Dan responded, “You don't want me to answer that.”

Finally, it was Dan Leonard's turn to speak. Throughout the trial, we had found him to be one of the most offensive members of the defense, and we groaned inwardly as he began: “Did you really think Coach Baker was going to keep me out of the lineup?”

Another sports analogy, Patti thought, how insulting.

Leonard presented himself as a “hardheaded Irishman,” and said that
he used “common sense” to analyze the thirty-one photographs of the defendant wearing Bruno Magli shoes. “Common sense will tell you,” he said, “that these are photographs that come too late and cost too much.”

Why, he asked, did these photographs not surface earlier? “There's a reason for that,” he declared. “Money. Dough. There's money to be made in those photographs; that's what it's all about.” There was the money theme again. Everybody in the world was out for a fast, easy buck—with the notable exceptions of the defendant and his attorneys, who were obviously working pro bono.

He spent some time detailing Groden's dozen supposed “anomalies” in the Scull photo, and dismissed the dramatic rebuttal of former FBI photo analyst Gerald Richards. But his major point had nothing to do with scientific objectivity. He said, “I would suggest to you that there's another very important factor here, and that would be factor 13.”

Leonard displayed his “factor 13” on the video screen. It was a price list for publication rights to the Scull and Flammer photographs. He derided this iron-clad, expert-documented evidence, as “store-bought … evidence with a price list.”

What about “factor 14?” I thought. What about the fact that one of Flammer's photos was published eight months before the murders?

For his finale, Leonard strolled over to the killer, placed a hand on the shoulder of the Heisman trophy winner, turned to face the jury, and asked, “What this comes down to is, Are you going to be able to come back, based on this evidence, and tell my client that he killed the mother of his children?”

Damn straight, I thought.

That evening, Patti, Kim, and I joined several of the attorneys and reporters for Happy Hour at the Doubletree bar. For the others, this was a regular early-evening routine, but we found them somewhat on guard. Michelle Caruso, a reporter for the New York
Daily News,
explained to Kim that, two nights ago, they had noticed a man sitting alone at a nearby table. This stranger seemed to have his head cocked in a “what are they saying” posture. Yesterday in court Philip Baker had made a few comments about things he would have known only had he been privy to this group's conversation the previous evening. And then last night another man—another outsider—had appeared. He, too, sat alone, but fairly close to the group, cocking his head to one side. Michelle and plaintiffs' assistant Steve Foster had decided to call his bluff. Standing close enough to be overheard, one of
them said, “Gee, I wonder how much Baker and Company would pay to have someone sit in a bar all evening and listen to our conversations.”

The man fled from the bar, never looking back.

Kim wondered if the defense had hired a few KGB spies; she was glad that our war room at the Doubletree was complete with a sophisticated security system that included even a motion detector.

Dan was concerned about the three-day hiatus before the arguments concluded and the jury got the case. Some people speculated that the defense was desperate and would try to lure jurors into discussing the case prematurely. Rumors of jury tampering were whispered.

That led us to a discussion of whether the criminal defense team or the civil defense team was the most despicable. Both, in their own loathsome styles, had manipulated facts, lied repeatedly, and used every cheap trick in the book to exonerate a murderer.

Finally, we concluded, “It's a draw.”

Patti looked around and realized what a tremendous impact there would be once this case was finally over. She knew it would be a big load off our shoulders, but we would also suffer withdrawal. We had grown so close to these people. We respected, admired, and cared for each of them. She vowed that we would never lose contact. These friendships had become too important.

Much of our discussion centered around Dan's rebuttal statement on Monday, and how he would counter the defense's absurd presentation. Kim was full of ideas. Referring to Baker's blatant reference to the defendant's large hands, she urged Dan, “Take that and run with it. Show them how easy it would be for those huge hands to overpower Ron or yank a woman's hair back and slit her throat.” She also suggested throwing Blasier's “cockroach in the spaghetti” comment back into his face. She said, “Point at the killer and shout, ‘There's a cockroach in this courtroom!' ” Finally, she commented, “Dan, if you're sort of tired, I'll get up and do the rebuttal for you.”

The funny thing was, she probably could have.

A sheriff wrote down our addresses for security purposes and told us they were putting their force on tactical alert prior to the verdict. We were also told that we would have four hours, rather than the usual one, to get to court. Patti's fear of reprisal was rekindled. “Will you protect us going to and from court?” she asked.

“Anything you want,” the sheriff responded.

Implicit in all this security was the unspoken prediction of a verdict that the killer was culpable and that protests, or worse, could erupt. We remained angered, and saddened, that the issue of race had ever surfaced. Once again, we said, “Thank you, Johnnie Cochran.”

Tension crackled through our house like fireworks. The littlest thing was capable of setting Patti, Lauren, or me off. We snapped at one another, apologized, and snapped again. Volatile mood swings were becoming the norm.

Michelle Caruso said to Kim, “You know, I just have to tell you that I am so happy your Dad and Patti have stayed together. Usually in situations like this, one person ends up leaving.”

Remembering all the highs and all the lows, Kim smiled and told the truth. “We're a pretty healthy dysfunctional family,” she said.

Tom Lambert called late Sunday night to assure us that the team had worked nonstop over the weekend. They had no way of knowing how long Baker would take the next morning or what points he would cover. But they had made educated guesses. Dan had two rebuttal arguments prepared. One was three or four hours long, the other, a shortened version.

But even after the call, our anxiety level was at a maximum. “Say what you will about Baker,” Patti warned, “but he's got a tough reputation and he's not going to roll over and play dead. He's had three days to shore up his attack, and I'm expecting something bad to happen tomorrow morning.”

“I'm counting on Dan,” I told her.

The first thing that Baker said to the jury on Monday morning was, “I apologize to you because this flu hangs on a long time and I still have it. But we'll get through this.”

Before long, Baker was deriding the possibility that only one person could have committed the murders. He asked, “How can you keep Ron Goldman off of a single assailant? If it's O. J. Simpson or the biggest football player who played in the Super Bowl yesterday?”

Kim had the answer to that. She wanted to stand up and scream: How about if you catch him off guard while you're wielding a six-inch knife? She whispered to Patti, “I don't know if I can sit here and listen to this.”

Referring to our time line for the murders, Baker said, “So they've got to make them virtually instantly occur…. The more you make them quick, the more I would suggest to you it would appear it would have to be a
professional killer or professional killers. Not somebody who's in an uninitiated blind rage as they want you to believe.”

He once again railed at the LAPD for its so-called rush to judgment. “They had their man,” he said. “… They had the big fish. O. J. Simpson.” Because the LAPD and the District Attorney's office had failed to win other recent, high-profile cases, he charged, “This case they were going to win.”

Baker moved easily from dubious to forbidden territory. He declared, “There's one man that wants to be, more than anybody, the linchpin of that case, and that's somebody who you've, I'm sure, now felt there has been an effort to keep out of this trial. Mark Fuhrman.”

Dan objected immediately, and Judge Fujisaki sustained him. The court had ordered that there would be no references to the failure of Fuhrman to testify.

But that did not stop Baker from mentioning his name at every opportunity. Now he told a whopper: “And what happens from two-forty-five to four o'clock? Nobody seems to know the whereabouts of Mark Fuhrman.” The implication, of course, was that the detective was hopping between Rockingham and Bundy, sprinkling blood, hair, and fibers about with abandon and, of course, planting an Aris Isotoner glove behind Kato Kaelin's room. Why? Because “the big fish was O. J. Simpson…. And anybody who doesn't believe that believes in the Easter bunny and the tooth fairy,” Baker declared.

More clearly than any member of the original “Scheme Team” ever dared, Baker said, concerning the glove, “That's planted evidence; there's no question about it…. And it's done by Fuhrman. And there's no question about it.”

At the 10 o'clock break, I said to Patti, “I have probably ground my teeth down to the roots already.”

After the break, Baker continued with his lies until he told one so blatant that it got him into immediate trouble. The subject was the killer's call to Paula Barbieri's answering machine at 10:03
P.M
. on the night of the murders. We contended that he made it from his Bronco; he said he was standing in his yard. Baker said, “And you and I know that if he had been in the car when that call was made at 10:03, there would have been somebody on this witness stand who would have said, I analyzed the sound from the tape that was on Paula's answering machine when he left the message. …”