His Name Is Ron (15 page)

But the magic of the romantic evening was quickly broken. Dinner had just been served when Kim overheard a conversation at an adjoining table. “He must have done it like this,” the man said and proceeded to pantomime his version of the murders. Kim's stomach tightened and a wave of nausea swept over her. Damn it, she thought. I can't even go out to dinner in peace. “I've got to say something,” she said to Joe.

Kim walked over to the table, where two men and a woman were seated. “I'm Kim,” she stammered nervously. “I'm Ron's brother—I mean—Ron is my sister—I mean—.” The words simply would not come out right. She tried again. “I don't mean to be rude, but I'm trying to have a nice evening. Could you please just tone it down?”

The woman took Kim's hand and began to cry. Her companions were also shaken. “We're all behind you,” they reassured.

On another occasion, Kim tuned in to one of the frequent awards shows on TV. Kim thought: A few hours of mindless escape, that's all I ask. But it was not to be. Almost everyone who took the stage had some tasteless joke to tell, some observation to share. Kim turned off the TV and called home, distraught. “Patti,” she complained, “I can't even watch a stupid awards show.”

Patti empathized, but she reminded her, “Kim, we're in the middle of this monumental thing—the so-called ‘Trial of the Century'!”

There was nowhere to hide.

Two columns caught our attention.

Jeffrey Hart wrote in
The Valley Times-News
: “So much attention has been focused upon the monstrous O. J. Simpson that little notice has been taken of young Ron Goldman, who was the genuine hero of the despicable affair.

“Goldman probably could have fled the scene and saved his own life. Instead, he stood and fought, and from the evidence, put up a terrific battle against a muscular man twice his size….

“Simpson's glory is gone. Simpson's occupations are gone. He stands naked, a killer, a bully, a coward and a fool.

“Goldman is the hero now.”

And in the
Los Angeles Times
, columnist Andrea Dworkin wrote: “Surrounded by family, friends, and a community of affluent acquaintances, Nicole Simpson was alone. Having turned to police, prosecutors, victim's aid, therapists and a woman's shelter, she was still alone. Ronald L. Goldman may have been the only person in 17 years with the courage to try to intervene physically in an attack on her; and he's dead, killed by the same hand that killed her, an expensively gloved, extra-large hand.”

The columns both comforted and disturbed us. It felt good to see Ron lauded as a hero, but it also brought back memories. One day, when he was about six years old, he came home from school crying, complaining that another boy was picking on him. I said, “You know, you gotta fight back.” He did not like the idea, so I added, “You don't have to look at it as fighting. It's protecting yourself. If somebody hits you, you can hit back, but I don't want you to be the one who starts the hitting.” As he grew older, he did learn to stand up for himself and others, but Ron was never a fighter.

“It's so sad,” Patti commented, “you worry so much about your kids. I used to caution Ron about getting too much sun, driving too fast, things like that. It never occurred to me to warn him about helping a friend.”

Faye Resnick's book,
The Private Diary of a Life Interrupted
, was an exposé that damned the defendant, but also painted a sometimes sordid portrait of Nicole.

Kim commented angrily: “I don't know the first thing about Faye Resnick, but I resent what she's doing. If she has information to impart, it should be in the courtroom, not between the pages of a trashy book. I think it is sad that she used her friendship with Nicole to tell tales out of school and chronicle lurid escapades, whether true or not. The woman was murdered. Let her rest with dignity.”

Resnick was not the only one cashing in on the tragedy. By now, Kim had come to understand the comment that one of Ron's Brentwood friends had made on the day of the funeral: “I'm not like the rest of them.”

The fact that Ron's supposed “close friends,” Jeff Keller and Mike Davis, had opted to attend Nicole's funeral instead of Ron's was of no consequence to us, but the fact that they told us they had not attended Nicole's funeral was.

When I had a chance to confront them, I pointed out, “We saw you on the news at Nicole's funeral.”

One of them attempted to respond: “We were just dropping off some flowers—”

“—Why did you lie to me?” I asked.

They had no convincing response.

Jeff sold his story to one of the tabloids, stating that he was present when Nicole, Ron, and a few other people were having coffee together at Starbucks. According to Jeff, the defendant had approached their table and stated in a menacing fashion that Nicole was still his wife. The defendant now claimed that he had never seen or heard of Ron. Jeff's testimony might have been helpful to the prosecution, had he been willing to cooperate with them. In any event, by selling his story his credibility was negated.

How could these people call themselves Ron's friends? Did they just care about money and their fifteen minutes of fame?

Every member of this family is possessed of a strong, often emotional, and sometimes volatile personality. We laugh when we are happy, cry when we are sad, and fight when we are angry. Tempers flare and feelings often simmer near the surface. Voices are raised. Doors are slammed. Ron's murder and the strain of seeking justice certainly exacerbated that.

Slowly we began to notice that Michael was away from home a lot. When Patti confronted him, Michael tried to explain that his friends were a great source of support for him, and it seemed that only at their homes could he escape the constant focus on the upcoming trial. Patti knew that this was true. At home, the trial was all we talked about. We analyzed every new shred of evidence that came to light. We discussed every pretrial motion and Judge Ito's rulings. From a distance, we followed the jury-selection process as best we could. We listened intently to every pundit on every talk show.

Michael said that if he wanted to talk about the case, his friends were always willing, but they also sensed whenever he had enough and would change the subject.

Patti understood this up to a point, but she also believed that Michael's place, right now, was with his family. Shortly before the Homecoming festivities in Michael's junior year, the issue exploded into a huge fight. Once more Michael tried to explain that different people handle things in different ways. Patti countered with the charge that he was insensitive and
had developed a bad attitude. When the dust settled, they were able to reach a mutual understanding, but we all sensed that this was the tip of the tension iceberg. At times it seemed that not only had Ron been taken from us, but his murder might blow the rest of us apart as well.

The callousness of some people truly astounded us. Halloween masks bearing the likeness of the defendant were a hot item that year.

Kim was still working part time at the bank. Her off time was spent alone in her apartment, depressed and crying.

She maintained the fantasy that she would be able to fly back and forth between San Francisco and Los Angeles in order to attend the trial. She wanted to know every piece of information concerning every development in the case, but it was difficult. She felt disjointed and disconnected from us, the trial proceedings, and, most especially, from Ron.

Her mood darkened further when she received a call from a friend in Chicago who told her a chilling story. Kim's friend was at a Halloween party in a bar and noticed a young man with brown hair, slicked back, wearing glasses, black pants, and a white T-shirt. The shirt was stained with mock blood splatters, and he carried a white envelope in his hand. Kim's friend was distressed and asked, “Who are you supposed to be?”

Coolly, he replied, “Ron Goldman.”

Assistant District Attorney Bill Hodgman called one evening to update us on the jury-selection process. His assessment of the jury pool was lukewarm; he worried that their level of education and sophistication was lower than we might have wished, and that this was generally considered a plus for the defense. “We have to deal with what we have,” he explained. The prosecution was running out of peremptory challenges, and the group of potential jurors that was coming up was not much different from the group they had already been through.

We really did not know what to think, but the hint of disappointment in Bill's voice scared us. We felt like outsiders, with our noses pressed to the window, trying to see inside.

We could no longer bring ourselves to refer to the defendant by name, or by his infamous initials. And so we found ourselves calling him simply
“the defendant” or “you-know-who.” In private we often spit out more colorful language.

From the beginning of his incarceration in the Men's Central Jail, the defendant—through his lawyers—had badgered the county for special privileges. As a result, the star prisoner showered more often, slept later, and enjoyed ten more hours of free time per week than other inmates. He had an exercise bike for his personal use. He spoke on the telephone frequently and seemed to be allowed to watch television whenever he liked.

On days when he appeared in court for jury selection, or for procedural hearings, he arrived back at the jail after dinnertime. Following normal procedures, guards provided him with a cold sandwich. However, after his lead attorney, Robert Shapiro, complained about what he referred to as “mystery meat,” the prison kitchen began to keep a late dinner warm for him.

He complained that his bed was uncomfortable, so he was provided with a special cervical pillow.

Under California law, anyone designated as a “material witness” may visit an inmate—if accompanied by an attorney. No physical contact is allowed between the inmate and the visitor, but, unlike normal visits, no time limit is enforced. So the defense team submitted a huge list of material witnesses that included family members, friends, and acquaintances who would otherwise be allowed only limited—or no—access. One of them was the prisoner's current girlfriend, Paula Barbieri. Other frequent visitors were former Los Angeles Rams defensive lineman Rosey Grier and NBC president Don Ohlmyer.

Kim entertained the fantasy of somehow tricking the authorities and masquerading as one of the visitors, but all the words she longed to say to the defendant seemed impotent and harmless compared to her internal rage. She knew that nothing she could ever do, or say, would affect him. He is incapable of remorse, she realized.

“Perhaps,” Kim said, “I will send him a photograph of Ron every year on Ron's birthday—to remind him of what he took from us.”

Most prisoners in his classification were allowed one hour per week in the jail's regular visiting room, an area where as many as 240 inmates and relatives were crammed together. To accommodate this prisoner's needs, however, the county was obliged to widen a private glass booth and install a telephone system that allowed for conference calls.

Defending the special perks, Shapiro fussed, “If we had a man who was allowed bail, we'd be able to meet with him seven days a week …
some of the issues may involve character, may involve reputation, may involve life history. …”

Silly us. We thought the whole thing involved a double homicide.

The L.A. County District Attorney's office announced on November 7 that A. C. Cowlings would not be prosecuted for his role in helping the defendant flee from arrest. This was a positive development for the prosecution, because the deputy district attorney who had been working on the Cowlings case now became the sixth member of the government team. He was thirty-eight-year-old Christopher A. Darden.

The same day, during a hearing before Judge Ito concerning the possibility of sequestering the jury, Defense Attorney Johnnie Cochran, who more and more seemed to be taking center stage away from Robert Shapiro, made a statement. Arguing against sequestering the jury, Cochran declared, “We perceive them as people of good faith who want to dedicate their time, who to a person said, ‘The reason we are here is because we believe in our oaths as jurors and we will not defile or defame that oath.' I think they take this task as a higher calling.”

We hoped that was true, but were haunted by Bill Hodgman's earlier assessment.

Our decision to maintain a low profile was becoming increasingly difficult. Daily, the defense team preened before the cameras outside the courthouse, making ludicrous statements on behalf of their star defendant. I began to grumble publicly, and the defense immediately accused me of working with the prosecutors in an orchestrated campaign to deny their client a fair trial. This was blatantly untrue. I had never discussed with the prosecutors what I should or should not say in public.

On Wednesday, November 30, I spoke out, declaring, “I think what you're seeing is the culmination of months of frustration. For six months now we've watched as the defense attorneys have engaged in posturing and manipulation of public opinion. Why is it okay for them to speak and not us? I just felt that it was high time the playing field got leveled.”

It was developing into a feud. Shapiro had the gall to respond by saying that he and the defense team were inclined to “forgive” the families for prejudging the case because we were so emotionally involved. This condescending pap outraged us. I called KABC-TV, saying, “Mr. Shapiro, I don't
need your forgiveness. It is my right, as it is everyone's, to form, to have, an opinion.”

This added fuel to the fire. The defense again accused the district attorney's office of orchestrating a media campaign and using the families as part of that effort. “All of a sudden, the D.A. speaks out, the chief of police speaks out, both families speak out,” Cochran complained. “It's clearly orchestrated.”