His Name Is Ron (32 page)

All the next day D.A. investigators stayed especially close. They told us not to smile at them, so that they could remain inconspicuous.

Patti and Kim were very shaken. They cautioned me to keep quiet in the future, but I refused to be intimidated. I grumbled, “I'm not about to roll over for that kind of trash.”

Despite the fiery rage that I had exhibited in front of the cameras, I had still mentally edited my words. I had not allowed myself the freedom to scream the obscenities that were begging to come out. My choice was to try and stay in control and maintain civility at a time when nothing seemed civil.

In truth, there are probably no expletives strong enough to describe how I view the killer and his swarm of morally decayed attorneys.

TWENTY-THREE

Judge Ito warned the jury that there would be “substantial dark time” as the court grappled with difficult issues. But some testimony was heard, in and around the contentious hearings concerning the relevancy of the Fuhrman tapes.

The most significant of these defense witnesses was the celebrated criminalist Henry Lee, director of the Connecticut State Forensics Science Laboratory, who was touted as perhaps the nation's premier guru on the analysis of physical evidence. His testimony covered several days. Lee began with a recitation of his background, numerous awards, and expertise. Although Lee said he almost always testifies for prosecutors, he seemed to enjoy an easy rapport with defense lawyer Barry Scheck. Scheck made one gaffe when he described one of Lee's awards for his work as a “distinguished criminal.”

Lee smiled and corrected, “Distinguished criminalist.”

In fact, he appeared to be just that. And, although much of his testimony seemed to raise questions about the evidence gathering and testing procedures, he was very careful to couch his conclusions with qualifying words, such as “could have” or “might have.”

He criticized LAPD criminalists for placing one of Ron's blood-smeared boots into a brown paper bag while the blood was still wet, declaring that such careless handling could cause “cross-contamination” of blood samples. And, indeed, DNA tests had disclosed that one of those stains was consistent with a mixture of Ron's blood and that of the defendant. Lee did not explain
how that could have happened if the defendant was home chipping golf balls, or taking a nap, or in the shower.

Scheck turned Lee's attention to a single drop of evidence, a bloodstain found on a walkway outside Nicole's condominium. DNA tests had pegged the defendant as the likely source of the Bundy blood drops, but Scheck suggested that LAPD investigators had tampered with the blood swatches before sending them to labs for testing. Lee testified that his close examination of four small patches of blood showed that some had leaked onto the paper packet wrapped around the evidence. The blood swatches could have leaked onto the paper only if they were packaged while wet, he said, yet LAPD technicians had testified that they left the swatches to dry over night.

Scheck wanted to know how Lee accounted for the stains on the packaging.

“The only explanation I can give under these circumstances is, something's wrong,” Lee answered.

Patti's assessment of Dr. Lee echoed mine. “This guy certainly has a high opinion of himself,” she said.

Hank Goldberg was brilliant on cross-examination. He got Lee to acknowledge that evidence handling was a less-than-perfect science that did not necessarily reflect a grand, department-wide conspiracy. Lee admitted that during the early years of his work, he and his analysts occasionally used paper towels to dry samples, rather than special blotters. Once, he said, when he was drying a scrap of evidence in his backyard, a dog ran off with it.

“And despite these kinds of problems,” Hank asked, “would it be fair to say that you and your laboratory people … have still been doing very high-quality work?”

“We try our best,” Lee responded.

The prosecutors had argued passionately that the Mark Fuhrman/Laura McKinny tapes should not be played in open court; to do so would only inflame the jury and serve no other purpose. They acknowledged that Fuhrman had lied when he denied under oath that he had used the racial slur during the past ten years, but they still fiercely contended that there was no evidence that the detective could have planted evidence. Without such evidence, the tapes were irrelevant.

However, Judge Ito's initial ruling favored the defense. He would allow
the tapes to be played in court, outside the presence of the jury, before he determined what was admissible.

On August 29, the voice of Mark Fuhrman filled the silent courtroom. “You've got two hundred niggers who are trying to take you prisoner,” he said in one interview with the screenwriter ten years earlier. “You just chase this guy, and you beat the shit out of him.” In another excerpt, McKinny asked whether he had probable cause to arrest black suspects.

“Probable cause?” Fuhrman responded. “You're God.”

In other tapes Fuhrman boasted of fabricating evidence and expressed amazement about the racial makeup of the LAPD's Wilshire Division. “All niggers,” he said, “nigger training officers, niggers.”

The sickening epithets bounced off the walls, reverberating with hatred. We sat in disbelief at what we were hearing and what the jury might hear. Tears streamed down Kim's face as she cried silently. Patti fought a wave of nausea. She felt nothing but disgust for Detective Fuhrman, but also realized the absurdity of this smoke screen the defense was throwing in front of the world.

During the lunch break I spoke to reporters, complaining angrily, “This is now the Fuhrman trial. … I don't understand why the hell we had to listen to two hours of this hate. It's disgusting. My son, Nicole, our families, have a right to a fair trial. And this is not fair.”

We were still reeling when Defense Attorney Gerald Uelman began arguing why the jury should be allowed to hear the tapes. In an impassioned voice he said, “After we've read all of these transcripts and listened to all of these tapes and come to the sickening realization of who Mark Fuhrman really is: Los Angeles' worst nightmare, probably the greatest liar since Ananias. But the jury has only seen a very polished and professional performance that was carefully orchestrated, in which Detective Fuhrman sounded more like a choirboy.”

Marcia rose slowly and approached the podium. “This may well be the most difficult thing I've ever had to do as a prosecutor,” she said. “I don't think that there is anyone in this courtroom … who could possibly envy me.”

She had one hand placed across her chest as she addressed Judge Ito. “I am Marcia Clark, the prosecutor. And I stand before you today, Your Honor, not in defense of Mark Fuhrman but in defense of a case of such overwhelming magnitude in terms of the strength of the proof of the defendant's guilt that it would be a travesty to allow such a case to be derailed with a very serious and important but very inflammatory social issue.”

The prosecution offered to stipulate that Fuhrman had lied under oath—a move that would allow the defendant's lawyers to suggest that the jury disregard all of his testimony.

Marcia continued, listing all the facts that argued against Fuhrman's ability to plant evidence: Other officers had arrived at the crime scene before Fuhrman and saw only one glove; Kato Kaelin reported hearing three thumps on his wall near where the glove was found, thumps that he heard before police knew of the murders; Fuhrman had no way of knowing whether the defendant would have an alibi for the time the murders occurred; Fuhrman did not even know if eyewitnesses might emerge to testify that they saw the crimes committed by someone else.

Judge Ito interrupted her to add another point bolstering that line of argument: He noted that fibers in the glove were later found to be consistent with those from the inside of Simpson's Bronco—a fact that Fuhrman could not have predicted when he reported finding the glove.

“This is not something I can rule on from the seat of my pants,” the judge said finally. “I need to sit down and look at each one of these individual situations and make the appropriate ruling.”

We were hopeful. There was simply no legal or plausible reason why the jury should be confronted with these inflammatory, wretched tapes.

On Thursday, August 31, Judge Ito ruled that jurors would be allowed to hear only two short excerpts of Fuhrman using the word “nigger.” In rejecting Fuhrman's comments of police misconduct in other cases, the judge said that it would require a “leap in both law and logic” to link those comments to this investigation. The fact that Fuhrman had bragged about lying or fabricating evidence in other cases did not mean that he planted a glove outside this defendant's house, Ito said. “It is a theory without factual support.”

Cochran went on the attack, staging a news conference outside of his Wilshire Boulevard office. Flanked by other “Scheme Team” members, he said that the ruling was “perhaps one of the crudest, unfairest decisions ever rendered in a criminal court.” Then, in a display of unmitigated gall, he urged residents to remain calm, as if a Godlike signal from him would ignite riots, burnings, and general mayhem. He accused Judge Ito of “doctored, tortured reasoning” and proclaimed: “The cover-up continues.”

In an interview after the news conference he ranted, “This inexplicable, indefensible ruling lends credence to all those who say the criminal justice system is corrupt. This is unspeakable.”

Peter Neufeld joined the fray. “It is a victory for racism,” he said. “It's a green light for a rogue and racist cop to engage in brutality, evidence tampering, and the fabrication of probable cause with impunity.”

Gil Garcetti released a statement through a spokeswoman: “While we decry racism, these tapes are for another forum, not this murder trial. The court's ruling will help keep the focus where it should be: on relevant evidence that allows the jury to determine whether Mr. Simpson is responsible for the murders of Ron Goldman and Nicole Brown Simpson. Now let's get on with the trial and get it to the jury.”

I was relieved, and hoped that the volatile issue would be put to rest. Speaking to a group of reporters gathered outside our home, I said, “We hope that this is an indication that this trial will be back on track. We all want to thank the judge for his time and effort.” And then, referring to Cochran, I added, “I'm sure he is disappointed that he can't turn this trial into a racial horror. He should be ashamed of himself for trying.” But Kim believed that conjugal “pillow talk” would spread the word to the jurors. Whether the judge allowed one excerpt or twenty, the damage was done.

Fallout from the Fuhrman interviews continued. In Washington a federal official announced that the Justice Department would review allegations of civil-rights violations arising from the interviews. In Los Angeles Fuhrman's attorney, Robert Tourtelot, announced he was “profoundly disgusted and horrified” by his client's comments and thus could no longer represent him. We respected that decision by Bob, who remained as our attorney for the dormant civil suit.

Saturday night—in an attempt to unwind—we went out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant in Thousand Oaks. We had driven two cars that evening, and Michael was driving me home when we encountered a sobriety checkpoint set up on Thousand Oaks Boulevard. This was not a problem, for we had not been drinking. But as a Ventura County police officer approached the car, he saw Michael's billy club, the O. J. Beater, in plain view in a cavity between the dashboard and the windshield.

“Why do you have that?” the officer asked.

“Just in case I have a problem at night,” Michael responded truthfully.

The officer asked him to step out of the car and walked him over to the sidewalk. I tried to follow but was ordered to stay back.

The first officer called over several others. They were pleasant, but informed Michael that possession of the billy club was illegal. “If you had a gun, it would be a misdemeanor,” one of the officers said. “But this is a
felony.” They searched him, and prepared to arrest him, handcuff him, and take him to the station. He was terrified. They said that I could come down to the station and post bond.

Confused and upset, I tried to intervene on his behalf. “This is crazy,” I said. “Michael's a good kid. He's just frightened. He wasn't hiding anything. He didn't know he was doing anything wrong.”

That failed to impress the officers. With Michael in tears, they prepared to haul him away.

I did not expect any special treatment, but I thought that it would be appropriate to explain who we were, so that they might understand why Michael was frightened enough to carry protection. I said, “I don't know if you recognize who I am, but Ron Goldman was my son, Michael's brother, and—”

“—I don't give a damn who you are,” a single officer snapped.

The only thing that saved us from a trip to the police station was that the officers finally checked Michael's driver's license and determined that he was not yet eighteen. Since he was a minor, they issued him a citation.