His Name Is Ron (38 page)

Not everyone was supportive of our decision to pursue justice for Ron through civil proceedings. Occasionally someone would ask, “Are you sure you want to go through this again?” or “Why not just let it go and get on with your lives?” Patti's dad told her he was concerned about the stress she had been under, the weight she had lost, and how tired she appeared at times. “You're never going to get him,” he predicted, “so why put yourself through this?”

We all knew the answer to that: His name is Ron.

Hundreds of people wrote to us or to our attorney, Bob Tourtelot, offering their condolences. Many of them were professionals who offered us legal and technical support.

We had developed the utmost respect for Bob, but even after he resigned as Mark Fuhrman's attorney, we were worried that the taint remained. In addition, everything connected with this case had grown far larger and more complex that we could ever have imagined. The killer hired Robert Baker, an attorney with a tough-as-nails reputation, to represent him in the civil case, and it was clear that Baker would head a new version of the “Scheme Team.” We wondered whether Bob's small, two-attorney firm had the ability to handle the mountains of intricate paperwork that the high-powered Baker would surely create.

By now we knew that highly competent attorneys would take our case on a contingency basis, but we also knew that we would somehow have to cover expenses. On the air, the night after the verdict, KABC radio talk-show host Bill Press had pledged $100 to support us in the civil case and challenged others to do the same. Five thousand dollars was quickly raised and additional money followed. The Ron Goldman Justice Fund was born.

Then one day, with no warning, I received a telephone call from the chief executive officer of a well-known corporation. I had never met the man. He told me that he was 100 percent on our side and that it was obvious who had committed the murders. He added, “If you don't mind me sticking my nose in it, I've thought about your attorney and I don't think he's big enough for this. You need a firm that is bigger, stronger, and more well established.” It was an echo of what we had been saying to one another. The gentleman recommended Daniel Petrocelli, a partner in the Los Angeles firm of Mitchell, Silberberg & Knupp. Dan is renowned for aggressively pursuing—and winning—tough civil cases.

We met Dan and liked him immediately. Patti characterized him as “full of piss and vinegar.” Kim sensed positive energy and optimism flowing from him.

Dan said to us, “I am in this and I am going to fight. Are you in? Are you up for it?”

We responded, “Obviously you don't know us! Absolutely!”

Dan and his associates set to work immediately.

The same corporate CEO who had recommended Dan pointed out that the money we had raised for the Ron Goldman Justice Fund was woefully insufficient. And we knew that the defense would do everything it could to drive our expenses as high as possible.

With our grateful permission, our new friend set up an office inside his corporate headquarters and called it the Ron Goldman Justice Fund Room. He established a toll-free telephone number for contributors to call, placed
ads in newspapers across the country, and even allowed some of his employees to act as volunteers during company time.

His enormous generosity—and that of the many thousands of people who responded—was overwhelming to our family.

Sadly, we cannot thank him publicly, for fear that his company might suffer a backlash from people so shortsighted in their view that they would boycott a certain brand name.

The support that we have received from total strangers has given us the ability to continue the fight, and there is no way we can adequately thank everyone who has helped. It reassures us that there are legions of decent people in the world who just want to do the right thing.

Originally our civil suit was filed jointly by Kim and me. However, Ron had died without a will. Since he had no children, a court ruled that his parents were his legal heirs and, under California law, a wrongful-death suit can be filed only by an heir. Thus, Kim's name was dropped from the lawsuit. As far as we were concerned, it was a mere change in the paperwork. Our family was in this together.

Santa Monica Superior Court Judge Alan B. Haber “conjoined” the lawsuits filed by Sharon, the Brown family, and us. For the convenience of the court, the three cases would be tried as one.

The rules for a civil trial are quite different from a criminal trial. Only nine of the twelve jurors must agree on a verdict. And that verdict is based, not upon whether there is a reasonable doubt, but upon a “preponderance of the evidence.” The legal definition of the term simply means that if 51 percent of the evidence by volume or weight points to the defendant's guilt, the juror must decide in favor of the plaintiffs.

This time, the murderer could not lateral the ball to his attorneys. He would have to “limp” to the witness stand on his arthritic legs. His left hand, its knuckle healed from the deep cut found there the day after the murders, would rest on a Bible. He would raise his right hand, the one that had dropped the bloody glove behind Kato Kaelin's room, and swear to tell the truth.

Baker managed to delay the day of reckoning, and rumors surfaced that the killer would flee the country to avoid giving us his sworn deposition. Patti and I did not believe this would happen. He had already gotten away with murder, both literally and figuratively, and we were sure that he assumed
the same thing would happen this time. “His ego will keep him here,” Patti said.

But Kim was beset by doubts and bitter over the turn of events. This was our case, not the state's; we were supposed to be in control, not the murderer.

We did not learn what would happen until a day or two before Monday, January 22, when Dan called and said, “Okay, he's coming.”

I made my way to a tenth-floor suite in West Los Angeles, not much more than a mile from the scene of Ron's death. These were the offices of Dan Petrocelli's law firm. We assembled in a long conference room. The witness would sit at one end of the table as he gave his pretrial deposition under oath.

Kim asked to be allowed in. But since she was no longer a legal party to the wrongful-death suit, the killer could refuse the request, and he did so. “I'm all of one hundred pounds,” Kim complained. “What can I do?” Asked by a reporter why he had refused, Kim snapped, “Because he knows that we know he murdered my brother. Would you face me?”

The killer swaggered in. He schmoozed his way around the room, jokingly reliving his latest golf game with his attorneys. He had a big, all's-right-with-the-world grin plastered across his face, and his movements were extremely animated. He conveyed the sense that these proceedings were no big deal. He was just a happy-go-lucky guy.

I fixed my gaze on him. He looked at me, but quickly averted his glance. I continued to stare, but after a while I determined that I was not going to accomplish anything by looking at him except to give myself a splitting headache. He was not worth it.

A reporter asked me later how it felt to sit at the same table with the man I had openly called a coward and a murderer. “Necessary, but difficult,” I replied. “Let's just say, you know what my feelings are and it would be difficult to be in the same room.”

A pattern emerged immediately. Whenever Dan asked a benign question, the killer looked him right in the eye and answered directly. Conversely, when the questions were of substance to the case, he appeared spacey and his gaze slipped past Dan. He took many deep, labored breaths. He fidgeted constantly. At key moments, his lead attorney, Robert Baker, asked for a short recess.

His testimony ran counter to both the physical evidence and the eyewitness accounts of scores of individuals. He contradicted himself. This is a man who so loves the sound of his own voice that he frequently volunteered
information in defiance of his attorney's advice, once prompting Baker to ask rhetorically, “Am I a potted plant?”

The tedious process took a total of nine days and produced a 2,582-page transcript. Dan would revisit this murky territory during the civil trial, and there were a few notable statements that were sure to cause the murderer serious discomfort.

I was not able to be present during every day of the deposition. Once, when I had to leave early, we asked if Kim could take my place for the afternoon.

“Absolutely not!” was the response, and the door was slammed shut.

“It's very unusual,” Dan said. “Normally a family member is allowed in, if only for moral support.”

“You know,” Kim observed, “it's always women who speak out that he attacks. Faye Resnick, Denise Brown, Marcia Clark—now me. There's a pattern here.”

If she was not to be allowed inside, Kim vowed to haunt the halls. Every day she stood near the closed door, as close as she could get without coming inside. Before and after the sessions, and during breaks, she availed herself of every opportunity to glare at the killer.

Suddenly she found herself face-to-face with him, so close that she could smell his breath.

He looked her up and down and flashed his insulting half-smile.

“Don't do that!” Kim thundered.

He chuckled.

Later, Kim moaned, “Of all the things I have longed to say, all I could come up with is, ‘Don't do that!'”

The Browns' attorney, John Q. Kelly, described a disturbing scene to me. Everyone was taking a break. The videotape was not running. The court reporter was not transcribing. The killer and his attorneys were, once again, discussing their golf games. It seemed to be all they could ever talk about, and Kelly bowed out of the conversation. He was lost in his own thoughts when the killer said something directly to him. Kelly did not bother to answer. Unaccustomed to being ignored, the killer became agitated and kicked at Kelly's chair. Then, when he still did not respond, the killer walked over and slapped him on the back.

I asked Kelly to be more specific, to reenact exactly what had happened.
He kicked my chair with such force that I almost tipped over, and when he slapped me on the back, he knocked the breath out of me.

“Are you sure you aren't exaggerating this?” I asked. Kelly swore that he was not. Sharon's attorney, Michael Brewer, was also in the room at the time and verified what had happened.

Clearly this is a man who must always be the center of attention. And if he senses that he is being ignored, he reacts with force.

TWENTY-NINE

Early on we had formed a negative impression of Faye Resnick. Her book about her friendship with Nicole, proclaimed as sordid and opportunistic, and her admitted drug use left her open to criticism and ridicule. We had not read her memoir and had been angered that she chose that route rather than protecting her credibility as a witness, which might have helped us in court.

As time passed, however, Resnick became more of a central figure. The defendant claimed that Resnick, not Nicole, was the real target that night, set up for a “hit” by drug dealers. The two were in agreement on only one major point: In the months preceding the murders, Resnick and the defendant had spoken frequently. The killer claimed that he was upset with Resnick and her drug-using friends, and was worried about Nicole being drawn into her world. Resnick had a very different story to tell when the attorneys traveled to New York to take her deposition.

It quickly became clear why she had been so certain, from the very beginning, who the killer was.

Referring to the defendant, Dan asked, “You have seen him fly off the handle?”

“Yes, I have,” Resnick answered.

“Now, during those occasions when you saw Mr. Simpson get very angry toward Nicole, describe what his face would look like when he would get angry. And for that matter—you can describe, like, his whole body. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I know,” she responded. “O.J. would get very—his facial structure, his jaw would protrude, his teeth would clench, sweat would come pouring from his head. You could see that his body, that he would perspire through his clothing. His eyes would get narrow and black. He became—and the only way to describe it is animalistic when he would become angry at Nicole.”

“And that would happen suddenly?” Dan asked.

“It would happen within minutes.”

“You could see changes in his face?”

“Yes.”

“What about his body? Was there any body language that also changed?”

“He just became bigger than life. He just got big.”

“Dominant?”

“Very—it was very aggressive, just, you—”

“Did it frighten you?”

“Absolutely.”

Much of Resnick's testimony consisted of conversations with Nicole that would probably be considered as hearsay evidence, inadmissible in court, so we were particularly interested in her encounters with the defendant himself. According to Resnick, in the month preceding the murders, he telephoned her numerous times, threatening to kill Nicole because he could not bear the shame and humiliation that he felt she inflicted on him by breaking off their relationship. She quoted the defendant from a May 1994 conversation: “I know she is seeing another man, and if I catch her with another man … I will kill her.”