His Name Is Ron (41 page)

Dan was very pleased. He had argued two previous cases in front of Judge Fujisaki, and he declared, “He will put up with no nonsense, no shenanigans in his courtroom.”

During his nearly twenty years on the bench, Fujisaki had earned a reputation as a crack-the-whip judge with little tolerance for chitchat. He ran his courtroom in such a way that no one forgot who was in charge. Unlike Judge Ito, he refused to reconsider rulings, did not banter with attorneys, and made it very clear that he took his job and the court extremely seriously.

One of Judge Fujisaki's colleagues commented, “He does not suffer fools lightly.”

However, I found one of the judge's early rulings to be a problem.

“No counsel may discuss anything connected with this trial with the media or in public places. This order encompasses all parties, attorneys, and witnesses under the control of counsel.”

The twenty-nine words of that gag order, uttered by Judge Fujisaki on Tuesday, August 13, silenced parties to the lawsuit and all of the attorneys
for the duration of the trial. This time there were to be no press conferences on the courtroom steps; this time it would be tried in the courtroom.

I quickly learned that holding my tongue can be more exhausting than speaking out.

A gaggle of media attendants, protesters, and just plain paparazzi descended on Santa Monica. In downtown L.A. during the criminal trial the area around the courtroom was known as “Camp O.J.” In Santa Monica it was now being referred to as “O.J. by the Sea.” It was Tuesday, September 17, 1996. How ironic that two years and one day ago we were beginning the criminal case.

An artist displayed a mural depicting two bodies and a knife. Excerpts of speeches by the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., blared over a loud-speaker. A spectator shouted insults about the killer to anyone who would listen. Another arrived in his aqua Cadillac Coupe de Ville, plastered with pictures of Ron and Nicole. “If O.J.'s a celebrity, why can't Nicole be a celebrity?” he asked. “We need to focus on victims.”

Since the gag order had muzzled all the principals, reporters were reduced to interviewing each other. One of them quipped to a colleague, “We're fascinating.”

Inside the courtroom, Judge Fujisaki raced through a stack of pretrial motions several feet thick in two hours, issuing thirty-nine rulings. Once again the defense wanted permission to attack the LAPD as a group of inept bunglers who contaminated the evidence and/or corrupt, racist officers who planted evidence.

Patti thought: Uh-oh. Here we go again.

Judge Fujisaki apparently agreed. “The point to be addressed to the jury is whether the evidence that was collected tends to prove Mr. Simpson's culpability or not,” he said. “This is not a case about did the LAPD commit malpractice.” He pointed out that “Mr. Simpson is not suing the LAPD.”

He further ruled that the defense would not be allowed to swerve into topics he deemed irrelevant or speculative. They would not be allowed to argue to jurors that the LAPD failed to examine all the blood from the crime scene, or that Colombian drug lords could have been behind the killings. Most important, the judge blocked them from introducing evidence about Detective Mark Fuhrman's allegedly racist attitudes, and his use of Fifth Amendment protection when asked whether he had planted evidence—a linchpin of the conspiracy theory.

*   *   *

We finally got to the task of jury selection, a process that would continue for a full month. No one ever told us that we had a right to be present at jury selection in the criminal case until the trial was well underway, so we were determined to be involved in that process for our civil litigation. None of us was prepared for the effect that would have on us. It was an exercise in maneuvering, manipulation, and second-guessing—on both sides.

As prospective jurors were questioned, we found ourselves looking beyond their answers and into their motivations and possible agendas, asking ourselves: Is she lying? Why does he want to serve on this jury? She'd be good for our side. I hope he isn't chosen, he's likely to be pro-defense. It was troubling and exhausting.

We are not racists. Nor are the many black people who have approached us to express their disdain for the criminal verdict. Sadly, most add the disclaimer “But I can't say this in public.”

As the criminal trial progressed, Johnnie Cochran had increasingly turned the focus away from the murders and into a false struggle over nonexistent racial issues. Now we could see the killer expanding upon the theme. He attempted to rally the support of the black community, and we believed deeply that he was trying to influence potential black jurors.

“This is a twisted process,” Kim said. “I wasn't brought up to judge people this way—relying on stereotypes. It makes me feel like a hypocrite.”

Each day the killer limped into the courtroom for another round of charm-the-public. Whenever there was a lull in the proceedings, he joked and bantered with the press until he was finally reprimanded for doing so in front of prospective jurors. It was very disturbing that so many of the attorneys, reporters, and spectators were concerned over the racial makeup of the jury. There was no guarantee that a white person would vote for us or that a black person would vote against us, but the jury consultants warned us that there was no way to escape the issue in this extraordinary case.

Thank you, Johnnie Cochran.

During the weekend of Yom Kippur, I made a decision that would alter the remainder of my life.

As a boy, I walked a mile to and from school and there was never anybody saying, “Don't talk to strangers. Be careful of this. Be careful of that.” After school I went outside and played. My mother did not hover
over me, afraid that some pedophile would snatch me. My friends and I stayed outside until dark. Today there is a security system on our house, and alarms on our cars. People are not safe on the freeways or at the neighborhood park—nor even in their homes. Did the situation change because we are tough on criminals? Of course not. It changed because we started treating criminals as if they are really just damaged human beings. When someone commits a violent crime, we slap them on the wrist. They may or may not serve some prison time, but they are back on the streets again before long. Instead of blaming them, we blame society. We give them reasons for what they did. We understand. We say to them, “Aw, you had a rough childhood. Your daddy ignored you. Your mommy wasn't home enough. It is society's fault that you are a mass murderer. We understand your pain.”

We need to change the situation, so that good, decent, law-abiding people can feel safe.

During the criminal trial I began to question my focus, my purpose in life. In the past I had always enjoyed my job, but the passion was not there anymore; it was replaced by matters of greater importance. That issue grew more troubling. I faced the same daily struggle, trying to eke out a few hours of my day to attend the trial.

I had been exploring career opportunities. My passion now was to somehow make Ron's life and death more meaningful by working for reforms in our judicial system. We had considered starting a nonprofit organization to lobby for judicial reform and victims' rights, but realized that governmental rules and legal restrictions would make this very difficult. Then I was introduced to Jim Whooten, the director of Safe Streets Alliance, a nonprofit organization based in Washington, D.C., that actively works for judicial reform.

Jim and I spoke on the phone, then he flew to California to meet with me. He shared my concerns, and it was interesting to note that he came to his viewpoints from a different background. He was not a victim; rather, he is an attorney who has seen the problems from within the system.

And so, after nearly thirty years in the sales and packaging business, I decided to switch occupations, accepting Jim's offer to become the public affairs director and chief spokesman for Safe Streets Alliance. During the course of the civil trial I would make some appearances on behalf of the organization, but I would not commence my primary duties until the trial was over.

I was excited and impassioned with the potential to help bring about changes within the system that currently tolerates absurd inequities. I hoped, for Ron's sake, that I could make a difference.

However, my euphoria was short-lived. I learned that on Thursday night, September 26,
Larry King Live
would be guest-hosted by CNN legal analyst Greta Van Susteren. She was scheduled to interview Donald Freed, co-author of a book entitled
Killing Time.
The book purported to use “scientific research” to prove that the defendant did not have time enough to commit the murders and that Ron may have been the target.

I called the show and said that I did not want to speak on the air just for the sake of being on—I had the gag order to consider. But if Freed said anything to demean Ron, I wanted to respond—and to hell with the gag order. I was placed on hold.

Eventually Freed did put forth his absurd suggestion about Ron. He was the cause of his own death.

I could hold my tongue no longer. Over and over again, I have said that if anyone attacked Ron's good name, no gag order on the face of the earth was going to shut me up.

As the show progressed, Patti heard me muttering, “Who does he think he is? Where does he get this crap?” Then I raged, “This guy is a fraud. It's all theory. There's no proof. He doesn't authenticate anything. He's there to hawk his book.”

I went on the air and berated the man, suggesting that the only reason he was proposing his ridiculous theories was to capitalize on this horror.

Freed immediately turned defensive. He suggested that my grief made it impossible to view the topic with logic.

That set me off further. As I said to Dan the next day, “I can't remember my exact words, but I think I ripped this man a new one.”

Things got worse. By Friday morning I was aware that there had been numerous news reports suggesting that the Ron Goldman Justice Fund was, in fact, a fraud perpetrated by someone other than our family.

During the noon break in the jury-selection process, I held an impromptu press conference to explain the fund-raising activities. I declared that the Ron Goldman Justice Fund was legitimate. There was no fraud or subterfuge, and we could only assume that the attacks were somehow orchestrated by the opposition.

A reporter noted my comments the previous night on
Larry King Live
and asked me if I had violated the gag order. I smiled politely, shrugged, and answered, “Maybe. But I'm not going to stand by and have someone demean Ron.”

I did not return to court that day. Instead, I headed to my office to attend to some of the details I had to clear up before officially changing jobs.

When court resumed, the defense complained that my statements the previous night, and again this day, were violations of the gag order and might taint potential jurors.

Dan defended my actions, noting that the author was “on television in effect trashing my client's murdered son, and my client called in to express his outrage.”

Judge Fujisaki snapped, “If the parties are going to violate the order, I don't think monetary sanctions are going to be sufficient. It's my intention to seek an appropriate remedy to the situation, which I think is going to be somewhat draconian—and that's an understatement.” He had the option to find me in contempt of court, which carried a maximum penalty of five days in jail and a $1,000 fine.

We waited to see whether or not the defense would move to have me punished. Our attorneys checked my statements. They agreed that portions of the gag order were vague. I may have pushed the envelope a bit, but it was unclear whether I had really violated the order.

It was not until some time after the criminal trial verdict that we came to realize just how alienated and abandoned Michael and Lauren had felt, at times, during the long, long months of the criminal trial. Patti knew that she could not rewrite history, but she determined that she would do things differently in the future.

Someone needed to be there at the end of the school day. Someone had to throw a ball for Lucy, scratch Pitzel behind her ears, and give Riley an occasional cuddle. Someone needed to make our house a home again, and that was her priority. As the civil trial loomed, Patti announced that she would attend the proceedings only one day a week unless something extraordinary was scheduled. She settled on Mondays because her business was closed that day. Her decision made a remarkable difference. Very quickly, she and Lauren and Michael rediscovered their close and loving relationship, and much of the previous tension evaporated.

Even during jury selection I was eager to give Patti a blow-by-blow description of what I had heard and seen. “Please, just give me the big picture,” she said, “not all the details.” She now suggested a “gag rule” of her own, asking that, especially when Lauren was present, we would not discuss the day's proceedings during dinner. She and Lauren wanted to talk
about other things. Whenever I slipped, Patti shot me a look that pleaded: Not now. Later.

By Monday, October 21, we had a jury and eight alternates.

In an ideal world the press would have reported that the jury consisted of twelve human beings sworn to serve the cause of justice. But the bean counting continued. For the record, the seven-man, five-woman panel comprised nine whites, two blacks, and one mixed-race individual. We did not care one whit about gender or ethnicity; we wanted honesty and fairness. We did not want to win this case on the basis of the jurors' skin color. The
evidence
was black and white.

That was all that should matter.

This time around, both sides were assigned eight seats in the crowded courtroom. So the killer got eight, but we had to divide ours among three plaintiffs. After some maneuvering, we got three seats, the Browns got three, and Sharon got two. We were willing to share and make accommodations, depending on who could attend on a given day, but it would be a continual scramble.