Can't Forgive

by Kim Goldman

  Can’t Forgive

  Can’t Forgive

  My 20-Year Battle with O.J. Simpson

  By Kim Goldman

  BenBella Books, Inc.

  Dallas, TX

  Copyright © 2014 by Kim Goldman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  BenBella Books, Inc.

  10300 N. Central Expressway

  Suite #530

  Dallas, TX 75231

  www.benbellabooks.com

  Send feedback to feedback@benbellabooks.com

  First E-book Edition: May 2014

  E-ISBN: 978-1-940363-14-1

  Editing by Glenn Yeffeth and Katie Kennedy

  Copyediting by Dorianne Perucci

  Cover photo by Renee Bowen Photography

  Makeup by Jami Cox

  Hair by Renee’ Kaehny

  Proofreading by Cape Cod Compositors

  Cover design by Sarah Dombrowsky

  Distributed by Perseus Distribution

  www.perseusdistribution.com

  To place orders through Perseus Distribution:

  Tel: (800) 343-4499

  Fax: (800) 351-5073

  E-mail: orderentry@perseusbooks.com

  Significant discounts for bulk sales are available. Please contact Glenn Yeffeth at

  glenn@benbellabooks.com or (214) 750-3628.

  Dad, Ron, Sam...

  You keep me laughing, loving, and living

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PREFACE

  I am driving through a small strip mall in Los Angeles, when the silhouette of a tall black man walks across the parking lot directly in front of my silver Nissan 200SX, my MSNGRON license plate in full view.

  I slam on my brakes and put the car in park. I watch his swagger and immediately recognize it. The killer has a slight dip in his step, as if he is dragging a leg. He complains it is arthritis. I know that walk anywhere.

  He has the same height, same build, same hair—same everything.

  I sit in my car, gripping the steering wheel, with my foot on the gas, shaking uncontrollably. There is nobody around. I can run him down. This is my moment. I can kill him right here, right now. I feel power, exhilaration, trepidation.

  My foot hovers over the pedal, and my knuckles turn white. It’s him. I’m 100 percent sure.

  I rev the engine. I can feel the energy in my body. I am sweating. I can do this.

  Everything is in slow motion: his pace is sluggish now, giving me plenty of time to calculate my decision. Then everything is racing in my head, but the only thought that stops me is my father. I can’t disappoint him. I can’t force him to endure yet another trial, this time for his daughter.

  Before I can blink, the man is gone. He disappears behind a shaded door, so I can’t see inside. The sign on the door is for a production company I later recall produced The Interview video he did in January 1996.

  My heart sinks. I have the chance to avenge Ron’s death and I blow it. I know I am not a killer, but the moment is mine to seize and I leave it, right there on the asphalt.

  I still wonder what would have happened if I had realized my dream of revenge that day.

  When I think back to my childhood—playing with my Barbies for hours on end, acting out games of restaurant, dreaming about growing up to be a psychologist and a mother, and raising my children next door to my big brother, Ron, and his large family—I never would have imagined this moment happening to me. I never could have imagined that “assassin” and “avenger” would be among future choices I would want to make. But they are.

  Since then, my life has taken turns I never would have dreamed of. The road map that has led me to my life—my reality—is filled with unexpected detours, unplanned-for entrances and exits. It is a journey that I am still navigating.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “We lose ourselves in things we love. We find ourselves there, too.”

  —Kristin Martz

  * * *

  1975

  “Where do you want to live, dear, with Mommy or Daddy?”

  “Daddy,” I whisper, as I fiddle nervously with the copper buttons beneath my legs.

  The office of our family therapist, Betty Nudelman, is a comfortable place for me to come. She has a giant blue leather chair that I love to sit in. I am tiny enough to cross my legs, but it’s definitely a “big-girl” chair. I feel so proud when I crawl up into it and can participate in the conversation.

  Betty always treats me with respect, looking directly into my eyes and speaking in a soft and gentle tone. She makes me feel important. So today, when she pulls her chair next to mine, takes my hand in hers, and asks which parent I want to live with full time, I know I can tell her the truth.

  I look over at my brother, Ron, who is sitting a few feet away, his head hanging down. He is busy pulling at the strings in the holes of his favorite brown corduroy pants, which makes the hole even bigger, revealing his scratched-up knee.

  I am only four years old, and Betty’s question will change my life forever. I don’t hesitate. I know what I want to do, but I’m afraid my mom will be upset with me. My brother won’t look at me, but I see him nodding his head in agreement when I answer her question.

  I honestly don’t know if Betty’s question came before or after my birth mother, Sharon, and my dad agreed to adjust their child custody arrangements. It’s almost irrelevant, but so incredibly telling how insightful children are at such a young age.

  * * *

  When my parents decided to split up, my mother assumed custody of us. In 1975, it was unheard of for a man to have custody; it was believed that a mother should raise her children. Betty would determine the visitation schedule. Of all the people I have met in my life, whose faces and names have long since faded into the distance, Betty’s face, with her soft brown eyes, perfectly coifed hair, and gentle ways will stay with me forever.

  Sharon moved us into an apartment in Des Plaines, Illinois. We lived at the end of the hallway, on the right side. When you walked in, you immediately looked into the small bedroom that Ron and I shared.

  We had a cool bunk bed opposite a little table in the corner, where I held tea parties with Billy the Bear, Dolly, Sir Elephant, and the Crazy Monkey. We had a small dresser and shelving unit where our pet gerbil, Clarabelle, named after the mute clown partner of Howdy Doody, the star of the 1950s hit show, lived. The kitchen was straight out of the ’70s: brown cabinets, a yellow linoleum floor, a green flower-print Formica table, and matching padded chairs.

  Interestingly, though, as I recall this, I can’t picture Sharon in that apartment, just the space between the walls.

  My dad moved to a studio apartment in Chicago, near O’Hare Airport. That’s where we visited with him when it was his time. His building was tall, with long hallways that looked the same from floor to floor. Sometimes Ron and I raced each other from one end to the other—not sure the neighbors liked that very much. My dad’s place boasted bright orange drapes and a shaggy, chocolate brown couch. It was soft and furry, like lying on a big bear. In the corner sat my favorite floor lamp, quintessential 1970s chic: a chrome, mushroom-shaped base, with a brushed nickel metal arm that hung over
the cushions of the couch, which I loved to swing from left to right.

  At my father’s urging, we started to spend more time in Betty’s office. Something wasn’t sitting right with him. He learned from a few of Ron’s teachers at school that my brother had become more disruptive in class and that his grades were dropping. My dad also noticed that the fun-loving, energetic spirit we both possessed was waning. When we talked to him on the phone, we sounded down, but when we knew we had plans to see him, we sounded excited—maybe too excited.

  Like all children, we didn’t have a filter; Ron and I talked about all the places we went to during the week or on the weekend, so that “Mommy could have some fun too.” My dad grew more uncomfortable and frustrated with the way things were going with the two of us in Sharon’s care. He became deeply concerned that her priority wasn’t entirely on parenting.

  He shared his concerns with Betty, who agreed with him; she had noticed some subtle differences in our behavior that worried her, too. We were more sullen than usual, and the youthful innocence that drew her to us had quelled. My dad invited Sharon to attend a few sessions to talk through some things. Grudgingly, she agreed to attend one session.

  * * *

  My brother and I are sitting in the waiting area outside Betty’s office. We have our bag of toys to occupy ourselves: books, crayons, and paper, but when we notice that Betty has a checkerboard, we opt for that instead. I grab the box, dump it out, and sprawl myself on the itchy carpet lying on the middle of the floor. “Ronny, come play checkas wif me!” I know he can’t say no to his little squirt with the cute lisp, but it only takes Ron a few minutes to get mad at me. He wants to play for real and all I want to do is move the checkers around the board to make a pretty pattern. Frustrated, he goes back to drawing cartoon characters on the sketch pad, and I get busy making red-and-black towers for my Princess Barbie to live. It’s very quiet on the other side of the big brown door. We came here together once or twice before, occasionally taking turns going in and out of the room, so it doesn’t seem unusual that we are spending the entire time outside. We’re content playing and waiting, knowing that if we are good, we get a special trip to Baskin-Robbins.

  I am putting the checkerboard back on the shelf when I hear the door squeak open and the three of them suddenly appear. My father’s eyes are bright, which tells me that Bubble Gum ice cream is in our future. My mom kneels down to give us each a hug good-bye, then we leave, holding hands with our dad.

  We soon find out what happened behind those closed doors.

  * * *

  During their meeting, both Betty and my dad expressed their concerns over how Ron and I were doing. When Sharon didn’t have much to offer in response, Betty suggested that my dad take primary custody of us, starting immediately, with Sharon having scheduled visits.

  “At the end of the year, Sharon, Fred, we will reevaluate how the kids are doing at that time and make some decisions about their longtime care and custody. This way, Sharon, you can ‘live your life’ the way you want to, without the added responsibility of your children, as you expressed earlier in this meeting.”

  Without much hesitation at all, Sharon said okay.

  * * *

  I am almost five years old when my father meets his soon-to-be second wife, Joan. They live in the same building a few floors up from each other and meet in the elevator one day. Joan is a beautiful woman with incredibly full, bouncy hair, like the models in the Vidal Sassoon commercials. I love the way she smells and that she always wears bright shiny lip gloss. She’s a travel agent, which is so glamorous! We love her, and we’re so happy when she spends time with us. On a recent visit with our dad, Joan decides it would be fun to make brownies. We don’t get to do that too often with our mom, so we’re really excited when she offers. We jump up on the stools, ready to help.

  “You’re good mixers,” she tells us, as we flick the chocolate from one side of the bowl to the other.

  “We’re good lickers too,” we tell her emphatically.

  My dad sits back and watches, a slight grin peeking out from under his mustache.

  * * *

  My dad decided to move into Sharon’s apartment where Ron and I were, so that we would feel the least amount of turmoil and disruption to our routine, since we are going to live with him full time now. We miss his apartment in Chicago, but there isn’t room for all of us to live together there, including Joan, whom he just asked to marry.

  Sharon moved nearby to another apartment complex with lots of two-story buildings set in a giant grass and concrete maze. The laundry room was our favorite place to play. The smell of fabric softener wafted through the air. We loved it down there, because we could ride our Green Machine under the folding tables while our mom did the laundry. She stood over the washing machines, separating the clothes, darks from whites, puffing away on her cigarettes, while she yelled at us to “Quiet down!” It was hard to hear her over the humming of the dryer and our squeals of laughter.

  My dad worked as a full-time salesman in the display business, and since Joan wasn’t living with us yet, we had to have “housekeepers” pick us up from school, make dinner, and keep us occupied until our dad got home from work. And did we ever have a lot of them—each one slightly crazier than the next! There was the older woman who thought the “Russians are coming to get me, through the electrical sockets in the walls.” And the one who tied our dog, Alphie, to the table, and then put the food in front of him, close enough to smell but not to eat. And the drinker who passed out fully dressed, with empty bottles next to her bed. And the lady who shoved her used tissues up her sleeve and then offered us one when we sneezed. And the one who smelled like mothballs. Each of them slept in the same extra bedroom, with the brown accordion-style folding divider, separating them from our family room—just a few steps away from the balcony, where Ron and I would sit and wait for our mom to pick us up for our visits.

  We didn’t see Sharon that much. Something always seemed to come up that prevented her from keeping her scheduled visits. I got worried when she told me, “Kitty is sick,” or when she ran out of gas on the short trip over. I was disappointed when she had to wait for the washing machine cycle to end and by then it was our bedtime, or when she had the hiccups and needed to rest. Time after time, we perched ourselves in the same spot on that balcony, hard cement beneath us, hoping to get a glimpse of her as she drove into the complex. We sat, huddled close together, our feet dangling over the side, giggling as we pick the peeling paint off the wrought-iron railing. We left some serious “tush” imprints on that balcony, as we waited and watched.

  Deep down, we always knew that the phone would inevitably ring thirty minutes late and that another excuse was coming. With each phone call, she became less and less of a mother and more of a stranger. But one visit lasted a little longer than usual.

  * * *

  “Mommy, what are you doing here, and what are you doing with our stuff?” Ron asks.

  “I’m taking you kids home with me because your dad doesn’t want you, and doesn’t love you anymore, so you’re coming to live with me,” she answers matter-of-factly.

  It is a Friday afternoon, and this is not a scheduled visit, so we are confused because she is in our bedroom packing up our clothes and throwing our toys into a garbage bag. She moves very quickly and tells us to get our stuff; we need to leave. We are five and eight years old, and do not comprehend much beyond eating SpaghettiOs and playing with our Lincoln Logs. Honestly, we don’t think much about what she is saying or doing. She just keeps repeating that our dad doesn’t love us anymore and that she is taking us away from “this place.” Her nose turns up when she says that. We’re just so happy that she finally came to see us that we help her pack up our things, making sure she hasn’t forgotten Ron’s GI Joe or my Dolly. And then we are gone, leaving behind Clarabelle and our home, and never questioning her.

  Why would we? She’s our mother.

  * * *

  “Hello, I’m home!�
� my dad yelled out as he walked through the door of the apartment later that day.

  We always greeted him at the door when we heard the keys in the lock. When we didn’t appear right away, my dad yelled again. “Hello? Ron? Kim? Anybody home? Where are my hugs?”

  The only activity in the apartment was the sound of the dog running around at my dad’s feet, jumping up and down, looking for attention. My dad immediately noticed the ransacked bedroom and ran to the kitchen, where the phone is. He looked around for a note or some indication of where we might be.

  Nothing.

  No sign of the housekeeper, either.

  “Sharon, it’s Fred. Do you have the kids? I came home, and nobody is here. No note, nothing. Do you have them? Did you pick them up? Do you know where they are? I don’t understand why they’re not here.”

  “Um, no, I don’t know anything about it.” Her response was calm and apathetic compared with my dad’s panicked inquiry.

  My dad hung up and knew immediately that she was lying. Sharon is the youngest of her siblings. She has an oldest brother, Dick, his wife, Mary, and her other brother, Howard, and his wife, Donna. They are all fairly close. My dad called Mary next. Her response was similar to Sharon’s; no urgency, no concern, which solidified his belief that she, too, knew something and wasn’t talking.

  Frustrated and very suspicious, he called Donna and Howard.

  “Fred, oh my God, call the police immediately!”

  Based on the erratic responses among the family members, my dad determined very quickly who was involved in our disappearance. Feeling beaten down, defeated, and confused, my dad placed his next call to his divorce attorney, who advised him to “sit tight” and do nothing. He would make an emergency court appearance on Monday or Tuesday, and get this resolved immediately.

  My dad resisted this suggestion. “Fred, you cannot do anything rash. Just trust the process and the system. You have worked so hard to get Ron and Kim back, and I’d hate to see you jeopardize that. I know it’s going to be painful to not have contact with them, but let me handle it,” he pleaded. The loss of control was overwhelming for my father.