Can't Forgive

by Kim Goldman

  Monday, June 13, 1994, was like any other day for me, juggling my many responsibilities as a 22-year-old student in college. I lived with my boyfriend, Joe Casciana, in San Francisco, where I was finishing up my undergrad work in psychology at San Francisco State University. I spent full days at school, and worked part-time at Wells Fargo and the Olive Garden. And if that wasn’t enough, I was also completing my hours at Langley Porter Psychiatric Ward, an elite internship that I was awarded in my last year of school. I was starting to collect applications for a master’s program, with the intention of pursuing my doctorate in clinical psychology. I had finally come to a place in my life where I was finding my mojo and working hard to realize my dream of becoming a child psychologist.

  I loved San Francisco, and was happy to begin laying the foundation for my future with the man I had high hopes of marrying. Despite having some low-level problems in our relationship (actually, there were some high-level problems—who am I kidding!), we knew we wanted to be together and were making plans to start a life as a married couple.

  I was a customer service manager, which meant I had my own window at the bank. I also had the added responsibility of managing the other tellers, so I was very active all day with not a lot of time to tinker around and gossip. We were a fairly busy bank, so there was always something to do and someone to sell a product to. At about 1:30 p.m., I took a thirty-minute break to shove some kind of unhealthy snack into my body. Someone had left the TV on in the break room, but I was consumed with trying to get my goodies out of the vending machine, which always seemed to get stuck. I wasted most of my breaks attacking the machine before it was time to get back to counting money. My shift ended at 6:00 p.m. Only a few hours left before I could go home and enjoy a night off, I told myself.

  At about 5:00 p.m., I called Joe to find out our plans for dinner. We were going to grab a bite to eat and then hit the gym. Joe was into exercise—I was not—but any chance he could get to encourage me to join him, he took. I was just happy he was off early, so I obliged. My coworker, Amy Levine, offered to drive me home, so I could avoid the public transportation system and get an early start to my evening.

  Amy had become one of my closest friends in San Francisco. She was a beautiful blend of funny, smart, ambitious, and goofy. The music blared as we drove home along the coast, singing the wrong words to a popular song and laughing at our own ridiculousness. Carefree and confident; I love that feeling. I said goodbye as I headed into my two-bedroom, beachfront apartment in the Sunset district. I flew up the two flights of stairs, totally out of breath as I reached the front door and entered my quaint home, where Joe greeted me. It was just about 6:30 p.m.

  “Hi Babe, how was your day?” I asked, as I gave him a kiss.

  “Kim, you need to call your dad; he called and you need to call him back.”

  “Ok, let me put my stuff down and get myself situated.” I began to look through the stack of mail left on the kitchen table.

  “Kim, seriously, go call your Dad.” Joe would not relent. The nervousness in his voice forced me to look up. His face was flushed, and I could see his heart thumping through his gray Nike T-shirt.

  He was acting so strange, but I ignored his plea and headed for the bathroom.

  Again he asserted himself. “Kim, your dad called. Call him back.”

  The lightbulb went off. We have one phone in our apartment. We had been talking about marriage. The ring must be in the room where the phone is. Oh my god—he is going to propose to me! I rushed myself off the toilet and hustled into the extra bedroom.

  I scanned the room as quickly and subtly as possible. All I saw was a pile of papers and a beige phone on top of the nightstand next to our futon couch. No ring. I felt my shoulders droop with disappointment. Joe appeared by my side, the phone receiver in his hand. He put the phone to my ear and I heard my father’s voice on the other end.

  “Kimmy, honey, are you home? Is Joe with you? Are you sitting down?” He sounded frantic.

  “Hi Dad, yes, we’re home together. What’s up?” I was still trying to absorb the lack of an engagement ring.

  “Kimmy, have you seen the news today? Have you heard anything on the news about O. J. Simpson?” His pace was quickening and Joe was sitting so close to me that he was practically on my lap.

  “No, I’ve been at work all day, and have no clue what you are talking about. Dad, what’s the deal?” I was slightly annoyed and disinterested in this banter, but my Dad sounded very serious.

  “Kimmy, Ron was killed.”

  * * *

  Silence fills the air. “Kimmy, did you hear me, Ron was killed.” Screams. All I hear is screaming. I drop to the floor. The screaming is all I hear.

  “Fred, it’s me. She’s here, hold on.” Joe brings me back up to the couch and places the phone back to my ear.

  “Honey, Joe made arrangements for you to come home, okay, so you need to pack some clothes.”

  “Dad, how do you know? What happened? Where is he? Do you have to, you know, go see him? How do you know it’s him? Do you have to identify him?” My franticness is now surpassing my father’s.

  My dad does not have to identify my brother; the police found his driver’s license on him and confirmed who he is. He is not sure how Ron died; maybe he was shot, he says. My brain is not computing what he’s telling me. All I hear is that Ron is dead. For some reason, I assume it’s a car crash, so when he mentions “gunshot,” I start screaming again. Another person was found with Ron, Nicole Brown Simpson, the ex-wife of O. J. Simpson, the famous football player. I have no idea who that is, I tell him.

  At some point we hang up. Joe made 9:30 p.m. reservations out of Oakland; we need to get moving if we are going to make that flight.

  My dad mentions that the story is all over the news. I turn on the TV, but there’s nothing. I scour the channels, but don’t see any references to it. Maybe it’s not true, maybe they have the wrong person, I tell myself. I wander around the apartment, weaving in and out of Joe, who is moving quickly to get us ready to leave. He pulls a suitcase for me to fill. I manage to get about thirty pairs of underwear inside, until I realize that is all I pack. Do I have to go to a funeral? What do you wear? I have never been to a funeral. Nobody I know has ever died. Oh my god, my brother is dead. What the fuck is happening? What the fuck is happening.

  I suddenly feel the urge to call my grandparents. I had a semidecent relationship with them, despite how much they tormented me about not speaking with my birth mom, their daughter. But even though it was fairly contentious between us, I knew they needed to know that their grandson had died. Wow, there I go again. Dead.

  My Aunt Donna picks up the phone. “Hi, Kim, wow, it’s been a long time. How are you?”

  “Donna, are my grandparents still visiting you? I have to tell them something and it’s important I tell them now. Ron died.” Donna is silent. I continue talking, and give her as much information as I can, begging for her to put my grandparents on the phone. She is resisting me because they are old, and this will not go over well. How would I feel if they had a heart attack, she asks? I have no answer, other than, “Please put them on the line.”

  “Hi, my shana punim. How are you?” His voice comforts me and brings a smile to my face for a second. He has always called me shana punim, which means “pretty face” in Yiddish. His voice comforts me, but in two seconds I know am going to ruin all of that.

  I am the youngest of all of his grandchildren, and Ron the oldest. I know my Papa has a soft spot for me; I can’t believe what I am about to do to him. My heart is racing and my palms are sweating. “Papa, Ronny died.” “What, dear?” I repeat myself, and raise my voice slightly. “Ronny died, Papa.” “Oh dear, hold on, let me fix the hearing aid. Blanche? Can you help me with the hearing aid, I can’t hear Kimmy.” “PAPA! RON IS DEAD. YOUR GRANDSON IS DEAD.” My aunt gets back on the phone, and it’s obvious she is not happy with me because I have upset Nana and Papa. Then, before I could say anything else, she
asks me if my mother knows. My mother? It hadn’t even occurred to me to call her. Fuck, I can’t deal with this now. I don’t know where she is, I don’t know how to find her, I can’t call her now. I must be saying all this out loud because my aunt replies with a phone number and tells me she is living in St. Louis. “Ok, I will call, thank you for the information.”

  Ron and I had no relationship with her. Everyone knew that, but I can’t believe I have to call her, a virtual stranger, and share my grief with her. My head is spinning. I think I am going to throw up. I call my dad and we agree to call her together when I arrive in Los Angeles. I feel better now, knowing I have my Dad by my side again. I am weeping on the phone when the other line clicks in. There was no caller ID in those days, so I answered unsuspectingly. It was her.

  “Kim, Donna called me and told me Ronny is dead. What the hell is happening? How come you didn’t call me? I can’t believe I have to hear it from Donna, and not you. Does your father know? How come he didn’t tell me?” All I manage to get out are the few details I have and tell her I’ll call when I get to my dad’s house. I hear nothing in return: no remorse, no sorrow, no love, no nurturing or calming comments as she hears her only surviving child scream the words, “Your son is dead. My brother is dead!”

  I can’t believe that she is here again. And I am stuck with her, alone.

  * * *

  I boarded the short, fifty-minute flight to Los Angeles with Joe by my side. I felt woozy, my focus was blurred, and tears wouldn’t stop pouring down my face. My brain was exploding—I was sure it was going to start pouring out of my ears. I felt numb. People were talking to me, but I couldn’t process their words, only those of one man. I had to disrobe to get myself through the security gate, and with each item of clothing I was asked to remove, the tears flowed. I can’t do this now, I have to get my father, I screamed inside. “Lady, it can’t be that bad,” he said. “Smile, you’re taking a trip—it can only be better there.”

  In 1994, airport security measures weren’t so strict. Family members could park and actually walk to the gate to greet you. My dad told me he would send family friends to pick me up because he wanted to stay near the phone if the police or anyone called the house. With each step I took toward the waiting area, the lump in my throat swelled. I couldn’t swallow, my hands were so sweaty they slid out from Joe’s grip, and my eyes felt as if I was poked with a fork for the past three hours. But when I saw my father a few feet away, his lips quivering, his eyes glassy, and his wife, Patti, and friend, Rob Duben, holding him up, I lost it. I ran to him and fell into his arms, which never felt more secure in my life. There was nobody else left now, just the two of us. I could smell his sorrow. He cried in my ear and his body shuddered. We exchanged a lot of “I love you’s” and hugs as we headed to the car.

  I huddled close to my dad and buried my face in his jacket. I couldn’t look at him. It was excruciating to see the one person you counted on to be strong, stoic, and unflappable, become vulnerable and emotional. I have only seen my Dad cry like this once before, when I was about 10 years old and his father had passed away.

  In the background, the news broadcasted the day’s events. I wasn’t really listening until I heard, “And in other news, NFL star O. J. Simpson’s ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her friend were found slaughtered in Brentwood.” That was the first time I heard someone other than my father confirm the most horrific news I would ever hear. And it was the first time that I had any inkling of just how brutal and vicious Ron’s death might have been. To this day, nearly 20 years later, I can’t hear the word “slaughtered” without thinking of my brother.

  * * *

  For a short time after the murder, I moved back to San Francisco and continued with my classes and my relationship. Most people think that “keeping busy” is the best thing to do when dealing with a trauma, but I felt incredibly selfish living my life as normal and making plans for my future, when my brother’s had just been cut short. I went through the motions, but nothing was important—only Ron.

  I packed up a few suitcases of clothes, shoes, and toiletries and made the six-hour trek back to Los Angeles in Joe’s prized black Acura Integra. With my cat Dakota (my brother wanted to name his first kid Dakota, so after Ron died Joe and my friend Amy bought me a cat that I promptly named Dakota), and my stuff, I moved back into my old house and into my dead brother’s room. Joe stayed a few days, but had to get back up north for work. We said goodbye. That was the day our relationship ended, although we wouldn’t officially break up until months later.

  My father and Ron and I had only lived in this house together for a few years as a family, since our move from Chicago in 1987. As much as we called it “home,” it didn’t always feel like it. Three days after Patti and my Dad married, we relocated her three kids, along with Ron and I, to the quaint suburb of Agoura. I was a high school freshman, Ron was in college, and Patti’s kids were in elementary school. It was a lot of adjusting to do; new family, new siblings, new neighborhood, new everything. It was a difficult transition for me, especially when Ron moved out shortly after we got settled, because he was the one I leaned on when I got stuck or scared or resentful. He knew me better than anyone, and we were always each other’s rock. Sure, we had the typical brother-sister competition but we had formed this incredible bond with one another that was centered around love, loyalty, protection, and safety. We shared secret looks, secret smiles, and the same memories, good or bad. I was Ron’s baby sister, his little “squirt,” and he was my hero.

  Ron couldn’t wait to get to California; he had visions of surf, sand, and girls on the brain. I, on the other hand, left behind best friends, a boyfriend, my school, my dance squad, my memories, my foundation. I don’t think I ever truly settled into this new life; it never felt entirely “me,” and when Ron left home to get his own apartment, I was crushed.

  After he was murdered, I moved back to L.A. with one sole purpose: I needed to know that I was doing all that I could to let my brother’s voice be heard, keep his memory alive, and honor the promise that we made to each other long ago—“that we would always be there for each other.” From the time we were little kids, it was always us against the world. My dad was on his third marriage with Patti, our birth mother had long since disappeared, and there was no real relationship with any extended family. But no matter what happened around us, Ron and I always knew that we were stable, connected, and loyal to each other.

  I hadn’t considered the consequences of leaving my life in San Francisco behind, moving into my brother’s room, into a house full of people I wasn’t very close to, and being thrust into the public eye. I couldn’t have imagined how that would play out, but even if I had, it wouldn’t have changed my decision to put my life on hold and uproot myself. It meant honoring my brother’s memory and finding out the truth about what happened the night he was brutally stabbed to death, June 12, 1994.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Law and order exist for the purpose of establishing justice and when they fail in this purpose, they become the dangerously structured dams that block the flow of social progress.”

  —Martin Luther King Jr.

  * * *

  Other than occasionally watching Law and Order or L.A. Law, I had absolutely no idea what to expect when it came to the judicial process. I had never been inside a courtroom before. I was immediately immersed in an ecosystem of lawyers, police officers, detectives, investigators, journalists, reporters (yes, there is a difference), victims, celebrities, and the public. I was only twenty-two years old when I got dumped into this unpredictable, foreign, and confusing world that became my new existence. I would depend on the legal system for safety, rely on it for strength, and rebel against it out of fear. I didn’t quite understand at the time how far reaching the case was (and would continue to become). I never quite grasped the impact it had on those around me, as well as complete strangers around the globe. The trial was so personal, so intimate, and so emotional to me that it ne
ver occurred to me how it was affecting others.

  When I chose to focus on the criminal trial as a regular court attendee, and put aside everything else in my college life, my face was regularly videotaped and photographed. I became the poster child of misery; a portrait of unbridled sorrow and grief. It was a catapult into fame, a notoriety I never bargained for. That wasn’t something I ever courted or sought. I understood the desire for fame, but achieving it as a victim of one of the century’s most polarizing figures wasn’t the way to become famous, I assure you.

  We considered ourselves a healthy dysfunctional family, but all the hoopla generated by this case was horribly unnerving. For reasons I will never totally comprehend, people were completely obsessed with the case. Perhaps because it was the first time a “celebrity” was accused of such a heinous crime, or perhaps because we had only just gotten over the Rodney King beatings in Los Angeles, or perhaps because it involved pretty people. (Sad to say, but crimes always get more attention when the victims are good looking.) But whatever it was, people couldn’t stop talking about the trial. It was the topic of every table in busy restaurants, the lead for every late-night talk show, the first seven minutes of every broadcast news, and the cover of most of the “rag magazines.”

  But it was also my life.

  Living the “Trial of the Century” (such a horrible phrase) was incredibly lonely, despite the hordes of people who attached themselves to the case and my brother. We were inundated with letters of support, gifts, financial contributions (for the civil case we filed after the criminal trial), poems, artwork, a few death threats, a stalker or two, and notes informing us, “Don’t be alarmed, but we left a bomb in your backyard.” Who doesn’t a love a bomb squad descending onto your property on a sunny Saturday afternoon?

  Every conversation was about the case. No matter who we came in contact with, that was all they wanted to talk about. The mailman, the grocery store clerk, the neighbor, the long-lost friend, or the valet. Every thought, every question, every piece of commentary…from their inquisitive minds to my numb brain. I started to shut down, becoming far more introverted than ever before. I could never find the right words to say or the energy to engage in every conversation, so I let people talk at me and around me. I was definitely opinionated and would take part in most discussions if someone had the evidence wrong or was repeating false information. But at any given moment, I was on the verge of tears and so numb I was almost paralyzed. I never got a break from my grief and my anger. We lived it, breathed it, slept it, and had zero reprieve. Even though we received feedback that was often kind, loving, and supportive, I hated all the attention. While I got to share the two most amazing men in my life, my brother and my father, with the world, I wished sometimes they would have all gone away so that I could mourn in peace. But had they all completely disappeared, I would have been left alone in my darkness; I’m not sure that would have been better.