by Kim Goldman
At 10:55 p.m., he stands before the judge and jury, in a dark suit, a stupid, smug look on his face.
Two counts each of first-degree kidnapping, for use of a deadly weapon.
Two counts of robbery, for use of a deadly weapon.
Two counts of assault, for use of a deadly weapon.
Two counts of coercion, for use of a deadly weapon.
One count of conspiracy to commit kidnapping.
One count of conspiracy to commit burglary.
Burglary while in possession of a deadly weapon.
And one gross misdemeanor, conspiracy to commit a crime.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
“Jury, do you all agree this is your verdict?”
A resounding “Yes!”
My father and I both start crying, and my boyfriend just listens. What a surreal moment: I want to take it in, but the phone starts ringing off the hook, along with all the buzzing from a flood of text messages:
Guilty Motherfucker.
Congratulations, Kim.
Where are you? Pick up, we love you.
Cheers, woman!
We can’t stop crying, so proud of you and your dad!
Twelve counts guilty!
I can’t stop crying. I never thought in my lifetime that I would hear the words “O. J. Simpson” and “Guilty” in the same sentence, and it was beautiful.
I hang up with my boyfriend and stay on the line with my dad for a second as we try to let what just happened sink in. We weep, giggle, and curse; after a few minutes, we hang up the phone, whispering, “I love you.”
And then I can’t move. I sit there, clutching my knees, and cry. I can’t process what I am feeling. I am numb, despite every nerve ending being so raw and exposed. My stomach is in knots; I feel dizzy.
I answer the phone when I see Denise’s name on the screen.
“Oh, my God! Wade and I are toasting martinis to you. We are screaming. We are so happy for you. Are you doing okay? You must be going nuts.”
I just cry. I can’t even put a sentence together.
“I don’t know what I feel. It’s weird. I can’t, I just don’t—”
Denise stops me, and says, “It’s a lot to handle. I am sorry I am not there. I wish I could be with you.”
We agree to talk the next day.
Michael calls me back, screaming into the phone, “We nailed that son of bitch! Leslie and I just made a toast in your honor, Kim. This is all because of you and your dad. You know that, right? The book, the pursuit, you did this! You pushed him over the edge.”
Michael is giddy; I am crying.
I answer a few more calls from my friends, but don’t have much to say. No words are coming. I stutter a lot and just listen to my friends share their emotions. The swearing would have made a trucker blush. I love that about my friends. I hadn’t considered that he would be found guilty of anything, ever, so I wasn’t prepared for the feelings I had: a mixture of pride, emptiness, anger, sadness, and elation. I just want my brother. I need him. I just want a hug.
I want Ron to know what had just happened—the killer was finally going to jail.
* * *
After the criminal trial for my brother’s brutal murder, I never spoke the murderer’s name again. Dominick Dunne—a famous author, fellow survivor of a murdered family member, and dear friend since 1995, up until his death in 2009—gave me a gift about nineteen years ago that I have cherished ever since.
He gave me the gift of “the killer.”
While sitting in court one day, during the nine-month criminal trial, he and I were talking, as we always did, about the case, the witnesses, the jurors, the daily gossip, and, of course, the defendant.
I always struggled with saying his name. It seemed so familiar, so friendly, to call him by his first name.
But Dominick called him like he saw him: the killer. “That’s what he is, Kim, a killer.”
From that day on, that is all I have ever referred to him as. Calling him by his nickname gives him too much credit, too much honor. I refuse to be that cozy.
It’s hard enough to hear everyone say it, especially when they just use his first name—even the newscasters did it; they never used his full name, and it drove me nuts. For a long time, I wouldn’t even buy orange juice because I couldn’t stand to see those initials on my receipt!
I know it sounds silly to some—that I don’t utter his name. I can barely write it, but the reverberation in my brain when I hear others say it, or when I see it in print, is really painful. Because I immediately see his face, my brother’s wounds, the verdict—all of that flashes before me, even if just for a second.
Some think that I harbor too much painful, hurtful emotion by not calling him by his name; or maybe by not using it, it gives him more power. I don’t know about their analysis.
What I do know is that he is a killer, and that’s what I call him. Anything else is too humane.
* * *
Sentencing for the killer’s latest crimes are scheduled for December 5, 2008. My dad and I wanted to be there, although we didn’t have a right to be. We would try to get as close as we could. It must have leaked out that my dad and I were en route for the sentencing because as I sat in the airplane waiting for takeoff, on my way to meet my publicist, my dad, Patti, and my stepsister, Lauren, in Vegas, I got the call.
“Kim, it’s Michael. The judge just released a statement that said you and your dad would not be allowed into the courtroom tomorrow, and that there is a lottery system to allow observers in for the sentencing. So you’ll have to wait in line like everyone else.”
We knew we wouldn’t get special treatment, but it was a little weird to be “called out” in a press release that we weren’t invited to the sentencing party of the year.
We showed up at the courthouse the next morning with zero expectations, but a tremendous amount of hope and lots of crossed body parts. We were immediately accosted by the media, which were loitering outside the doors, as well as by members of the public, who gawked and stared at us as we waited in line to go through the metal detector.
One by one we walked through, knowing we were potentially one step closer to seeing karma play out for us, live and up close. We huddled into the elevator—Dad, Michael, Patti, Lauren, and me. There was a lot of tension. I was particularly nervous that I would be this close to seeing that SOB get his ass handed to him and I wouldn’t be able to witness it. For all these years, people kept saying, “Karma will get him, Kim, just wait and see.” I never thought I would be able to see that happen, and I was salivating at the chance to bear witness to a historical moment.
We stood in line with about a hundred or so people, and all of us received a ticket with a number on it, like you would get at a carnival or a raffle. I studied the numbers, and memorized them so that when they were called off, I wouldn’t have to waste my time looking at it to see if I had been picked. Holding that ticket in my pocket, I felt like the little boy Charlie in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory before he unwrapped his candy bar to see if he had the one with the golden ticket inside.
The waiting was horrible. People in line stared at us, but we just kept to ourselves. I met two women who had driven to Las Vegas from the same town where my son and I lived. They introduced themselves to me and said, “We just had to be here, but we never thought we would see you and your family. You are in our hearts and prayers.”
I smiled and thanked them, but I was too fraught with emotion to carry on a reasonable conversation.
Then a court representative came out and asked everyone to gather around.
“Thank you all for being here today and for your attention. We will begin picking numbers. Once your number is called, please line up along the wall outside the courtroom and we will escort you inside when it’s time. Please have your tickets out. Only fifteen of you will be allowed to enter the room.”
My heart was jumping out of my chest. I co
uldn’t believe how badly I wanted and needed to see him in that room. I needed to see him in shackles. I needed him to know that we were there, watching him suffer. I needed to see him stay inside the room as we got to walk out the doors to freedom.
I was trying to stay focused as the numbers were rattled off and I watched people raise their arms in joy as they got picked. My heart sank with each person who wasn’t me. And then I saw Michael’s face turns beet red. They had called his number.
Oh, my God. Pick me, pick me. Call my number. Come on.
Nope.
The last number was called and none of the rest of us were picked. I told Michael to give the ticket to my dad, and my dad burst into tears. I walked away, trying to contain the flood of emotion that I felt. I found myself lost in a corner, heaving, trying to catch my breath.
At least one of us would get to go inside. I knew how much my father had been waiting to face the man who had killed his only son.
I took comfort in that.
I was startled by a hand on my shoulder. It was one of the women from my neighborhood.
“Kim, dear, did you get a ticket?”
I shook my head no as the tears began to flow. “Dear, here, take mine,” she said, extending her hand to me and holding out the winning ticket.
“Oh, my goodness. No, I can’t take it. You came all this way, but you are so sweet.”
“Dear, I came all this way to see justice served for your family. I never expected to see you or your dad here. You need this far more than I do.”
I grabbed her and hugged her tightly and sobbed. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much I need this. I will be eternally grateful to you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Oh, Kim, you have no idea how wonderful it feels to be able to do this for you. Good luck to you, dear.”
And she walked away.
Her selfless generosity has left a permanent spot on my heart.
I walked over to my entourage and told them what happened. My dad and I were in. Lauren was upset, and stormed off down the hallway. A few minutes later she returned with a ticket. A man had kindly offered her his seat after he saw her reaction to the lottery drawing. I knew my dad wanted Patti to take the third ticket. She was torn between her daughter’s desire to be inside and her husband’s request for support. I took my place in line and waited to see who would accompany me inside. My dad and Lauren walked over to where I stood, while Michael and Patti walked toward the viewing room one floor down.
The next few minutes were tense as the public started to be let into the room, one by one. The sheriff was carefully counting tickets versus seats to make sure there was enough room. We were the next ones up to the door when it abruptly shut. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t come this far to have the door slammed in my face!
My dad started to react, and I grabbed his arm and told him to be patient. The killer’s family had just announced their arrival, and they had sent more people than they were allotted spaces for—so the extra seats would be given to his family first.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said under my breath.
Just then, the family, with whom I had shared the gallery years before, sauntered past us, right into the courtroom. One by one, they walked past. No eye contact. Each one walking in was one less seat for me.
I couldn’t take the stress of this anymore. We were right there. I could see inside. I could see empty chairs filling up. My dad huddled close as we waited for the bailiff to come back and let us know if they had space for us.
As the court officer came out, another family member walked in and she shook her head “No.” The door started to close yet again on my face.
I quickly put my arm out to stop the door from shutting and looked at the bailiff and said, “Please, we have the tickets. Please let us in.” She looked around and quickly scooted the three of us inside. We took the first seats we could find.
“Thank you,” I mouthed to her. She nodded and discreetly walked away.
Wow, this was really happening.
As we sat and waited for the killer to take his seat, I studied the room so that I would be able to remember this day forever. I have spent months in numerous courtrooms (a murder trial, a civil case, divorce proceedings, and bankruptcy court: far too many in my life), and regardless of the city/state or the arm of the law, they all have the same dreary, depressed feeling. The only thing that changes is the layout, where the judge sits, the jury box, the tables where the defense and prosecutor sit, and the door that the inmates come through. Other than that, it’s the same stagnant, familiar feeling.
Suddenly he appeared.
The man who had stabbed my brother to death appeared before my eyes. He wore a blue jumpsuit, and was shackled and handcuffed. I stared at him, willing him to look back at me. The last time I saw him, he was parading through the halls of a Santa Monica courthouse, trying to act disinterested in the case we had brought against him.
Then, he had been jovial, arrogant, and tall. Now, he was sullen, depleted, and small.
I took such pleasure in that image. He stood for a few minutes while he addressed the court:
“I stand before you today sorry. I am apologetic to the people of Nevada. When I came here, I came here for a wedding. I didn’t come to reclaim property.”
He sounded so pathetic to me. I relished his misery.
In my everyday life, I am kind, nurturing, loving, warm, but when I see him, and hear his name, I have a visceral reaction. He brings out this disgust and morbidity that I never have felt before.
This time, when I saw him standing there, I didn’t feel hostile or vengeful, I felt pity, but not the compassionate kind. I pitied him.
The judge rattled off his numerous sentences so quickly, I couldn’t keep track: minimums, maximums, consecutive, concurrent. It was information overload. Everybody in the room was jotting notes, and trying to add it all up to determine the actual time he would serve. I don’t think I cared. I just knew it would be a lot.
As the number of years mounted, I felt tremendous relief. The tears flowed, as I bit my nails down to the nubs. I held my dad’s hand and tried to stop my legs from shaking. The emotion was overpowering. Even if it was only one year that he would be unable to sneak into my living room via the news, it would be one year that I could breathe a little easier. So to hear that he wouldn’t be eligible for parole for at least nine years, and could serve a maximum of thirty-three years, I caught my breath. I couldn’t begin to comprehend what that would feel like.
The formal proceedings were done, and everyone began to gather their personal things. He hadn’t left the room yet; he was saying good-bye to his family. My dad got up to leave; he didn’t want to watch. But I needed to.
I needed to watch him say good-bye to his life as he knew it. I needed to see him struggle to hug his sisters because his hands were locked behind his back. I needed to watch him walk back through the doors that would lead him to his jail cell. I needed to hear the door slam behind him. I needed to see him walk down a hall that was not the same as mine.
Bye-bye, you murdering bastard. Bye-bye.
The day he was acquitted of Ron’s murder was the day my life sentence began and he was the warden. For almost two decades, he subconsciously controlled my safety, my anxiety, and my sanity. But on this day, he would start to serve his life sentence. I was finally free.
Or so I thought.
We were scheduled for a press conference right after the sentencing phase, outside the courthouse on the steps. So we huddled close and exited the building to a mob of reporters, some members of the public, and some incredibly loud hecklers. I was immediately put on the defensive. Instantly, I was afraid and uncomfortable.
There were men with big picket signs, yelling, “Goldmans, where’s your money now, Goldmans?”
“You gonna steal his Top Ramen Noodles too, Goldmans?”
“You are racists, Goldmans.”
Just hearing these men say our name over
and over and over again with such venom, with such hate in their voices, scared the crap out of me. Not to mention, they were huge in stature and volatile. In a mob, who the hell knows what they came here to do?
As we gathered around the microphones, we were immediately peppered with questions.
Within a few seconds, we were surrounded by a wall of Nevada state sheriffs, who had obviously felt the intensity of the crowd. The more we ignored the screaming, the louder the men shouted. It was hard to shut it out and not be distracted by the monotonous tone of their chanting.
I have never experienced that kind of hate to my face. I have read the negativity on the Internet and received hate mail, but I never was this close to it. I was afraid for my safety, and afraid for my dad’s safety. It didn’t last long before we were told that we were leaving. We were quickly shuffled through the crowd with the sheriff’s department surrounding us like a barricade. They moved very quickly to our SUV, which was parked down the street, and pushed us inside.
People were outside the car, still shouting at us. The intensity of that moment was so surreal. We had just left the courtroom, where we had experienced this feeling of joy and excitement watching the killer sentenced to a maximum of thirty-three years behind bars. If he was continually denied parole, he would be ninety-four years old before he would be released from jail. To leave the building with that reality and that emotion, and then be instantly ridiculed and screamed at shook the joy right out of me.
I had forgotten: this case, this tragedy, doesn’t just impact us. It will always be bigger than our family.
We got in the car and let out a tremendously deep sigh of relief. I giggled a bit. Michael giggled a bit. My dad, gazing out the window, cried. Lauren and Patti were silent. And then all of a sudden, I heard this whimpering sound. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I turned behind me and was struck to see a young woman, a reporter with ABC who was supposed to escort us to the hotel where we were planning on doing an interview. She obviously had been pushed into the car with us. She was sobbing uncontrollably. Michael leaned over to try and console her and asked if she was okay.
She kept saying, “I think so. I am not sure. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. This is so intense. I’m not sure I’m okay.” Then she continued to cry.