by Kim Goldman
The columns both comforted and disturbed us. It felt good to see Ron lauded as a hero, but it also brought back memories. One day, when he was about six years old, he came home from school crying, complaining that another boy was picking on him. I said, “You know, you gotta fight back.” He did not like the idea, so I added, “You don’t have to look at it as fighting. It’s protecting yourself. If somebody hits you, you can hit back, but I don’t want you to be the one who starts the hitting.” As he grew older, he did learn to stand up for himself and others, but Ron was never a fighter.
“It’s so sad,” Patti commented, “you worry so much about your kids. I used to caution Ron about getting too much sun, driving too fast, things like that. It never occurred to me to warn him about helping a friend.”
Faye Resnick’s book, The Private Diary of a Life Interrupted, was an exposé that damned the defendant, but also painted a sometimes sordid portrait of Nicole.
Kim commented angrily: “I don’t know the first thing about Faye Resnick, but I resent what she’s doing. If she has information to impart, it should be in the courtroom, not between the pages of a trashy book. I think it is sad that she used her friendship with Nicole to tell tales out of school and chronicle lurid escapades, whether true or not. The woman was murdered. Let her rest with dignity.”
Resnick was not the only one cashing in on the tragedy. By now, Kim had come to understand the comment that one of Ron’s Brentwood friends had made on the day of the funeral: “I’m not like the rest of them.”
The fact that Ron’s supposed “close friends,” Jeff Keller and Mike Davis, had opted to attend Nicole’s funeral instead of Ron’s was of no consequence to us, but the fact that they told us they had not attended Nicole’s funeral was.
When I had a chance to confront them, I pointed out, “We saw you on the news at Nicole’s funeral.”
One of them attempted to respond: “We were just dropping off some flowers—”
“—Why did you lie to me?” I asked.
They had no convincing response.
Jeff sold his story to one of the tabloids, stating that he was present when Nicole, Ron, and a few other people were having coffee together at Starbucks. According to Jeff, the defendant had approached their table and stated in a menacing fashion that Nicole was still his wife. The defendant now claimed that he had never seen or heard of Ron. Jeff’s testimony might have been helpful to the prosecution, had he been willing to cooperate with them. In any event, by selling his story his credibility was negated.
How could these people call themselves Ron’s friends? Did they just care about money and their fifteen minutes of fame?
Every member of this family is possessed of a strong, often emotional, and sometimes volatile personality. We laugh when we are happy, cry when we are sad, and fight when we are angry. Tempers flare and feelings often simmer near the surface. Voices are raised. Doors are slammed. Ron’s murder and the strain of seeking justice certainly exacerbated that.
Slowly we began to notice that Michael was away from home a lot. When Patti confronted him, Michael tried to explain that his friends were a great source of support for him, and it seemed that only at their homes could he escape the constant focus on the upcoming trial. Patti knew that this was true. At home, the trial was all we talked about. We analyzed every new shred of evidence that came to light. We discussed every pretrial motion and Judge Ito’s rulings. From a distance, we followed the jury-selection process as best we could. We listened intently to every pundit on every talk show.
Michael said that if he wanted to talk about the case, his friends were always willing, but they also sensed whenever he had enough and would change the subject.
Patti understood this up to a point, but she also believed that Michael’s place, right now, was with his family. Shortly before the Homecoming festivities in Michael’s junior year, the issue exploded into a huge fight. Once more Michael tried to explain that different people handle things in different ways. Patti countered with the charge that he was insensitive and had developed a bad attitude. When the dust settled, they were able to reach a mutual understanding, but we all sensed that this was the tip of the tension iceberg. At times it seemed that not only had Ron been taken from us, but his murder might blow the rest of us apart as well.
The callousness of some people truly astounded us. Halloween masks bearing the likeness of the defendant were a hot item that year.
Kim was still working part time at the bank. Her off time was spent alone in her apartment, depressed and crying.
She maintained the fantasy that she would be able to fly back and forth between San Francisco and Los Angeles in order to attend the trial. She wanted to know every piece of information concerning every development in the case, but it was difficult. She felt disjointed and disconnected from us, the trial proceedings, and, most especially, from Ron.
Her mood darkened further when she received a call from a friend in Chicago who told her a chilling story. Kim’s friend was at a Halloween party in a bar and noticed a young man with brown hair, slicked back, wearing glasses, black pants, and a white T-shirt. The shirt was stained with mock blood splatters, and he carried a white envelope in his hand. Kim’s friend was distressed and asked, “Who are you supposed to be?”
Coolly, he replied, “Ron Goldman.”
Assistant District Attorney Bill Hodgman called one evening to update us on the jury-selection process. His assessment of the jury pool was lukewarm; he worried that their level of education and sophistication was lower than we might have wished, and that this was generally considered a plus for the defense. “We have to deal with what we have,” he explained. The prosecution was running out of peremptory challenges, and the group of potential jurors that was coming up was not much different from the group they had already been through.
We really did not know what to think, but the hint of disappointment in Bill’s voice scared us. We felt like outsiders, with our noses pressed to the window, trying to see inside.
We could no longer bring ourselves to refer to the defendant by name, or by his infamous initials. And so we found ourselves calling him simply “the defendant” or “you-know-who.” In private we often spit out more colorful language.
From the beginning of his incarceration in the Men’s Central Jail, the defendant—through his lawyers—had badgered the county for special privileges. As a result, the star prisoner showered more often, slept later, and enjoyed ten more hours of free time per week than other inmates. He had an exercise bike for his personal use. He spoke on the telephone frequently and seemed to be allowed to watch television whenever he liked.
On days when he appeared in court for jury selection, or for procedural hearings, he arrived back at the jail after dinnertime. Following normal procedures, guards provided him with a cold sandwich. However, after his lead attorney, Robert Shapiro, complained about what he referred to as “mystery meat,” the prison kitchen began to keep a late dinner warm for him.
He complained that his bed was uncomfortable, so he was provided with a special cervical pillow.
Under California law, anyone designated as a “material witness” may visit an inmate—if accompanied by an attorney. No physical contact is allowed between the inmate and the visitor, but, unlike normal visits, no time limit is enforced. So the defense team submitted a huge list of material witnesses that included family members, friends, and acquaintances who would otherwise be allowed only limited—or no—access. One of them was the prisoner’s current girlfriend, Paula Barbieri. Other frequent visitors were former Los Angeles Rams defensive lineman Rosey Grier and NBC president Don Ohlmyer.
Kim entertained the fantasy of somehow tricking the authorities and masquerading as one of the visitors, but all the words she longed to say to the defendant seemed impotent and harmless compared to her internal rage. She knew that nothing she could ever do, or say, would affect him. He is incapable of remorse, she realized.
“Perhaps,” Kim said
, “I will send him a photograph of Ron every year on Ron’s birthday—to remind him of what he took from us.”
Most prisoners in his classification were allowed one hour per week in the jail’s regular visiting room, an area where as many as 240 inmates and relatives were crammed together. To accommodate this prisoner’s needs, however, the county was obliged to widen a private glass booth and install a telephone system that allowed for conference calls.
Defending the special perks, Shapiro fussed, “If we had a man who was allowed bail, we’d be able to meet with him seven days a week … some of the issues may involve character, may involve reputation, may involve life history. …”
Silly us. We thought the whole thing involved a double homicide.
The L.A. County District Attorney’s office announced on November 7 that A. C. Cowlings would not be prosecuted for his role in helping the defendant flee from arrest. This was a positive development for the prosecution, because the deputy district attorney who had been working on the Cowlings case now became the sixth member of the government team. He was thirty-eight-year-old Christopher A. Darden.
The same day, during a hearing before Judge Ito concerning the possibility of sequestering the jury, Defense Attorney Johnnie Cochran, who more and more seemed to be taking center stage away from Robert Shapiro, made a statement. Arguing against sequestering the jury, Cochran declared, “We perceive them as people of good faith who want to dedicate their time, who to a person said, ‘The reason we are here is because we believe in our oaths as jurors and we will not defile or defame that oath.’ I think they take this task as a higher calling.”
We hoped that was true, but were haunted by Bill Hodgman’s earlier assessment.
Our decision to maintain a low profile was becoming increasingly difficult. Daily, the defense team preened before the cameras outside the courthouse, making ludicrous statements on behalf of their star defendant. I began to grumble publicly, and the defense immediately accused me of working with the prosecutors in an orchestrated campaign to deny their client a fair trial. This was blatantly untrue. I had never discussed with the prosecutors what I should or should not say in public.
On Wednesday, November 30, I spoke out, declaring, “I think what you’re seeing is the culmination of months of frustration. For six months now we’ve watched as the defense attorneys have engaged in posturing and manipulation of public opinion. Why is it okay for them to speak and not us? I just felt that it was high time the playing field got leveled.”
It was developing into a feud. Shapiro had the gall to respond by saying that he and the defense team were inclined to “forgive” the families for prejudging the case because we were so emotionally involved. This condescending pap outraged us. I called KABC-TV, saying, “Mr. Shapiro, I don’t need your forgiveness. It is my right, as it is everyone’s, to form, to have, an opinion.”
This added fuel to the fire. The defense again accused the district attorney’s office of orchestrating a media campaign and using the families as part of that effort. “All of a sudden, the D.A. speaks out, the chief of police speaks out, both families speak out,” Cochran complained. “It’s clearly orchestrated.”
Marcia Clark countered, pointing out that they had only themselves to blame. She said that the families were angry at the manner in which the defense had painted all the evidence and the witnesses as tainted and unreliable. “They are outraged at the way you’ve turned this into a circus. If Mr. Cochran does not like the response, then don’t make the first salvo. If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.”
On December 1, Shapiro cried uncle. Arriving for court, he told reporters, “In the spirit of trying to accomplish what we all want, we will take the high road. We no longer will be talking to the press on a daily basis. We will comment when we think it’s necessary. We hope everyone else will take the high road with us.” I said nothing, but I already had a pretty good idea of what a Shapiro-Cochran promise was worth.
On December 9, carrying a Bible in his huge hands, Rosey Grier took the witness stand at a pretrial hearing. In 1986, well after ending his football career, Grier had been ordained a minister. Deputy Sheriff Jeff Stuart claimed to have overheard an explosive private conversation between Grier and the defendent on November 13. Stuart’s report had been filed with Judge Ito and was now held under seal. Neither the prosecutors nor the defense team had seen the material, but the rumor was that Stuart had overheard him confess his guilt to Grier.
Naturally the prosecution wanted to introduce Stuart’s testimony. Of course the defense argued against this, contending that the statement had been made during a privileged conversation with clergy. Bill Hodgman tried to pry any information he could from Grier, but the witness remained stone-faced, aided and abetted by Johnnie Cochran.
Bill asked Grier what he and the defendant talked about during their frequent visits.
“We go over Scriptures,” Grier replied. “We pray. We discuss various people in the Bible, problems they had, talk about who God is … what is sin. We talk about all kinds of things in the Bible.”
During a later session of the hearing, Deputy Sheriff Jeff Stuart took the stand. Carefully warned not to divulge the actual statement that he said he overheard, Stuart testified that he was in a control booth about ten feet away from the two men, filling out paperwork, when a loud bang caused him to look up. The defendant had slammed down a phone. Then he slammed his fist against a table. He “appeared to be crying,” Stuart testified. “He appeared to be very upset.”
Asked to describe the defendant’s tone of voice, Stuart replied, “He was yelling … it was very loud, in a raised voice.”
Throughout the testimony on this issue, the defendant seemed almost bemused. He frequently smiled and arched his eyebrows.
Finally Judge Ito ruled that the statement should remain confidential.
That was an outrage. In my mind, the situation was analogous to a church full of parishioners overhearing something in a confessional. No, the priest could not be compelled to testify, but the members of the congregation certainly could.
We thought truth was the issue. If this man had confessed, we wanted the entire world to know about it.
For all of us, sleep was still an elusive commodity, and when it did come, it was often distorted by haunting imagery. “They say you don’t dream in color, but they’re wrong,” Kim declared. Bright yellow was the color she had seen. The restaurant was very dark, and the bright yellow shirt that Ron was wearing almost glowed. Kim walked over to him. Just as Ron started to speak to her, he disappeared into the darkness.
In another of her dreams, we were back in Buffalo Grove, Illinois, where Ron and Kim grew up. I was pestering her to hurry up and Ron was waiting outside. The three of us got into the car and Ron drove us off to the coroner’s office. We were going there to identify Ron’s body—but Ron was driving the car! Suddenly Ron disappeared and Kim found herself alone in a huge, antiseptic room. She pulled open a metal door to find Ron’s and Nicole’s bodies lying on the slab, covered with blood.
Normally, when one awakes from a nightmare, reality is welcome. But not for Kim. Not for any of us.
The pain in Kim was so deep that I tried to hide my own anguish from her. But my strategy did not always work. When we spoke on the phone, tears welled up. My voice choked. I knew that I was adding to her pain, but I could not stop.
What I was not aware of was that Kim had some unfinished, painful business that she had not yet faced. In the spring of 1994, a few months prior to Ron’s death, she was assigned to write a paper for her sociology course. Her task was to analyze an ongoing, interpersonal conflict. Her first thought was to focus on her relationship with Sharon, but a series of events had occurred over the past couple of years that changed her mind. Her relationship with Sharon was beyond repair. Instead, she focused on some troubling aspects of her relationship with Ron.
Ron had looked after Kim all through their childhood, but of course, once he reached a
dulthood he left home in pursuit of his own goals. Not only did he leave Kim physically, but it sometimes felt, to her, as if he became increasingly disinterested in her—unless he wanted something. The feeling opened old and very deep wounds in Kim that could be summed up in a single word: abandonment.
In the paper, Kim had revisited a specific pain that arose in 1993, when she was in school in Santa Barbara. Ron had a heavy foot when it came to driving the California freeways, and he had managed to accumulate his share of speeding tickets. Kim and I have also put in our time at traffic school, so we never came down on him too hard.
But this time, since he was driving a friend’s Jeep and had several outstanding tickets, the police had thrown him in jail. Ron was reluctant to call me. Instead, he called Kim. Kim had made the drive from Santa Barbara, and loaned him the necessary cash.
Ron thanked her profusely, but as time passed he never mentioned the incident and seemed to forget his obligation to pay her back.
“My feelings were hurt,” she confided, “and it began to gnaw at me. I saw him spending money on his apartment, and his girlfriend, without ever apologizing for not paying me back. I got madder and madder, but I kept it all inside. It was never about the actual money, I just wanted him to acknowledge what I’d done for him. I was always bad with confrontation and I didn’t want anybody mad at me. I especially didn’t want my big brother mad at me.”
In December of 1993, during the holidays, Kim finally wrote Ron a bitter letter—the only gift she gave him that year. She vented some of her feelings about the things she had done for him over the years, and how she thought that Ron took her for granted. A single line in Kim’s letter summed up how she felt that Ron had treated her: “You do for me and maybe I will do for you.”