His Name Is Ron

by Kim Goldman

  We sought an unspecified amount of “punitive and exemplary” damages “in order to send out a message … that such vicious and outrageous savagery inflicted by one human being upon another shall be met with the severest of civil penalties.”

  We hired attorney Robert Tourtelot, who also represented Detective Mark Fuhrman. Bob is a congenial fellow, and we trusted him.

  Bob Tourtelot declared that he was confident he could get a substantial judgment.

  Kim spoke for all of us when she said, “It doesn’t have anything to do with money. If we can make the killer feel a quarter of the pain we feel, it’s worth it.”

  I vowed publicly to “haunt the halls of justice.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Finally the preliminary bouts were over. It was time for the main event.

  Dr. Robin Cotton, director of Cellmark Diagnostics in Germantown, Maryland, the nation’s largest private DNA laboratory, took the witness stand. She would be the first of three DNA experts who would testify about the results of three separate rounds of tests. Neatly drawn charts helped illustrate her points.

  Deputy D.A. George “Woody” Clarke, who had vast experience prosecuting cases on DNA evidence, led Dr. Cotton through a basic primer of what DNA is and how it can link evidence to a particular human being. She explained that DNA is present in nearly all human cells, and that each person inherits a combination of characteristics from his or her parents. In humans more than 90 percent of all DNA is identical—that is what makes us human. But the remaining 10 percent is unique, and that is what makes each person distinctive. Dr. Cotton said, “If we make the assumption that a blueprint contains all the information for how to build your house, the analogy is that DNA contains all the information on how to build you.”

  This was certainly the most complex subject the jury would have to consider, yet Dr. Cotton explained it with remarkable clarity. Gazing directly at the jury and speaking in a soft, clear voice, she said, “You can look around even in a very large room … and you’ll see that, with the exception of identical twins, people are different. Even closely related people, brothers, two brothers, are different. You can always tell them apart. And the exception is identical twins. And identical twins are identical because they have identical DNA.”

  Aha! Kim thought. Will the defense now try to convince us that the killer’s evil twin, Bozo, committed these murders?

  Skewering the defense’s attack before it was launched, Dr. Cotton told the jurors that even if a sample was contaminated or degraded, it would never point falsely toward a suspect. “There is no environmental effect that can work to simply change one type and make it become another,” Dr. Cotton testified. “You may lose the type altogether. You may degrade the DNA so much that you can’t type it, but you won’t just change types from one to another. It doesn’t happen.”

  Due in large measure to the frequent objections of Defense Attorney Peter Neufeld—Barry Scheck’s longtime partner—Dr. Cotton was on the stand for two days before she was able to testify about specific results. Near the end of the second day, prosecutors introduced into evidence X rays that portrayed the results of the genetic tests as a series of striking black “bands” arranged in identifiable patterns. As the “Scheme Team” huddled about the defense table, inspecting its own copy of the set of X rays, someone must have offered a quip, for Simpson suddenly burst into laughter. He covered his mouth quickly and worked to regain a serious expression.

  We wondered if he would still be smiling when Dr. Cotton finished her testimony.

  Over the next few days her testimony became very specific, concentrating on two samples:

  • Only one person in 170 million has the genetic characteristics of the blood found near Ron and Nicole’s bodies; the defendant’s blood matched those characteristics.

  • Only one person in 6.8 billion has the genetic characteristics of the blood found on the sock in the defendant’s bedroom; Nicole’s blood had those characteristics.

  Kim worried about whether or not the jury was getting it, but she noticed that Juror 6 seemed very interested in the testimony. He leaned forward in his chair, writing copious notes. Dominick Dunne noted the change in him as well, and offered the opinion that he thought the man was upset and disappointed that it was being proved to him that the “killer” had actually done it.

  Another DNA expert followed Dr. Cotton to the stand and, over the course of several days, added more incontrovertible evidence. Gary Sims, a veteran analyst at the California State Department of Justice laboratory in Berkeley, testified that the DNA in four bloodstains on the glove found behind the guest house on the killer’s property matched that of either Ron or Nicole. Prosecutors said that at least one stain on the same glove was consistent with the defendant’s blood.

  Various blood samples collected from inside the defendant’s Ford Bronco matched the DNA patterns of the killer, Ron, and Nicole.

  Patti and Kim were astonished. Here was the “trail of blood” that led from the crime scene, to the Bronco, to the killer’s home, and even into his bedroom. Had there been any shadow of a doubt, it was now permanently washed away. The man sitting at the defense table was indeed the killer who murdered Ron and Nicole.

  Kim sat in the front row, weeping silently. The killer stared straight ahead, occasionally whispering to his lawyers. He did not seem to be paying attention to the testimony. Kim wanted to ask: Are we boring you?

  Repeatedly leaping out of his chair like some kind of mopheaded jack-in-the-box, Barry Scheck hammered away, using a mixed bag of accusations: He accused police of sloppy procedures; implied that one lab incorrectly interpreted the statistical significance of DNA matches; inferred that police had sprinkled the socks with blood after the fact.

  Later Assistant D.A. Lisa Kahn, in a welcome bit of logic, pointed out that some of the blood samples were degraded while others were not. This suggested that they had been subjected to different degrees of exposure to the elements. However, if the drops had been planted or tampered with in the lab, they would have degraded at the same rate. “The evidence shows that neither a lone officer nor a cadre of plotters could have accomplished such a frame-up,” she concluded.

  Wrapping up his questioning of Sims, Assistant D.A. Rockne Harmon moved to counter Scheck’s suggestion that the samples were “cross-contaminated.” His voice heavy with sarcasm, Rockne asked, “Can DNA fly?”

  “I don’t think so,” Sims responded, laughing agreeably.

  “I mean, there are no scientific studies that have shown that, are there?”

  “No. I don’t think it has wings.”

  There was simply no way to deny the dramatic impact of the DNA evidence, so the defense returned to its conspiracy theme. In Scheck’s fantasy world, he saw the investigators trading hair and fiber samples and splashing blood about in a grand, felonious conspiracy.

  There were apparently no limits to the fertile imaginations of Scheck and his compadres on the “Scheme Team.” Way back in September, KNBC-Channel 4 had reported that DNA tests of the defendant’s socks had revealed the presence of Nicole’s blood. Since the tests had not yet been performed, the report was erroneous. Now that we knew that Nicole’s blood was, indeed, on the sock, Scheck found grounds for suspicion. Did KNBC know that it was Nicole’s blood because they knew that detectives had planted it there? Obviously the entire news staff at KNBC had plotted with the police, the D.A.’s office, the coroner, the scientists and—who knows—Saddam Hussein?—to frame the wonderful, caring human being who was paying Scheck’s enormous fee.

  Scheck had built his career on proclaiming the reliability of DNA evidence in order to win the release of prisoners who had been wrongly convicted. Now, as DNA evidence had proved to the entire world who killed Ron and Nicole, here he was, selling his soul in an attempt to convince the jury of the preposterous notion that—in this case—the evidence had been planted.

  Patti had never worn the stepmother label. She was always more of a friend than a parental figu
re to Ron and Kim. But now, as Patti and Kim spent every day together, driving to court, listening to the hours of testimony, and returning home, they developed a closer, more adult-to-adult, friendship. It was one of the positive developments to come out of this horrendous experience.

  During the early-morning hours, negotiating the maddening traffic on the freeway, they shared their feelings about everything. Sometimes that meant tears and frustration, other times anger, and sometimes brief moments of levity. Before long, they were finishing each other’s sentences and blurting out the same reactions. “We’re spending way too much time together,” they joked.

  In some respects this was true. Patti checked in by phone with Michael and Lauren several times a day, and tried her best to spend quality time with them. She came to all of Michael’s home tennis matches and, whenever possible, drove Lauren to and from special events. But occasionally simmering resentments surfaced and hurt feelings arose.

  Michael was the one who tended to turn inward. As far as the trial was concerned, he was optimistic. He thought: This is going great. The DNA evidence was undeniable. You can picture numbers. One in how many billion people? There aren’t even that many people on the whole planet. This is cut and dried! You can’t argue with these numbers.

  But, in fact, Michael also realized that we were living in a complex and crazy world. On one of the few occasions when he was able to come to court, he found himself transfixed by the jury. He was raised not to think in racial terms, but he now found himself worrying about the large contingent of black faces in the jury box. Can they fly in the face of this incredible evidence? he wondered.

  As the days stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, however, he became saturated. At times, it felt as if the family did not think about or care about or talk about anything other than the trial. Michael was in school from 7:30 A.M. to 2:30 P.M. Tennis practice ran from 3:15 until 5:00. Every day, right after tennis practice, he drove to the cemetery to spend a few minutes with Ron. He visited the grave more often than any of the rest of us, keeping his grief private.

  But he was a high school junior, an adult-in-the-making. There was a future out there and Michael was busy preparing to face it.

  In the evenings at home, when he would try to talk to Patti about something that happened in school, she too often responded with a “Shhh” because she was watching trial coverage or commentary on TV. Michael wanted to shout, “You’ve been there all day. You’ve watched the news all night. Enough!” He had other things to tell us and other news to share, but no one had time to listen. By the end of tennis season, he and his doubles partner had amassed a remarkable record of thirty-three victories and only three defeats, but he had difficulty getting us to share his elation. To Michael, it just did not feel like home anymore.

  He began to do his homework at his friend Alicia’s house. Most evenings, he did not come home until 11:00.

  He knew that Patti wanted him around more, and sometimes she grew angry enough to call him, asking him to come home. But they never really talked about it too much. Michael did not want to tell her, or any of us, how he was feeling.

  EIGHTEEN

  Brian flew to Los Angeles to join us for Memorial Day weekend.

  On Saturday we faced a task we had all been avoiding. We knew that it was going to be a wrenching experience and we did not want to do it more than once, so we had waited until the entire family was present. With Brian here, it was time.

  It was difficult to believe that nearly a year had passed since we had cleaned out Ron’s apartment. At that time, we were unable to do much more than pack his belongings into cardboard boxes and plastic bags. Everything was still stored in our garage.

  We spent several hours going through the contents of those boxes, deciding what to do with the tangible remainders of Ron’s stolen life. We cried softly throughout the day, and often one of us had to leave the room to regain composure.

  Here was a volleyball we had given Ron for his birthday. There were a number of softball bats and, of course, his tennis racquets.

  Michael came across Ron’s tennis shirt from Oak Park High, which brought back memories of the season when Ron coached his team. “I’m not surprised he kept this shirt,” Michael said. “It was just like him to do that.” He asked if he could keep the shirt in his room.

  We found a tie that Ron had worn to Mike Pincus’s wedding and decided that it would be nice to give that, along with a red and turquoise pullover, a red jacket, and a bandana, to Mike.

  I found the black-and-white houndstooth sport jacket that he wore occasionally, and remembered how incredibly handsome he looked in it.

  Ron, age three and a half; Kim, age one, in Chicago

  Ron and Kim, 1974

  Ron’s kindergarten photo

  Kim and Ron, December 1975

  Fred’s second marriage, 1977

  Ron’s high school graduation from Adlai Stevenson High School, Prairie View, Illinois, 1986

  Ron and Patti with Kim at her Sweet Sixteen party, Agoura, California, December 1987

  Ron and Fred at Patti’s mom, Elayne’s, birthday dinner, April 1993

  Ron’s birthday party, July 2, 1993: Lauren, Michael, Ron, and Fred

  Lauren’s Bat Mitzvah, November 1993: Fred and Ron jamming to “Old Time Rock ’n’ Roll” Photograph courtesy of Randy Moss/Ram Video Productions

  The family at Lauren’s Bat Mitzvah

  Ron’s family at the grave site

  Photograph courtesy of Annie Leibovitz/Contact Press Images

  The criminal trial prosecution team

  Members of our dedicated, outstanding legal team from the civil trial: (left to right) Steve Foster, Yvette Molinaro, Peter Gelblum, Dan Petrocelli, Ed Medvene, Tom Lambert, Carolyn Walker

  Photograph courtesy of Susan Pszonowsky

  Photograph courtesy of Caroline Frye

  Here was a sweater that Ron’s former girlfriend, Jacqui, had given him. She had asked us if she could have it, and it was fine with us. We found his bowling ball and a few books. There were several Marilyn Monroe posters that he had collected. One of them had been a birthday present from Kim.

  We also gave a bandana and a vest to Ron’s friend Pete. Kim searched for a contract signed by Ron and Pete. She reminded us that Ron and Pete had joked about becoming the world’s biggest gigolos. They had made a pact that the first one to get married would have all his wedding expenses paid by the other, including a lavish honeymoon. They had committed their pledge to writing and, after Kim witnessed it, it had been filed away for posterity.

  Kim set aside Ron’s cozy down comforter. She wanted to keep it, but was not ready to take it just yet.

  We decided to give many items to the people at the cerebral palsy center and to another charitable organization where Patti had worked a few years earlier, the Coalition Against Household Violence.

  After separating the items we intended to pass along to Ron’s friends, we placed what remained in a trunk. It suddenly occurred to Kim and me that doing this was analogous to Ron himself. All of his belongings were now stored in this one simple place and Ron was an uncomplicated, simple person.

  Kim found the bitter letter she had written to Ron in December 1993, when she accused him of taking her for granted. Had life progressed the way it was supposed to the letter would have been long forgotten, but now she agonized over the question: Is that how he remembered me? It bothered her deeply that he had saved the letter, and she wished that she had never written it.

  Kim and I came across a folder labeled “Ankh” that we had previously overlooked. As I read through it, I was hit with an amalgam of emotions: surprise, pride, sadness, remorse. The folder showed, in amazing detail, plans for the restaurant or club that Ron had dreamed of opening. Architectural sketches, names of potential vendors, stacks of business cards, projected costs, and menu ideas filled the pages.

  The shape of the building was unique, with a top curved portion creating a bar area and dance floor. The s
eating areas resembled arms, extending out on either side. The entranceway flared downward. The exterior of the club would not have a sign; it would simply have a large symbol on the door, which, in fact, was the very shape of the building, if viewed from above. It was the ankh, the Egyptian symbol for eternal life, the ornament that Ron had worn around his neck; Kim was wearing that necklace now.

  She had mentioned these restaurant plans of Ron’s during the Barbara Walters interview almost a year earlier, but I had no idea how extensive they actually were. In an instant, I knew why he had not shown them to me.

  My primary conflict with Ron was what I had perceived to be his lackadaisical attitude toward a career. After he dropped out of college, I was tough on him, and my fatherly concern deepened over the next several years.

  Life was sweet, and Ron loved it. Not so sweet were the bills he accumulated. At one point, he fell hard for a young woman with expensive tastes, and the money he made waiting tables just was not enough. For a time, he took a white-collar position with a headhunting firm, but that job necessitated an expensive wardrobe. His bills continue to mount. Little by little he got in over his head.

  By 1992, he was $12,000 in debt and creditors were hounding him. I took a tough-love approach and told him he’d have to handle it himself. We went to a financial counselor, consolidated his debt, and Ron made the effort to get out of the hole. It was way too deep, and ultimately Ron filed for bankruptcy.