After the funeral, Michael drove Brian and his dad back to their room at the Radisson Hotel.
Brian wanted to drive, but Michael insisted. He thought: For days I’ve felt my life spinning out of control. I’ve lost my brother. I’ve carried his casket. I’ve seen my family in the worst kind of pain imaginable and there is nothing I can do about it. I just need to be in control of something, even if it is only the wheel of my car.
What seemed like hundreds of people filled our house.
While I was cold and dead inside, Patti, as always, was there for everyone else. She struggled with her obvious pain, but still managed to be available for each of us. I will never understand her strength, but I knew then, perhaps more than ever, just how much I loved her.
Kim continued to cry. Well-meaning words of comfort did nothing for her. She and Ron had often talked about family and religion. Ron believed in God, whereas Kim was always filled with doubts, questions, and skepticism. Although Ron did not keep kosher, or attend services regularly, he enjoyed the traditions of our Jewish faith. They held a special meaning for him. Kim analyzed. Ron accepted. Now Kim thought: I am not an existential person. If I am here, sitting in this chair, that is exactly where I am. Don’t tell me I’m floating in some third dimension somewhere. I saw my brother in that casket, and I saw that casket go into the ground, and that’s where Ron is.
Jeff Keller and Mike Davis, whom we had not seen at the funeral, now stopped by to pay their respects. They were accompanied by another young man from Brentwood, who drew Kim aside and said, in a cryptic tone, “I’m not like that. I’m not like the rest of them.” Kim had no idea what he was talking about.
As we watched the taped coverage of Nicole Simpson’s funeral, which was held at about the same time as Ron’s, we were surprised to see Jeff and Mike there. Why had they gone to Nicole’s funeral when they were supposedly Ron’s friends?
Others from Brentwood seemed more caring. Andrea Scott, a young woman Ron had been dating, came to the house to pay her respects and asked if she might have a moment alone with Kim. Kim was sitting in the living room, crying. Andrea reached into her pocket and pulled out a ring. “I think Ron would want you to have this,” she said, handing the ring to Kim.
The ring had three intertwined circles. Andrea told Kim that when Ron had given it to her he had told her that one circle represented their first date, the second, their engagement, and the third, their wedding.
“I know he was only kidding around,” Andrea confided, “but I thought his comments were so endearing—I just want you to have this.”
Kim was touched beyond measure. She placed the ring on her finger, silently changing the meaning of the three intertwined circles to represent Ron, Dad, and Kim—always connected and bound to each other.
On Thursday evening we were told that Simpson was going to be arrested for the murders. We knew that this meant that the police had “probable cause” to believe that Simpson had committed the murders. In the midst of our grief, it was tempting to accept this as a judgment, and to vent our rage. But throughout this nightmare we had been too distraught to pay close attention to the details of the police investigation, and we did not wish to disrupt the process.
“Let the system work,” I counseled. “We’ll go through the system. We’ll hear all the evidence.”
We did think it was absurd that Simpson would be allowed to turn himself in the following morning at ten o’clock. That was a joke. Only if you are a celebrity or wealthy do you get to “turn yourself in.” We asked ourselves: Why don’t they just arrest him? Who is this person who gets the kid-glove treatment and makes these decisions for himself? No one suspected of with double murder should get special treatment.
Throughout the week we had heard reports of people saying, “He’s O. J. Simpson, the sports hero, he couldn’t have done it.”
Michael, as the family’s resident sports fan, had his own perspective on that. He loves to play sports and loves to watch events on TV, especially basketball, but he has never been one to put a sports figure on a pedestal. To Michael, a hero is someone who does a good deed, someone who gives to charities, someone who cares about other people. A hero risks his life to save another. A hero pulls a kid out of a burning building. A hero is a teacher who turns a kid’s life around. A hero is not someone who scores four touchdowns in a football game.
On Friday morning, like much of America, we gathered anxiously in front of the television to watch the official arrest. The live coverage bounced between scenes at the courthouse and Parker Center Police Headquarters. Because the crime was a double homicide, the charge included “special circumstances,” and reporters discussed the impact of that. The only possible sentences for a person convicted of homicide with “special circumstances” would be life without parole—or death.
Our frustration grew as the deadline was extended from 10:00 A.M. to 11:00 A.M. Then it was extended again, to 11:45. What was going on? we wondered.
Finally, an extraordinarily tense-looking Commander David J. Gascon appeared on the screen and began to speak:
“This morning, detectives from the Los Angeles Police Department, after an exhaustive investigation, which included interviews of dozens of witnesses, a thorough examination and analysis of the physical evidence both here and in Chicago, sought and obtained a warrant for the arrest of O. J. Simpson, charging him with the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Lyle Goldman.
“Mr. Simpson, in agreement with his attorneys, was scheduled to surrender this morning to the Los Angeles Police Department. Initially that was eleven. It then became eleven-forty-five. Mr. Simpson has not appeared.”
There were audible gasps from those assembled as Commander Gascon continued: “The Los Angeles Police Department, right now, is actively searching for Mr. Simpson. The Los Angeles Police Department is also very unhappy with the activities surrounding his failure to surrender, and we will be further looking into those activities, including anyone who may have intervened on his behalf…. Mr. Simpson is a wanted murder suspect. Two counts of murder, a terrible crime. We need to find him. We need to apprehend him. We need to bring him to justice. And we need to make sure that we find him as quickly as possible.”
And so the supposedly great O. J. Simpson, the sports hero who “couldn’t have done it,” was now a fugitive from justice.
I thought: If you’re not guilty, you don’t have to flee. You have nothing to fear if you’re not guilty. Why do you flee if you’re an innocent man?
If I were in his shoes and I were innocent, they would have to tape my mouth shut, put a muzzle on me, and tie my hands down to keep me from ripping the tape and muzzle off and screaming “I’m not guilty!” I would demand a lie detector test. I would invite every expert in the land to witness it and want to take the test on national television in front of the world. I would never stop crying out, “I am an innocent man!”
But I would not run away.
Simpson’s long-time friend Robert Kardashian appeared on the screen, reading what was described by some reporters as a suicide note. It did not sound like a suicide note to us, and suicide was the last thing that we wanted to happen. All of us desperately wanted this man to stand trial; we were certain that the American justice system would find the truth.
The phone rang. One of our neighbors informed us that Channel 2 had spotted the fugitive on the freeway. He was being driven by a friend, A. C. Cowlings, in a white Ford Bronco. Reporters said that Simpson was hidden in the back. They said that he had a gun.
Kim began to pace.
We watched intently. The vision of people lining the overpasses, holding signs, urging him on, nauseated us. They were rooting for an accused murderer! I said, “These people are warped.”
Michael raged, “Wait a minute! What is this? It’s not normal. He’s a fugitive. He ran from the cops. Catch him and haul him to the police station!”
Kim thought: Just get him in jail. Lock him up. If it were anyone else, they would have blown him away by now.
Instead, twenty police cars surrounded the white Bronco, following it at a methodical pace. Time seemed suspended. We sat immobilized in front of the TV screen. We had planned on going to Friday night services at our temple, but none of us was going to move until this man was in custody.
As word of this unbelievable drama spread, our house once again filled with friends and neighbors. Nobody left the room.
Melanie Duben held Lauren’s hand. Lauren thought: Oh my God, what is going to happen? If he shoots himself, we’ll never find out exactly what happened. He might be the only person who knows.
Kim realized that she had chewed through the skin of her lower lip.
I paced like a caged animal.
Someone in the room yelled, “He’s such a coward he can’t even shoot himself.”
“No,” Kim said quickly, “then we’ll never know.”
The chase continued until the macabre caravan reached Simpson’s Brentwood estate. By now it was dark. Helicopter news teams provided live coverage from overhead. The white Bronco sat in the driveway. Hundreds of supporters gathered outside the gate chanting “Free O.J.” and rocking police cars. The LAPD Special Weapons and Tactics team surrounded the house. Cowlings spoke to hostage negotiators. For nearly an hour the fugitive sat in the Bronco, cradling a blue steel revolver and demanding to speak to his mother. He finally put his gun down and emerged about 8:50 P.M., carrying a framed family photo. He entered the house, used the bathroom, drank a glass of orange juice, and called his mother before finally being transported by police motorcade to Parker Center for booking.
Sunday was Father’s Day. Over the years, Ron and Kim always pooled their money on a gift for me and went together to pick out a card. As they got older, the cards became more personal and meaningful, and were always a special treat for me.
This Father’s Day was very different. Kim walked into a drugstore and began to peruse the card selection. “I was mortified,” she said. “Most of the verses spoke of the impact a father has on a son, dreams for the future, passing on the lessons of life, and gratitude for the years gone by. How could there be a Father’s Day card to fit this empty, sad, grief-stricken reality? I was immobilized. I didn’t know what to do.”
She finally settled on the card that she would give me. Then she found one that she felt Ron would have chosen. She bought them both.
“Shock does funny things to you,” she said later. “A part of me was convinced that Ron would thank me for buying the card and sign it himself. A part of me knew that was insane.”
Later, at home, she signed her card. Then she wrote Ron’s name on the one she had selected for him. She had only three letters to scrawl, but it seemed to take forever.
Shortly after we had moved to Los Angeles, Ron and Kim had bought us a lemon tree as a wedding present. We planted it in the backyard.
For seven years it had never bloomed.
This year it did.