It was family day in court. For the first day of its presentation, the defense would call the defendant’s daughter Arnelle, his sister, Carmelita Simpson-Durio, and his mother, Eunice. All three arrived in court dressed in pale yellow.
Johnnie Cochran lost no time in reminding the jury of the defendant’s glorious football past, eliciting a response from Arnelle that she “was born the same day my dad won the Heisman Trophy.” She recalled that Nicole had been ill—sometime around Mother’s Day of 1994—and her father “went over to her house one day to help … with the kids and to bring her some soup and medicine.”
Arnelle said there was “an ongoing joke within the family” that her father would never prepare for a trip ahead of time. He always hurried around at the last moment.
On the day after the murders, she described her father as “very upset, emotional, confused.” That evening he sat on a couch, next to his mother, muttering about the television coverage. “He was numb,” she said.
Throughout her testimony, Arnelle frequently locked eyes with her father, who listened with a wide smile on his face.
Carmelita Simpson-Durio echoed this testimony, characterizing her brother as “shocked and dazed” that night.
Finally Carl Douglas helped the ailing Eunice Simpson into the witness chair. She spent only about twenty minutes on the stand, telling the jury how she treated her son’s childhood rickets with “tender loving care,” detailing the family history of arthritis, and describing her son’s behavior on the night following the murders.
When the prosecutors decided not to cross-examine the defendant’s mother, Douglas helped her back to her seat. Cochran brought her a cup of water.
In contrast to the plodding pace of the prosecution, the defense sped through numerous early witnesses in their own hectic version of a “rush to judgment.” The prosecution argued that the murders occurred about 10:15 or 10:20 P.M. But the defense produced various Brentwood residents who claimed that they heard no barking or wailing dog until after 10:30 P.M. One by one Marcia and Chris wore them down during cross-examination, getting them to admit that they had not really paid attention to the time or had originally told police a different story. One witness was forced to admit that he wanted to peddle his story to a tabloid magazine or talk show.
Robert Heidstra’s testimony backfired on the defense. He claimed that he had heard two men arguing that night, near the scene of the crime. One man exclaimed, “Hey, hey, hey!” The other responded, but his words were drowned out by two dogs barking loudly.
When Michael heard this, he knew that it was Ron shouting, “Hey, hey, hey!” It was Ron, trying to save Nicole’s life. That was in his character. He stood a little over 6 feet tall and weighed 171 pounds, but he did not hesitate to take on a former pro football player. “Ron was definitely a hero,” Michael said. “He is my hero.”
Patti agreed. “Ron was not a fighter and he was not a confrontational person, but he would not have shied away from someone in trouble.”
Heidstra originally said that he heard the shouts about 10:30 P.M., but under cross-examination, admitted that he had not looked at his watch, and thus could not be sure of the time. Then Chris drew out a damaging admission. The witness testified that he had seen a white sport utility vehicle fleeing the area. He described it as a Jeep or a Chevrolet Blazer, but he conceded that it could have been a Ford Bronco.
Here was curious testimony. Jim Merrill is an employee of the Hertz Corporation. Before dawn on June 13, 1994, he met his company’s famous spokesman at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport as his red-eye flight came in from Los Angeles. He described the defendant as relaxed and cordial. Merrill took the defendant’s golf clubs, in preparation for the scheduled match.
A few hours later the defendant called Merrill to inform him that he had to return to Los Angeles immediately and that he wanted his golf clubs back. His voice was “cracking,” Merrill said. “It sounded like he was crying.”
Merrill raced to O’Hare in an attempt to return the clubs. But he missed the defendant’s departure, and sent the clubs back to Los Angeles on a later flight.
Carl Douglas asked Merrill if he subsequently spoke to the defendant about his clubs.
“Yes,” Merrill replied.
“What day was that?”
“That was the following day. Tuesday.”
Douglas asked, “Did you call him, or did he call you?”
“He called me,” Merrill answered.
Golf clubs? We wondered what kind of man is worried about his golf clubs when his ex-wife has just been butchered? Is he that obsessed with the stupid game? Or was there something about the golf bag and its contents that was of deep concern?
The defense brought Dr. Robert Huizenga to the stand. In the week following the murders, Robert Shapiro had hired Dr. Huizenga to examine his client twice, and to evaluate his “mental status.” The doctor, a former team physician of the Los Angeles Raiders, testified that the defendant “looked like Tarzan” but walked like “Tarzan’s grandfather,” and suffered from a host of football injuries that limited the movement of his knees, ankles, elbows, wrists, and hands. However, the doctor’s examination revealed “no evidence of bruises, scrapes, or other injuries” that could have resulted from a struggle. The doctor said that the cuts on the defendant’s left hand “appeared” to have been caused by broken glass, but could have been caused by a knife.
On cross-examination Brian Kelberg focused on the key point. He forced Dr. Huizenga to admit that the defendant “certainly could hold a knife.” At another point Brian asked if the doctor had discovered anything during his examination that would have prevented the defendant “from murdering two human beings on June 12.”
“No,” the doctor replied.
When Brian turned his attention to the defendant’s mental status during that fateful week, Dr. Huizenga waxed poetic. “The tack I took,” he said, “was to address his mental status problems and his insomnia and his difficulty handling this incredible, incredible stress that maybe no other human being short of Job has endured.”
Excuse me, Patti thought. You want to talk about stress?
Kim could only mutter, “Waah, give him a tissue.”
Brian’s voice grew hard. He asked, “If he had murdered two human beings, Nicole Brown Simpson and her friend Ronald Goldman, would that be the kind of thing that would cause a great weight to be on a man’s shoulders?”
After Judge Ito overruled Robert Shapiro’s objection, Doctor Huizenga replied, “If someone hypothetically killed someone, they certainly would have a great weight on their shoulders.”
Brian produced evidence that “someone” literally killed “someone.” When he showed the doctor the autopsy photos of Ron, Dr. Huizenga appeared rattled. He had to take a few deep breaths before he could continue. Brian asked him, if Ron had suffered hand injuries while backing away, could that explain why the defendant’s body showed no evidence of a struggle.
“Yes,” the suddenly subdued doctor answered.
Brian presented the now-famous exercise video that the defendant had recorded about three weeks prior to the murders. It seemed to produce a mixed reaction in the courtroom. We saw a man dancing across the screen, flashing his phony smile, demonstrating aerobic exercises with apparent ease. Others saw a man having difficulty with his knees. The defendant himself laughed and chuckled and pointed to his own image on the screen.
We were not laughing when the tape picked up the killer’s sick attempt at humor. As he was shadowboxing, jabbing with his fists, he quipped, “I’m telling you, you just gotta get your space in if you’re working out with the wife, if you know what I mean. You could always blame it on working out.”
Two horrible events reminded us once again that life is fragile.
Reporter Robin Clark was covering the trial for The Philadelphia Inquirer. His colleagues regarded him as a fantastic wordsmith. On those rare occasions when Dominick Dunne could not attend the trial, Robin would take his seat. A genuinely nice guy, he was usually attired in blue jeans and a sport jacket. He was always pleasant to us, and, like Dominick, he seemed to be in our corner.
Robin’s cousin Nicole Weaver and her friend Melissa Penn were visiting L.A., and on Friday, August 4, Robin decided to take them for a drive along the Pacific Coast Highway. They were in the Santa Monica area when Robin’s Volkswagen van collided with a Volvo, and all three were killed. We were very saddened when we heard about the accident.
Judge Ito recessed the proceedings in Robin’s memory, saying, “He was liked and admired and, most importantly, respected by his colleagues. I think that’s the highest tribute that anybody can pay in the journalism profession.”
And then on Sunday, Dominick Dunne’s son Alex was reported missing. Thirty-eight-year-old Alex Dunne was from San Francisco, but he was visiting his ailing mother at her home in Nogales, Arizona. On Saturday morning he borrowed his mother’s beige 1980 Toyota Corolla station wagon and drove to a rugged area along the Mexican border to go hiking or bicycle riding in the Santa Rita Mountains. He had not been seen since. On Monday Dominick caught a plane and headed for Arizona to help in the search.
In court Judge Ito kept Robin Clark’s seat empty, and a deputy hung his press pass on the back of the seat.
We ached for both families.
Throughout the trial, Dominick, especially, had been a wonderful stabilizing force for us. Every morning he had a sincere smile on his face and would give us a warm “Hello.” He was always concerned that we were doing okay. He gave us advance copies of his Vanity Fair articles, which we read with rapt attention because he often came up with new pieces of information that invariably turned out to be true. Because he had lost his own daughter to a murderer, we knew that if he lost his son, too, he would be completely destroyed.
We called him several times in Arizona to offer our moral support. There did not seem to be any indication of foul play, but Dominick worried about sunstroke, snake bite, or worse.
On Wednesday Dominick, peering down from a private plane, spotted the car parked near the head of a trail on rugged Madera Canyon in the Coronado National Forest, forty-five miles south of Tucson. Search crews began to concentrate on the area.
On Thursday evening, dehydrated and exhausted, Alex Dunne walked out of the forest and encountered a Nogales police officer who was guarding the station wagon. He explained that a weak ankle had buckled on him and a nasty twenty-five-foot fall had caused a previous back problem to flare up so that he could barely move. Sometime during the past several days he had heard searchers calling for him, but his throat was so parched he could not answer loud enough to be heard. It was an afternoon rain on Thursday that had revived him enough to rise and endure a four-and-a-half-hour trek down the mountain. He was taken to a hospital for observation and X rays on his ankle.
The next day, as he was interviewed by reporters, he acknowledged that his—and his family’s—ordeal would undoubtedly be chronicled in his father’s book about the Goldman-Brown murders. “I’m now one of the subplots,” he quipped.
Of course, we were very relieved for Dominick, and looked forward to seeing him back in court.
The defense continued its case with a series of witnesses designed to bolster their absurd theory that virtually the entire law-enforcement community of Los Angeles was attempting to frame the killer. During direct testimony, each witness seemed to add tidbits to the theory, but the prosecutors did a wonderful job of tearing them down on cross-examination, frequently drawing out bits of damaging testimony.
Phil Vannatter commented publicly, “The police conspiracy theory is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
As the case plodded on, Judge Ito and the attorneys from both sides grew increasingly short-tempered. In our view, it was the judge’s own fault. He had lost control of the courtroom from the very first day, and he seemed clueless how to regain any judicial muscle.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the United States, developments were taking place that would—in some people’s minds—render meaningless the weeks and months of technical testimony. These would set the trial completely off course, hand the defense a dubious trump card, and ignite our family’s indignation to the point of explosion. Early on, Robert Shapiro had promised that the defense would not play the race card, but when Johnnie Cochran took over, race became one of the key issues.
The defense had discovered that, starting ten years earlier, North Carolina screenwriting professor Laura Hart McKinny had conducted a series of interviews with Detective Mark Fuhrfnan as part of research she was doing for a screenplay. It was reported that, on the tapes, Fuhrman used the N-word and made other potentially inflammatory comments, contradicting his previously sworn testimony.
Johnnie Cochran fought hard to bring McKinny to California to introduce the tapes into evidence. A judge in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, had ruled against a subpoena, but an appellate court now overruled that decision. Cochran called it the most important ruling of the case. Barry Scheck commented cryptically: “Huge, huge. It could be the case.”
The critical factor was that, under California law, the judge instructs the jurors that if they conclude that a witness lied about one fact, they may then decide that he or she has lied about other facts as well. Fuhrman had testified that he had not used the N-word in the past ten years; he also testified that he found a key piece of evidence—the bloody glove—on the grounds of the Brentwood estate. If the tapes revealed that Fuhrman had lied about the N-word then, theoretically, the jury could conclude that he lied about when and where he found the bloody glove. It was a patently ridiculous attempt to connect two unrelated issues, but it played right into the hands of the defense’s attempt to convince the jury that the killer was framed by racially biased police officers. Cochran was, indeed, ready to play the race card and move the trial as far as possible from a search for the truth.
Judge Ito had already ruled that McKinny was required to give the defense her material, but he had not yet ruled that the jury should hear the tapes. That would depend on whether prosecutors opposed the admission of the tapes and if so, whether the emotional effect of playing them would, in Ito’s judgment, substantially outweigh the value they might have in raising questions about Fuhrman’s testimony.
Cochran argued: “In a search for truth, these tapes are imperative. … I’m absolutely shocked that the prosecution did not join in our attempt to obtain them, but now the whole world is going to know the truth.”
Chris Darden stated that the prosecutors had not yet heard the tapes and had not yet decided whether to fight their admission.
Fuhrman’s attorney, Bob Tourtelot, tried to put the best spin on the situation: “This ruling does not mean that the tapes or the witness will be heard by the jury. That will be up to Judge Ito. To allow these tapes to be heard by the jury would not be material and would be highly prejudicial to the prosecution’s case.”
No one on the prosecution team spoke with us about this, and we watched in frustration from the sidelines. Patti wanted to scream, “What does race have to do with this case?”
Judge Ito muttered, “Just when you thought we couldn’t have anything crazier happen.” It was Tuesday, August 15.
As the prosecution and defense wrangled over whether what was now known as the “Fuhrman tapes” should be played for the jury, we learned that those tapes contained some disparaging references to Captain Margaret York, the highest-ranking woman in the LAPD. She also happened to be Judge Ito’s wife.
The prosecution team now argued that Judge Ito should remove himself from the case.
The defense team vowed to fight that, unless it would result in freedom for its client.
Judge Ito took an extended lunch break to consider the options. When court reconvened, the mood was somber. Both sides presented short arguments detailing their position.
Then Judge Ito issued his ruling. His voice broke with emotion when he said, “I love my wife dearly, and I am wounded by criticism of her—” He scratched at a doodle pad, then continued. “—as any spouse would be.” Again he paused. Then he proclaimed, “I think it is reasonable to assume that could have some impact.” He concluded that another judge should decide whether his wife should be called as a material witness. If so, the judge would have to be replaced.
Suddenly everyone scrambled upstairs. Reporters and spectators pushed and shoved. Elbows flew about and curse words were hurled indiscriminately. Patti and Kim had the luxury of an escort to the courtroom of Superior Court Judge James Basque, presiding judge of the county criminal courts. Judge Basque quickly assigned the case to Superior Court Judge John H. Reid, and the mad dash was on to yet another courtroom.
Judge Reid made it clear that he would not allow Cochran to take control of his courtroom. With dispatch, he announced that he would receive the tapes that afternoon and begin to review them. He would meet with the lawyers on Friday. Just like that, the hearing was over, and everyone returned to Judge Ito’s courtroom. We were sure that Cochran was delighted to return to the environment that he controlled.
The “Scheme Team” gloated on the courthouse steps after the day’s turbulent session. They accused the prosecution of an unethical and cynical attempt to remove Judge Ito from the case because they knew that they were losing and were desperate to regain momentum. Cochran said, “Today, the wheels came off the wagon of their case. And all America saw it.”
Marcia had her own view. “The defense has brought this to a head,” she said. “They have played the race card. … They have opened Pandora’s box.”
In other words, all hell was about to break loose.
The three of us, Patti, Kim, and I, were all in court the following day. Everyone’s nerves were stretched to the limit. We spent the morning listening to the lawyers wrangle. Marcia backed off from her suggestion that Judge Ito should remove himself from the case. Thus, Judge Reid did not have to make a ruling.
But Shapiro would not let the issue drop. He accused Marcia and her colleagues of resorting to “prosecutorial extortion” in an attempt to pay back Judge Ito for unfavorable rulings.
Then it was Chris’s turn to throw a tantrum. Refusing to speak from the same podium that Shapiro used, he raged at the defense team for turning the trial into an extended, ludicrous joke.
Amid all the wrangling, the issue of the Fuhrman tapes smoldered. Would Judge Ito allow them into evidence? Would he surrender to the assault and allow Cochran and Company to turn a straightforward double-murder trial into a referendum on racial issues?
Watching all this, hearing all this, we felt a fire burning inside. Did anyone here—anyone at all—remember the names Ron and Nicole?
When we went upstairs to the seventeenth floor for the lunch break, Mark Arenas said that one of the reporters wanted to know if we were going to say anything. At first I said no, but the more I thought about it, the more agitated I became and the more I realized that it was time to do so. Patti tried desperately to dissuade me, but I knew that if I did not speak out, I would explode. I do not believe I have ever been so angry in my life. I could not let them get away with it.
It never made Kim feel good to vent frustrations to the press, because it did not change anything and it did not make any difference. But we had been pushed, prodded, and tested for months. Both Kim and I felt that if we remained quiet now, it might appear that we were not offended by what was going on. From Day One of this trial, Judge Ito should have put a gag order on everyone. But he had not, and we were tired of seeing the self-righteous members of the defense team pontificating on talk shows.
“Mark,” I said, “let the press know we’re going to speak.”
Things happened very quickly. Reporters, many holding walkie-talkies, started running, pushing one another out of the way. Pens flew out of pockets, and there was a general stampede to the courthouse steps.
You could see the fear and the worry on Patti’s face. She was terrified that I would have a heart attack or stroke, and she begged me to calm down but knew there was no way she could stop me.
Her fears for my health were compounded by other issues. She worried about the safety of the entire family. Images of riots, burnings, and beatings flew through her head like snapshots. If I spoke out, would it just fuel the flames of hatred that the defense team had ignited?
With her heart racing, Kim spoke through her tears: “We usually don’t speak just for the sake of speaking, so obviously something has to happen for us to feel enraged enough to get out there and talk. So excuse me if I ramble, but—I’m fed up.”
Waving a hand above her head, she said, “My emotions are up to here. Over and above the loss of my brother I have all this other crap to deal with. These last few days have pushed me to the edge. I have never been more offended by the actions on behalf of the defense. …
“Shapiro … said that he would never play the race card in this case. Call it whatever you want, race card, perjury card—I don’t care what you call it—the issue is still the same. The attorneys are trying to divert the attention from the facts in this case, and the fact is their client is accused of murdering my brother and Nicole Brown, and the evidence against him is overwhelming. They have no other choice but to play the race card, the perjury card. This is called the Fuhrman trial now, and this is ridiculous. They don’t have a defense. They don’t have any evidence to disprove what the prosecution has so far. The only defense now is to blame it on somebody else, and to be able to say the N-word in open court.
“Cochran said, back in jury selection, that all he needed was one black on this case. How offensive to the human race. To not give them the benefit of the doubt that they would be able to try this case according to the facts and according to the evidence and not have to put in the crap of the racial bias. That’s insulting to people’s intelligence. I don’t care what color you are, what race you are, what religion you practice, that’s insulting. They don’t think that they could just be able to try this case according to the facts and according to the evidence? I don’t even think there is a word to describe what that does to me.
“And to stand up there and say how unethical the prosecution is. Excuse me. When has the prosecution stood out here and slammed the defense and all of their tactics? How ethical, how moral is that? The defense has been doing that from Day One in this case. Chris said it this morning. This is a circus. They created a circus atmosphere.
“And I am sick, sick to my stomach. Okay? And this is embarrassing. This is embarrassing to the judicial system. I’ve never been a part of this before. This is repulsive to me. …
“Try your case according to the evidence, okay? You don’t have to bring in all this other crap. You don’t have to say that everybody is a racist, and everybody is a liar. If your client is so innocent, the evidence should prove that. You shouldn’t have to pull in all this other baloney.”
Kim turned away, sobbing.
Now it was my turn. It was difficult to talk because I could not catch my breath. My heart raced and my palms were cold and wet.
I began: “Needless to say, Kim and each of our family is angered, upset. What is so incredibly outrageous is that from Day One, Day One!, we all remember Mr. Shapiro making the comment that race would not be an issue in this trial. They have wanted to introduce other issues into this trial from Day One. They have been doing it in bits and pieces, and what is horrendously unfortunate is that one of the witnesses in this case may have said some rather disturbing things. That’s not what this trial is about. There is not one scintilla of proof that has come from the defense, not one iota of evidence from the defense to indicate that there has been planting of evidence or conspiracy. But they have been playing that bull from Day One.
“They now see an opportunity to enrage everyone. Do you honestly believe what their interests are is to prove perjury? Are we all fools? Do they take us all for morons? We all know what they want is to inflame the emotions of the jury, and to inflame … the public’s mind with issues that don’t relate to this trial.”
All the color had drained from Patti’s face. Her eyes begged me to stop. She placed a comforting arm on my shoulder, but I shrugged it off.
My voice cracked as I continued. “Ron and Nicole were butchered by their client. Do any of you believe otherwise? You have seen the evidence in this trial. It is overwhelming. This is not now the Fuhrman trial. This is a trial about the man that murdered my son.”
By now, Patti was crying, pulling on me, whispering, “Let’s go, let’s go,” but I would not leave. I could not leave. I had to get it out.
I could see nothing through my tears, but I raged, “How dare they take the position that all they want to do is prove perjury? They are liars!”
When Michael walked into work at the Oak Tree Deli, the television was on, as usual.
This day the room was strangely quiet. Scott, Michael’s boss, beckoned Michael over to him and said, “Fred is speaking.” Michael looked up and saw my face filling the screen; Patti and Kim were in the background. Whoa, what’s going on? Michael wondered.
He said later, “When it was over, I walked around the room and heard customers commenting on what an amazing man Fred Goldman was. They were all so impressed with his courage and his passion. It felt good to hear all the positive reactions in the room. It filled me with pride. Fred and Kim have done such a remarkable job of keeping Ron’s memory alive. It’s nice to hear that other people admire them as much as I do.”
That evening, the adrenaline still pumped through all of us but we were exhausted. Patti’s eyes looked like a deer’s caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. “Do you realize,” she said, “that we will never, ever, be able to leave our home again without being recognized, approached, and looked at like we are some kind of bugs under a microscope? I want my life back.”
Someone from LAPD reported that a gang member had threatened, “We’ve got to shut that Goldman up.” Local police were notified and our house was put under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Fortunately, nothing happened.
All the next day D.A. investigators stayed especially close. They told us not to smile at them, so that they could remain inconspicuous.
Patti and Kim were very shaken. They cautioned me to keep quiet in the future, but I refused to be intimidated. I grumbled, “I’m not about to roll over for that kind of trash.”
Despite the fiery rage that I had exhibited in front of the cameras, I had still mentally edited my words. I had not allowed myself the freedom to scream the obscenities that were begging to come out. My choice was to try and stay in control and maintain civility at a time when nothing seemed civil.
In truth, there are probably no expletives strong enough to describe how I view the killer and his swarm of morally decayed attorneys.