We joined three other couples for dinner one evening. I had not seen one of the men there in several weeks. He asked me a few questions about the trial, and we ended up sitting at the end of the table, ignoring the others, and discussing the criminal and civil cases for hours. On the drive home, Patti was very frustrated with me. “This cannot be the focus of everything we do,” she said.
“Well, he asked me,” I countered. “He wanted to know.”
“Well, next time it happens, could you just say you appreciate their interest but you don’t want to spend the majority of the evening discussing it? Tell them you’re trying to focus on other things during the weekends. It’s so consuming.”
Patti busied herself building a clientele for her electrology business and was finally able to rejoin her tennis league. Michael and Lauren were immersed in high school activities and their respective social scenes. I tried to attend to the details of the civil case and, in the meantime, sell point-of-purchase displays.
But Kim’s life had been on hold since she had dropped out of school and moved back home. After the criminal trial she was in limbo. She signed up for some additional college courses to, as she put it, get her brain functioning again, but she no longer wanted to major in psychology.
None of us had ever sought the limelight, but bits and pieces of our lives continued to be on display. Ron’s picture—and sometimes ours—regularly appeared on the covers of various tabloids, alongside screaming headlines that often reported erroneous information. So many people, all over the world, were so hungry for scandal that we never knew what would surface next. Kim, especially, felt naked.
Tricia Argyropoulis, a cousin of Ron’s friend Pete Argyris, was one of the many who had left a message on Ron’s answering machine the weekend that he died. She and Kim grew close. Tricia is an up-front, in-your-face kind of woman. Once, she and Kim visited a club called Roxbury that Ron used to frequent. They were enjoying themselves, dancing, when a woman intentionally pushed Kim. Kim just stood there, frozen. Tricia saw what had happened and immediately told the woman off. After her tirade, Kim said, “Gosh, you’re tough!”
Later, they joked about the incident. “Oh, God,” Kim said, “I can just see the headlines in the tabloids: ‘Goldman Brawl in Bar: Lesbian Lover to Rescue!’ ” It was a facetious comment, but the tabloids were always a concern.
Kim remained close to Chris Darden as well as several of the trial reporters, including Dominick Dunne, Cynthia McFadden, Shoreen Maghame, and Dan Abrams. The tabloids exploited this, reporting that Kim and Dan were “an item.” This was not true, and it underscored the difficulty of filtering friendships through such a public funnel.
Thanks to a recommendation from one of her reporter friends, Kim accepted a job with the TV production company that produces The Larry Sanders Show. She was nervous about going back to work full time. After so much public exposure, she worried about preconceptions that people might have about her. “Fate must have been smiling on me,” she said later, “because as soon as I arrived, I met Joanne Geller, and within an hour, it felt as though we’d been friends for years. My moods can change from upbeat to sadness to fiery anger very quickly, and Joanne rides those waves with me—never complaining, always supportive.”
Although she never knew Ron, Joanne quickly pinned one of our Remember Ron buttons to her purse. She says that she talks to him sometimes, and feels a connection.
Kim shared with Joanne a realization that haunts her. If it had not been for Ron’s death, she would never have landed this job, and she would never have met Joanne. As much as she values the friendship, she would give it up in a heartbeat just to have her brother back. Joanne understood completely.
There is one other special friend who has remained in contact. Sometimes when we come home after a long day, we press the PLAY button on our answering machine and hear Barbara Walters’s distinctive voice say, “Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you.”
During an unscheduled early-morning call to radio station KJLH-FM on February 29, the killer uttered the absurd statement that he knew that I felt “the same way” as he did about the murders.
We were in court that day. During a brief hearing, both sets of attorneys informed Santa Monica Superior Court Judge David D. Perez that they would not be ready by the previously scheduled trial date of April 2. Our lawyers sought a new date in mid-July, but Robert Baker claimed that previously scheduled trials in other cases would make him unavailable until autumn.
There was another hitch. Baker told the judge that he had been informed this morning that co-counsel F. Lee Bailey “may not be available for some time.” Evidently, earlier in the day, a federal judge in Florida had ordered Bailey to begin serving a six-month jail sentence for contempt of court. This was for failing to comply with the judge’s order to turn over millions of dollars in cash and stocks that federal prosecutors said he took without permission from the assets of a former client, confessed drug smuggler Claude Duboc.
I chuckled when I heard the news; it warmed my heart. I loved the thought of him in jail. I just wished that his client could share the cell with him.
The upshot of all this was that Judge Perez postponed the civil suit for more than five months, ordering that it would begin at 8:30 A.M. on September 9.
I was very upset. At a news conference on the courtroom lawn I declared: “I am disappointed that it has been moved back…. My family, and I’m sure the Brown family, would like to get this as much behind us as we can. This just makes for additional pain.”
Privately I asked Dan, “Can’t we get this thing rolling?”
He took a deep breath and replied, “It’s okay.” He knew that our case would benefit from the extended preparation time.
Then someone asked me how I felt about the killer’s radio remarks earlier in the morning, that he and I felt the same way about the murders. “My answer is bullshit,” I said. “He’s got a lot of nerve saying we feel the same. He didn’t lose a son.”
* * *
As the parade of pretrial depositions and procedural hearings continued, the Los Angeles Times reported that the Internal Revenue Service filed a tax lien with Los Angeles County, warning that it might seize the murderer’s home if he failed to pay $685,248 in back taxes from income earned in 1994—the year of the murders.
This raised the ugly issue of money. Some experts estimated that the killer had spent between $5 million and $6 million on his criminal defense, and of course our civil case was adding to his legal fees. Just how much money did he have left?
Dan explained to reporters, “The Goldmans never have expressed concern about whether funds will be available for them at the end of the trial. They’re concerned about getting justice in this case, about getting a jury to declare Mr. Simpson responsible for the death of their son. It’s not about money.”
In other words, it was not about us receiving money; it was about him being forced to pay for his murderous rage. Kim said, “Money is what he thrives on. If he has to write a check to us, even for a dollar, he will know it’s because a jury decided he’s the killer.”
Even if we realized a substantial judgment, my guess was that we would never see much of his money. First, we assumed that, even during the criminal trial, he and his attorneys had been making efforts to squirrel away what money he had, perhaps burying it in foreign accounts. Second, he claimed that his earning power had been thwarted, although we had financial experts ready to testify that there were still some people who are willing to “buy” anything that he has to “sell.” Third, there were rumors and other indications that some of his legal bills from the criminal trial remained unpaid. Robert Shapiro claimed that he was owed $500,000.
We conjectured that it might be a constant struggle to try to get money out of him. I said, “That’s okay with me. If he is hiding money, he runs the risk of getting his ass in a wringer with the IRS.”
I told a friend: “I don’t know how much money the killer has or where he has it buried. It will likely always be a struggle to get him to honor whatever judgment there might be against him, but the judgment lasts for ten years and can be renewed. I intend to put a hook in him that will last for the rest of his life, and I will drag him into court again and again if necessary. There is not enough that I can do to him to make his life miserable, a living hell.
“If that sounds vicious or vindictive, so be it.”
Even during the worst of times we are constantly amazed at the thoughtfulness of people and surprised at the impact Ron’s murder has had on individuals who had never even met him. The second week in June, when we visited his grave, we discovered a blue notebook and a gold pen resting on Ron’s headstone. The pen had a small angel attached to it. On the cover of the notebook was a message that suggested, “Use this angel pen if you wish to express for Ron, words, on the second anniversary of his passing. This book is offered to the Goldman family in hopes to ease and comfort your pain.” We had no idea who left it there.
Kim wrote a lovely note of appreciation inside the front cover, and we left the book there for a few days.
On the evening of June 12, the second anniversary of Ron’s death, we gathered at the cemetery with our circle of friends. We retrieved the notebook and found it filled with the most amazing messages—written not only by friends but by strangers who feel a connection to Ron and to us. There were notes from people whose lives have been shattered by violence and domestic abuse. There were letters that share memories and tell us how Ron touched lives in one way or another. Many people recalled Ron’s numerous small acts of kindness.
Kim read all the messages aloud.
One woman wrote: “… You had some kind of magic about you that just seemed to make anyone who came in contact with you smile. After bumping into you somewhere or coming to the shop to just talk, I’d leave feeling all was right with the world and I was a beautiful person. You could make an ugly troll with warts feel beautiful.”
That was the Ron we knew and loved.
Late that night Kim lay on her bed, thinking: Two years ago, right now, our fate was sealed. Our lives will never be the same. She knew that Larry King Live had scheduled a rerun of an interview with Chris Darden, and decided to watch the late telecast. She came downstairs. All the lights were off. A memorial candle flickered on the kitchen counter. Kim turned on the television. After watching a few minutes of the interview, she felt an overwhelming need to speak with Chris, so she called him.
“I’m watching you on Larry King,” she said.
“I never watch myself,” he replied.
They spoke at length about the sadness that they shared, about Kim losing Ron and about Chris losing his own brother to AIDS. The quiet conversation helped them both.
It is very sad that our youth have so few heroes outside of the sports arena. Our heroes and heroines should be teachers, scientists, policemen, and firefighters. And people like Chris Darden.
Father’s Day was four days later.
I was still tired all the time. I tended to go to bed very late, feeling that if I got good and tired I would fall asleep more quickly. Still I tossed and turned. Still I woke at 2 A.M. or 3 A.M., and it took some time before I could fall asleep once more. Sometimes I just had to get up. This had been one of those nights.
Michael and Lauren prepared a bagel, some juice, cottage cheese, and fruit and presented me with breakfast in bed. It was part of a family tradition that includes cards and gifts later in the day, and an evening dinner out. But everyone sensed that I was vulnerable. No one knew whether or not to mention Ron, or Father’s Day. Would it help or hurt? There was no correct answer, of course. The family kept a low profile.
As the morning progressed, I found myself wound tighter and tighter.
Sometime later I happened to glance into the backyard. I saw Lauren in the Jacuzzi and Michael, Patti, and Kim lying on lawn chairs, getting some sun. For no discernible reason the tranquil scene set me off, and I stormed outside. I could feel that red-hot anger was etched on my face as I exploded into a tirade the likes of which they had never experienced. I screamed, “I appreciate the fact that you brought me breakfast this morning, but no one has given me any gifts. You don’t care about me. You didn’t take any time to give me a card. None of you give a shit. The hell with all of you. I’m getting the hell out of here, goodbye. I don’t give a goddamn.” Without giving anyone time to respond to my outburst, I turned and ran for my car.
Kim ran after me, begging me to stop. But I sped away.
Kim knew that tangible gifts are not, and never have been, important to me. What was going on was far deeper than that. She wanted to be compassionate and understanding, but she was furious with me. She felt that the lion’s share of my anger was directed at her and that she had failed me in some way. At the same time she was weighed down by the unfairness of it all. With Ron gone, she often feels that she is all that I have left, and that is a constant source of anxiety for her.
I drove aimlessly, and much too fast. Kim and Patti called me several times on the car phone, but I did not want to talk and I did not want to come home.
As my anger slowly subsided I remembered that cards and gifts were always given out later in the day—much later. I began to realize what this was all about. Even though I had not awakened angry, desolation was still chewing me up inside.
Michael’s high school graduation was on June 20. Earlier in the day he went by himself to the cemetery to talk to Ron for about a half hour.
That evening, as Michael was sitting with the other members of his senior class, ready to line up for the processional, he slipped off by himself and sat in a corner for a time, wishing Ron was there. Then he marched in with the rest of his class, forcing a smile on his face.
When the valedictorian said something about how all of the family and friends of the class of ’96 were here, Michael said to himself: No, not everyone is here with me. He closed his eyes to hide the gathering tears. He knew that Ron would have been so proud of him. Ron’s words came back to Michael: “Never give up. Always do your best because you won’t have a second chance. Make things memorable and always make an impact.”
The last time Kim had attended an event at the school was at her own graduation in 1990, and she could not shake the mental image of Ron hugging her after the ceremony. She did not want to ruin the evening for Michael, or to inflict her tears on everyone, so she slipped away and sat by herself for a while at the side of the building. She relived every moment of her graduation night.
She remembered when I aimed a camera and asked Ron to pose for a photo with his sister. Ron had his arms around her. They were hugging, and he had a quirky little smile on his face. After I had snapped the picture, Ron had said, “Okay, let go.”
“No, I don’t want to let go,” Kim had replied. “I love you and I don’t want to let go.”
Michael was accepted by the University of Arizona. He confided to a friend: “Things are better around here, but tempers are still flaring and Kim’s mood swings are getting harder and harder for me to take. Sometimes she will seem really up and happy and the next minute I’ll say something to her and she’ll blow completely. And it feels like, no matter what happens, Fred is always on her side.
“Lauren is growing up and going through a lot of changes, too. I think we’ve gotten closer in the past year or so.
“I love everyone in my family with all my heart, but I am very anxious to go away to college and start a life of my own. I think that once I’m away, my family will have more respect for me and listen to my opinions. It’s going to be hard, though, because I’m a real momma’s boy, and I’ll miss her very much. She hugs me and tells me how much she’s going to miss me, and I’m going to miss her, too. But I can’t help but be excited about getting away.”
Kim knew that it was time for her to leave also. She and Dakota found an apartment with Sarah Kupper. “Sarah is such a wonderful friend,” Kim remarked. “She is never judgmental, accepts my mood swings, and always understands.”
Just as happened to me on Father’s Day, unexpected emotions continued to ambush Kim. Her friend Paul Geller took her to the beach on a lovely afternoon. As Paul was surfing, Kim looked out at the seemingly endless vista of water and found herself consumed by sadness. Methodically, she started picking up rocks, remembering all the times that she and Ron had done the same thing. They used to have a contest about trying to find the ugliest rock on the beach. Now doing this by herself brought an ache that was physical in its intensity. She missed her brother so much, and realized that there was nothing she could do about it. “It overwhelmed me,” she said. “I never know when these waves of emptiness will encompass me, but I have learned to expect them.”