Can't Forgive

by Kim Goldman

  I never attended grief counseling. I tried therapy a few times, and I went to one support group, but I wasn’t in a frame of mind to continue past those few feeble attempts at healing. I didn’t want to be told that what I was feeling was normal, I wasn’t interested in the stages of grief, and I most assuredly wasn’t going to go down the road of survivors’ guilt. In group settings, people gawked at me. I didn’t feel safe to share my intimate emotions, for fear of what would end up in the National Enquirer. How could I have such an aversion to psychology in a time of crisis, considering that it was my life’s dream to enter the field?

  Going to court every day was my job; however, it came with no pay, no benefits, no health insurance, and no long-term security. It actually had all the opposite effects: loss of wages (I depleted my savings account), severe emotional stress, and a derailment of my career goals. But I stayed at it, day after day, tolerating enormous amounts of anguish, sorrow, fear, and anger. I always felt that whatever I endured now would never be as excruciating as the four fatal stab wounds to his neck, chest, and stomach that my brother received as he watched his killer walk away.

  Ron and I had always promised to be there for one another.

  I was determined to hold up my end of the bargain.

  So I showed up, day after day after day, never missing a court proceeding for nine straight months. And I waited and watched and listened to hours of testimony and studied hundreds of pieces of evidence, all of which revealed the face of a killer: a famous football player, whose name I haven’t uttered for nearly 20 years.

  Despite all the compassion and empathy bestowed upon us, I also recognized the hatred between blacks and whites. Anti-Semitism reared its ugly head because we are Jewish. Disdain for our legal system grew as the obvious inequities played out on national TV. I saw it all, and I questioned it, challenged it, and feared it. None of it made any sense to me.

  I was insanely naïve, specifically about race relations; my father had raised Ron and I with blinders on. In hindsight, I guess I should have been a little wiser to the different cultures, beliefs, and bigotry in this world. I think I would have been far more prepared and less blindsided by hate and separatism.

  I was deeply offended when people would accuse us of being racists because we thought the killer was guilty. God forbid it was because of the mountain of evidence against him; of course, it had to be something more sinister. We reserved judgment until the DNA portion of the trial. We felt strongly about his guilt ONLY because of that, nothing else. All the blood, fibers, and hairs point to only three people in this case: the killer and the two victims. There wasn’t a chance in hell that anything was planted—there was no time, no opportunity, no proof, and no logic. Why in the hell would a bunch of seasoned officers ALL jeopardize their careers to plant evidence on a celebrity, without knowing where he was or if he had an alibi? That didn’t make sense.

  But because of who the killer was, and because of his “Dream Team” of attorneys, nothing could penetrate that jury. I resented how every news report would have some measure of a racial discussion attached to it, always breaking everything down into statistics of what blacks think versus whites. How the black jurors “appeared” during testimony about DNA or domestic violence as compared to the white or Hispanic jurors. It was disgusting and, in my humble opinion, only perpetuated the growing tension between the races.

  I was constantly looking over my shoulder, never making eye contact with people I’d bump into on the street, and lived in a state of panic that another member of my family would be killed in a message of retaliation. Our personal safety was jeopardized to the point that we received an escort, through a secured garage, every day for nine months while attending the trial. I got used to it after awhile and became close to members of my brother’s prosecution team; I thought of them as family. Seeing them every day helped break some of the tension that was consuming me. Because they were advocating for my brother, I developed such love and respect for them that I sometimes forgot the circumstances under which we met.

  Prosecutors Marcia Clark and Chris Darden, and the entire team of attorneys, along with the law clerks, receptionists, bailiffs, investigators, and our victim advocate, Mark Arenas, were the only people I could trust. They walked side by side with me during the most traumatizing period of my life. I could let my guard down with them, and even though I knew they were just “doing their jobs,” it seemed to me that they were doing it harder, more passionately, and more selflessly than ever before. I hope all victims experience such dedication. We were in the middle of a shitstorm, and I was honored to share an umbrella with that team.

  * * *

  Monday, October 2, 1995, the jury officially begins to deliberate. I am getting updates from my journalist friends who are sitting on the ninth floor of the Criminal Courts building and waiting and wondering what the jurors are thinking. I am trying not to think about it because it’s outside all of our control at this point. My mind wanders back though to every little sign I thought I was getting from the jury. I am sure that one woman, an older lady, is sensitive toward our family; she must be by the way she always glances over at me and smiles subtly, so that nobody but me notices. I wait for it, I need it. She reminds me of what a grandmother would be like: nurturing, loving, sympathetic, and honest. But does she have the strength to do the right thing?

  I am home alone in Agoura, pacing in the backyard, trying to get some fresh air into my body and mind. Every time the phone rings, I jump. But then, after three and a half hours of waiting, it’s time. I get the call. Patti Jo Fairbanks on the end of the line informs me that the jury has reached a verdict. The vomit is in my mouth, forcing me to stay silent as she continues to tell me that they have decided to hold the verdict over until Tuesday, to ensure that the media and law enforcement are prepared. Guess they are expecting a big crowd. Go figure.

  I am charged with calling everyone in my family. It doesn’t take too long before the media are calling, and parking outside our house. Trucks line the street as we hunker down inside. Family friends show up to lend their support, but mostly stand around, because none of us knows what to say or do at this point. I hibernate upstairs because I can’t stand to listen to the pundits dissect the embarrassing amount of time spent deliberating. “It means guilty,” most say. “It doesn’t look good for the prosecutors,” others squawk back. And so it goes, back and forth, ad nauseam. It’s breaking news for the world, but it’s breaking me inside my heart.

  I am totally shut down as I hear the houseful of people downstairs cheer, assuming a guilty verdict. “We got him!” I just can’t let myself go to court believing one thing. I’ve been there, I’ve watched every second and I’ve been caught up in the ridiculousness of the defense stories myself, so how can I assume the jury hasn’t also? All I focus on is my brother, and how hard he fought to save his life, and how hard I am fighting to get through one more day. There is no sleep to be had, as I watch the clock until 5:30 a.m.. The media is still perched out front.

  * * *

  October 3, 1995, the day of the much anticipated verdict after nine long, excruciating months. We pile into our cars, my dad, Patti, Michael, Lauren, and family friends who have been attending court with us over the past year. It’s pitch black as we caravan down the 101 freeway, the media trucks following close behind. We reach the first overpass just out of Agoura and see a huge sheet hung over the side that reads “GUILTY.” The ride is quiet; only the sighs of breathing and concern can be heard.

  I find myself avoiding eye contact and conversation and walk away as I begin to hear the Brown family, who weren’t often in court, begin to lecture me on how I should behave once the verdict is read. I say good morning to Bill Hodgman, one of the district attorneys assigned to the case early on, but had some medical issues and had to give up his spot as co-chair of the prosecuting team. He smiles invitingly, but I keep moving. I sit down in the middle of the hallway, and drop my head between my knees. I hear footsteps, raise my head
, and see a familiar face. Detective Ron Phillips—whom I call “Puppy.” Ron was Detective Mark Fuhrman’s partner, and we had developed a close relationship. I respect him so much. The words can’t contain themselves. “So, Puppy, what do you think?” “Acquittal,” he responded without delay. I am struck. “I just don’t think they got him.” He touches my hand, leaving me to my tears.

  “9:50 a.m.—it’s time to rally the troops,” Patti Jo says. We pile into the elevator and stare at the floor. The doors open onto the ninth floor, which is flooded with reporters. “How are you feeling? What are your thoughts? Do you think guilty or acquittal?” They are relentless. I move past, asking them to leave me alone. We move systematically toward the first set of doors leading into Judge Ito’s courtroom. Then I stop. I can’t go in; I can’t do this. I am trembling, my eyesight is blurred, and my feet aren’t moving—it feels as if I’m stuck in quicksand. “Kim, you can do this. You’re an incredibly strong woman. Show you are braver than this,” says George Mueller, one of the investigators assigned to this case. He has become such a good friend to me. I believe him and walk into the courtroom.

  I find my seat next to my father, just a few seats away from writer Dominick Dunne, who had become a close friend and my seatmate for the entire trial. My spot is directly behind Chris and Marcia, Detective Tom Lange and lead investigator Phil Vannatter. As the jury files in, I look for “Grandma,” who smiles at me. Oh my gosh, that’s it, I think. Maybe that’s her sign? 10:07, the killer rises from his seat and the court clerk, Deidre Robertson, starts to read. “We, the jury, find the defendant Orenfal, Orenthal James Simpson not guilty of the crime of murder upon Nicole…” the sound of shock and joy is deafening and confusing. I shush everyone, as she begins to read Ron’s verdict. She continues, “We the jury find Orenthal James Simpson not guilty of the crime of murder upon Ronald Lyle Goldman, a human being.” I can’t breathe. Screams. Cries. Screams. I collapse my head into my father’s lap. I can’t hold myself up. What is happening? How can they do this to us? My eyes scan the jury and I see juror number six, an African American man, throw his fist in the air toward Simpson’s attorney, Johnnie Cochran, in a flash of camaraderie. I glance over at them to see their reaction. Cochran and his team reciprocate the gesture, and then in tandem, the killer and Cochran lock eyes with me, flash me a smile, and Cochran mouths the words, “Gotcha.” “Fucking murderer!” I yell, and then quickly apologize for my outburst. Judge Ito is trying to control the courtroom. He hasn’t been successful in nine months, and now he thinks he can control us? I jump from my seat and beg the row of people to move so I can leave. I can’t spend one more second of my life in the presence of a savage, vicious beast.

  Our two families exit together, and the hall of people let us pass without uttering a word. We settle into the office of Gil Garcetti, Los Angeles County’s district attorney, to collect ourselves. Gil is speechless. Everyone is speechless. The Brown family, however, is not. They begin to ramble about dinner plans, and if “O. J. will sow his wild oats now that he is out.” I scream shut up, fall into a ball on the floor, and cry. Deidre Robertson, Ito’s court clerk, informs us that Ito is locked up in his chambers; he can’t bring himself to speak to us. She apologizes profusely. “The system really let you down.” Her words don’t console me.

  Hours later, after we return back home, I head to the cemetery to be alone with Ron. I was so ashamed and so sorry that we let him down. Hordes of media are there, but I am grateful they leave me to my sorrow. I am not sure how long I stay there: It will never be long enough to tell him all the things I want to say. All I can muster is, “I’m sorry we let you down. Please don’t be mad, we tried our hardest. I am just so sorry.”

  * * *

  But while I and millions of other logical thinking people determined who was guilty of Ron’s and Nicole’s deaths, twelve strangers frolicked in a jury room for a mere three-and-a-half hours (after 134 days of testimony) and decided there wasn’t enough evidence to convict “their peer” of a double homicide. That was certainly efficient of them, don’t you think? Yet I am required, and expected, to respect their decision because they were doing their civic duty as jurors? Nope, can’t do it. I think it’s bullshit.

  For a long time, because I had an opinion about what the jurors decided, I was accused of being a racist. Well, I am far from racist, but I am partial to smart and fair-minded people. Some of these jurors said in interviews and the books they wrote after the trial that their bags were packed weeks before closing arguments; they all stopped listening. How do they do that? The only responsibility they had was to listen to all the facts and evidence presented, not just bits and pieces. It’s been said so many times it scarcely needs to be repeated: The jury simply failed to do their job.

  This case was an anomaly and I get that, but all versions of “right and wrong” were absent from the process. Morality, ethics, civility—none of that was present, nor was it expected in a court of law, and that was shocking to me. My father taught me some invaluable lessons growing up: always respect your elders, and always respect the law and the system in place to protect it. But what happens when the law and the system doesn’t respect you? I am not about to rehash all the places in the trial where it went astray and who was culpable, but we all felt the strain of that process and we, the collective people, felt betrayed in one way or another.

  Whether or not you thought the defendant was the brutal killer that I believed he was, you witnessed a flawed system and an unjust society in such a profound way that it left all of us slightly shaken. Am I wrong? If you thought he was innocent, and that he was framed, you believed he was a target of the Los Angeles Police Department. Right or wrong, you felt a betrayal by law enforcement, and the system that let the LAPD get away with it.

  If you believed he was guilty of double homicide, then you probably were outraged when all the “n-word” tapes were played, resentful that the entire LAPD was categorized as sinister and conniving, and incensed when he was acquitted as the split screens depicted a skewed racial divide. No matter where you swung on the pendulum of justice, there was a feeling of hypocrisy and deception that we all felt, deep in our consciousness. It wasn’t really about Nicole Brown Simpson and “her friend” Ron Goldman anymore, it was about tribal loyalties.

  I know I was young when the trial happened, but I’ve never witnessed such anger and hostility between groups of people. Strangers would tell me how their families would erupt in nasty debates at holiday dinners over the merits of the case, and friends would end relationships because they couldn’t agree on guilt. Hell, I stopped dating someone because he told me that if he was ever offered a spot in a foursome of golf with the killer, he’d go. To this day, this is one of my biggest deal breakers. If my potential suitor doesn’t think the killer is guilty, he’s not getting another date.

  Being in the thick of it, and so consumed with grief, it never really occurred to me how the verdict would be perceived by the public as we moved forward in our private lives. After the criminal case ended, people were very raw and didn’t hide their sentiments, especially when they would see our family. No matter where we went, people felt the need to share every thought they had about the case; where they were when the verdict was read; what they thought about the Bronco chase; how they thought the glove landed on the killer’s property; and whether they thought the detective, Mark Fuhrman, was a racist. Some asked if Ron and Nicole were “having relations” and most ended with a hug, a gentle touch, or a show of tears.

  To my surprise, many disclosed their personal struggles with domestic violence, or their pain over losing a loved one, or how they, too, had gotten screwed by the system, or how they knew someone back East who could “take care of it,” if we wanted. People had no sensors and no boundaries; they felt an immediate connection to our family on some deep level, so they spoke to us as if they were a parent, a friend, or a therapist. For the most part, it was so appreciated and humbling, but it was also so invasive. I say that with as
much sensitivity as I can, because the support we’ve received over the years has been so outstanding and so consistent and heartfelt. But at times, it was jarring to have strangers come up to you, touch your face, rub your hair (and my belly when I was pregnant), grab at you, and purge all of their pent-up emotions. I get it, I totally get it, and I will allow that to happen for as long as it’s needed, because for as much as the trial caused a great divide in our country, it also pulled everyone together for a few minutes on October 3, 1995.

  It was odd to be considered a “player” in all that chaos, like having an out-of-body experience. People all around me knew intimate details of my life, my brother’s life, and our family; that leaves you feeling so exposed. It was such an invasion of privacy on so many levels because every move we made was monitored, and our comments were tempered to some extent out of fear. There were already mumblings of discontent with our decision to begin proceedings for the civil case. We were pursuing justice the only way we could, but to some we were “gold diggers” and “opportunists.”