Can't Forgive

by Kim Goldman

  The criminal case was the state versus the killer. We had no involvement in those proceedings; we were just onlookers like everyone else in the country, although obviously we had a far more intense and vested personal interest. We had no say in what charges were filed, if the case was moved, what jurors were selected, what pieces of evidence were presented, which witnesses were called, or who prosecuted it—nothing. We almost didn’t get seats in the courtroom. Forced to turn over ALL of your control, to find faith you never knew you had, and to rely only on that 100 percent, but then realize that there is literally absolutely nothing you can do to affect the outcome—it’s a strain on the psyche.

  However, in the civil case, we would be in the driver’s seat. It would be US vs. HIM, and I was totally okay with that scenario. We regained our power, we established our position, we took control. We were empowered. Obviously, that didn’t mean we had any influence over the outcome, but it did mean that we could take steps to protect Ron’s integrity and memory, and fight for him, advocate for him, and cherish him, the way we wanted and the way he deserved. It was about Ron and Nicole, and forcing the beast that killed them to be held accountable. So I say to all those people who wanted to crap all over our decision for pursuing a civil case—take a hike.

  By definition, the civil system seeks monetary sanctions instead of criminal action as a form of punishment (assuming you are held responsible for the charges brought against you). So when we filed a civil suit against the killer for “wrongful death and battery” upon Ron and Nicole, we knew that the only way he could pay for his actions would be to actually “pay.” That was a bitter pill for us to swallow, let alone the public.

  But for our family, it wasn’t about making him pay; it was about seeing in writing, in the public record, that he had killed Ron and Nicole—that was all we wanted. We were on a mission and couldn’t see past the end of the trial, although we knew the road would be long and hard. And even though it was OUR case, it wasn’t just about us. It was about a bigger purpose, a stronger message, and a deeper meaning. I’m not talking spiritually; I’m talking about sticking it to the son-of-a-bitch bastard who stabbed my brother to death. And not just for Ron and Nicole, but for the millions of other people who thought he got away with murder. The subsequent judgment of $33.5 million awarded to our two families was just a bonus.

  I’m not sure people understand how difficult it is to collect on a monetary judgment, however. Without giving everyone a lesson in the legalities of protected income and homestead laws, let me just paraphrase by saying: the law in Florida, where the killer resided after the cases ended, protected him 100 percent from ever having to pay on his multimillion-dollar debt (which has now more than doubled in value since 1997). Not to mention, the killer conveniently hired a team of attorneys that worked every angle to make sure he would never be held accountable for paying down the judgment. He hides his assets by putting everything in his family’s and friends’ names; gets paid in cash for any work he does, so we can’t trace anything; establishes phony companies to launder bigger transactions; and lives in a state where he can earn an income that isn’t taxed. Oh, and let’s not forget that all of his retirement plans were also protected by law. He lives off the interest earned on his home and disbursements from multiple IRAs (and now maybe from money he earns making license plate frames or cleaning toilets in prison).

  We have an enforceable judgment that punishes him for his crime, and compensates us for our pain, when enforced. Not pursuing the judgment releases him from liability for that crime. So if my father and I stop going after that money, we’ll be giving him a free pass for killing Ron and Nicole. That will never happen.

  So for the past nineteen years, my father and I have actively pursued the judgment, not for the money, but for the principle of it all, and because it’s what the law tells us to do. During that time, we have received less than 0.075% of the money “awarded” us by the court.

  In the criminal case, I relied on the 13th juror—the public—for support and motivation and sometimes humility. In the end when he walked out as a free man, millions of people were outraged and ostracized him, calling him a killer and forcing him into societal exile. It was the biggest collective hug one could imagine. So when it came time to file the civil suit, the 13th juror, for the most part, was a huge motivator because they, too, felt that they needed to get some control back and restore their faith in the system. And when the naysayers yelled “No!” we turned to the 13th juror to fight back for us when we couldn’t. And wow, they are a mighty crew.

  Despite believing that our filing of the civil case was the right path to take, others had a hard time digesting it. People can be cruel when they are ignorant, and even when armed with information, they can still be assholes. They just saw dollar signs and assumed we were lining our pockets with money and exploiting our loved one for our own personal gain. That was rough. They didn’t know us, they didn’t walk in our shoes, they didn’t experience our grief, our anguish, our loss—so who the hell are they to sit and judge? The 13th juror was no longer on our side.

  During the civil trial, the Internet was not nearly as big or as invasive as it is today. Even still, I would sit and read every blog, every comment, and every article I could get my hands on; watch every interview, listen to the pundits, and make myself sick because I didn’t want to be naïve to what people were thinking. I needed to understand the consensus and where people landed on the spectrum. For the most part, I know we had the support of the country, and when you stop and think about the brevity of that statement, that was HUGE. Our little family from the suburbs of Chicago had the support of the entire country behind them. And not just America—every country all over the world. Having the interest of millions and millions of people is a heavy burden to carry when making decisions that are so personal to you. You can’t make a decision without considering the ramifications and the backlash.

  Just imagine that for a second.

  I’m not stating that to sound arrogant, because I am deeply humbled by the ongoing support, but to emphasize the level of responsibility involved, which is tremendous and sometimes slightly suffocating. We tried to stay true to who we are and our beliefs, which isn’t difficult when you are ethically and morally grounded. But you take pause when people, who think they know better and think they know you because you’ve been in their living room for months on end, scream at you. Thankfully, for the most part, the country’s moral compass was in line with ours.

  Besides being held in the county where the crimes were committed (Gil Garcetti moved it out of Santa Monica to downtown L.A.) and being able to hire our own team of attorneys (Daniel Petrocelli leading the charge), the first main difference between the civil and the criminal cases was our ability to select the jury. Now, I’m no professional when it comes to selecting jurors, but I’m an expert at watching faces and determining body language. I had studied twelve jurors for nine months during the criminal case. And the irony is, while I was taught as a child not to judge a book by its cover, quite honestly that’s what jury picking is: pure judgment and speculation. Kinda like apple picking: looks good on the outside, has the right color and shape, but you have no idea if you picked a good one until you take a bite; in this case, until they voted.

  I was so excited when I was asked to participate in the voir dire process. I was finally seen as a valued member of the team chosen to defend my brother. Actually, I probably forced my way into the process and they let me come out of obligation. But for the purpose of my own fantasy, I was an invited player. In any event, my services were used and, I hope, appreciated.

  We live in a racially charged country, especially at the time of the trial, so soon after the Rodney King riots. It’s very clear to me that this crime had nothing to do with race. My belief—based on the evidence—that a guilty verdict should have been found is based on the facts, not the color of one’s skin. But, of course, the verdict and the trial were all about race. The jury was encouraged by John
nie Cochran to “send a message,” but unfortunately the message they sent had nothing to do with justice.

  In a 1996 article in the Los Angeles Times, Craig Darian said it much better than I can:

  “The Essential Difference”

  I watched with interest a CBS report and interview with O. J. Simpson which aired recently. I would like to offer Simpson a point of view which I believe to be shared by a majority of us so-called "white folks" who believe this case has nothing to do with racism.

  When I watched you play football for USC, and later, with the Buffalo Bills, I didn't see a black man, I saw a great athlete. And I admired you.

  When I watched you broadcast football games with great personality and a player's zest for the game, I didn't see a black man, I saw a competent sportscaster. And I liked you.

  When I watched you run and jump for cars in Hertz commercials, and play various bit movie parts, I didn't see a black man, I saw a funny actor. And I laughed with you.

  When I watched your trial for the murders of your ex-wife, Nicole Brown, and another innocent victim, Ronald Goldman, I didn't see a black man, I saw a remorseless murderer. And I despised you.

  When I listened to you speak about your hitting Nicole, and she hitting you, and then rationalizing that the public's condemnation was simply a matter of "a black man being ridiculed while a white woman is revered," I didn't see a black man, I saw a violent and incessant excuse-maker. And I wanted to tell you that the issue isn't about a black person hitting a white person, it's about a man hitting a woman.

  And when I saw you stand in church with an apparently loving and sincere black congregation, one to which you had been a stranger until your recent acquittal, and I heard you preach before God, I didn't see a black man, I saw a phony. And I pitied you.

  This isn't about black or white, Mr. Simpson, it's about right and wrong.

  * * * When the civil case ended—and it was a predominantly white jury that unanimously found him responsible for Ron and Nicole’s deaths—the race issue would arise yet again. We, of course, were vilified by those who believed in his innocence and thought we were out to harm and make an example of a black man.

  We weren’t.

  We were out to seek a judgment against a guilty man.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Sometimes the strength of motherhood is greater than natural laws.”

  —Barbara Kingsolver

  * * *

  It was a beautiful summer day in June 2002.

  Mike, my husband at the time, and I decided to take a walk to our favorite neighborhood restaurant, Mexicali, in Studio City, California. We sat outside and ordered the usual—house margaritas and chips and guacamole. Those were the days when you could still smoke at restaurants. Since Mike was a smoker, we always sat outside on the patio.

  I was working as a marketing manager at Pallotta TeamWorks since before Mike and I were married. The company produced the AIDS Vaccine Rides and Breast Cancer 3-Day Walks, among other charitable fund-raising events. For the first time since my brother’s murder, and the departure from my career goal of becoming a child psychologist, I loved my job.

  I traveled the country with a team of incredible people, raising money for worthwhile charities. I had such a sense of pride and accomplishment every day I went to work. I hadn’t felt like that in so long.

  Mike was a commercial airline pilot who was usually gone for days on end. When he returned, we would try and dedicate time to catch up and reacquaint ourselves with one another. With him away three or four days a week, and in and out of different time zones, and with me working full time, it was hard to stay connected. We did the best we could.

  But this time our lunch wasn’t about the bills or the week’s bullshit—it was about babies.

  * * *

  Mike announces that he’s ready to be a dad and wants to start having children. I think a little margarita spurted out of my nose as the words leave his mouth.

  “I want to have a baby. Are you ready?” he asks.

  This isn’t the first time he brings up the baby topic; he makes comments often about having kids, but I dismiss them. I’m the one who’s been stalling, never really having a good excuse, but stalling nonetheless.

  I keep thinking we’re not ready financially. We rent a two-bedroom apartment, barely making ends meet. Our crazy work schedules keep us both away from home, and we haven’t been married that long.

  Even though we’ve known each other most of our lives, we still need time to be a couple, I think. I find lots of reasons. I keep thinking I’m not old enough to have a child. Even though I’m a married woman in my thirties, I still feel very much like a child at times.

  Having much of my adulthood interrupted by my brother’s murder (and subsequent trials), I often feel like time stood still. Everything stopped when I was twenty-two years old, when my brother was killed. When it was “all over,” I returned to the exact same place in time as if I had never left my life, but knowing something was drastically different. It was my very own Back to the Future movie.

  All of these nonsensical thoughts are spinning around in my head, but no words are coming out of my mouth. I know that choosing to have a baby would change my life—our life—forever. Am I ready for that? Are we? How do you know if you are?

  My gut, the one place I always relied on when I was in doubt, is awfully quiet on this day. I can’t find an excuse that really seems to matter. We’re never going to have enough money. We’re never going to have enough alone time. We’re never going to be more ready than we are today.

  I blurt out, “Okay.”

  A slight smile appears on Mike’s face as we lift our glasses and toast to “Makin’ babies!”

  * * *

  That was the beginning of a new chapter in my life. I hoped I was ready, because I was pretty sure there was no going back.

  We left Mexicali with a pep in our step, and a sense of calm. There always was a slight tension between Mike and I; we were two independent people who tried to rely on each other in a partnership and often we weren’t successful.

  There was a lot of push and pull for control in our relationship. But on this day, we had made a decision together, as a team. That felt good, strong, and adultlike. Ironically, I don’t recall us having sex that day to commemorate our decision: too much tequila, too much adrenaline, and not enough foreplay make for a very quiet night!

  My best friend, Denise, and her husband, Wade, had been struggling with infertility for a really long time, so I was aware of how difficult it might be to get pregnant. It was excruciatingly painful to sit by and watch as Denise and her husband struggled month after month with injections, medications, hormones, pregnancy tests, and hearing her say, “I’m not pregnant” time after time.

  I listened to them talk about how badly they wanted to be parents, struggling with and questioning their faith in God, and facing the blaring reality that it might not happen for them.

  I will never forget Denise saying, “Maybe this is God’s way of telling me I am not meant to be a mother.”

  I sat speechless as those words hung in the air between us. There was nothing I could do except listen and cry with her. I watched them suffer a deep, inconsolable pain. I witnessed Denise’s vibrant spirit darken, and I listened to her anguish as she tried to reconcile in her mind why this was happening to them. Even though she tried to be positive, the sadness was slowly chipping away at her infinite optimism.

  I offered to carry a child for them, but I knew in my heart that I needed to have one of my own first. Denise understood, but I felt like a selfish friend.

  I tried not to think about all of this, when I missed my period in January 2003.

  A month earlier, Denise, Wade, Mike, and I decided to take a trip to Vegas over the holiday break to celebrate Denise’s and my birthday. I was thirty-one, and Denise thirty-four. Unfortunately, besides celebrating our birthdays, I was consoled after having lost my beloved job.

  In August 2002, on a Frida
y afternoon, Pallotta TeamWorks announced it was closing its doors. We had an hour to pack up our desks and leave the premises. A skeleton crew, of which I was a part, was hired back to finish out the season of scheduled walks, up through October, but then that would be it.

  But this trip wasn’t about mourning my job. It was about having a great time in Sin City: gambling, laughing, drinking, letting loose. Who knew that that trip would mark the beginning of a whole new identity in my life?

  After our Vegas jaunt, I struggled with determining whether I was late or not. I stared at the calendar, hoping that something would jog my memory regarding the timing of it all. Nothing was coming. The page stared back me, but I noticed my heart rate started to increase. My gut was rumbling.

  * * *

  I jump in my car and drive down the street to the local grocery store. I walk briskly up and down the aisles, trying to find the “feminine products” section. I stand in front of a shelf staring at different pregnancy tests. Why the heck are there so many choices? I wasn’t looking to solve world hunger, I just needed to answer a simple question: knocked up or not?

  Usually I am a researcher. I scour the Internet for mounds of information before making a purchase, but who thinks to do that before buying a pregnancy test?

  Does it make a difference if you pee in a cup or on a stick?

  Oh, crap, it has to be morning pee? I had already peed that day. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Who can possibly wait until the next morning?

  I grab four different boxes and rush to the checkout counter, hoping I don’t see anyone I know.

  Once inside the house, I race upstairs to my bathroom, break the seal open on the box, pee on the stick, and wait. I pace around my room, make my bed, and do what I can to stay away from the stick until the minute passes. I am in a fog; I can’t grasp what I am doing. Not able to stand the wait any longer, I walk back into the bathroom, where I set the stick down on my counter, and there it is: a teeny-tiny pink plus sign.