Can't Forgive

by Kim Goldman

  Not so much.

  At least my consulting gig was going well.

  I struggled with not telling them about my pregnancy, mostly because I was starting to bust at the seams. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide it. I was worried about jeopardizing my future. I mean, why would they invest in a staff member who would be taking an immediate leave of absence upon getting hired?

  I was just hoping that my work ethic and productivity could trump the basketball-shaped protrusion in my belly. I am a petite woman, so it was hard to excuse away the bump as being “just stuffed from dinner last night.” I was wearing lots of big shirts, or more accurately muumuus, and pants that were two sizes too big. This fashion choice made room for my stomach, but made me look like I was carrying a load in the tush department. It was definitely the awkward-clothing phase of pregnancy. Fortunately, my work colleagues didn’t know me, so they had nothing to compare and contrast with, other than I just looked like I had put on a few pounds.

  I had a pretty good relationship with the executive director of the agency, who said that the board of directors was planning on offering me a full-time position. I just needed to get the final approval from the president and founder of Cure Autism Now, which I did, and then we’d be good to go. As far as I could tell, I was a shoo-in: business cards were printed with my name and title on them; I was listed as the marketing manager on the company’s website and materials; and I was included in all decision-making meetings. I was also scheduled for presentations with potential sponsors and partners, a clear sign that my ideas and input were respected and would be implemented. The sense of pride and relief I felt was immeasurable.

  So in that state of mind, I asked for a quick meeting and broke my silence with the executive director. Being a mother herself, she teared up and shared the excitement with me over welcoming a new life into the world. She hugged me and said she’d see me on Monday morning. I felt great leaving the office that day, confident that everything was finally falling into place.

  But somewhere between Friday and Monday, her soft heart hardened; over the weekend, I received a “Dear John” letter or, in my case, “Dear Jane.” She relieved me of my duties and thanked me for my time. What the…? I called immediately, only to hear they decided they couldn’t afford the position and were going a different route. I was speechless. I was entering my seventh month; my window of opportunity had just been shut tight.

  The good news about being home all day for the last two months of my pregnancy was all the time I got to spend preparing and prepping, or nesting, as they say. The bad news was all the time I got to spend obsessing over the radical changes to my body. I was truly in awe over what was happening to me and how my body made room for our baby to grow.

  In an effort to calm my nerves and regain some composure, I started watching Baby Story on TLC. This was probably the dumbest hobby I could have picked up during my pregnancy. Needless to say, I sat and wept. Mostly, these were tears of joy, but definitely these were also tears of hormone-induced, nerve-racking, baby-labor mental overload.

  I was now officially a full-blown pregnant woman. My body was not my own anymore: The baby was borrowing my energy, my sleep, and my nutrients, and sitting comfortably on my bladder, teetering between hiccups, kickboxing, and stretching.

  And I loved every frickin’ second of it.

  There is no way any woman can adequately describe what it feels like to have something inside you, carrying on, having no regard for you. The kicks, the punches, the shifting: a little person is inside your stomach participating in his or her very own Olympics, and the baby is winning!

  When I would lie in bed at night, I would rub my belly softly, hoping it would lull the baby to sleep. But it was the quietest time of the day for us, when my thoughts would slow down slightly and I could allow myself to feel the emotion of pregnancy, not just the physical component.

  I am not a religious person, nor do I define myself as particularly spiritual, but I am someone who is open to the unknown and will do things in a “just in case” fashion. This was specifically true as it related to my relationship with Ron and my unborn child.

  I was not sure if they could hear me talking to them, so just in case they could, I was fairly chatty with each of them.

  “I wish you could meet your Uncle Ron. I wonder if you’ll look like him. I wonder if you’ll have his joyful heart. I wonder if you’ll have his heroic spirit. I hope you do. I hope I can teach you enough about him, so you’ll grow to love him as we do. I wish for you a lifetime of peace and the ability to cope when life tries to break you down. I can’t wait to meet you. I have the world’s biggest hug and kiss waiting for you. Sweet dreams, my baby.”

  In addition to the bedtime soliloquies, I would talk to my baby and his uncle in the car.

  I put on the headphones from my cell phone to give the appearance that I was deep in conversation with a friend or a colleague, but in actuality I was telling my brother what was happening in my life or with the civil case or just plain sharing with him my sorrow or newfound joy.

  I hated that I never got any kind of response or “sign” that he could hear me, but I did it anyway, ya know, just in case.

  My brother would definitely be the one who if I didn’t talk to him, and I saw him again, he would be pissed.

  So I applied that same thinking to my unborn kid. It made sense to me why I sang songs, read books, shared my fears, pleaded with him/her to love, respect, adore, and admire me…you know. Just in case.

  In mid-August, Denise went into labor six weeks early and delivered two amazingly beautiful children, Gavin Paul and Abigail Rose. When we found out that she was having twins, a boy and a girl, she was so relieved. It was perfect—one of each. Though they were both barely three pounds, they were heavy with love and exhibited an insurmountable spirit. They were fighters. Given what Denise and Wade had gone through to have them, how could you expect anything less? After a few weeks Gavin was ready to go home, but Abby needed some additional attention and stayed in the neonatal intensive care unit in the same hospital where I would eventually give birth just a few weeks later.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning, September 23, they wheeled me into my private room at Tarzana Medical Center in Los Angeles, where I would sit for two days until the birth of my child, attached to a machine that monitored my contractions. It was a very quiet machine, because nothing was happening! They gave me Pitocin to help move the process along.

  “Anytime now,” everyone kept saying.

  I was feeling nervous, but because I wasn’t feeling any contractions or discomfort, it was misleading that I could be a mother “anytime now.”

  I kept thinking, This ain’t so bad!

  For the first day, I stared at the walls a lot, read some trashy magazines, and tried to have meaningful conversations with my dad, Patti, Mike, the nurses, and Denise, when she would pop in and out. But for the most part, I was really trying to connect with the Pitocin, which was having zero impact. The doctor informed me that if this baby didn’t come out on its own by Friday, September 26, he would have to do a C-section. He said he would be back the following day to check on me and then we could discuss our options.

  Wednesday was a repeat of the day before: There was no movement. I had not dilated; and my plug was still intact.

  Patti became the contraction monitor, watching it religiously.

  At any blip on the screen, she’d yell, “Did you feel that? How about that? That?”

  It was pretty funny. I appreciated her participation, but sadly, the answer was the same. “Nope. Still nothing.”

  By dinnertime, my dad and Patti decided to go back to my house and get some rest. They knew I would call if anything changed. Mike opted to stay with me in the hospital for a bit longer. He wanted to watch the first and only debate between Governor Gray Davis and his challenger, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Yippee!

  This was going to be a long two hours.

  Within minutes, I was
in the worst pain of my life. If I had been standing, I would have dropped to the floor because the pain was that intense. I think I even blacked out for a second.

  Okay, so these must be contractions. Holy crap!

  They came on so fast and furious that I didn’t know what hit me

  I am a pretty tough cookie, but the pain was unbearable. When the nurse came running in, I immediately asked for pain medication. They offered me an epidural, but Mike was opposed to it. (That always made me laugh. He actually thought he had a say in that decision!) The pain subsided fairly quickly after I received the pain medicine, but it had now become a lingering, rolling, constant ache. I still hadn’t dilated at all, but the nurses were feeling more confident because the contractions were coming on so fierce and quickly that maybe we would be in a better place by morning.

  I dozed off during the gubernatorial debate, but was awoken by another rapid-fire attack. I resisted an epidural. I wanted to prove I could handle it, but to whom, and for whom? No idea, but I wasn’t ready to succumb just yet. They gave me another pain reducer that quelled the intensity, but not for long. I was nodding off a bit, but the constant pain was prohibiting me from sleeping. I was growing more and more uncomfortable, but the realization that I could be a mother “any minute now” had finally found its happy place in my mind.

  We discussed with the nurse the options for the epidural and agreed it was time. There was no need to suffer any longer.

  Wow, what a difference.

  Yeah, no need to prove anything to anyone.

  I am good to go. Bring on the baby!

  I had had a lot of time to fantasize about what that first moment would be like when the doctor would lay my baby on my chest, the beginning of a love affair with mother and child and the mark of a “Norman Rockwell family life,” which I never got to experience as a child. I had fantasies of family all around the house, but more than anything it was in my heart. I knew what I wanted it to be like in my home, and I’d be damned if I didn’t make that dream a reality.

  At 10:30 a.m., the doctor sauntered casually into the room. He lifted my gown and reached in and quickly removed his hand.

  “Don’t sneeze. The baby is right there!”

  What the…? Baby? How did that happen? Oh, my God! What the heck do we do now?

  And just like that, the cavalry arrived: my dad and Patti (thank God, they didn’t listen to me when I said, take your time); Mike, who had been off getting coffee; and Denise, who had just visited Abigail.

  My heart was pumping so fast, it felt like it was coming up my throat. But when I saw their faces, I suddenly became so calm.

  I wasn’t going to be alone.

  I am going to be a mother, anytime now.

  * * *

  Everyone assumes their positions. My dad is standing tall and proud on my right side, blatantly averting his eyes away from the “zone.” Patti tinkers with her camera; Mike is on my left side, with a nervous energy that made him giddy; and soon-to-be Auntie Denise, the documentarian, paces back and forth, waiting for her cue to start clicking away.

  The doctor rolls the mirror up to the foot of the bed so I could watch, which intrigues and freaks me out at the same time. It isn’t very long before I ask him to turn it away.

  It is incredibly distracting!

  Everything is moving very fast at this point.

  I start pushing at 11:15 a.m. I am trying to focus on the doctor’s instructions; he is catching my kid, after all. My father is holding his breath during my contractions and struggling not to peek, Mike is rubbing my hand so hard that I think some skin comes off, my stepmom is fidgeting unsuccessfully with the camera, and Denise is coming in for my close-up. I need a focal point.

  Yes, the man in my vagina, I will focus on him. Done

  I remember locking eyes with my dad in between pushes. His deep-set blue eyes always bring me such peace. I get lost in the history, the fragility, the strength, and the pain. Today it’s the joy that relaxes me.

  He is consumed with pride and euphoria, a look I haven’t seen in so many years. I take a mental picture, although I have a feeling that the birth of his first grandchild will elicit years of that same look.

  “Fred, you have to see this. You have to look at what’s happening! Fred, look over here. Oh, my God, the head. Fred, are you seeing this?” Patti asked.

  My dad shakes his head no. He doesn’t want to invade my privacy.

  So sweet.

  “Fred, hurry!”

  He is struggling. I can see it on his face.

  “Just look, Dad. It’s okay. It’s just a vessel. Just look already, please!”

  And with that, he turns his head “south of the equator” and bursts into tears as he witnessed his grandson being born.

  “It’s a boy!” Mike shouts.

  The doctor holds up my newborn son like the biggest and shiniest trophy I’ve ever won.

  There he is. My son.

  Samuel Ronald Hahn, born 12:03 p.m., September 25, 2003, 7 pounds, 2 ounces, 19½ inches.

  Oh, my God, I am a mother.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “The strictest law sometimes becomes the severest injustice.”

  —Benjamin Franklin

  * * *

  The If I Did It scandal evoked massive emotion in so many people, but mostly because they had no idea what happened.The National Enquirer broke the news in October 2006, that the killer had written his confession, with ghost writer Pablo Fenjves. You might recall Pablo was a key witness in Ron and Nicole’s murder trial. He testified about the plaintive wail of the dog, helping to determine the time line for the murder. Of course, the killer’s attorneys denied the claim that he had written a book, but The National Enquirer had a fairly decent record of having most of a story accurate, so we knew something was in the works. But what was it, and how could it get past the watchful eyes of the public?

  It was reported that he stood to pocket close to a million dollars for this deal, which was inked with publisher Judith Regan under the HarperCollins umbrella. And when the book was set to be released, he would also appear with her on the Fox network, in a “confession special” entitled O. J. Simpson: If I Did It, Here's How It Happened. Needless to say we were incensed!

  When I heard, I immediately called my father. “Did you see this bullshit on the cover of the National Enquirer that the killer published a book, set to release in a few months, with Pablo Fenjves?!” The words are coming so fast out of my mouth that it takes a few attempts for my dad to actually understand what I am saying. But it doesn’t take him more than a millisecond to be as outraged as I am.

  Next call: the attorneys.

  It is no secret that the killer is on the hook for millions upon millions of dollars to satisfy the civil suit judgment awarded to our families back in 1997. In fact, our family had been tipped off many times when he had tried to make money in back alley cash only deals. So how in the hell did a multimillion-dollar book deal with a major publisher go undetected, especially with a writer that was directly involved with the case from the beginning? I felt so utterly betrayed, it was sickening.

  It doesn’t take too long for our attorneys to end up in court, trying to get to the bottom of this story. We learn that the killer has entered into this lucrative book deal, using a new fake company, Lorraine Brooke Associates, to launder the money through, so that it is untraceable to him, and therefore unreachable by us.

  Truth be told, when we were successful in the civil case of holding him accountable for Ron’s and Nicole’s murders, we were awarded a ridiculous amount of money—$33M between the two families. For all intents and purposes, it was Monopoly money because we knew we were never going to see a dime from him. He was very public with his animus toward us, and about how he “will never work a day in my life if it means having to pay The Goldmans.” It makes my skin crawl to hear him say our name. But if that wasn’t enough, he is surrounded by a team of specialists that he hired to hide his assets and to use the law to every ext
ent he could to not pay one red cent, so it was very clear to us that collecting on the judgment would most likely never happen.

  No matter how hard we tried, we were always one step behind, and by the time we did get wind of any opportunity to strip him of his cash flow, it was too late—he was literally off into the night with a satchel of cash. My dad and I never focused on the money part of things, but it was very frustrating that the killer could continue to skirt justice and the law by using that same law to legally avoid it.

  Until it finally backfired.

  Our attorneys (Jonathan Polak, David Cook, Peter Haven, and Paul Battista) filed a claim on the monies he was set to receive from the book deal. We were simultaneously trying to shut the deal down and get the 400,000 books that were already printed pulled from the shelves. We had no idea what was in that horrible book; we had not read it. We were told it was “manual to murder,” so we assumed that to be true. We couldn’t stand the thought of him describing how he killed Ron and Nicole in cold blood. We were very focused on stopping him from profiting from the vicious murders and from glorifying his crime. So we went to the media.

  We yelled loudly, begging people to sign petitions, to send letters to Rupert Murdoch (owner of the Fox network and HarperCollins Publishing), and boycott the channels set to air his disgusting special. I can’t believe how much support we gained across the country, and it doesn’t take too long before Rupert Murdoch made a statement that this was an “ill-conceived idea” and voila, just like that it was gone. Elation.

  The hitch, there is always a hitch, came after.

  When we levied on the proceeds of the book, we ended up becoming the rightful owner to a portion of the rights to the book. Obviously, we were not interested in having anything to do with it moving forward, but a Los Angeles Superior Court judge ordered the book to be sold at auction and the highest bidder would retain 100% of the rights, title, and interest to If I Did It. We were informed that the killer had people lined up to purchase it back, so that he could once again publish it. By this point, he already pocketed close to $700,000 of the $1M he was promised, and the thought of him making any more money was so upsetting. We were scrambling, and as we followed the letter of the law, we ran into a roadblock. What are we supposed to do now? Buy the complete rights out from under him? Let him have it? Where would we come up with the money?