Can't Forgive

by Kim Goldman

  I was in a daze for the remainder of our stay in Vegas. We were scheduled to leave later that evening. I was totally incapable of putting into words the feelings I was having. It was bittersweet for me.

  He had been found guilty of a crime that had nothing to do with us, except in a roundabout way. He would serve a sentence that would take him off the streets. But he would never pay for the crime of murder.

  I felt victorious that he was behind bars, but angry that it wasn’t for killing Ron and Nicole. People kept telling us that we did this; we pushed him over the edge; we caused him to break. I was trying to allow myself to take pride in that, and trying to connect with how magnificent that theory was.

  But did we really do that? Did we pursue him so intensely that he committed another crime?

  I will never know, but I think I’ll try and savor that feeling, because it might be the closest I get to feeling like we won.

  * * *

  Right around the holidays I made an important purchase. It was a special card with a special message:

  Congratulations on your new home. Hope you enjoy your new digs! From the Goldman Family.

  I sent it off to Lovelock Correctional Center in Nevada. That was the best $3.29 I have ever spent.

  * * *

  It has taken me some time to adjust to the killer being behind bars. Two days after he was handed his sentence, I was shopping with my son and I saw a man who from far away looked identical to the killer. He was the same body type, the same height, the same build. He was sitting at a table outside a retail store signing autographs and I stopped myself in the middle of the parking lot, trying to swallow my heart that had just leapt into my mouth. I couldn’t move.

  Holy crap, why is he here? How did he get here?

  I’m staring at him, studying him, watching and waiting.

  “Mommy, why did you stop so suddenly?”

  “Sorry, honey, I just forgot something for a split second.”

  It’s not him. It can’t be him. He’s in jail. He can’t be here. It’s not him.

  And the realization that it couldn’t be him, at least for nine years, was exceptionally liberating.

  * * *

  It’s been three years since he has been living in a concrete bedroom. I think about him and what his days must be like.

  How does he keep himself busy, or does he?

  I think about what his existence must feel like for him.

  Is he bored? Does he sleep all day? What does he eat? Do his kids visit?

  I’m filled with questions. The ambiguity frustrates me.

  I have this fantasy of him, the king of the hill, living among the general population. I envision him: his swagger, his arrogance, his charm, and his charisma commanding attention. Even though he’s not able to walk freely outside of that jail, in my brain he walks freely in there, unscathed and unaffected. I have no idea if he is in solitary or if he is thrown in with the other criminals. I don’t know if he’s being treated with respect, with disgust and disdain, or if he’s revered as a hero, the big man on campus.

  If he is in isolation, is he slowly going insane?

  Does he ever admit his guilt?

  I decided I wanted to go and see for myself what his life looks like now.

  So I wrote him a letter.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Do what you feel in your heart to be right—for you'll be criticized anyway. You'll be damned if you do, and damned if you don't.”

  —Eleanor Roosevelt

  * * *

  “You did what?”

  “I sent a letter to the killer in jail, asking him if I could come for a visit.”

  I can’t say that with a straight face, not because I thought it was funny; I am horribly nervous about my father’s reaction.

  “I don’t understand what you did. Why the hell would you want to see him, let alone talk to him? Kim, I am not happy about this. I am definitely not okay with this at all.”

  “Dad, I know. I can barely understand it myself. But I need to do this. I need to see him in there. It’s not about talking to him. It’s the visual of seeing him small. I—”

  He isn’t buying it. “I need some time to think it over and I will call you back.”

  I can hear the disappointment in my dad’s voice; there is nothing worse. Whether you are a child or an adult, disappointing your parent is the worst feeling ever.

  “Okay, Dad. I am sorry. I know it’s crazy, and I don’t expect you to understand. I am sorry if I disappointed you. I will wait until you let this sink in a bit. But please don’t try and talk me out of this. I need this.”

  * * *

  I hang up the phone. My heart sinks. I don’t like hurting my dad, and I know I did. But I also have to remember that we are two different people, and we deal differently with our pain and our grief. On so many levels, my dad and I share the same brain, but our hearts are broken in different places, and our paths of coping have always been separate. I respect my father more than anyone in this world. His approval, his acceptance, and his validation of me mean more than words can ever describe. But I know this is the right path for me, even if he is vehemently opposed. I am willing to risk his judgment to get to where I need to be.

  I am in a “take charge of my life” mentality these days. I am sick of being the recipient of my life; I want to be a result of my life. I want to get in front of the crap. Even though I can’t control all of it, I want to be on the offensive, not the defensive.

  I see him as this man who is larger than life. He killed two people and got away with it. How can I see him any other way?

  I have never seen him suffer—only me.

  I have never seen him small—only me.

  I have never seen him beaten down, depressed, broken—only me.

  I need to adjust this picture.

  * * *

  I sat for a few days with the idea to write him. It sounded insane. I am known for doing some pretty outlandish stuff, but never to this degree, even by my standards. Writing this book has taken me on a journey that has been profound and moving, painful and soothing, isolating and comforting, but I push on because I want to be in control of my life.

  Fear has always been a motivator for me, so why would I stop now?

  I called my publicist. Michael loved the idea. He and his wife, Leslie Garson, and I have become so close over the years since the publication of If I Did It. We’ve had countless conversations about the killer, my feelings about him, and his existence in Las Vegas. They both agreed that my idea was brilliant and would support my need for growth and understanding. I laughed to myself, thinking it was more stupid than strong.

  I confided in Denise what I was planning on doing. She is completely opposed to the idea. She worried about my safety, and was nervous that he would mock me and my letter. She was concerned that the potential damage would be more than I could handle.

  I didn't have an answer for her other than to acknowledge that I had thought about all that, too. My argument was, “What’s the worst that’s going to happen?”

  I’d suffered the worst kind of loss, suffered tremendous pain, and spent years battling demons and anger and hostility and rage, as well as suicidal and homicidal thoughts. It’s all been because of him, and giving him all of that energy and power was exhausting. And even though I don’t let my pain or him consume my day-to-day life, it still swirls inside my head. I still wonder about him. I still wonder if he’s suffering.

  So what the hell, I thought:

  I know how to deal with grief and loss.

  I know how to deal with disappointment.

  I know how to cope with pain and anguish.

  But I’m not clear on how to cope with clarity, strength, and success. Those feelings are foreign to me.

  The hardest part of this process was actually writing the letter. I sat at the computer and stared at the blank page on the screen, having no idea where to start. I knew in my gut that I needed to appeal to his narcissism. I needed to con
vince him that he would be doing me a favor by letting me come and visit. I needed to soften. I needed to ask him for his help.

  Never in all these years did I ever think that I would ask the man who stabbed my brother to death for help. But I know that the only way I’m going to be able to shrink him in size—to put him in perspective; to see him as a small, broken, pathetic, decrepit shell of a human—would be to make him feel big, important, and in control.

  If I can just figure out how to do that, I’ll be golden.

  * * *

  I spoke with a friend whose uncle was murdered. She wrote to and subsequently visited with the man who gunned her uncle down. I was awestruck by her willingness and ability to ask for help: that part was such a hindrance for me. She and I both knew that the letter is just a form of manipulation, that it is all bullshit and full of lies, choreographed in such a way that would get me where I want to go. The conversation with her motivated me, but I still couldn’t get the words out.

  I can’t even get past the salutation, “Dear…” The cursor hangs on the page like the stench of week-old garbage.

  I haven’t said his name aloud since the trial in 1994, and now I have to write it? I decide to put the project away for the day until I can collect my thoughts.

  My friend told me two things during the course of our conversation that I had never thought of before. First, I had to handwrite the letter. Groan. Handwriting felt so personal to me, so intimate, and I didn’t want to have an ounce of intimacy with him.

  Eye on the prize, I keep thinking. Eye on the prize.

  The second thing she mentioned is to give him a number where he can reach me. “Inviting impulse,” she said.

  Now I think I’m going to vomit. Talk to him on the phone? No talking, just visual. This was a visual thing for me. I had nothing to say to him. I had no questions for him.

  I don’t want to know why he killed Ron. I already know that.

  I don’t want to hear him spout off to me about his life.

  Oh, my God, no talking. Eye on the prize. Eye on the prize.

  But if he called me, maybe then he would agree to let me come. I could soften; I could manipulate him; I could convince him to let me see him in person. Double groan.

  I never contemplated all of the little pieces to this. I just figured I would rattle off an e-mail and then take the next flight to Nevada. I hadn’t considered the psychology. This could push me to a place I didn’t think I would be willing to go.

  But off I go.

  * * *

  I run into Walmart, giving myself five minutes so that I wouldn’t get too caught up in the process. In and out, no time to obsess. Grab the first girly stationery I can find, and I am out. Up and down the aisles I went, scanning every shelf. Never thought finding paper would be so hard. Then, lo and behold, on the bottom shelf sits a box of stationery: pink with white polka dots and flowers on the envelope. Sold, with two minutes to spare. I put the bag in the trunk. I didn’t want it staring back at me in the car.

  I am ashamed of what I was doing. I feel like I’m being a fraud, calculating and deceitful. Everyone must know.

  Or worse, what if the letter gets out, and people interpret my “softness” as forgiveness? They won’t know it’s all a lie.

  I can barely stay on point with this concept of writing to him. I am a terrible liar, always was, so this will be a stretch for me. I keep reminding myself it is all a means to an end. If I succeed in this quest, I will be able to take back my control from him.

  Eye on the prize, Goldman. Eye on the prize

  . I decide to get a throwaway phone, a pay-as-you-go type that I can ditch when I am done, and I will never have to worry about him contacting me out of the blue again. I want the cheapest and easiest phone I can find, I pull into the Best Buy parking lot, park my car, and walk quickly into the store. I give myself fifteen minutes.

  I am a woman on a mission. Up and down the aisles I go, scanning every shelf. I want to get in and get out, without anyone noticing me.

  A young man walks up to me. “Ma’am, can I help you look for something?”

  I can’t even make eye contact. I feel so ashamed, I don’t want him to know my plan. I feel like I am doing something wrong and illegal.

  I start to stammer and blurt out, “I need a cheap phone, just to receive calls. That’s all, nothing else. Incoming only.”

  He smiles and walks me over to the area where the phones are neatly displayed on the shelf. There are too many to choose from, but my eye goes to the $9.99 phone. I grab it.

  He tries to encourage me to spend a little more money for the phone with texting and Internet.

  “Nope, this is just for incoming calls. I need it to be able to accept collect calls from an inmate.”

  What? Why did I have to go and tell him my whole story? I am nervous, so I keep talking.

  He dips his head down and admits that he had just done this for his cousin who was recently incarcerated. So he tells me all the things I need to do in order to be able to accept phone calls from inmates. I am mortified to be having this conversation, but I appreciate his insight and experience. He helps me pick out the phone, establish the right calling plan, and even gets me a phone number right there on the spot. He tells me I can do all of this from home, but he will be glad to assist me in the store. I graciously accept his offer. I need to be done with this task.

  I fear if I go home with the cell phone and no phone number, I’ll chicken out. I stare at the walls until the transaction was completed.

  Sold. Twenty-two minutes.

  I walk out of Best Buy and take a deep breath of the fresh June air. Aah. The phone rings in my hand, and I literally jump off the curb. In a confused state, I look at the screen: Welcome to AT&T

  Oh, for God’s sake! I haven’t even written the letter, or told anyone the number yet! For the next two days, I check the phone constantly, making sure I haven’t missed a call.

  This is gonna suck.

  * * *

  By the time I returned home, my friend had already sent me an e-mail summarizing some of the thoughts we talked about for my letter. When I read what she wrote, it felt less icky to me. I had to crank out this letter now. Procrastinating was making me second-guess myself, and I know that wouldn’t be good for me.

  My dad was still totally opposed to my decision. I was risking a lot with him. He still couldn’t grasp the “why,” and the more I explained my desperate need to see the killer behind bars, behind a glass wall, handcuffed, escorted by prison guards, the more I wanted it.

  But he finally stopped fighting me.

  I know he is afraid for me. I know he doesn’t want to see me hurt or struggle. I know he wants to protect me forever, but I need to fight this battle on my own. And even if I am unsuccessful, I know my dad will be there to lend me a consoling hug, with no judgment, just love.

  I rip open the box of stationery, find a pen, grab a glass of wine, turn off the TV, turn off my cell phone, and go to work.

  I take the exact words my friend crafted for me and begin to transfer them to the pink, polka-dotted paper, leaving blank the first part where I will write his name.

  I plow through it very quickly, feeling nothing. I am just writing words on a piece of paper. The first page looks terrible. I have terrible handwriting, and I need it to be legible. My hands are shaking so badly that my words look like chicken scratch. So I crumple up the page and try again.

  They are just words, I keep repeating to myself. They have no meaning to me, just words.

  I finally move through the first sheet and onto the second. It is moving very quickly by now, until I reach the end where I need to sign my name and give a phone number and a contact address.

  Wow, this is from me.

  I can’t fake it anymore.

  I can’t pretend.

  I can’t lie.

  Now I need to sign my name and give him direct access to me.

  I wouldn’t be signing “Goldman Family” this time; it w
as all me.

  I walk away, take a few laps on my pacing path, a gulp of Merlot, and write my name, phone number, and address. I invite him to contact me. I am done.

  Well, almost. The last thing I need to do is address it.

  I stare at the white space after the word “Dear,” but I can’t bring myself to write anything. I need some inspiration.

  I go to my computer, Google his name, and come across a YouTube video taken of him in 1996 in front of his house in Brentwood. People were stopping to shake his hand and to get an autograph.

  He smiled and laughed, and accepted their well wishes. He basked in his own glory.

  Before I knew it, I was done with the letter.

  I fold it up, shove it into a pretty envelope, and address it. I write his name again on the front, but this time I can attach his inmate number.

  Ha! He has an inmate number!

  Suddenly it doesn’t seem that hard to write his name. I get to put him back in his place, back in his jail cell. I write my address on the back; that represents my freedom. Wow, this is powerful.

  I stick the envelope in my bag and rush off to pick up Sam from school. I took so long with the letter, I am now late in picking him up. I promised Sam that I would take him for a special treat because he exceeded a reading goal for his second-grade class. I am so proud of him, and want to reward him. He asks to go to Menchie’s, which is our favorite self-serve frozen yogurt shop. I am happy to oblige, but I also know I have to get the letter in the mail before five o’clock for it to go out that day.

  Sam sees the envelope sticking out of my bag and asks me what it is. Since he obviously can read now, I didn’t want him to see the front and ask who the letter is for. He doesn’t know the name of Uncle Ron’s killer, and I can’t do that on this day. I am too emotional. So I just say it is for work, and then distract him. He is obsessed with the flower on the envelope, so I show him the back side and then jam it back in my bag.

  We sit for about thirty minutes, enjoying our time together. I am not going to lie; I am totally preoccupied with what I am minutes away from doing. As soon as Sam and I are done eating, we will head to the post office. I am committed to my plan, but I am worried that I will get derailed in the process. I hoped to drop it off before I got Sam. He deserves to have my undivided attention, but I am struggling.