by Kim Goldman
Lauren’s scream was so shrill and filled with such excruciating pain that Michael had to flee into the house. Never in his life had he heard such a mixture of anguish, disbelief, and horror come out of someone. It resounded in his ears as he bounded up the steps and headed for his room.
His best friend, Alexa, and Rob and Barb’s daughter, Melanie, were waiting for him. Alexa put her arms around him and told him that everything would be okay. “If you need to talk, I’m here for you,” she said.
Still in the driveway, standing between two parked cars, Patti kept trying to embrace her daughter. But Lauren pushed her away and ran into the house. She found me sitting alone at the bottom of the staircase. I wrapped my arms around her waist and gently pulled her onto my lap. I rocked her back and forth, and told her that everything would be okay. But all she could do was cry, and say the words “No, no, no” over and over again. Through my own tears, I told her that I loved her—and so did Ron.
Lauren wanted to be alone. She squirmed from my grasp and ran upstairs to her room. Even though it was still warm outside, she felt icy cold and could not stop shivering, so she put on a sweat suit.
Her friends Jamie, Julie, and Lindsay came upstairs to be with her. One of them asked, “Oh my God, are you okay?”
Lauren did not know how to respond. Did she want to be alone? Did she want her friends around? Did she want to be in her room? Did she want to walk about the house? Was she okay? No. How could she be?
The girls came downstairs and mingled briefly with our friends and neighbors. Many were in the family room, camped in front of the television, and Lauren kept hearing the name of a man, the one who had been married to the woman who was murdered alongside Ron. She had never heard of him before.
Finally she drew her friends back up to her room. She had decided that she did not want to watch TV. She said, “I don’t want to know how it happened.”
As Joe packed for the flight from San Francisco to L.A., Kim’s mind was still spinning. Although she had a sometimes turbulent relationship with her maternal grandparents, it seemed necessary and important for her to call them. They now lived in Florida, but Kim had received a letter from them telling her that they planned to visit Kim’s aunt and uncle in Chicago. She had not seen any of these people in at least ten years, but she called Information and succeeded in getting the number of her aunt Donna.
Donna answered the phone and started to make small talk, but Kim interrupted. “Have you been watching the news?” Donna said that she had, but had not paid any particular attention to it. When Kim told her what had happened, Donna started to cry.
“Are my grandparents there?” Kim asked.
“Yes, but you can’t tell them this. Grandma has a heart condition.”
A senseless, frustrating argument developed about when and how the elderly couple should be informed until, finally, Kim’s grandfather got on the line.
“Grandpa, I have some bad news,” Kim said.
“What’s the matter?”
“Ron is gone.”
“What are you talking about?”
Kim said it straight: “Ron died.”
“What?”
“Ron was killed.”
“What do you mean?”
Kim repeated the horrible news over and over again.
Finally her grandfather simply said, “Okay.”
“Hello!” Kim screamed into the telephone. “Did you hear what I said? Can you hear me?”
The words simply did not make a connection.
His tepid reaction infuriated Kim and she screamed, “Ron! Your grandson, Ron. Your grandson was killed! He’s dead!”
Finally her grandfather began to yell something to the others in the room. Kim heard sounds of bedlam. Frustrated, she hung up.
Moments later, her aunt Donna called back. “Are you going to call your mother?” she asked.
“I didn’t even think about that,” Kim admitted. “I guess I have to, but I don’t even know what her last name is now, where she’s living, anything. Do you have her number?”
Donna informed Kim that her mother’s name was now Sharon Rufo, and gave her the number in St. Louis. Kim promised that she would call. But after she hung up the phone she had second thoughts. This Sharon Rufo person was someone Kim barely knew. So she called me instead and asked for my advice.
“Just bring the number with you,” I suggested. “We’ll handle it when you get home.” I could not imagine how Kim and I were going to deal with this aspect of things. Sharon was a virtual stranger to us.
While we were talking, the call-waiting signal sounded on Kim’s line. I held on while Kim took the call. It was Sharon. Donna had already taken it upon herself to notify her. Sharon was irate that Kim had not called her first.
“I just got your number,” Kim stammered. “I … I was just about to …”
By now it was past time for Kim and Joe to leave for the airport. Both of them cried as the car sped down the highway, and Joe constantly checked his watch. When they finally reached the airport, they had to park in a lot that seemed miles away from the terminal. Grabbing their bags, they started running, dropping things, picking them up again and running, running, running. A security guard passing through the lot saw them and laughed at their plight. “Why don’t you get a cart?” he hollered after them. His laughter made Kim furious.
When they finally reached the terminal, checked in, and headed for the gate, they were surprised to see the same security guard manning the metal detector. Kim rushed through, but the alarm sounded and she had to go back. Frantic that they would miss their flight, Kim ripped off her belt with its metal buckle and ran back through the detector, but it beeped once more. She yanked off her earrings, feeling as if she were doing some kind of ridiculous striptease. Tugging at her beltless jeans, trying to keep them up, tears streamed down her face as she finally made it through.
“Lighten up,” the security guard said. “Are you having a bad day?”
They reached the gate with only a few minutes to spare. Kim spotted a pay phone and placed a hurried call, trying once again to reach Amy Levine. The phone rang several times before Amy picked up and Kim babbled, “Amy, something really horrible has happened. My brother was murdered and I have to go to L.A.” Amy began to weep as Kim pleaded: “Please, Amy, please, just tell Rae, okay? Tell her I won’t be at work. Tell her I’ll call her as soon as I can.” Through her tears, Amy said that she would do whatever she could to help.
The forty-five-minute flight seemed endless. Joe held Kim’s hand, and they both let the silent tears flow. A flight attendant asked if she was okay, but Kim was unable to answer her.
Kim’s mind floated back to something that happened in 1991. The Hastings family lived in Agoura, about five minutes from our home, and they were friends of ours. In a tragic incident, their son Craig became involved in a fight with another boy who was high on drugs. Craig was stabbed and killed. It was the first and only violent incident that we were aware of in our safe, peaceful neighborhood. Craig had been very close to his brother Scott, and because Ron and Kim were so close, her heart just broke for Scott. Scott once told Kim that he was going to kill the killer himself, or find someone who would. Back then Kim had counseled against such an act of vengeance, but she had thought: What if it were us? I couldn’t bear it.
And now, it was us.
We had told Kim that Rob Duben would probably meet her plane, so she was surprised to see that Patti and I were with him at the gate. We all embraced, crying and clinging to one another for support.
I saw in my daughter’s eyes a pain so great that it was almost incomprehensible. The walk through the LAX terminal seemed chillingly cold and dark. Hours of crying had left Kim numb and sweaty. She was shivering by the time we got to Rob’s van.
Patti sat in the front seat next to Rob. Kim and I sat behind them, and Joe was in the far back. I put my arms around Kim and Joe held on to her shoulder. It was about 10:45 P.M. as we started the long drive home.
Rob had the radio tuned to KNX 1070. A newsman reported: “Nicole Brown Simpson and a man named Ronald Goldman were found slain …” The words sounded as empty and hollow as we all felt. It was the first news report that Kim had heard.
It was nearing midnight when we got home. Michael was waiting for us in the driveway. He ran to Kim, and she grabbed him and hung on. She just kept saying, “He loved you. He loved you.” Lauren and Kim embraced also, and the endless supply of tears continued.
The house was still overflowing with people, but it was eerily quiet. Everyone was stunned and terribly sad. No one really knew what to say. What was there to say?
Even the animals were suffering. Lucy, our Labrador, usually leaps about, shadowing me. Now she was subdued and cowering, her big brown eyes downturned and sad. Pitzel, the feisty terrier, was hiding, keenly aware that something was very, very wrong. Riley, the cat, walked the perimeter of the rooms, confused and nervous.
Kim began crying as I had never seen her cry before—deep, body-wrenching sobs. The pain was profound. The tears could not be stopped.
Friends and neighbors finally prepared to go home for the night. One of them, Dr. Jon Matthew, gave me a Valium. I swallowed the pill and retreated to our bedroom. Eventually the tranquilizer took effect, and I drifted into a troubled netherworld—half awake, half asleep, caught in the middle of an unspeakable, surreal nightmare.
The others tried to get some rest, but it was impossible. As Lauren lay in her bed, vivid pictures of Ron flashed through her mind, like horrible dreams—except that she was awake. She stumbled into our room and tried to sleep on the floor, but that did not work either.
Unable to sleep herself, Patti got up and rubbed Lauren’s back, but nothing could bring her comfort. Resigning themselves to the fact that sleep was impossible, Patti and Lauren went out to the landing at the top of the staircase and sat there in shock, talking and asking all those impossible “Why?” questions that neither of them could answer. Soon, Kim joined them.
Michael had no tears left, but he could not sleep either. When finally he stepped out of his room, he found his mother, Kim, and Lauren sitting on the floor, dazed and broken.
At about 2:00 A.M., Kim called her longtime friend Sarah Kupper. She wanted to be the one to inform her friends of the tragedy, and did not want them to hear about it on the news. Sarah, like Amy, dissolved into tears.
All night long Patti repeated, “Ron was murdered.”
All night long Kim cried.
All night long Michael remembered the sound of Lauren’s scream.
At about 4:30 A.M. Kim called a friend, Erika Johnson, in Chicago. Erika, half asleep and dazed, said that she had heard about the murders the night before, but would never have believed that one of the victims was the Ron Goldman she knew. She was devastated and offered to fly to L.A. immediately.
Kim could not wait for the sun to rise. Somehow she had convinced herself that when a new day dawned, the nightmare would be over.
THREE
But when the bright California sun finally rose, nothing had changed.
An early phone call from the police underscored the hideous reality. Two men who identified themselves as Detectives Tippin and Carr of the Los Angeles Police Department asked me to meet them at Ron’s apartment. For legal reasons they needed a family member present when they looked around the apartment. I did not want Kim to come along, but she insisted; she just needed to be there.
Rob and Jim picked us up and drove us to 11663 Gorham, in Brentwood.
We arrived at apartment 3 before the detectives. We did not have a key, so the four of us silently paced back and forth in front of the locked door.
“It’s like Ron’s away on vacation,” Kim said softly.
I nodded through fresh tears. We sorted through a few pieces of junk mail that were in his mailbox.
Soon the detectives arrived. They were polite and pleasant, sympathetic to our anguish.
We had contacted the landlady, and she arrived to open the apartment for us. Tippin and Carr entered, but we held back, unsure that we wanted to be there. Finally I decided to go in. Kim, Rob, and Jim followed.
When I stepped from the front door into the living room I felt an overwhelming sense of closeness to Ron. He was all around us; his food, his clothes, his furniture were here, but he was not. It was painful to realize that this was as close to him as I would ever get again.
The apartment was a still life. A glass of water and a half-eaten Mrs. Fields cookie sat on the coffee table. Is that the last thing he ate? Kim wondered. A list of foods, with their protein and carbohydrate contents, was taped to the refrigerator door. A meager supply of fat-free snacks were scattered on the countertop.
Kim picked up Ron’s Rolodex and immediately checked the “S” section. She was surprised to find an entry that read: “Nicole Simp.,” followed by a phone number.
One of the many rumors floating around was that Ron was barefoot when he died, and Kim was obsessed by this. For a time, it was all she could think about. Ron never went barefoot. Finally she asked, “Did my brother have his shoes on?”
Carr replied, “Yes.”
A flashing light indicated that there were numerous messages on Ron’s answering machine. The detectives took custody of the tape, and the Rolodex.
Ron’s waiter’s clothes—a pair of black slacks and a white shirt—were hung haphazardly on the bedroom door. Kim thought: This must have been the last thing he wore.
Wandering through the apartment, Kim felt like an intruder. It’s so cold, empty, and lonely, she thought. It’s as if life was stripped away in a flash.
In a drawer, Kim found a letter that she had once written to Ron. The sight of it brought some painful memories to mind, but she could not deal with them at this moment in time.
I felt as though I was sleepwalking and watching myself from some unknown place. As we prepared to leave, I glanced around the room. I simply could not accept that I would never see, hold, or touch my son again.
At home, no one knew quite what to do.
Our friends and neighbors were back in full force, bringing food, offering solace, taking care of details. The telephone rang incessantly. Barb and Andrea tried to field most of the calls.
Patti called one of my bosses at Reliable Container. “This is Patti Goldman,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know that Fred is not going to be in. His son was killed.”
“Okay,” the man said. Patti was dumbstruck by his bland reception to the news. “Did you hear me?” she asked.
“Yeah, okay,” he repeated.
“Okay, goodbye,” Patti said, hanging up the phone.
A few minutes later my boss called back and issued a lukewarm apology. “I’m sorry I reacted that way,” he said, “but I didn’t really understand you. I’m so sorry.” His voice was flat.
Needing to be with her friends, Lauren decided to go to school. Sherri Berke picked her up and drove her there, along with Jamie and Julie. Graduation practice was scheduled in the morning, and this would be followed by the traditional round of yearbook signing. All of Lauren’s friends and teachers were very supportive, but she could not hold back her tears. After a short time, she arranged to come home.
Michael skipped his final exam in U.S. history. He stayed at home, trying to sleep, trying to block out everything. He knew that all our friends were trying to help, but he just wanted to be alone, so he remained in his room for a time. After a while, overcome by a suffocating feeling, he slipped downstairs and out the door. Moving quickly, he walked the familiar route along Lindero Canyon Boulevard to the small shopping center several blocks away. He and Ron had walked this way often. Maybe once a week, while Ron was living at home, he had suggested that they take a walk, just so that Michael would have a chance to tell him what was going on in his life. They would wander through Vons grocery store, or the drugstore, or have a slice of pizza. Their favorite place was the Donut Inn. They rarely bought much of anything; mostly they jus
t talked.
Ron could give a great pep talk. “Michael,” he would advise, “if you don’t feel good about yourself, then no one else will feel good about you. You’ve got to walk with confidence to make people look at you with confidence.” He encouraged Michael to do his best in everything he tried. “Don’t make the same mistakes I made,” he said once. “Finish college.” He pointed out that Michael was a good problem solver and a people person. “You know how to deal with people,” he said, “and that’s going to take you far in life.”
But Michael did not know how to deal with people right now. As he neared the Donut Inn, he realized that he could not face anyone he might meet inside. So he turned around and retraced his steps, knowing that about halfway home there was a quiet area with a stone bench. When he reached the bench, he sat there alone, crying.
He thought about the last time he had spoken with Ron. Over the phone, Ron had promised that he would come out to see Michael’s last tennis match of the season. For Michael, Ron and tennis would always go together.
A strapping, well-built young man, Michael was one half of the top-seeded doubles team at Oak Park High School. Ron always called him “Sport” and praised his game, but in fact Michael knew that Ron was the superior tennis player. He remembered the first time he had played tennis with Ron. His older brother had made the game look easy. Sometimes Ron’s serve hit with such force that Michael could not even see it.
During Michael’s freshman year, when he learned that his school was looking for a tennis coach, he mentioned the fact to Ron. Ron interviewed for the job and was hired. Michael had been so proud that his big brother was going to coach his tennis team!
Michael was excited when the team assembled for the first day of practice. Ron was a good-looking, charismatic guy, and he was an ace tennis player. The school was just starting its tennis program and the kids were not expecting to work too hard, but Ron changed that attitude quickly. He turned out to be a tough coach who would not tolerate any whining or excuses. He made the boys work diligently at their game and then ordered them to run long and hard to develop stamina. He quickly earned their friendship, and their respect.
