by Kim Goldman
I screamed, “This man is the worst kind of human being imaginable. He compares racism of its worst kind in this world to what’s going on in this case. He has suggested that racism is the foundation of the Police Department, of our justice system. … This man is sick. He is absolutely sick.”
I could feel Patti pulling at my arm, willing me to stop.
Upstairs in the D.A.’s office, Kim watched on television and cried hysterically, certain that I was going to collapse before I finished speaking.
Tears blurred my view of the dozens of reporters who were scrambling to hear my words. I heard my voice quiver and crack. But I would not stop.
I continued. “He walks around for the past days screaming his life has been threatened, and who does he choose to walk with? Guards from the Nation of Islam. He’s talking about racism, and he talks about hate. Who does he connect himself with?” Everyone knew that Cochran’s bodyguards were disciples of Louis Farrakhan, a demagogue notorious for his anti-Semitic views.
“This man is a horror walking around amongst us. And he compares what Mark Fuhrman did to misery from the—the beginnings of history. This man ought to be ashamed of himself to walk among decent human beings. This man is a disgrace to human beings. … He is one of the most disgusting human beings I have ever had to listen to in my life.
“He suggests that racism ought to be the most important thing that any one of us ought to listen to in this court, that any one of us in this nation should be listening to and it’s because of racism we should put aside all other thought, all other reason, and set his murdering client free. He’s a sick man. He ought to be put away.”
That evening the phone rang constantly. Friends from all over the country called nonstop to offer their support and to find out if I was okay.
A thousand spectators gathered outside the courthouse. Some chanted, “Free O.J.!” Others responded, “Fry O.J.!” Several tussles broke out.
It was Friday, the day that the prosecution would have the last word. As we waited in the D.A.’s office for court to convene, one of the men in the Brown entourage approached Kim and asked, “Did you get the speech?”
“Excuse me?” Kim replied.
“Did Patty Jo give you the speech yet?”
“Speech about what?”
“About how to behave in the courtroom!”
Before Kim could answer, Judy Brown was at her side, launching into a litany of rules on how to behave in court when the verdict came in.
“Judy, I think I know,” Kim said coldly. She thought: What arrogance! I’ve been here every day for nine months. Have I done anything wrong? No. Have I done anything to embarrass myself or my family? No. Have I been chastised by Judge Ito? No.
Chris Darden, who, more and more, was caught in up in a pivotal moment in this nation’s racial history, told the jury in a soft, compelling tone: “You can’t send a message to Fuhrman, you can’t send a message to the LAPD … by delivering a verdict of not guilty in a case like this where it is clear. You know it is clear, you feel it, you know it in your heart. … Everybody knows it.”
Chris acknowledged the tension that this particular jury had to feel. “You’ve got a tough job, a very tough job,” he said. “I don’t envy you in that regard. But let me tell you something, I have had a tough job, too. The law is a tough thing to enforce in this town. Not everybody … wants to live up to the law or follow the law. Not everybody thinks that the law applies to them.
“I have been a prosecutor for almost fifteen years, and if there is one rule that I have lived by, if there is one rule that means a lot to me, it is this one: No one is above the law; not the police, not the rich, no one.”
He derided the characterization of the defendant as a hero. “A hero,” he said, “is a man that would rush into a life-threatening situation to save a woman without ever thinking about himself first.”
Phil Vannatter leaned back over the rail and placed a hand on my knee as Chris added, “There are no heroes in this courtroom today.”
We owed the prosecution team so much for all they did. They gave up their lives for a year and a half. Most nights they were up until three in the morning, working on the case. Their families seldom saw them. They were scrutinized, sometimes vilified, and put through an emotional wringer. The law clerks and the investigators always seemed edited out of the thanks and praise they deserved. Kim said of our Victims’ Assistance advocate, “I would give Mark my left lung if he asked for it.”
And so on this final day, we catered a lunch for the entire team. It was our small way of saying thank you to all the people who gave up so much of their lives to try to see that justice was done.
I spoke for a few minutes, and then it was Kim’s turn. Through her tears she told everyone that she had really grown to love and cherish them as a family. She said that she was very grateful for the opportunity to teach them about who her brother was. She singled out Chris for a special thankyou, but the praise made him uncomfortable.
Finally she commented, “But in one second I would give all of you up to have my brother back.”
In the afternoon Marcia took the jurors through the case one final time. Where was the defendant on the night of the murders? She reminded the jurors that blood, hair, and fiber evidence inextricably linked the defendant to his two victims. She retraced the trail of blood from the murder scene to the defendant’s home. She acknowledged that the defense disputed the quality of some of that evidence, but she displayed a chart showing that the uncontested evidence alone, such as blood drops at the crime scene, the defendant’s unexplained whereabouts, and the history of spousal abuse, were sufficient to convict.
She said, “It’s very clear, and it’s very obvious. Mr. Simpson committed these murders.”
The prosecution ended its case with a dramatic audio-visual display. Once again they played the 911 tapes of Nicole pleading desperately for protection from the defendant. At the same time, on the overhead screen, they flashed slides showing Nicole, battered and bruised. Finally they showed, one last time, the murder scene, with Ron and Nicole’s bodies soaked in blood.
Marcia paused for a moment. Then she said in a somber voice, “I don’t have to say anything else. …”
It was 3:57 P.M. Now it was up to the twelve men and women in the jury box.
TWENTY-SIX
We were exhausted, apprehensive, and uptight. We made no plans for the week following closing arguments. We prepared for an anxious and lengthy wait.
Patty Jo had all of our phone numbers, and by now, these were legion. She had our home numbers, cellular numbers for Patti and me, the number of Patti’s school and my office, and, finally, our pagers.
I believed that there were only two possible outcomes. The best-case scenario was a guilty verdict. It was simple and logical: one plus one equals two. The worst-case scenario was a hung jury. Was it possible that one dissenter could hang the jury? Yes, of course.
I asked myself: Is it possible that twelve people could have heard all the evidence and agree that he is not guilty?
And I answered: Not a chance.
The jury would begin deliberating on Monday. All weekend we kept asking one another, “How long do you think it will take?”
We decided that it would be at least two weeks before they could sift through the mountain of evidence and reach a decision.
I went to work as usual on Monday morning. Michael, Lauren, and Patti, too, all went to school. Kim manned the home front. A persistent New York reporter, who had been bugging Kim all morning, was camped outside the house.
Kim could not allow herself to expect a guilty verdict because she knew that if it did not happen, it would destroy her. As the jury began its deliberations, she refused to watch television. She was tired, to the point of meltdown, of listening to the pundits offering worthless opinions. Reporters who had never set foot inside the courtroom, law-school graduates who had never tried a case, news anchors who could not put a sentence together without the aid of a
TelePrompTer, all espoused opinions as to what those twelve people should and would decide.
So Kim donned a black bathing suit, escaped to the backyard, and lay next to the pool, trying to relax in the sun.
It was around noon when two of her reporter friends called to say that the jury had requested that portions of limousine driver Allan Park’s testimony be read back to them.
Kim called Patty Jo at the D.A.’s office and asked, What did this mean? Patty Jo reassured Kim that it was not unusual for a jury to make such a request.
Phone calls flew back and forth. Kim learned that Chris Darden and Bill Hodgman were headed for the courtroom, as was Defense Attorney Carl Douglas, for a 1:00 P.M. session wherein the jury would revisit the testimony of Allan Park.
This was very encouraging because, during her closing statement, Marcia had declared that Park’s testimony was “the defining moment of this trial. … Because when you understand that the defendant was out that night, when you understand that he lied to Allan Park about being asleep, when you understand that Bronco was moved and that he was out in that Bronco that night … then you understand how the defense falls apart. … The Bronco was not there. And neither was the defendant.”
About 3:00 P.M. Patty Jo called Kim with the astounding news that a verdict had been reached. Kim was frantic, almost immobile. She asked herself: Who do I call? What do I do?
“Calm down,” Patty Jo cautioned. “Call your family.” She explained that the verdict was sealed and would be read in open court the following morning. Johnnie Cochran had been so certain of a lengthy deliberation that he had gone out of town and would not return until that night. “You won’t have to come in till tomorrow morning,” Patty Jo said.
Kim’s hands were shaking so badly that she had difficulty dialing, but she managed to reach Patti on one phone and me on another. “You guys,” she shouted, “they got a verdict!”
“Son of a bitch, they’ve nailed him,” I said. If they had reached a verdict in such an incredibly short period of time, there could be no question. I was one hundred percent certain that the jury had found him guilty. The evidence was overwhelming.
Patti thought: A verdict already? He’s guilty, of course. We’re going to get him! Twelve sane, thinking people simply could not ignore the evidence, even if it was Santa Claus who was on trial. Shaking nervously, she told everyone at school that the verdict was in. She shared a tight hug with Dolly, the school’s owner, and left for home. The short drive seemed to take forever, and her mind twisted and turned. All along, we had been aware of the possibility of a hung jury, but never, in Patti’s wildest imagination, did she consider the possibility of a not-guilty verdict. And if the deliberations were over so quickly, a hung jury was out of the question.
Kim knew that Michael had finished school for the day and would already be at work. She called Rob Duben and asked him to meet Michael. “He needs to be with someone,” she said. “He might need some moral support.” Then she called Scott, Michael’s boss at the deli, and asked him to relay the message that the verdict was in, and that Rob would be there shortly to pick up Michael.
Michael thought that this was strange because he had driven himself to work. Why could he not drive himself home? This seemed ominous, and Michael did not feel good about the news. “They’ll never get him,” he told Scott.
“Yes, they will,” Scott replied. “They’ll get him. They called for Park’s testimony. They’re going to get him.”
Michael’s hopes started to rise.
Cheerleading practice had ended early, and Lauren had arranged a ride home with April, one of the varsity cheerleaders. Her friends Teresa and Colleen rode with her. Soon after Kim finished speaking with Scott on the phone, April’s Eagle Talon came to a stop in front of our house. Kim rushed out the front door, still wearing her bathing suit. She yelled, “Hurry, Lauren! Get inside now! The verdict is in!”
“Oh my God!” Lauren cried. Teresa called out something, but Lauren ignored her. She grabbed her books and ran up the driveway babbling, “Oh my God! What are we going to do? What does this mean?”
Lauren ran past Kim and into the house. Instinctively she fled up the staircase and into her room. What am I doing up here? she wondered. Quickly she ran back downstairs. “Let’s go get dressed,” Lauren said to Kim.
“It’s not till tomorrow morning,” Kim replied, trying to calm her sister. She wondered why she had told Lauren to hurry into the house.
Then Patti walked in, shouting, “They got him!” Patti, Kim, and Lauren shared a hug.
Michael arrived home to a scene of chaos. He was quickly included in the circle of hugs.
Lauren was certain of the verdict. She knew that the repulsive, contemptible man who sat at the defense table had brutally murdered her brother. She could not imagine how anyone in his right mind could think otherwise.
The same mayhem that we had experienced in the week following the murders descended upon us all over again. The phones rang off their hooks. Friends and neighbors—the Golds, the Zieglers, the Dubens, the Roses, the Berkes—poured into the house and assigned themselves tasks. Maralyn Gold screened our calls. Everyone expressed surprise over the speed of the decision. Everyone offered comfort and support.
Chris Darden called, asking us to be at the courthouse by 8:00 A.M., two hours prior to the session. When we asked Chris about the speed of the verdict, he said, “Nothing about this trial surprises me.”
The familiar cadre of reporters and tape crews gathered outside our house, jamming the street, covering the sidewalks, hovering hungrily for any tidbit of information. But we declined to comment.
Jubilant cries echoed through the house: “We nailed him!” “We got him!” “He’s guilty!” But Kim was worried about me, and she struck a note of caution. “You’ve got to be prepared,” she warned.
Then she went upstairs and hid.
We ordered pizza; it was the easiest thing to do.
We learned that, once again, there had been some kind of threat made against our family. So two police cars were assigned to watch our house overnight, although the presence of the news teams seemed to make this caution unnecessary.
Michael replayed the events of the day in his mind: Allan Park’s testimony was very incriminating. He had no motive to lie. He never sold his story. He gained nothing from this case. It was good that the jury wanted to hear his testimony again.
Lauren called her father in Chicago because he is a retired lawyer. He agreed. “They probably got him.”
Once again the television lights glared in through Lauren’s bedroom window. She did not sleep for more than an hour that night.
For all of us, sleep was an impossibility.
* * *
Patti was the first one up, worried about staggering the shower schedule in order to have enough hot water.
Even though they knew that they would not be allowed into the courtroom, about thirty of our friends decided to come with us. We all left the house together, and our friends clustered about us, hoping that the media would not be able to get much footage. Lauren heard the snapping sounds of camera shutters, but she just kept her eyes down and moved forward. We all ignored the shouted questions.
Our five-car caravan headed down Lindero Canyon Road, and we were wordless as we drove past Pierce Brothers Valley Oaks Memorial Park. Patti sent a thought out to Ron: We’re going to get him!
As we rounded the cloverleaf to turn south on the Ventura Freeway, we saw a huge white sheet hanging over the rail of the Kanan Avenue overpass. A single word was emblazoned on it in big block letters:
GUILTY!
In the rearview mirror Michael noticed that the same letters had been written in reverse so that they could be read backward.
The long drive through the early rush-hour traffic seemed to take forever. Other than the muted sounds from the radio, we rode in complete silence.
Kim thought: All this time, all the pain, all this tension, and it’s going to be over in a m
atter of minutes.
Patti thought: We’re going to get him. This jury will do the right thing. There will be justice. There is no way he’ll be acquitted. We will all have a chance to speak at the sentencing hearing. What will I say?
We piled out of our cars and went immediately to the D.A.’s office.
Kim was astounded when once again the Browns tried to lecture her on how to behave when the verdict was read. She became even angrier. She vowed to herself: I will react however I feel like reacting. Enough is enough.
Kim could not sit still. Mark walked with her as she paced around and around the floor. Bill Hodgman sat in his corner office with the door open. Each time Kim walked past she said, “Hi, Bill.” But she could not ask him what he thought was going to happen.
She posed that question only to one person, Ron Phillips, Mark Fuhrman’s former partner. She asked, “Well, Puppy, what do you think?”
“Acquittal,” Ron answered tersely.
“Excuse me?” Kim said. “Ron, why do you think that?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t think they’re going to get him.”
The exchange left Kim feeling so twisted that she fled to the hallway and began to cry. She could not bring herself to ask anyone else for their prediction of the verdict.
The hands on the clock almost seemed to move backward. It was a quarter to ten …
Fourteen to ten …
Thirteen to ten …
Finally, at 9:50, Patty Jo called us all together and launched into a lecture on verdict decorum.
Patti thought: They’re treating us like children, as if we don’t know how to act in public.
Tension crackled in the air like fireworks.
We huddled together and solemnly headed for the elevator. No one said a word.
The doors opened and we stepped out. A reporter approached Kim, wanting to talk. “Please, just leave me alone,” she pleaded.
“How are you feeling?” the reporter pushed.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Kim admitted. “Go away!”
