by Kim Goldman
Now, she said to Paul quietly, “Good, that means I did my job.”
In fact, Ron was with us always. On Christmas night Kim and Paul sat in a darkened theater watching Ghosts of Mississippi, a film about the murder of civil rights leader Medgar Evers and his family’s subsequent quest for justice. “The similarities to our situation are amazing,” Kim whispered to Paul. “His family—the trials—it’s eerie to watch.” At one point in the film the camera panned to a close-up of Evers’s tombstone. Kim gasped: Medgar Evers was born on July 2—Ron’s birthday—and he was murdered on June 12—the date of Ron’s death.
The following day was Kim’s twenty-fifth birthday. All she could think about was that Ron was only twenty-five when he died. “No one should die this young,” she raged. “At twenty-five you haven’t lived enough, experienced enough, accomplished enough.” She wondered if Ron had those same thoughts in the moments before he died.
I was in the reception area, waiting for Patti as she underwent her routine mammogram screening. After the procedure, the technician escorted her down the hallway. Recognizing me, she suddenly realized who Patti was. She said, “I feel bad for you guys. It makes me so angry to know he’s walking the streets a free man. Someone’s going to kill him. I’m sure of it. Someone’s going to do it.”
It was just one more incident when a stranger vented her frustration to us and we continued to be amazed that people’s passion had not abated with the passage of time.
Patti said, “I do not think I will ever get used to being recognized that way. I cannot count the number of people who have said to me, ‘He’ll answer to a higher authority one day’ or ‘His time will come,’ and I always think the same thing: Yes, but will we live long enough to see it?”
Michael’s first semester of college went well. It was refreshing for him to get away from the tension that surrounded our lives, yet he was still vitally interested in the case. Several of his term papers concerned the conduct of the criminal trial, and the manner in which the press reported it.
Although we had spoken on the phone several times a week and tried to keep Michael informed of developments in the civil trial, it was always difficult to give him the full picture. Now, after he had spent the first portion of his holiday break with his father in Chicago, we had a wonderful, all-too-brief visit with him. When he discussed the highlights of the trial with Patti, he commented, “Mom, how can we not get him?”
I raced into our suite at the Doubletree on Monday, January 6, and said immediately, “Let me see those photos!”
Peering through a magnifying glass, I studied a contact sheet with thirty small prints, all snapped by part-time photographer E. J. Flammer at the September 26, 1993, Buffalo Bills football game, the same day that Harry Scull’s camera had captured an image of the killer wearing Bruno Magli shoes. Flammer had delved into his files and discovered these shots. Over the holidays his attorney had contacted our team and provided this dramatic new evidence. Flammer had the negatives, and he would testify to their authenticity.
Dan had four of the photos printed to full size and had three of those enlarged further to show details of the shoes. The murderer was dressed exactly as he appeared in the Scull photo, from the top of his sports coat to the tips of his Bruno Magli shoes.
“This is major,” Patti said. “I think that’s the case. It’s the frosting on the cake that we needed.”
We all had the same reaction: GOTCHA!
The Browns’ attorney, John Kelly, wanted to save the damning new evidence until our rebuttal case, but Dan argued for immediate action. “If we wait for our rebuttal case and the judge does not allow us to raise the issue of the photos, we’ve lost our chance,” he reasoned. “We’ve got to try to get them in now.” Fortunately for us, Peter was ready to resume his cross-examination of defense photo “expert” Robert Groden.
Before the jury was seated, the two sides argued bitterly over the admissibility of the Flammer photographs. Baker and company were apoplectic.
Dan cited testimony from the killer, who had labeled the previously shown Scull photo a fraud. The killer had said, under oath, “I wasn’t wearing Bruno Magli shoes.” And pointing to the Scull photo, he testified, “Those shoes are not my shoes.”
Now Dan argued that we should be allowed to show jurors the new photos to impeach the defendant’s credibility. “If you’re going to go in front of the jury and make those kinds of representations, you have to suffer the risk that you may be caught red-handed—and that’s what happened here,” he said.
Defense attorney Daniel Leonard countered that it was unfair to introduce these photos at the last minute and pleaded with Judge Fujisaki to halt the trial for two weeks to give them time to prove that the photos were either irrelevant or fake. “It’s a total sandbag,” he whined.
Judge Fujisaki’s response was immediate. “That’s usually what impeachment amounts to, Counsel,” he said.
If the Fuhrman tapes had bushwhacked the prosecutors in the criminal case, these new photos did the same to the defense team now. As the jurors filed into the courtroom, the defense team huddled, obviously in panic, trying to spot something in the photos that would allow them to question their authenticity.
Peter showed Groden one of the new enlargements and asked, “Does this change your mind” about the authenticity of the Scull photo?
Groden glanced at the enlargement and declared that he remained convinced, “to an overwhelming degree of certainty,” that the Scull photo was phony.
Peter asked that the Flammer photo be handed to the jury. As the jurors began to examine it, Peter produced a second enlargement and asked Groden, “Does this change your mind?”
“No.”
Peter methodically presented the additional prints and blowups, asking the same question and eliciting the same denial, even as the jurors passed the evidence to one another. Finally Peter asked a hypothetical question: Assume that experts studied the negatives—assume that you studied the negatives—and everyone agreed that these thirty photos were authentic, “Would that change your mind?”
The squirming witness had to admit that it “probably would.”
At times some of Groden’s ludicrous testimony brought muffled laughter from the spectators. During one such moment, Patti happened to glance at the killer’s sister Shirley Baker. One seat from where Shirley was sitting, a woman, one of the spectators, was snickering at the witness. Shirley took umbrage with that. She reached across the person next to her and dug her nails into the woman’s sweater-covered arm.
Patti concluded: Violence must run in the family.
During a break, the spectator approached us. She pointed to her arm and told Patti there were visible gouges. She asked, “Do you believe what she did?”
Patti rose to the woman’s defense. “Tell her to keep her hands off you,” she said. “Tell her she has no right to lay a hand on you that way!”
“I can’t do that,” the woman said. “They’ll kick me out.”
“No, they won’t,” Patti vowed. “I saw what she did to you.”
We were jubilant as we ate our lunch, until a touchy subject arose: Would the jurors get it? Would they understand that the photos—like the other evidence—proved that the defendant had lied under oath, blatantly and with detached arrogance? Would they be able to peer through the veneer of this man’s public persona and see him for what he really was?
Someone on our team idly mentioned the possibility of a hung jury.
“What do you mean?” Patti asked sharply. “I thought it’s either we win or they win.”
No, one of our lawyers explained, in a civil case a minimum of nine jurors must decide one way or the other. “Eight-four is a hung jury,” he said. “Seven-five is a hung jury.”
Patti looked as though the wind had been knocked out of her. “I don’t know if I could go through this again,” she said.
“It’s zoo time,” I commented as we walked to the courthouse after lunch on Friday, January 1
0. The killer was once more going to take the witness stand, and the crowd was predictably larger and more vocal than usual. Michael had come to court today. It was his final day on holiday break, and he was eager for a chance to hear the killer’s testimony in person.
For three and a half hours a warm and fuzzy Robert Baker took the killer through a meticulously rehearsed litany of his past achievements and Ozzie and Harriet lifestyle. The performance was so saccharine that Baker several times addressed the witness as “Juice.”
Foreign-sounding, comical words tumbled out of his mouth. According to the killer, he and Nicole lived an almost idyllic life, surrounded by a “cornucopia” of friends. Hearing this, we glanced at one another, wondering who had coached him to use that word.
Baker asked if he had ever lied about anything; the defendant replied, “No, I don’t lie.”
Throughout the afternoon, Dan lodged few objections. He wanted the killer to ramble, letting his ego—and his big mouth—get him into trouble. The killer admitted that one source of tension in the marriage was that he wanted to go places and do things, but Nicole preferred to stay home with their daughter, Sydney. The “devoted” father slipped away from his prepared script when he commented, “And when Justin came around, it almost went to a new level.”
To hear the killer tell it, the New Year’s Day 1989 incident was merely a family argument, and Nicole’s hideous injuries must have occurred when she attacked him and he wrestled her out of his bedroom. Our mouths dropped open in amazement when we heard his proof that he had not hit Nicole. If he had, he almost boasted, “She would have looked a little different.”
He painted Nicole with a sordid brush, expressing his concern that she had fallen into a society of heavy drinkers, drug users, and promiscuous friends. In the past he had raged at Denise Brown and Faye Resnick for broaching such subjects, protesting the effects on Sydney and Justin. But now, desperate to reclaim whatever reputation he thought he had left, clearly worried about his dwindling fortune—and determined to win at all costs—he was willing to trash his ex-wife.
“Those poor kids,” Kim said. “How can he say those things about their mother? Doesn’t he realize they will hear all of this someday?”
Later, I summed up his testimony: “I’m a handsome, well-dressed, generous, former Heisman trophy winner with tons of friends—incapable of any kind of violence—who, unfortunately, was beaten and stalked by my ex-wife, who had morphed into a sex-crazy, drug-taking lush. And, oh yes, I never lie.”
Prior to Dan’s cross-examination of the killer on Monday, a contentious argument ensued over the admissibility of an eight-page, undated letter written by Nicole. The defense made its usual “it’s prejudicial” rant, but Judge Fujisaki ruled that we could use it to show Nicole’s state of mind.
Dan read portions of the letter aloud, over Baker’s repeated objections, but opted not to include an inflammatory paragraph that disclosed, “You beat the holy hell out of me and we lied at the X-ray lab and said I fell off the bike, remember?” In any event, the letter was now in evidence, and the jury would have the opportunity to read every vivid word during its deliberations.
Dan asked the killer, “Isn’t it true you’ve lied repeatedly to this jury … isn’t it true you’ve lied repeatedly throughout your entire life?”
“No,” he replied.
A few minutes later Dan asked, “There were times when you were married to Nicole that you were unfaithful to her, isn’t that correct?”
“From time to time, yes.”
“And that was dishonest on your part, wasn’t it?” Dan continued.
“I think, morally, yes.”
“That was a lie, wasn’t it, sir?”
The defendant responded, “I think morally it was dishonest of me, yes. I don’t know if I would characterize it as a lie.”
As we ate lunch on Tuesday we had a chance to meet our next witness. He was Gerald Richards, the former head of the FBI’s photo-analysis division. He smiled at Kim and said, “The defense is not going to be happy with me.”
That proved to be a gross understatement, for Peter Gelblum took Richards through some of the most gripping moments of the entire trial. Peter set up an easel in the courtroom and positioned a large chart listing the dozen “anomalies” that Groden had cited to indicate that the Scull photo had been altered. One by one, Peter asked Richards to explain these “anomalies” to the jury.
Richards responded in an animated, easy-to-comprehend manner. And he blew the defense case to smithereens.
For example, Groden had found what he characterized as suspicious scratch marks on the negative that did not align with scratches on other negatives. But Richards produced a Canon F1, the same model that Scull used, strode over to the jury, opened the back of the camera, and demonstrated how the film wavers as it is advanced. The Canon F1 is notorious for producing these variances in scratch marks, he said, and added pointedly that any first-year photography student would know it. Peter then stepped over to the chart and scratched a large “X” over this particular anomaly.
Groden had used the enlargements he made at Kinko’s to declare that there were microscopic differences in the size of the Scull negative and other negatives on the roll. Richards demonstrated on the overhead projector how a photocopy machine itself distorts the size of a copy. Then he donned a sophisticated piece of headgear, demonstrated the proper way to measure size, and showed the jury that there was no anomaly. Peter drew another “X” on the chart.
Groden had noted that the Scull photo had a reddish tint, whereas other shots on the roll had a greenish tint. Richards pointed out the obvious. The photo in question showed the killer walking through the end zone, which was painted with the red Buffalo Bills insignia; the other photos were taken on the green football field. Peter drew another “X” on the chart.
Jurors leaned over the railing of the jury box, scribbling notes.
Kim thought: This man is like the science teacher who finally makes physics exciting! The spectators were mesmerized. Judge Fujisaki’s jaw sometimes dropped open in amazement. On and on it went until all twelve of Groden’s “anomalies” were crossed off the chart.
I said to myself: We kicked their butts. We’re going to beat them!
The force of that thought surprised me. Until now I had been unwilling to voice that opinion to anyone—even to myself. Now I truly believed that we would gain the measure of justice that we so achingly desired.
* * *
When I arrived in court on Thursday I noticed the killer was wearing a garish pair of green and black loafers. Catching a reporter’s eye, I asked, “Did you see—”
“—You mean those ugly-ass shoes?” the reporter said, chuckling.
Our next witness was Dr. Brad Popovich, a brilliant young man and a member of the board that certifies the work of DNA labs. Under direct examination by Tom Lambert, he reviewed the results of the three DNA labs that had worked on the case and arrived, independently, at the same conclusion. He declared definitively, “My opinion is, there is absolutely no evidence of any contamination whatsoever.”
Gerald Richards returned to testify—once again clearly and convincingly—that he had examined the thirty Flammer photos and found them to be authentic.
As we neared the end of our witness list, the killer disappeared. We speculated that he was afraid we would try to recall him to the witness stand to ask him about Nicole’s letter. I chalked it up to one last act of cowardice.
Our final witness was FBI agent William Bodziak. He held in his hand a size 12 Bruno Magli shoe and compared it to eight enlargements of the Flammer photographs. He pointed out the similarities: “The sole is unique to Bruno Magli shoes … the upper portion of the shoe is unique to Bruno Magli shoes.” And finally, “My opinion is the shoes depicted in those eight exhibits are Bruno Magli … shoes.”
At 3:25 P.M. Dan said, “We rest our case.”
I found myself suddenly, strangely choked up. The activity in the courtroom
blurred before my eyes. Baker rested the defense case. Judge Fujisaki announced that closing arguments would begin next Tuesday, and the jury could expect to have the case by Thursday.
The words spun past my consciousness. Once again I thought: We’re going to beat them. Then I commanded myself, Don’t think that.
Court was adjourned.
It’s all over, I thought. Period.
I was overwhelmed by the sense of finality.
As we walked across the street to the Doubletree, Dan put his arm around my shoulder. “Fred,” he said quietly, “there’s no doubt. We proved to everyone that he killed your son. Do you know that?”
“Yes.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Dan was like a thoroughbred horse, ready to burst through the starting gate. “I’m anxious to give them hell,” he said. “I’m going to slam them with everything that is so incredibly obvious.”
It was Tuesday morning, January 21. We were at the Doubletree, awaiting the beginning of closing arguments. “I don’t want to know what you’re going to say,” I declared. “I want to hear it fresh in the courtroom.”
Patti was a cheerleader. “Go get him, Dan,” she encouraged.
After we crossed the street and entered the courtroom, I took a seat alongside our attorneys. Patti, her mother Elayne, Kim, and Kim’s friend and co-worker Joanne Geller sat directly behind me. The killer took his position at the far end of the defense table, about a dozen feet to my left.
Prior to the session, Baker asked the judge for a favor. Later in the week, Robert Blasier would present a portion of the defense’s closing argument. But he was recovering from back surgery and was confined to a wheelchair. Baker wanted Judge Fujisaki to allow Blasier’s wife, Charlotte, into the courtroom because, he explained, “She is really his attendant.” But a few weeks earlier, Judge Fujisaki had banned Charlotte from the courtroom because she had been caught with an electronic device. Baker attempted to belittle this breach of security, labeling it “inadvertent, minor.” He said, “We would be most appreciative if she could be in the courtroom for the remaining days while Mr. Blasier is here and gives his final summation … and there is no objection from the plaintiff’s counsel.”
