His Name Is Ron (4 page)

Patti's mother phoned and, after receiving the news, broke into tears and said that she was on her way.

The house filled quickly. It was the beginning of what is, in the Jewish
tradition, a
mitzvah
(a good deed) to care for the needs of a family that has suffered a loss.

The activity swirled about us. Patti and I sat on the sofa, clinging to one another, repeating the unanswerable question: “Why? Why? Why?”

There was a knock on the front door. Barb opened it and Patti saw our landscaper, Adán, standing there. We had a 6:00
P.M.
appointment with him.

Patti rushed over. “We can't do this,” she babbled. “Fred's son was just killed and this is a really bad time, we can't—you can't—you're just going to have to leave …” Patti simply shut the door, leaving Adán standing there.

It dawned on Michael that Lauren was not home yet. Then he remembered that this was the day of her class trip to Disneyland, and he thought: It's probably the only happy day she'll have for a long, long time. Rob offered to pick up Lauren, and Michael volunteered to go along. Michael was still crying as Rob's van pulled out of the driveway.

“Michael, you need to try to control yourself in front of Lauren,” Rob reminded him.

It is only a short drive to Medea Creek Middle School. As they approached, Michael saw Lauren waiting outside, along with her friends, twin sisters Jamie and Julie Berke. Lauren had a wide, bright smile on her face. She was searching the crowd, looking for her mother, but she was not too surprised to see Rob and Michael there instead. Our families often shared chauffeuring duties. She figured that her mom probably had some things to take care of at home.

Along with Jamie and Julie, Lauren walked over to Rob's van. The three girls scrambled into the backseat and started talking about their day. Lauren had found Disneyland disappointing; perhaps she was just getting too old for it, or maybe because she had been there so many times, the day seemed to drag. Now she was anxious to get home.

Michael sat in the front seat, facing forward. He could not allow himself to speak. He could not look at his little sister. He knew that if he did, he would break down again. Lauren could tell that he was not acting like himself at all. Normally he would ask questions in his rapid-fire, enthusiastic style: What rides did they enjoy? Were there any new attractions? Did they pig out on junk food? Any cute boys? But Michael did not seem to want to talk at all. From what Lauren could see of his face, he appeared
blank, almost stunned, and a strange, foreboding feeling came over her. She shivered involuntarily.

Rob had the radio on. During the short drive home, an announcer began to report: “Nicole Brown Simpson and—” Rob reached over and snapped off the radio.

When they reached Jamie and Julie's house, their mother, Sherri, was standing outside in the driveway. Her face was ghostly pale. She was usually very friendly and talkative, but this afternoon she ushered Jamie and Julie inside without a word.

Rob drove Michael and Lauren the short half-block home.

As they rounded the corner, Lauren saw her mom and some of our friends outside of our house. Cars filled the driveway and lined both sides of the street. When they got out of the van, Barb put her arms around Michael. Patti approached Lauren and asked, “How was your day?”

“Fine,” Lauren answered, but she wondered what was going on.

“Was it really good?” Patti asked as big tears started to well up in her eyes.

“It was okay,” Lauren said, “what's going on?”

Patti wrapped her arms around her daughter as warmly and securely as possible. The words seemed to lodge in her throat as she whispered, “Good. Because—Ron—was—Ron—was—murdered.”

Lauren yelled, “No! No!” Her head spun and she lost her balance, falling to the ground. She thought: I'm not hearing this. It can't possibly be my Ronnie. There has to be some big mistake. A piercing, intensely painful shriek emerged from her throat. Lauren thought that if she just screamed loudly enough, someone would tell her that she was having a nightmare and she would wake up. Then everything would be okay.

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.