His Name Is Ron (7 page)

Kim has borne the brunt of this ludicrous relationship for much of her life. For the most part, Ron simply chose to absent himself from the reality of Sharon's rejection. However, several years earlier, for some reason Ron had tried to call her. She was out, but Ron spoke to her husband, Steve, who did not even know who Ron was. We assumed that Sharon had never told him that she had a son and daughter living in California. But now she wanted to claim that son.

Frustrated by Sharon's irrational, selfish tirade, Kim hung up.

I could put it off no longer. This time, I called Sharon. I sat at my desk near the front door and Kim sat close by, in the living room. Now Sharon was in a negotiating mode. She declared that she could not afford to fly to California for the funeral, and asked me for money.

“Absolutely not,” I replied.

She demanded, “Who is the slut who got my son killed?”

“Get your head out of the gutter,” I snapped. “Your son has been killed. Are you coming here or not?”

She would not give me a straight answer.

“You are making a horrible situation even more horrible,” I raged.

We were still at an impasse.

Two of the many friends who were gathered at our home, Jeffery Zabner and Ernie Wish, are attorneys. Both of them told us not to worry—they would do something. One of them said, “Don't think about it. Put it out of your mind. It's done. We'll find a way to overcome this problem.”

The whole matter was compounded when the mortuary asked us to write an obituary notice, and we were confronted with the question of whether or not to include Sharon's name. This issue made Kim hysterical. She ran about the room, screaming, “Why should we include her if she doesn't even want to be here? It's an honor to be included. She doesn't deserve it! I'll call the mortuary and make them leave her name off!” Kim was at the breaking point. “All these years,” she sobbed, “Ron never dealt with her. I did! Now, here I am. I've lost Ron and I have to deal with Sharon. I can't take it. I can't stand it!”

Joe got a glass of water, and Patti and I physically forced a Valium down Kim's throat.

I tried to be the voice of reason. “Maybe Ron would want her name included,” I said.

Kim had no lucid response to that. She was spent, exhausted. We reluctantly included Sharon's name in the notice.

Throughout its intense coverage, the press continued to refer to Ron as merely “Nicole Brown Simpson's friend.”

We decided that the only way to alter the situation was to speak to the mass of reporters who had gathered in front of our house. “Let's go out there and say something,” somebody suggested. One of our friends stepped into the front yard and announced that we would be coming out to give a brief statement; however, we would not answer questions.

We did not prepare. We simply stood in the middle of our driveway, a family grieving for its son and brother. As far as we could see, the yard and the street were filled with vans, cameras, lights, microphones, and hordes of people.

The reporters were extremely respectful. I told them that I had a statement to make and that was to be the extent of our appearance. I had no idea what I was going to say. I knew that my voice would crack and that I
would ramble. I knew the tears would come, but none of that mattered. The words sputtered out, emanating directly from the heart.

“It's hard to imagine that your flesh and blood, a twenty-five-year-old, could touch so many people,” I began. “Ron was a special human being who didn't deserve what's happened.”

I told them that Ron was a carefree young man who quickly made friends wherever he went and added that I would not be surprised if he had struck up a friendship with Nicole. I said that my son was killed just as he was beginning to realize some of his dreams. “For a long time, Ron's aspirations have been multifold,” I continued, “he was putting his life together. Even when things didn't go a hundred percent with the things he wanted to do, he seemed to have a way of bouncing back. The bottom line is that Ron was a good person from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, inside and out.”

Referring to Nicole, I said, “It was not uncommon for Ron to have friends who were ladies,” but added that he had never spoken of a relationship with her. “We would have known,” I assured them.

I said that it did not surprise me to find out that when Nicole called Mezzaluna to tell them that her mother had left her prescription glasses there, Ron would be the one to offer to take them to her. His answer was “I don't mind, she lives close by and I'll be glad to do it.”

Responding to reports that Ron had put up a struggle with his attacker, I said, “If it's true that Ron put up quite a fight, maybe to help Nicole, that wouldn't surprise me either.”

I explained that it was agonizing for us to hear our son referred to simply as Nicole Simpson's friend, and I concluded, “He has a name. His name is Ron.”

The news broke that blood samples recovered from the murder scene matched Simpson's blood type. This was not rumor or speculation. This was the first concrete piece of evidence that we felt could and would link this man to the murders. What evidence could be more damning than a blood match? This was something that every prosecutor would wish for—blood that matches the suspect, found at the murder scene!

Patti was alone in our bedroom when she pushed the PLAY button on our answering machine, and a cold, ugly, male voice filled the room: “Mr.
Goldman, sorry to hear about your son, but he deserved it and he should rot in hell and he had a lot of nerve driving Nicole's car and he got what was coming to him.”

Patti was shaken, but she did not know what to do about this sinister call. She did not want to upset the rest of us. She endured several hours of private torment before she came to me and said, “Fred, I think you should listen to something.” She took me upstairs and played the hate-filled message for me.

Patti was shaking. I could see the fear in her eyes. I tried to reassure her, telling her that it was just some nut, but inside I was frightened, too. When Kim heard the vile recording, she felt violated and vulnerable. Someone, somewhere out there, knew who we were, where we lived, and had our telephone number.

We tried to save the message, but there were so many others on the tape that we were unsuccessful. We erased it from the machine, but not from our memories.

It should have been a night of celebration. Lauren's dad and her brother Brian had arrived, as they had planned, to attend her eighth-grade graduation.

School officials let us come into the gymnasium through a back door, so that we could go to our seats quietly and privately.

Lauren, of course, sat with her classmates. She was exhausted.

It was impossible for any of us to pay attention to what was going on. For me, the speakers appeared to be standing at the end of a long tunnel, and their meaningless words echoed and faded away.

Finally the class stood up and the principal began to call out names. It is a small school and everyone knew that Lauren was Ron Goldman's sister. When the principal intoned, “Lauren Glass,” the auditorium suddenly grew very quiet.

Wearing her black Bat Mitzvah dress, Lauren marched forward. She kept glancing toward the ceiling, thinking that maybe Ron was somewhere up there watching her. Ron had called her just a week earlier to ask what time the ceremony started. The last thing he said to Lauren on the telephone that night was “I love you, Squirt.”

Both Kim and I planned to speak at Ron's funeral. I tried to write down what I wanted to say, but the words would not come out right. I did not
believe that my son was in a “better” place. He belonged here, with me, with his family. I could not express, in mere language, how much I loved him. The words did not exist. I could not bring myself to say that I missed him. To do that was to acknowledge that he was gone.

Kim had not eaten or slept for two days. At 2:00
A.M.
she began to write her thoughts about Ron. How can I be eulogizing my brother, my best friend? she wondered. Do I use the past tense? Do I use the present tense? What can I say? How can I say it?

It's got to be right. It can't possibly be right.

Suddenly the words began to fill the page in a rambling stream of consciousness.

FIVE

Early Thursday morning, Michael sat in his room thinking: I can't believe I am going to my brother's funeral. I just can't believe it.

He took his suit out of the closet and noticed that it was badly wrinkled. This would not do. He could not go to Ron's funeral in a wrinkled suit. He grabbed the suit, ran out to his car, and sped off to the Clubhouse Dry Cleaner.

“I need this suit pressed right away,” he told the man behind the counter.

The clerk replied that they were very busy and he did not know when he could get to this job.

“But I have to go to a funeral,” Michael persisted.

Still the clerk was uncertain.

Michael did not want to tell the man who he was, but finally he realized that he had to. “Look,” Michael said, his voice rising in volume, “my brother is—was—Ron Goldman. I have to have it for the funeral.”

A short time later Michael was sitting in his room, staring at his freshly pressed suit, when Patti, Kim, and I came in and asked if he wanted to view Ron's body before the service.

“No,” Michael said. “I want to remember him with a smile on his face.”

Lauren agreed with Michael. She was fearful of how Ron might look.

*   *   *

Sharon appeared on
Inside Edition
, in an interview from Los Angeles, so we knew that she was in town. But we did not learn until 9:30
A.M.
that a deal had finally been struck with her the very morning of the funeral. Sharon would sign the release form in return for an opportunity to spend some time with Ron before the burial.

When we arrived at the funeral parlor, Kim excused herself to use the ladies' room. Her friend Leslie Wilcox accompanied her. Once inside the restroom, Kim came face-to-face with Sharon, Sharon's sister-in-law Mary, and Mary's daughter Cindy. It appeared to Kim that the three women were hiding out here.

Sharon immediately approached Kim, hugged her, and prattled, “Oh, you're so beautiful. You look just like me.”

Kim was cold and emotionless. Internally she screamed: I am nothing like you. Nothing like you at all!

“Aren't you going to say hello to your cousin?” Sharon asked.

Kim felt trapped and angry. It was a suffocating experience to be caught in this room with these people. Finally she said to Cindy, “I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you.” Then she turned on her heels and walked out.

Sharon was in the chapel, viewing Ron. We waited our turn.

Someone told us that Sharon had an attorney with her, a local man named Michael Brewer. Why would she have an attorney? I wondered. It did not matter. She had signed the papers, and that was all that we cared about.

Finally one of the funeral directors asked, “Do you want to see Ron?”

“Yes,” I replied softly.

Patti, Kim, and I walked down what seemed like a black, endless hallway. We turned to the left, entered the chapel, and saw the coffin at the front of the room, after rows of pews. We stood at the back for a moment, frozen in place.

Slowly we walked forward. Kim felt the narrow aisle grow longer and longer, as if we would never arrive at the front. She needed to see Ron because if she did not, she would never, ever, accept the fact that he was gone. However, she was petrified. Her entire body shook. She tried to peer ahead, so as to see Ron before we were actually beside him.

Ron's left side faced the wall.

He's so beautiful, Kim thought, and reached out to touch his hand. He was so very cold. “Why is he so cold?” she asked.

“Ron looks so good,” Patti said. “So good.”

It was hard for me to look at Ron. He had no business being here. There was no smile, no sparkle. I kept whispering his name, “Ronny, Ronny.” I had not called him that in years. I bent over the oak coffin and kissed my son. He
was
cold. I laid my hand on his chest. It was so hard. One of my tears landed on Ron's eyelid.

“Look! he's crying,” Kim whispered to Patti. Her own tears made it difficult to speak.

My hand reached forward to brush the tear away, but Kim stopped me. She whispered, “I want him to have something of us with him.”

We could not pull ourselves away. There seemed a slight grin on Ron's face, but it was unnatural, unreal, mannequin-like. Then, in an instant, he appeared angry or sad. Kim thought: He's angry because he's gone and he just doesn't understand. She touched his hand again. Cold. Hard.

The casket was closed.

We sat quietly in the chapel, amazed at how many people had assembled to pay their respects and share our grief. Our close friends were here, and a crowd of people both inside and outside the chapel bore testimony to Ron's incredible ability to make friends.