His Name Is Ron (9 page)

On Thursday evening we were told that Simpson was going to be arrested for the murders. We knew that this meant that the police had “probable cause” to believe that Simpson had committed the murders. In the midst of our grief, it was tempting to accept this as a judgment, and to vent our rage. But throughout this nightmare we had been too distraught to pay close attention to the details of the police investigation, and we did not wish to disrupt the process.

“Let the system work,” I counseled. “We'll go through the system. We'll hear all the evidence.”

We did think it was absurd that Simpson would be allowed to turn himself in the following morning at ten o'clock. That was a joke. Only if you are a celebrity or wealthy do you get to “turn yourself in.” We asked
ourselves: Why don't they just arrest him? Who is this person who gets the kid-glove treatment and makes these decisions for himself? No one suspected of with double murder should get special treatment.

Throughout the week we had heard reports of people saying, “He's O. J. Simpson, the sports hero, he couldn't have done it.”

Michael, as the family's resident sports fan, had his own perspective on that. He loves to play sports and loves to watch events on TV, especially basketball, but he has never been one to put a sports figure on a pedestal. To Michael, a hero is someone who does a good deed, someone who gives to charities, someone who cares about other people. A hero risks his life to save another. A hero pulls a kid out of a burning building. A hero is a teacher who turns a kid's life around. A hero is not someone who scores four touchdowns in a football game.

On Friday morning, like much of America, we gathered anxiously in front of the television to watch the official arrest. The live coverage bounced between scenes at the courthouse and Parker Center Police Headquarters. Because the crime was a double homicide, the charge included “special circumstances,” and reporters discussed the impact of that. The only possible sentences for a person convicted of homicide with “special circumstances” would be life without parole—or death.

Our frustration grew as the deadline was extended from 10:00
A.M.
to 11:00
A.M.
Then it was extended again, to 11:45. What was going on? we wondered.

Finally, an extraordinarily tense-looking Commander David J. Gascon appeared on the screen and began to speak:

“This morning, detectives from the Los Angeles Police Department, after an exhaustive investigation, which included interviews of dozens of witnesses, a thorough examination and analysis of the physical evidence both here and in Chicago, sought and obtained a warrant for the arrest of O. J. Simpson, charging him with the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Lyle Goldman.

“Mr. Simpson, in agreement with his attorneys, was scheduled to surrender this morning to the Los Angeles Police Department. Initially that was eleven. It then became eleven-forty-five. Mr. Simpson has not appeared.”

There were audible gasps from those assembled as Commander Gascon continued: “The Los Angeles Police Department, right now, is actively searching for Mr. Simpson. The Los Angeles Police Department is also very unhappy with the activities surrounding his failure to surrender, and we
will be further looking into those activities, including anyone who may have intervened on his behalf…. Mr. Simpson is a wanted murder suspect. Two counts of murder, a terrible crime. We need to find him. We need to apprehend him. We need to bring him to justice. And we need to make sure that we find him as quickly as possible.”

And so the supposedly great O. J. Simpson, the sports hero who “couldn't have done it,” was now a fugitive from justice.

I thought: If you're not guilty, you don't have to flee. You have nothing to fear if you're not guilty. Why do you flee if you're an innocent man?

If I were in his shoes and I were innocent, they would have to tape my mouth shut, put a muzzle on me, and tie my hands down to keep me from ripping the tape and muzzle off and screaming “I'm not guilty!” I would demand a lie detector test. I would invite every expert in the land to witness it and want to take the test on national television in front of the world. I would never stop crying out, “I am an innocent man!”

But I would not run away.

Simpson's long-time friend Robert Kardashian appeared on the screen, reading what was described by some reporters as a suicide note. It did not sound like a suicide note to us, and suicide was the last thing that we wanted to happen. All of us desperately wanted this man to stand trial; we were certain that the American justice system would find the truth.

The phone rang. One of our neighbors informed us that Channel 2 had spotted the fugitive on the freeway. He was being driven by a friend, A. C. Cowlings, in a white Ford Bronco. Reporters said that Simpson was hidden in the back. They said that he had a gun.

Kim began to pace.

We watched intently. The vision of people lining the overpasses, holding signs, urging him on, nauseated us. They were rooting for an accused murderer! I said, “These people are warped.”

Michael raged, “Wait a minute! What is this? It's not normal. He's a fugitive. He ran from the cops. Catch him and haul him to the police station!”

Kim thought: Just get him in jail. Lock him up. If it were anyone else, they would have blown him away by now.

Instead, twenty police cars surrounded the white Bronco, following it at a methodical pace. Time seemed suspended. We sat immobilized in front of the TV screen. We had planned on going to Friday night services at our temple, but none of us was going to move until this man was in custody.

As word of this unbelievable drama spread, our house once again filled with friends and neighbors. Nobody left the room.

Melanie Duben held Lauren's hand. Lauren thought: Oh my God, what is going to happen? If he shoots himself, we'll never find out exactly what happened. He might be the only person who knows.

Kim realized that she had chewed through the skin of her lower lip.

I paced like a caged animal.

Someone in the room yelled, “He's such a coward he can't even shoot himself.”

“No,” Kim said quickly, “then we'll never know.”

The chase continued until the macabre caravan reached Simpson's Brentwood estate. By now it was dark. Helicopter news teams provided live coverage from overhead. The white Bronco sat in the driveway. Hundreds of supporters gathered outside the gate chanting “Free O.J.” and rocking police cars. The LAPD Special Weapons and Tactics team surrounded the house. Cowlings spoke to hostage negotiators. For nearly an hour the fugitive sat in the Bronco, cradling a blue steel revolver and demanding to speak to his mother. He finally put his gun down and emerged about 8:50
P.M.
, carrying a framed family photo. He entered the house, used the bathroom, drank a glass of orange juice, and called his mother before finally being transported by police motorcade to Parker Center for booking.

Sunday was Father's Day. Over the years, Ron and Kim always pooled their money on a gift for me and went together to pick out a card. As they got older, the cards became more personal and meaningful, and were always a special treat for me.

This Father's Day was very different. Kim walked into a drugstore and began to peruse the card selection. “I was mortified,” she said. “Most of the verses spoke of the impact a father has on a son, dreams for the future, passing on the lessons of life, and gratitude for the years gone by. How could there be a Father's Day card to fit this empty, sad, grief-stricken reality? I was immobilized. I didn't know what to do.”

She finally settled on the card that she would give me. Then she found one that she felt Ron would have chosen. She bought them both.

“Shock does funny things to you,” she said later. “A part of me was convinced that Ron would thank me for buying the card and sign it himself. A part of me knew that was insane.”

Later, at home, she signed her card. Then she wrote Ron's name on the
one she had selected for him. She had only three letters to scrawl, but it seemed to take forever.

Shortly after we had moved to Los Angeles, Ron and Kim had bought us a lemon tree as a wedding present. We planted it in the backyard.

For seven years it had never bloomed.

This year it did.

SEVEN

Four of us—Patti, Kim, Lauren, and I—drove to 11663 Gorham, in Brentwood. Michael could not bring himself to come along. He had been there before during happy times. He did not want to walk into apartment #3 ever again.

We felt very strange being there, and purposely left the door ajar.

Ron's dark slacks and white shirt, the clothes he had worn during his last evening of work, were still hanging on the bedroom door. Kim and I put them on hangers.

The work “uniform” of simple black slacks and a plain white shirt was perfect for Ron; he was color-blind. On mornings long ago, back in Chicago, when Ron was ready to head off for high school, he sometimes appeared dressed in what Kim called “the most godawful combinations.” She would shake her head and command, “Ron, go back upstairs,” and then tell him what shirt and sweater would go well with a particular pair of pants. Ron always took the razzing with a good-natured grin.

We made arrangements with the landlady to leave the water bed and a few other things, because none of us felt up to moving large pieces of furniture. Patti spotted a few pop-open water-bottle caps. She carries water with her constantly; she quietly slipped them into her pocket. Working quickly, we shoved everything into cardboard boxes, crying as we packed up kitchen utensils, clothes, and all the minutiae of Ron's existence.

There were a thousand little details to attend to, small fragments of
Ron left dangling in the wind. We found a dry cleaner's receipt and realized that we would have to stop there to see if Ron had left clothes to pick up. His checkbook reminded us that we had to close out his account.

Lauren mentioned to Kim that she would like to have a baseball cap that Ron had worn frequently. It had a “Stüssy” logo on it, and it evoked many memories. Lauren had owned two Stüssy caps, and it had become a long-running prank for Ron to swipe them. Lauren used to pretend to be mad at him, but he knew that she was not, and the mock confrontations often ended in tickling sessions. Finally Ron had bought one of his own, and now Lauren wanted to keep it. She would always picture Ron wearing it in the style of the day, with the brim turned to the back.

Little decisions became monumental. Do we wash the clothes in the laundry basket or pack them the way they are? Kim finally decided that washing them would be like washing away a part of Ron. She could not bear that. She took his down comforter, noticing that it too was soiled, and had a small rip that needed to be sewn. However, she folded it gently and placed it in one of the boxes.

I spotted one of those big, plastic coin cups such as slot machine junkies use in the Las Vegas casinos. It was full of change, probably tips from Mezzaluna. There was also about $60 in cash. I knew that Ron owed Kim some money, so I tried to get her to take it. It was an irrational, emotional gesture and although Kim understood my intentions, she recoiled. There was no way that she could take any of Ron's money.

I spotted a bracelet that Ron wore frequently and tried to slip it on my wrist, but it was too tight. I decided to have it enlarged so that I could wear it.

When we were finished at Ron's apartment, we drove to Mezzaluna. The staff had told us that many people, not knowing any other way to reach us, had sent us mail in care of the restaurant. We told them we would come by to pick it up after we left Ron's apartment.

None of us had ever been to Mezzaluna before. We arrived during the quiet time, between the lunch and dinner crowds, and the restaurant was almost deserted. Manager John DuBello was there, along with the owner, Kareem Suki, and Stuart Tanner, a waiter and friend of Ron's. They were very gracious and wanted to serve us lunch. Lauren accepted a slice of pizza, but the rest of us declined; we were very uncomfortable there.

As Lauren picked at her food, a heavyset man, sitting next to the window, continued to stare at us. Finally he rose and walked over to our table.
He said that he lived in Texas and was in Los Angeles on a business trip. He had come to Mezzaluna because he felt a need to be connected in some way. We were not really sure what he meant. “It's really weird that on the day I chose to come, you are here,” he said. He was pleasant and courteous, and while we were sure that he meant well, the encounter was unsettling and a little creepy. It was the first time we sensed that people we did not know somehow felt they knew us, and it left us feeling vulnerable.

At the dry cleaner's we learned that Ron had put in a claim for a pair of damaged pants. When they realized who we were, the clerks came from behind the counter, hugged us, and began to cry. They mumbled something about wanting to help with funeral costs, and gave us the money that was due Ron.