Goldman Kim - Cant forgive : my 20-year battle with O.J. Simpson

Cant Forgive

Cant Forgive

My 20-Year Battle with O.J. Simpson

By Kim Goldman

BenBella Books, Inc.

Dallas, TX

Copyright 2014 by Kim Goldman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

BenBella Books, Inc.
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Suite #530
Dallas, TX 75231
www.benbellabooks.com
Send feedback to feedback@benbellabooks.com

First E-book Edition: May 2014

E-ISBN: 978-1-940363-14-1

Distributed by Perseus Distribution
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Dad, Ron, Sam...
You keep me laughing, loving, and living

CONTENTS

I am driving through a small strip mall in Los Angeles, when the silhouette of a tall black man walks across the parking lot directly in front of my silver Nissan 200SX, my MSNGRON license plate in full view.

I slam on my brakes and put the car in park. I watch his swagger and immediately recognize it. The killer has a slight dip in his step, as if he is dragging a leg. He complains it is arthritis. I know that walk anywhere.

He has the same height, same build, same hairsame everything.

I sit in my car, gripping the steering wheel, with my foot on the gas, shaking uncontrollably. There is nobody around. I can run him down. This is my moment. I can kill him right here, right now. I feel power, exhilaration, trepidation.

My foot hovers over the pedal, and my knuckles turn white. Its him . Im 100 percent sure.

I rev the engine. I can feel the energy in my body. I am sweating. I can do this.

Everything is in slow motion: his pace is sluggish now, giving me plenty of time to calculate my decision. Then everything is racing in my head, but the only thought that stops me is my father. I cant disappoint him. I cant force him to endure yet another trial, this time for his daughter.

Before I can blink, the man is gone. He disappears behind a shaded door, so I cant see inside. The sign on the door is for a production company I later recall produced The Interview video he did in January 1996.

My heart sinks. I have the chance to avenge Rons death and I blow it. I know I am not a killer, but the moment is mine to seize and I leave it, right there on the asphalt.

I still wonder what would have happened if I had realized my dream of revenge that day.

When I think back to my childhoodplaying with my Barbies for hours on end, acting out games of restaurant, dreaming about growing up to be a psychologist and a mother, and raising my children next door to my big brother, Ron, and his large familyI never would have imagined this moment happening to me. I never could have imagined that assassin and avenger would be among future choices I would want to make. But they are.

Since then, my life has taken turns I never would have dreamed of. The road map that has led me to my lifemy realityis filled with unexpected detours, unplanned-for entrances and exits. It is a journey that I am still navigating.

We lose ourselves in things we love. We find ourselves there, too.

Kristin Martz

* * *

1975

Where do you want to live, dear, with Mommy or Daddy?

Daddy, I whisper, as I fiddle nervously with the copper buttons beneath my legs.

The office of our family therapist, Betty Nudelman, is a comfortable place for me to come. She has a giant blue leather chair that I love to sit in. I am tiny enough to cross my legs, but its definitely a big-girl chair. I feel so proud when I crawl up into it and can participate in the conversation.

Betty always treats me with respect, looking directly into my eyes and speaking in a soft and gentle tone. She makes me feel important. So today, when she pulls her chair next to mine, takes my hand in hers, and asks which parent I want to live with full time, I know I can tell her the truth.

I look over at my brother, Ron, who is sitting a few feet away, his head hanging down. He is busy pulling at the strings in the holes of his favorite brown corduroy pants, which makes the hole even bigger, revealing his scratched-up knee.

I am only four years old, and Bettys question will change my life forever. I dont hesitate. I know what I want to do, but Im afraid my mom will be upset with me. My brother wont look at me, but I see him nodding his head in agreement when I answer her question.

I honestly dont know if Bettys question came before or after my birth mother, Sharon, and my dad agreed to adjust their child custody arrangements. Its almost irrelevant, but so incredibly telling how insightful children are at such a young age.

* * *

When my parents decided to split up, my mother assumed custody of us. In 1975, it was unheard of for a man to have custody; it was believed that a mother should raise her children. Betty would determine the visitation schedule. Of all the people I have met in my life, whose faces and names have long since faded into the distance, Bettys face, with her soft brown eyes, perfectly coifed hair, and gentle ways will stay with me forever.

Sharon moved us into an apartment in Des Plaines, Illinois. We lived at the end of the hallway, on the right side. When you walked in, you immediately looked into the small bedroom that Ron and I shared.

We had a cool bunk bed opposite a little table in the corner, where I held tea parties with Billy the Bear, Dolly, Sir Elephant, and the Crazy Monkey. We had a small dresser and shelving unit where our pet gerbil, Clarabelle, named after the mute clown partner of Howdy Doody, the star of the 1950s hit show, lived. The kitchen was straight out of the 70s: brown cabinets, a yellow linoleum floor, a green flower-print Formica table, and matching padded chairs.

Interestingly, though, as I recall this, I cant picture Sharon in that apartment, just the space between the walls.

My dad moved to a studio apartment in Chicago, near OHare Airport. Thats where we visited with him when it was his time. His building was tall, with long hallways that looked the same from floor to floor. Sometimes Ron and I raced each other from one end to the othernot sure the neighbors liked that very much. My dads place boasted bright orange drapes and a shaggy, chocolate brown couch. It was soft and furry, like lying on a big bear. In the corner sat my favorite floor lamp, quintessential 1970s chic: a chrome, mushroom-shaped base, with a brushed nickel metal arm that hung over the cushions of the couch, which I loved to swing from left to right.

At my fathers urging, we started to spend more time in Bettys office. Something wasnt sitting right with him. He learned from a few of Rons teachers at school that my brother had become more disruptive in class and that his grades were dropping. My dad also noticed that the fun-loving, energetic spirit we both possessed was waning. When we talked to him on the phone, we sounded down, but when we knew we had plans to see him, we sounded excitedmaybe too excited.