Free His Name Is Ron by Kim Goldman Page A

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.”
    â€œNo,” 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