Chapter One Messages left on Ron Goldman's answering machine: Sunday, June 12, 1994.     ...Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron, Ron. Hey bonehead, it's almost ten. I'm debating whether I'm just going to head over to your house or not. I want to get movin' here. I'll probably give it about ten ... fifteen minutes. Call me. Later.     ...Hey Ron, what's up? It's Eric. It's twenty after ten. Wake up, Ron, you bum. What are you doing? Ahh man. I'm just going to finish watching this show then I'll probably head over. Call me. Later.     ...Ron where are you at, boy? It is eleven. Oh man. Call me. Page me as soon as you get up. Think I'm gonna start headin' over there in a little bit. All right? Later. Monday, June 13, 1994.     ...Hey Ron, this is Stuart. It's about ten-forty-five, I just was curious if you wanted to come to work today? So, talk to you later. Bye.     ...Hi Ron, it's Patty. I know you're at work so I'll just leave a message, and it's twelve and I know it's probably really busy ... but don't forget to come visit ... that would be great. Thanks, bye.     ...Hi Ron, this is Shawna. I'm just calling from the bank. Just give me a call here if you get a chance, it's no big rush. Just wanted to talk with you, or you can stop by. So, um, hope everything is okay and going well, just give me a call when you get a chance. Bye.     ...Ron, it's Patty. I just talked to Jeff, um, I-I-I-I-I-I, um, need to talk to you and I'm not sure if what I'm hearing is right. So, um, Andrea is coming home tomorrow, um, I don't know if they're playing a joke `cause you have the car and the keys and everything. But, call me, I'm gonna try paging you.     ...Ron, this is Jeffrey. If you're dead, man, you'll hear from me up above. I love you, man. I just heard on the news right now. My fingers are crossed and I'm hopin' it's not you. Rumor went around town like fast, wildfire. Tryin' to get ahold of your parents. Love you, man, take care.     ...Hey Ron, this is Todd callin', how you doin'? Hope you're doin' well because I was watchin' the news and they said they found, found somebody dead named Ron Goldman over in Brentwood on Bundy and I'm just like, fuck, I hope that's not you. So I hope it's not you. And if you feel like calling me back; let me know you're okay. I hope you're still alive and doin' well, man. Later.     ...Hey Ronnie, this is Dave, um, I don't know if you're ever gonna get this or not, oh man. Please call me, let me know what's goin' on, if the name is a coincidence or if it's not, obviously.     ...Ron, it's Trish. I was just calling you back and just wanted to see if you're okay. Okay, bye.     ...Ron, this is Todd calling again and, uh, I just talked to your boss and he's confirming what we all hoped not to be true and, uh, I'm still praying that something is wrong with the information. But if it's true I'm sure you're hearing this and we all love you very much and we just hope that everything for the better or whatever and, uh, if anybody gets this message tonight which is, uh, what is tonight, uh, it'd be Monday night if you could call and let me know exactly what might be happening. Talk to you later. Bye.     ...Hi Ron, this is Kelly, can you call me? We heard something on the news I just want to make sure it's not you. Call me, bye. As soon as possible, anytime tonight, okay? Bye.     ...Ron, this is Kymberly, it's Monday night, I haven't talked to you in a while. Heather Burk just called me and said something happened to you. If something didn't happen to you, call me back ... I need to talk to you. Bye.     ...Hey Ron, just wanted to hear your voice one more time and, uh, hope everything works out for you. Goodbye, Ron. Chapter Two As she prepared to leave work, Patti scrawled a brief shopping list: salad greens, pasta, cottage cheese, sliced deli turkey, and bananas. Bananas were always on her list.     Rather than plan menus and shop once a week, Patti often waits until the last minute, picking and choosing as the mood strikes. Our family was beginning to turn up its collective nose at red meat, but everyone was tired of chicken. And Patti needed something that would hold until Lauren arrived home; this was the big day of her class trip to Disneyland.     Patti's part-time position at the Right Start catalog company in Westlake Village kept her busy only three days a week, leaving plenty of time for what she liked best--being a mom--with a few extra hours for tennis. Orchestrating a dinnertime ritual was one of the benefits of her schedule. Dinner was a special event for our family, a chance for each of us to catch up on the events of the day. We continued the custom, even as the numbers around the table had dwindled from seven to four. My son Ron, now just a few weeks shy of his twenty-sixth birthday, was living in an apartment in the Brentwood section of Los Angeles. My twenty-two-year-old daughter, Kim, was in college in San Francisco, majoring in psychology and working part time at a branch of Wells Fargo Bank. Patti's eldest son, Brian, was a freshman at the University of Hartford, in Connecticut. Her two younger children were still at home with us. Michael was a sophomore at Oak Park High School, and Lauren was two days away from her junior high graduation. Children grow up so fast. We savored our time with them.     It was 4:30 P.M. on Monday, June 13, 1994, when Patti left her office and squinted at the bright blue, cloudless sky. She climbed into her 1991 antique white Toyota Previa bearing the license plate that described her so well: RUNGODO.     Our family moved to the San Fernando Valley only three days after Patti and I were married. That was seven years earlier, but Patti still missed Chicago sometimes. On the plus side, the gentle California climate allowed her to play tennis year round. But she worried about earthquakes and brushfires. The crime rate in and around L.A. was always a concern. Patti had decided that one either falls in love with California or never quite gets used to it.     She selected the groceries quickly and, making sure that she did not have too many items, breezed through the express checkout line. Tossing her shopping list inside the bag, she headed back to her car.     From Vons grocery store it is an easy five-minute drive to our home in a quiet, meticulously cared-for section of Agoura. Smooth green lawns with built-in sprinkler systems were manicured to perfection. Flowers of every variety and color were in bloom. Patti made the left turn onto our street and saw Michael's black Jeep Wrangler parked in front of the house. As she entered the house from the garage, she noticed that the security system was not turned on, so she assumed that Michael was inside.     From the foyer Patti called out, "Michael, are you home?" There was no response, and she thought that he might be upstairs, talking on his phone--or perhaps he had gone out with a friend and forgotten to set the alarm, which sometimes happened.     She set the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and greeted the pets. Riley, the cat, brushed against her leg. Lucy, a black Labrador mix, wagged her tail and bounded around the room. Pitzel, our aging West Highland terrier, growled with her customary displeasure at Lucy's very existence, but allowed herself to be petted. Patti scooted the dogs outside to their run and then returned to the kitchen to put the perishables into the refrigerator. Then she headed upstairs to check the answering machine in our bedroom.     The light was flashing, informing her that several messages awaited. She pushed the PLAY button and heard a man's voice announce, "Hi. This is John DuBello from Mezzaluna. As soon as someone gets home, would you please call us? It's very important." His tone conveyed a sense of urgency. Alarmed, Patti quickly jotted down the telephone number.     Mezzaluna? she thought. That's the restaurant where Ron works. Why are they calling here? Her pulse quickened. Mothers do not like mysterious phone messages. The upstairs phone had not been working properly, so, ignoring the other messages on the machine, she went back downstairs to the wall phone in the kitchen and punched in the number. It was just after 5:00 P.M.     "Is John DuBello there?" Patti asked.     "This is John DuBello."     "This is Patti Goldman. You called?"     "Do you know where Ron is?"     Patti was confused and a little bit annoyed. Why didn't the man just leave a message on Ron's machine? She demanded, "Why are you asking me where Ron is?"     "Because he was supposed to call in for his schedule and he didn't call in," DuBello explained.     "But why are you calling here? Ron doesn't live here. He lives in Brentwood in his own apartment."     "Well, this is the phone number he had on his application," DuBello responded.     There was a catch in the man's voice that deepened Patti's anxiety. "I have no idea where Ron is, and how dare you call our house and leave such a pressing, urgent message. I thought something had, God forbid, happened to Ron. Don't ever do that to us again!"     DuBello apologized. "I'm really sorry. I just thought maybe you knew where he was."     Patti hung up the telephone, aware that her hands were shaking.     She stared through the glass patio doors at the sight of a backyard that was vintage California. A built-in barbecue stood just outside, with the swimming pool behind. A tall privacy wall surrounded the yard, with lush, trailing, pink and red ivy geraniums festooning the perimeter. Directly to her right, an atrium with a huge cactus housed a hummingbird feeder that the tiny birds frequently enjoyed. Wind chimes rang softly in the breeze, but at the moment Patti did not find them soothing. Something was going on. She could feel it.     A scant thirty seconds passed before the phone rang. The caller was a woman whom Patti did not know but would never forget.     "Hello, is this Mrs. Goldman?"     "Yes."     "I'm Claudia Ratcliff from the coroner's office."     Patti knew what a coroner's office was, of course, but the import of this information did not immediately register.     The woman added quickly, "If you don't believe that this is who I am, I'll give you a phone number and you can call me back."     "What are you talking about?" Patti responded.     "Did you hear that Nicole Brown, O. J. Simpson's ex-wife, was murdered?"     "No, I don't know what you are talking about." Patti's voice rose in pitch and volume as she repeated, "I have no idea what you're talking about!"     Patti thought: O. J. Simpson? Who the hell is O. J. Simpson?     Monday was just like any other workday. I was a salesman for Reliable Container, a company that manufactures corrugated displays and packaging. Sometime during the day, as I visited customers and made my phone calls, I heard on the radio that Nicole Brown Simpson, ex-wife of O. J. Simpson, had been found murdered, along with someone else. I like football, but I am not an avid fan, so the news meant little to me. Unfortunately, such crimes are not that uncommon, especially in large cities, and L.A. is no exception. There was no reason to pay particular attention to the story, other than to note that the victim had been married to someone I considered a has-been sports star.     I rarely arrive home before 6:00 P. M., but on this day I seized the opportunity to leave the office early. My mood was good as I drove the Ventura Freeway north, keeping a heavy foot on the accelerator. The week ahead was a busy one, a good one, highlighted by Lauren's junior high graduation ceremony on Wednesday evening. Our family always used every holiday or special occasion to come together and celebrate. Kim was flying down from San Francisco, and when we had spoken with Ron on the phone a few days earlier, he assured us that he would find a ride or bum a car from someone. Nothing would keep him from "Squirt's" big evening. Squirt was a nickname he had always used for his sister Kim, and he had bestowed it on Lauren as well.     Idly I turned off the freeway onto Lindero Canyon Road, and only a few minutes later I pulled into our garage, noting that both Patti's and Michael's cars were there.     As I walked through the door from the garage into the family room, Patti looked up in surprise at my early arrival. At that very moment Claudia Ratcliff from the coroner's office said to her, "Well, I hate to tell you this, but your son Ron was the other victim."     Patti looked stricken. She yelled at me, "Fred! Hurry up! Pick up the phone! You have to talk to someone. Something has happened to Ron!"     I did not understand what she was talking about, but I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver. Someone, either Patti or the woman on the phone, told me that the call was from the coroner's office.     The woman asked, "(Did you hear today that Nicole Brown Simpson has been murdered?"     "Yes."     "Your son was the other person."     The instant I heard those words I fell into shock, stunned by a blast of disbelief and pain so great that the only thing I could do was push it down and bury it somewhere deep inside. I could not face this reality.     "How do you know?" I asked quickly. "Oh my God! Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?"     "Yes, we're sure."     "How do you know? Maybe it isn't him."     "No, we're sure."     "How?"     "Because of his driver's license."     Patti gripped my shoulder and held her other arm around my waist. She was leaning against me, shaking. I felt the blood rush from my face and my body go rigid. A question stumbled out of my mouth: "Do I need to be there? Do you need me there?"     "No."     The moment blurred. I was numb. Everything was going blank. Suddenly the receiver was back in its place on the kitchen wall. Patti and I held on to one another, quivering. Muffled screams came from places deep inside of us, places that were totally alien and uncomprehending.     "What happened?" Patti asked.     "Ron's been killed," I said, the words choking in my throat.     "Are they sure? Oh my God. I can't believe it. What happened?"     "They're sure," I said.     It was final exam week, so when Michael had come home from school about 12:30, he was tired and had taken a long nap. It was about five o'clock when he woke up and hopped into the shower.     He had just gotten back to his room, wrapped in a towel, when he heard a knock on the door. He thought that he heard weird, hysterical laughter coming from the hallway.     The door opened. Patti stood there, her face ashen. Tear-drenched mascara tracked down her cheeks. Michael had never, ever, seen his mother look so shaken.     "Mom, what's the matter?" he asked.     Patti put her arms around her son and worked hard to get the words out. "Ron was murdered," she said.     Michael's face stiffened. His brain could not accept the words that his ears had just heard. "Ron who?" he asked.     "Ron! Your brother!"     A car accident? Michael wondered. No, Mom had said he was "murdered." Michael could not comprehend that. Who would want to kill his brother? No one. "There's no way Ron was murdered!" he yelled.     But Patti just sobbed on Michael's shoulder and nodded her head.     Michael lost control. He pulled away and threw himself onto his bed and began to weep. Patti tried to embrace him, but he pushed her aside. He leaped from the bed and ran from the room. He found himself in the bedroom immediately at the top of the curving staircase, the room that had once belonged to Ron. He slammed the door and sat on the edge of Ron's bed. All he could do was cry. And cry. And cry.     Patti decided, for the moment, to leave Michael alone. Grasping the railing, she stumbled down the stairs to rejoin me.     I was in the family room, pacing. Patti noticed that my face was as stone, cold white as the shirt I was wearing. She pulled me down onto the large, beige sectional sofa, and we held tightly to one another. Both of us were suspended in a state of total horror and disbelief.     I had turned on the television. A still photograph of my son filled the screen. It was taken from his photo ID. Ron? Murdered? The words screamed, then echoed and reverberated in my head.     We could not be sure, but Patti mentally scrambled to put together the sequence of events. Obviously the media had been waiting for word that we had been notified. The authorities could have been trying to contact us all day, but did not know how. Had they asked John DuBello at Mezzaluna to leave a message for us? After speaking with Patti, DuBello must have reported to the coroner's office that someone was home because now, only moments after the cold, cursory notification was made, an onslaught of media attention began.     "Oh my God," Patti whispered suddenly, "Kim! How are we ever going to tell Kim?"     I was afraid that if I let myself fall apart, I would never be able to put the pieces back together again. I had to be there for everyone, and I willed myself to stay in control. There were Patti, Lauren, Michael, and Brian to consider. And Kim.     Kim was at the core of it all. * * *     Ron and Kim were truly a pair, closer than I could have imagined my two children would ever be. From the day Kim was born, Ron looked at her like he had been waiting for her all his life. In the snapshots of my mind I saw them as children, holding hands, hugging, whispering, laughing. And, as the years passed, that had never changed.     My marriage to Ron and Kim's biological mother, Sharon, had ended when Ron was only five and Kim barely two. Over the course of the next few years, I had obtained full custody of the kids and Sharon drifted from their lives. As the years passed, Ron became not only Kim's big brother, but her protector, her confidant, her second father, and her best friend. They shared a bond that was unique in its depth--a "you and me against the world" resolve.     Now Patti and I were terrified that Kim might see or hear something on the news before we could contact her. At the same time, I knew that informing Kim of her brother's death would be the most excruciating task I had faced in my fifty-three years.     Quickly, deliberately, Patti and I moved back into the kitchen. I reached for the wall phone and dialed Kim's number in San Francisco. Patti picked up the extension on the kitchen desk.     Each unanswered ring of the phone increased our anxiety. Finally, on the fourth or fifth ring, just as the answering machine kicked in, Kim's boyfriend, Joe Casciana, picked up. "Joe, it's Fred, have you been listening to the news? Is Kim home?"     "No, not yet. She's on her way," Joe replied.     I hoped desperately that she did not listen to the news on her car radio.     "What time is she going to be home?"     "I don't know. Maybe six-thirty or so."     I blurred out the words. "Ron's been killed. And we have to tell Kim. As soon as Kim gets home I want you to have her call me. Don't tell her anything. Just be by her side."     "Oh my God," Joe said.     The semester had just ended, so Kim was able to put in a few more hours at her job with Wells Fargo Bank. A recent promotion had her handling loans, accounts, and customer service.     Joe usually plays soccer on Monday nights, but Kim had called home earlier and was surprised to find him there. When he told her that he had decided not to play this night she was delighted. "That's great," she said. "We can go to the gym together!"     Kim's friend Amy Levine drove her home from work. The sun was shining as they sped along the coast and Amy had her usual R&B station blaring on the radio. The two young women laughed and joked about an eccentric customer they had dealt with during the day.     When Kim walked into the apartment, Joe had a strange expression on his face. Kim had always been attracted to his Mediterranean look--jet black, curly hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. This evening his face was fixed in what Kim called his "nervous look," but she did not immediately sense tension. She was in too good a mood, preoccupied with her plans for a trip to the gym.     He greeted her with a terse "Kim, you've got to call your father."     We talked all the time. Getting a call from me was not at all unusual. "Okay," she said, "I'll call him in a bit."     Joe was persistent. "Kim, you've got to call your dad," he repeated.     "Okay, okay," Kim said. "I just got home. Give me a breather." She sat at the kitchen table and idly began to sort through the mail.     "Kim, call your father," Joe repeated.     Kim ignored him.     He leaned close and said firmly, "Kim, just call your dad." He was wearing a T-shirt with a low collar, and Kim noticed that his chest was flushed and his heart seemed to be beating fast.     A small light went on in her brain. She and Joe had been discussing the possibility of marriage. Ah-hah, she thought. The phone is in the bedroom. Maybe Joe's got a surprise waiting for me in there! She made a quick stop in the bathroom and then headed for the bedroom.     No surprises were apparent and Kim was a little disappointed, but she decided that as long as she was there, she would go ahead and call home. As she dialed, Joe came into the room and motioned for her to sit down on the bed. He sat very close, as if he wanted to listen in on the conversation.     Patti and I answered the phone on two extensions at the same time. The conversation went very, very fast.     "Kim, are you at home?" I asked.     "Yeah," she said.     "Is Joe with you?"     "Yeah."     "Did you watch the news today?"     This is totally weird, Kim thought. "No, I didn't. Why?"     "Did you hear about Nicole Brown Simpson?"     "I don't know who that is."     "She's O. J. Simpson's ex-wife."     "Who's that?"     Kim could tell that I was stalling. Get to the point, she thought. Who are these people he's talking about?     How could I tell her this? I had to do it. I said, "Well, she was killed with somebody else, with a friend. Did you hear that?"     "No."     There was another short pause.     "Kim," I said, my voice breaking, "Ron was killed."     Kim's mind raced erratically: I didn't call him back. Ron called me last week and I never called him back! Why didn't I call him back?     She could hear Patti and me crying on the other end of the line. She looked at Joe. He was crying too.     When you learn that someone has died, you think cancer. When you hear that someone was killed, you think car accident. Ron had a car accident? Kim thought. She threw the phone down and screamed, "How did Ron die? Did he die in a car accident?"     Joe picked up the phone and heard me crying. "Calm her down," I stammered. "Get her some Valium. Calm her down."     I told Joe that it was not a car accident. We did not know yet what had happened, just that he had been murdered.     Kim grabbed the phone out of Joe's hands. "Do we have to identify him?" she asked.     I told her that would not be necessary.     I kept crying and begging her to calm down, but Kim was falling backward into what she would later describe as a bottomless black tunnel. Ron was gone. Her brother was gone. Those were the only words she heard.     Before Kim had arrived home, Joe had called the airline and changed their reservations from Wednesday night to tonight. They would leave for the airport in a few hours and would be in L.A. later this evening.     Kim paced, dry-eyed, around the apartment. Adrenaline rushed through her like some kind of unknown, frightening narcotic.     Suddenly she was five years old again. She began to ramble: "I've got to pack. Do I have to go to a funeral? Is there a funeral? Do we bury? I have to pack."     Joe watched silently as she threw dozens of pieces of underwear, and nothing else, into a suitcase.     * * *     Michael did not know how long he sat on the edge of Ron's bed, crying. Finally he composed himself as much as he could and went downstairs. He heard me on the phone, repeating over and over again, "It'll be okay, honey. We'll make it through." He knew that I was talking to Kim. Patti was standing over me, watching carefully.     Michael knew how close Kim and Ron were. How will she ever be able to handle this? he wondered.     He turned and ran back upstairs to Ron's old room. He still needed to cry in private.     Patti phoned two of our close friends, Rob and Barbara Duben, and told them what had happened. Barb said that they would come over immediately. Then Patti called her mother, but had to leave a terse message on her answering machine, telling her to call as soon as possible. She placed a call to her father. When his wife, Alecia, answered, Patti said, in a cracking voice, "Have you been listening to the news?" Alecia said that she hadn't, and Patti simply blurted out, "Ron has been murdered." Immediately her dad was on the line and, in utter disbelief, asked, "How? Why? When? Who?"     Of course, Patti had no answers. Her dad said they would be there as soon as possible.     Within minutes, the Dubens were at our front door. They found me sitting in front of the television. My shoulders were slumped, tears sliding down my cheeks. My eyes were transfixed by the recurring image of my twenty-five-year-old son on the screen.     Once more, Michael came down the stairs. As he passed by the front door, he saw our neighbors and good friends Andrea and Jim Ziegler turn into our street on their way home. Quickly he ran into the front yard, followed by Patti, and motioned for them to stop. He screamed, "Ron's been murdered!"     Andrea misunderstood. "What do you mean your mom's been murdered?" Andrea snapped at him. "She's standing right behind you!" They quickly ascertained the awful truth, and came inside to help.     Barb called Rabbi Gary Johnson from our temple, and he hurried over to be with us. Then Barb and Andrea called several other friends, activating a support system.     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, Adan, 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 Adan 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 gones."     "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, bodywrenching 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.     Michael had no tears left, but he could not sleep either. When finally he stepped out of his room, he found his mother, Kim, and Lauren sitting on the floor, dazed and broken.     At about 2:00 A. M., Kim called her longtime friend Sarah Kupper. She wanted to be the one to inform her friends of the tragedy, and did not want them to hear about it on the news. Sarah, like Amy, dissolved into tears.     All night long Patti repeated, "Ron was murdered."     All night long Kim cried.     All night long Michael remembered the sound of Lauren's scream.     At about 4:30 A.M. Kim called a friend, Erika Johnson, in Chicago. Erika, half asleep and dazed, said that she had heard about the murders the night before, but would never have believed that one of the victims was the Ron Goldman she knew. She was devastated and offered to fly to L.A. immediately.     Kim could not wait for the sun to rise. Somehow she had convinced herself that when a new day dawned, the nightmare would be over. Copyright (c) 1997 RLG Family Corporation. All rights reserved.