Legendary
supermodel Beverly Johnson built a career on being one of the
most beautiful women in the world during the 70’s and 80’s but the model
recently opened up to reveal she had a sordid past.
On the
heels of Bill Cosby‘s
headline grabbing sexual assault allegations, the former model talked to Vanity
Fair Magazine to
reveal the actor drugged her while at his NYC home.
Like
most Americans, I spent the 60s, 70s, and part of the 80s in awe of Bill Cosby
and his total domination of popular culture. He was the first African American
to star in a dramatic television series, I Spy, a show my family in Buffalo,
New York, always watched. Cosby cut a striking figure on-screen then. He was
funny, smart, and even elegant—all those wonderful things many white Americans
didn’t associate with people of color. In fact, as I thought of going public
with what follows, a voice in my head kept whispering, “Black men have enough
enemies out there already, they certainly don’t need someone like you, an
African American with a familiar face and a famous name, fanning the flames.”
I was
in the midst of an ugly custody battle for my only child. I needed a big break
badly and appearing on The Cosby Show seemed like an excellent way of getting
Hollywood’s attention. I’d appeared in one or two movies already, but my phone
wasn’t exactly ringing off the hook with acting jobs.
Cosby’s
handlers invited me to a taping of the show so I could get the lay of the land
and an idea of what my role required. After the taping I met all the cast and
then met with Cosby in his office to talk a bit about the hell I’d been through
in my marriage. He appeared concerned and then asked what I wanted from my
career going forward. He seemed genuinely interested in guiding me to the next
level. I was on cloud nine.
I
brought my daughter to the next taping I attended. Afterward, Cosby asked if I
could meet him at his home that weekend to read for the part. My ex-husband had
primary custody of my daughter at the time, and I usually spent my weekends
with her. Cosby suggested I bring her along, which really reeled me in. He was
the Jell-O Pudding man; like most kids, my daughter loved him. When my daughter
and I visited Cosby’s New York brownstone, his staff served us a delicious
brunch. Then he gave us a tour of the exceptional multi-level home.
Looking
back, that first invite from Cosby to his home seems like part of a perfectly
laid out plan, a way to make me feel secure with him at all times. It worked
like a charm. Cosby suggested I come back to his house a few days later to read
for the part. I agreed, and one late afternoon the following week I returned.
His staff served a light dinner and Bill and I talked more about my plans for
the future.
Cosby
said he wanted to see how I handled various scenes, so he suggested that I
pretend to be drunk. (When did a pregnant woman ever appear drunk on The Cosby
Show? Probably never, but I went with it.)
As I
readied myself to be the best drunk I could be, he offered me a cappuccino from
the espresso machine. I told him I didn’t drink coffee that late in the
afternoon because it made getting to sleep at night more difficult. He wouldn’t
let it go. He insisted that his espresso machine was the best model on the
market and promised I’d never tasted a cappuccino quite like this one.
It’s
nuts, I know, but it felt oddly inappropriate arguing with Bill Cosby so I took
a few sips of the coffee just to appease him.
Now let
me explain this: I was a top model during the 70s, a period when drugs flowed
at parties and photo shoots like bottled water at a health spa. I’d had my fun
and experimented with my fair share of mood enhancers. I knew by the second sip
of the drink Cosby had given me that I’d been drugged—and drugged good.
Vanity
Fair notes that they contacted Cosby’s attorneys but they did not respond to
requests for comment. Beverly continues with her story…
My head
became woozy, my speech became slurred, and the room began to spin nonstop.
Cosby motioned for me to come over to him as though we were really about to act
out the scene. He put his hands around my waist, and I managed to put my hand
on his shoulder in order to steady myself.
As I
felt my body go completely limp, my brain switched into automatic-survival
mode. That meant making sure Cosby understood that I knew exactly what was
happening at that very moment.
“You
are a motherf**ker aren’t you?”
That’s
the exact question I yelled at him as he stood there holding me, expecting me
to bend to his will. I rapidly called him several more “motherf**kers.” By the
fifth, I could tell that I was really pissing him off. At one point he dropped
his hands from my waist and just stood there looking at me like I’d lost my
mind.
What
happened next is somewhat cloudy for me because the drug was in fuller play by
that time. I recall his seething anger at my tirade and then him grabbing me by
my left arm hard and yanking all 110 pounds of me down a bunch of stairs as my
high heels clicked and clacked on every step. I feared my neck was going to
break with the force he was using to pull me down those stairs.
It was
still late afternoon and the sun hadn’t completely gone down yet. When we
reached the front door, he pulled me outside of the brownstone and then, with
his hand still tightly clenched around my arm, stood in the middle of the
street waving down taxis.
When
one stopped, Cosby opened the door, shoved me into it and slammed the door
behind me without ever saying a word. I somehow managed to tell the driver my
address and before blacking out, I looked at the cabbie and asked, as if he
knew: “Did I really just call Bill Cosby ‘a motherfucker’?”
Why
that was even a concern of mine after what I’d just been through is still a
mystery to me? I think my mind refused to process it.
The
next day I woke up in my own bed after falling into a deep sleep that lasted
most of the day. I had no memory of how I got into my apartment or into my bed,
though most likely my doorman helped me out.
I sat
in there still stunned by what happened the night before, confused and
devastated by the idea that someone I admired so much had tried to take
advantage of me, and used drugs to do so. Had I done something to encourage his
actions?
In
reality, I knew I’d done nothing to encourage Cosby but my mind kept turning
with question after question.
It took
a few days for the drug to completely wear off and soon I had to get back to
work. I headed to California for an acting audition. Not long after arriving, I
decided I needed to confront Cosby for my own sanity’s sake. I thought if I
just called him, he would come clean and explain why he’d done what he had.
I
dialed the private number he’d given me expecting to hear his voice on the
other end. But he didn’t answer. His wife did. A little shocked, I quickly
identified myself to her in the most respectful way possible and then asked to
speak to Bill. Camille politely informed me that it was very late, 11:00 P.M.
and that they were both in bed together.
I
apologized for the late call and explained that I was in Los Angeles and had
forgotten about the three-hour time difference. I added that I would call back
tomorrow.
I
didn’t call back the next day or any other day after that. At a certain moment
it became clear that I would be fighting a losing battle with a powerful man so
callous he not only drugged me, but he also gave me the number to the bedroom
he shared with his wife. How could I fight someone that boldly arrogant and out
of touch? In the end, just like the other women, I had too much to lose to go
after Bill Cosby. I had a career that would no doubt take a huge hit if I went
public with my story and I certainly couldn’t afford that after my costly
divorce and on going court fees.
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