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.”
Imagine my joy in the mid-80s when an
agent called to say Bill Cosby wanted me
to audition for a role on the The Cosby
Show. Cosby played an obstetrician, and
he sometimes used models to portray
pregnant women sitting in his office
waiting room. It was a small part with one
or two speaking lines at most, but I
wanted in.
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.
After the meal, we walked upstairs to a huge living
area of his home that featured a massive bar. A huge
brass espresso contraption took up half the counter. At
the time, it seemed rare for someone to have such a
machine in his home for personal use.
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.
[Editor’s Note: Cosby’s attorneys did not
respond to Vanity Fair’s requests for comment.]
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 motherfucker 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
“motherfuckers.” 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.
---
For a long time I thought it was something that only
happened to me, and that I was somehow responsible.
So I kept my secret to myself, believing this truth
needed to remain in the darkness. But the last four
weeks have changed everything, as so many women
have shared similar stories, of which the press have
belatedly taken heed.
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