LOS ANGELES -- Truth be told, Johnnie L. Cochran Jr. first made a name for himself
by having no voice, which for a defense attorney, of all people, is
quite the paradox. Then again, so is Johnnie Cochran.
The mute moment that would change his life came in May of 1966, when
an unarmed black man named Leonard Deadwyler was fatally shot by Los
Angeles police during a traffic stop.
The case drew a lot of nervous attention. Watts had burned the
summer before, and racial tensions lingered. Deadwyler had been rushing
his pregnant wife to the hospital, and the image of his bloodied body
slumped over hers, of their small daughter seeing this from the back
seat, threatened to reignite the rage of Watts. The police claimed
self-defense, saying Deadwyler had made a sudden move. The district
attorney filed no charges. Johnnie Cochran was just launching his
practice when Deadwyler's family hired him to sue the city.
At the televised coroner's inquest, the cameras soon locked in on
the 28-year-old Cochran. Under archaic rules in effect back then, a
defense attorney was forbidden to pose questions directly to the court,
forcing Cochran to whisper into the ear of the deputy district attorney.
Over and over again in this bizarre game of legal telephone, the DA's
man would repeat and all the city would hear: "Mr. Cochran wants to know
..."
By the time it was all over, Johnnie Cochran, without uttering a
single audible word, was famous.
As he climbed to the top of his profession, Cochran, now 57,
cultivated a reputation as a cop-buster extraordinaire, toting up more
than $40 million in damages for maltreated citizens. Most of these
clients were poor, and most, like Cochran, were black.
In criminal trials, Cochran proved equally adept, whether working
juries with his silky charm or confidently plying the political byways
to secure a favorable plea bargain. His popularity and influence grew
with his billable hours, and if he made many enemies along the way, they
maintain a wary silence. His firm flourished, eventually adding 10
attorneys, all of them African American. Celebrities in trouble began to
seek Cochran out: Jim Brown when he was accused of rape; sitcom actor
Todd Bridges when he was charged with manslaughter; Michael Jackson when
he was accused of child molestation.
And then one day last June, a casual friend called from jail and
begged for Cochran's help.
Now, as O.J. Simpson stands trial for murder, television cameras in
the courtroom may be drawn yet again to Johnnie Cochran Jr.
Observing him in his element, there are crucial things to bear in
mind. The key to Johnnie Cochran will not be found in the triumphs, the
accolades, the respect, the fortune or the fame.
For it was not success that inspired this man, but defeat.
Inspired, Not Deprived
He was born with an identity crisis. After he made his debut into
the world on Oct. 2, 1937, in Shreveport, La., fawning nurses persuaded
Hattie Cochran to name her only son James Harold, after the doctor who
delivered him. The name went on the birth certificate and stuck for a
week, until Hattie had second thoughts and decided her husband deserved
the honor more than her obstetrician. Johnnie L. Cochran Jr. it was. The
"L" stands for nothing at all, and spelling his first name with a "y" is
a mistake the timid should not make.
When Johnnie was 6 the family headed by train to California,
eventually settling in L.A. His father sold life insurance; his mother
was a homemaker and occasional Avon lady.
"My mom was the glue that kept us all together," Cochran recalls.
"My mother cooked every day of her life for her family. She was very
wise. She had a million sayings to guide you through life. 'A stitch in
time saves nine.' 'Your eyes are bigger than your plate.' Platitudinal
things I happen to believe."
He has favorite sayings and quotations emblazoned on T-shirts for
his employees now, including the one that serves as his unofficial
slogan: "Injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere."
Hattie Cochran had big plans for her son. Johnnie would be a doctor.
The Cochrans would live in a big house in the hills. Johnnie Sr. was
devoted and hard-working, but not ambitious. He never saw much need to
buy a bigger place, new furniture or cars, but he put his three children
through UCLA at the same time.
Young Johnnie shared his mother's longing for the finer things in
life. At Los Angeles High School, he would visit the homes of rich white
friends and admire the shimmering swimming pools. He vowed to have one
of his own someday.
"One kid I knew had an archery range at his house. An archery range!
I never even thought of that!" Cochran recalls. He didn't feel deprived,
he insists; rather, he was inspired. "I thought, 'I can have that too.'
That's why to this day I work hard. I wanted to provide that for my
family."
Despite his mother's dreams, Cochran decided to make the law his
career. There was no memorable reason to do this, no legal firebrand who
inspired him, no grave injustice that outraged him.
"I wanted to persuade people," he explains simply. "I like to talk."
The power of persuasion is a Cochran trademark, both inside and
outside the courtroom. He once cajoled a group of buddies into flying
halfway around the world to see Ali fight Frazier in the famous "Thrilla
in Manila." The group embarked on the 20-hour journey with no tickets
for the big fight -- just vague assurances from Cochran that everything
would work out. It did. As usual, Cochran's cool confidence was
rewarded.
"One of Johnnie's philosophies is 'Never let 'em see you sweat,' "
says Ron Sunderland, an executive vice president at Capital Cities/ABC
Entertainment and Cochran's best friend since the two attended Loyola
University Law School.
Cochran returns often to the source of his strength, visiting his
mother's grave each Sunday to talk. His mountaintop home boasts the kind
of breathtaking views she would have loved. He has his own personal gym
for keeping fit, with smoked-glass windows overlooking the family room,
where magazines featuring Johnnie Cochran Jr. are fanned out across the
coffee table. A Jaguar and Rolls-Royce share garage space.
Cochran and his second wife, Dale, a marketing analyst with a PhD,
jet around the world on vacation, or to spas for a weekend. Cochran
casually mentions attending the Paris Opera, then abandons his
sophistication to boast boyishly of counting out his own French change.
When the Cochrans remodeled their house recently, Johnnie spent a
small fortune filling in the swimming pool. It was the ultimate gesture
of having made it in L.A. -- to actually un-have a pool.
He put in a fish pond instead.
The Shark Branches Out
In the courtroom, Cochran is known as a shark in designer suits and
geometric silk ties. Always in motion. Always hungry.
"He can step into the courtroom and immediately he's got the jury in
the palm of his hand," marvels former Los Angeles mayor Tom Bradley, who
during his tenure watched his old friend score hefty damage awards from
the city for clients who sued for civil rights violations.
"This is the key to his success," Bradley says. "He captivates a
jury. It's part of his personality. ... He focuses on those jurors and
they melt."
The charisma masks a certain disillusionment, the unforgettable
image of Leonard Deadwyler slumped lifelessly over his pregnant wife.
Cochran ultimately lost the case that made him famous. And in the end,
what Mr. Cochran really wanted to know is why the justice system didn't
work for the Leonard Deadwylers of the world.
"I think your defeats do help define you," he allows.
Cochran is tactfully vague about courtroom strategy in the hottest
case of his career. But he does let it be known that "O.J. calls me
every night" from jail, and that he took this case only because Simpson
repeatedly implored him to help. It is Cochran who escorts Simpson into
the courtroom for each appearance.
"I thought about it and thought about it and thought about it,"
Cochran says. Simpson was a social acquaintance, not a close friend or
golf buddy. Cochran was already on the fringes of O.J.-mania, as a legal
commentator for the "NBC Nightly News With Tom Brokaw."
After 30 years in the courtrooms, Cochran had been getting itchy. It
was time to branch out of criminal law. He already has offices in
Washington to handle government work, and has been laying the groundwork
to go global. He envisions Paris and Johannesburg as his bases for
international entertainment and business clients.
"Johnnie wants to move to another level of acceptance," says
associate Carl Douglas, who has worked for Cochran for eight years and
admired him for 20. "He has established himself as a criminal lawyer. He
wants to go out being known as a lawyer's lawyer. He has wanted to
evolve."
His firm is eager to court African American celebrities and convince
them that their lucrative entertainment contracts and legal work not
only can, but should, be done by top-drawer African American lawyers.
Firms like Cochran's constantly have to battle a prejudice "that a
black lawyer can only take you so far," says Douglas.
Cochran confronted the same perceptions in an Ebony magazine
interview last spring. "We have to get away from that plantation
mentality," he said. "It's that self-hatred we've been taught. In 300
years, they have done an effective job on us."
But besides winning over the black superstars, Cochran also
considers it important to win over a white clientele.
Cochran not long ago found the perfect client for a black lawyer
traversing those two worlds: Reginald Denny.
During the L.A. riots, the country watched the white truck driver
being dragged from his cab at the corners of Florence and Normandie and
brutally beaten by black assailants as a news helicopter hovered
overhead.
Carl Douglas candidly admits there was dissension in the ranks over
taking the case. "My first concern was not to sue the brothers," Douglas
says. He tried to talk Cochran out of representing Denny. "Johnnie, with
his vision, was not going to let it go."
Instead, he had a plan: He would sue the city. In the $40 million
suit still pending, Cochran argues that Denny's civil rights were
violated because L.A. police deliberately abandoned the predominantly
black neighborhood during the rioting and failed to come to Denny's aid
even as the beating was televised live. The complaint cuts to the issue
of equal protection under the law, according to Cochran.
If his colleagues were initially skeptical about his enthusiasm for
the Denny case, they were puzzled by Cochran's reluctance to join the
Simpson defense team.
Before making a commitment to Simpson, Cochran flew to New York,
where prize client Michael Jackson was hiding out with his secret bride,
Lisa Marie Presley. Cochran had negotiated the multimillion-dollar
settlement of a civil suit brought by a 14-year-old boy who had accused
Jackson of child molestation, but the district attorney was still
weighing criminal charges against the singer. Now Cochran wanted
Jackson's blessing to represent another star in trouble.
"I want what's best for O.J., but I want you to be available when I
call," Jackson told Cochran. Cochran says he promised him he "would not
be shunted off" and went back to L.A. After meeting with lead counsel
Robert Shapiro four times, Cochran finally agreed to join the Simpson
team.
People quickly surmised that the addition of an African American to
the defense table, especially a civil rights lawyer with a penchant for
cop-busting, meant that race would be an issue in the Simpson case.
Cochran is cautious when the question arises. "I don't want to
introduce race into this case," he says, and "pit one race against the
other. We're not going out looking for a racial thing."
The Benefits of Networking
Los Angeles was never a nerve center for black empowerment. Schools
were already integrated when Johnnie Cochran came of age. As a young
adult, he was not among those to head south for the protests and
voter-registration drives.
Cochran married young and had his first child before he was out of
law school; as a young lawyer during the civil rights era, Johnnie
Cochran hung back. "I just missed it," he says awkwardly. "I always felt
cheated by that, and it helped motivate me."
He drew strength as well from a bond formed in high school, where he
was shut out by even the black fraternities because they considered his
skin too dark. Cochran and two black classmates forged a lifelong
friendship, and came to call themselves the Mutual Admiration Society as
they cheered each other on through the years, always sending flowers or
notes to celebrate successes. One became a cardiologist, another a
high-ranking administrator in the school system. The third became a
civil rights lawyer who fought fiercely against injustice, but accepted
the private indignities with seeming equanimity.
Sometimes, back in their early days as lawyers, Ron Sunderland and
Johnnie Cochran would be making plans to go out to eat, and Cochran
would nix one place or another. "They don't like me there," he would
demur.
After several lucrative years in private practice, Cochran was
persuaded in 1978 to become an assistant district attorney in Los
Angeles County. As the No. 3 man in the nation's largest law office, he
supervised more than 85 other attorneys. It meant a huge cut in pay, but
Cochran convinced himself he could help change the flawed system from
within.
One Saturday afternoon in 1979, Cochran was driving "my first
Rolls-Royce" down Sunset Boulevard, with two of his three small children
in the back seat. He suddenly saw police lights flashing in the
rear-view mirror, and immediately pulled over. He heard the command
through a bullhorn:
"Get out with your hands up!"
"They had their guns drawn," Cochran recalls calmly. "The kids were
in the back -- my baby Tiffany would have been about 10, and Jonathan
was 6. They both started crying."
As Cochran watched, the policemen began searching the car. Grabbing
the European-style purse he always carries, they started rummaging
through it ("Talk about illegal search-and-seizure," Cochran snorts
now). They soon found his badge from the DA's office.
"It was dehumanizing," Cochran recounts. Still, the renowned
cop-buster filed no formal complaint and demanded no official apologies.
But since that day, Johnnie Cochran has been profiled in dozens of
national magazines and newspapers, and has been featured on numerous TV
shows. And the anecdote about L.A. police unable to believe that a black
man could own a Rolls -- even one with his initials on the plates --
always has a way of turning up.
Cochran handles his most vocal critic in much the same fashion.
Asked who his worst enemy is, he searches his mental Rolodex for several
minutes before producing a name: Stephen Yagman, another prominent civil
rights attorney who has publicly dismissed Cochran as a "dealmaker."
He addresses this particular problem with the secret glee of a
biology teacher approaching a pithed frog on a wax tray. Scalpel ready,
Cochran begins to cut. He doesn't hold anything against Yagman, is
totally bewildered by the animosity. Why, he's even on Yagman's side in
that nasty business with the Bar Association. (Yagman is fighting a
threatened two-year suspension for allegedly calling a judge antisemitic
outside the courtroom.)
Cochran pauses to sign something for Eloise McGill, the
gray-chignoned secretary he calls "baby." Maybe Yagman's upset because
"I took a case he let go and we got $2 million."
Finding people willing to publicly criticize Cochran is not an easy
task, but Yagman is so eager to comply that he calls from Guam. "Cochran
is a flashy mouthpiece with little substance, no stomach for a fight,
who trades on politics and hasn't done a major trial in a very long
time," Yagman declares. "He's jive."
Yagman often finds himself a lone critical voice in the wilderness
and suggests that fear of retribution from Cochran's many powerful
admirers prevents others from speaking ill of him. "He's unfailingly
pleasant," Yagman adds. He "never goes after anyone. He glad-hands. I
believe a civil rights attorney can't be part of the system. You have to
be outside the system to shake it and change it."
Cochran's cozy political relationships are no secret. Los Angeles
magazine once noted that his contacts "reach into all corners of the
city, from the inner precincts, where he grew up, to the offices of its
most important politicians and the executive suites of the top companies
in town."
His references include the secretary of commerce, the chief justice
of the California Supreme Court, the city attorney, the presiding judge
of L.A. Superior Court and Gilbert Garcetti, the district attorney now
prosecuting O.J. Simpson in the murders of his ex-wife Nicole Brown
Simpson and her friend Ronald Goldman.
A request for the names of a few Cochran friends produces a
similarly impressive five-page roster of movers and shakers. Doesn't he
know any real people? "Well, there's Bill Cosby," he says.
Cochran uses such ties to advantage for clients alienated from the
black community, acting as a facilitator to gain reentry for people like
Michael Jackson and O.J. Simpson.
The "thundering silence" when Jackson was accused of molestation
troubled Cochran, and he quietly began showing the reclusive superstar
how to network, taking him around to the black civic leaders and
clergymen who count.
"Michael and O.J., they tended to walk in the majority world," says
the Rev. Cecil "Chip" Murray, pastor of the First African-Methodist
Episcopal Church in south-central L.A.
"Once you get out of slavery, you have to go back and loosen the
chains for others," Murray explains. "Some see it. Johnnie is one. Many
don't."
Because of Cochran's intervention, the city's most influential black
clergy condemned the "persecution" of Michael Jackson and declared the
investigation racist.
Cochran brought two busloads of inner-city kids and their parents to
Jackson's Neverland ranch for a barbecue and free run of the private
amusement park. He also had Jackson turn up as a surprise guest at the
NAACP Image Awards, where the beleaguered singer drew deafening
applause.
"The black community is very forgiving," says Cochran. "You can
leave, but you can always qualify to come back."
Already, Cochran is laying similar groundwork for Simpson. He has
taken his own minister to visit the football Hall of Famer in jail, and
days before joining the case helped other black leaders successfully
lobby prosecutors not to seek the death penalty.
"We can help set a climate of opinion," Murray says. "People will
know the accused has someone watching."
Murray views Cochran as "a pioneer in the new phase of the struggle
for liberation. The '60s crowd opened the door. The 1990s crowd has to
make certain people are walking through it. He bridges the two
generations. He's old enough to have the wisdom, young enough to have
the energy."
If there was any radicalization of the sanguine Cochran, it came in
1968, when a Black Panther named Elmer "Geronimo" Pratt was accused of
gunning down a white schoolteacher in an $18 robbery on a Santa Monica
tennis court. Pratt maintained that he was attending a meeting of the
Panthers more than 400 miles away in Oakland at the time.
Cochran took the case and lost. But he couldn't let go.
Pratt has been in prison for 23 years now. Cochran continues to
fight for his release, saying new evidence proves Pratt was framed by
the FBI as part of J. Edgar Hoover's notorious program to neutralize
black power groups and leaders during the 1960s and '70s. Cochran
maintains that the government, through its illicit spying on the
Panthers, knew Pratt's alibi was valid.
He considers the case his biggest loss and his most painful defeat.
"I will not retire until Geronimo Pratt is free," he vows. Cochran still
makes the long drive to visit Pratt behind bars in Northern California,
and he has persuaded the district attorney to take another look at the
case once the Simpson trial is over.
There are still some things Mr. Cochran wants to know.
