There’s another chilling theory to consider: There may be victims who haven’t come forward because they’re dead. Nicole Weisensee Egan raises the possibility near the end of her new book, “Chasing Cosby: The Downfall of America’s Dad,” that Cosby could have unintentionally killed someone: “Could someone have gotten in a car accident and died after he drugged them, too intoxicated to be at the wheel? Both Becky Cooper and Tamara Green aren’t quite sure how they escaped that fate. Could someone have accidentally overdosed? We’ll likely never know.”
After nearly five years on the Cosby beat, I thought I knew the story to its bones. But Egan’s expertise is formidable, and her book is worthwhile for anyone hoping to understand the Cosby case in full. She was an investigative reporter at the Philadelphia Daily News when Andrea Constand’s allegations broke in 2005, and she continued to cover Cosby at People and The Daily Beast. It seems there is no relevant document she hasn’t read, no critical character she neglected to interview. “Chasing Cosby” chronicles her experience following a case that, for years, most people preferred to ignore. In clear, vivid prose, she illuminates how a beloved star was exposed as a violent predator, and how Cosby’s conviction became the first of the #MeToo era.
Egan deftly balances a play-by-play of the criminal proceedings with a methodical explanation of her reporting, gamely sharing her personal relationship to both. Specialists on everything from victim behavior to forensic toxicology contextualize Egan’s findings. She raises zoom-out questions that Cosby’s conviction alone doesn’t answer, about wealth, race (“Did our nation’s shameful history of false sexual assault accusations against African American men become a cloak he wrapped around himself so he wouldn’t get caught?”), the criminal justice system and “the dangers of deifying celebrities.” And far from feeling self-indulgent or distracting, Egan’s willingness to share her human connection to her professional endeavor makes her writing resonate with a greater power.
Egan came to the case as a Cliff Huxtable fan. “The Cosby Show” debuted when she was a high school senior, the same year her older brother died, “and watching the show gave me an escape out of my own, fraught home and into the cozy normalcy of a family not traumatized by death.” But the more she dug into Constand’s allegation that Cosby — a man Constand considered a mentor, not to mention a major donor and member of the Board of Trustees at Temple University, her employer — had drugged and sexually assaulted her at his home in a Philadelphia suburb, the more “the validity of the charges came to light.”
Egan’s was a lonely reporting effort. Until October 2014, when Hannibal Buress’s stand-up set mentioning Cosby rape allegations went viral, Egan practically had the Cosby beat to herself. Nobody wanted to believe Cosby could be a serial abuser, even though his predilection for drugging women was apparently an open secret in the entertainment industry. Constand’s, too, was an isolating journey: Of the 60-plus women who would eventually come forward to accuse Cosby of sexual misconduct, only Constand had a claim that was within her state’s statute of limitations, not only when she first reported it to the police but when the Montgomery County District Attorney’s office approached her about reopening the case in 2015.
As Egan pursued the Cosby story, she found enemies in unexpected places. That she faced threats from Cosby’s camp is alarming if not surprising; that other journalists undermined her work is a more disconcerting matter. She details her infuriating struggle to get journalism experts to see the accounts of Cosby’s accusers as “legitimate” enough to merit news coverage, and she is undermined by media professors and pundits who say stories about allegations only witnessed by the two involved parties (so, the vast majority of sex crimes) could never pass journalistic muster.
Some of the most damaging information involves Bruce Castor, the Montgomery County district attorney who declined to prosecute Cosby in 2005. Though Castor would later try to win back his D.A. seat with the campaign promise that he would get Cosby this time around (he lost to Kevin Steele), Egan’s reporting reveals a man who never took Constand’s allegations seriously and instead went out of his way to protect Cosby. In one telling passage, Egan digs up records showing Castor’s father, an attorney, had represented a millionaire philanthropist in the sale of his house to Cosby — the same house in which Cosby later drugged and sexually assaulted Constand. “Castor Junior never revealed his father’s relationship with Cosby to Andrea’s lawyers,” Egan writes. Walter Phillips Jr., “Cosby’s attorney, was the one person who did know, and he said he only found out because Castor Junior casually mentioned it one day. ‘Just in the course of a conversation, he happened to say it,’ Phillips told me, unbothered.”
In some ways, the pre-2017 world Egan describes already feels carbon-dated. Constand went to the police a year before Tarana Burke began the Me Too movement and 12 years before Burke’s rallying cry became a hashtag that galvanized an unprecedented and ongoing reckoning with sexual violence. In “Chasing Cosby,” Egan reminds readers how new, unusual and remarkable it is that the Me Too movement is happening at all. Her reporting is a reminder that we’re living through a historical anomaly that, without the courage and fortitude of Constand and her sister survivors, may not have come to pass.
Jessica M. Goldstein is the culture editor of ThinkProgress.
The Downfall of America's Dad