Feature

Johnnie Come Lately

So it's no surprise that soon after arriving in New York, Cochran allied himself with Al Sharpton. The two of them have become ubiquitous at press conferences charging police brutality, surrounded by victims or their families.

Sharpton claims he has steered nearly every one of Cochran's high-profile local civil-rights cases to him, and denies charges that the lawyer is a racial ambulance chaser. "From day one, we made it clear we would work together," he says. "He's been a lawyer and legal adviser to the movement. One of the misconceptions is Johnnie seeks out these cases. Not true." Sharpton says he put Cochran in touch with Louima and Mrs. Diallo, with Dorismond's family, and with the New Jersey Four. "In all of those cases, the victims called me; Johnnie did not call the victims. The reason I referred him is he brings integrity and a track record. To reduce Johnnie to a flamboyant necktie or to O. J. Simpson is to reduce someone who has dealt with police brutality for decades."

Peter Neufeld says Cochran's involvement in all his cases is "all-encompassing"; he says that Cochran's strong suit is public relations. "In the Louima case, it meant going out into churches and discussing the issues and how the issues can impact on the community," Neufeld says. "Johnnie was the most visible. I don't think Barry and I are invisible, but if things don't work out in the legal profession, he would do fine in the ministry. He's excellent at reaching out."

Cochran's arrival in New York has not been greeted with cheers and (autograph seekers) all around, especially in the legal community, where his occasional grandstanding has frustrated a growing number of his local colleagues. Some lawyers complain that he poaches high-profile cases. Brian Figeroux, the first Louima attorney, abruptly dismissed when Cochran came aboard, gave a terse reply when questioned about Cochran: "We are considering going to either the New York State Bar grievance or ethics committee."

Cochran's predecessor on the Diallo case, Kyle Watters, was a bit more forthcoming. Watters got involved in the case originally because he represented the Ghanaian Association. He watched the case slip into Cochran's hands once Sharpton showed up and won over Kadiatou Diallo, Amadou Diallo's mother. Watters recalls that he received separate phone calls from Neufeld and Scheck asking if he needed help. He told them both no. Soon enough, Cochran had become involved and Watters angrily stepped away. (Neufeld denies he or Scheck would ever insert himself into a case without being invited: "We have never reached out to anyone, ever, to secure representation.")

He's too big and he's worked too long in the white world playing by the rules to be dissed by the vice-president.

According to one source, Mrs. Diallo began complaining about her decreasing involvement in her son's case soon after Cochran took charge. She eventually fired Cochran, though he insists it was a friendly parting. Her new lawyers advised her not to respond for comment.

Puffy Combs's first attorney, Harvey Slovis, is also displeased about losing his client to Cochran. "In my opinion, this is a Legal Aid case that's been turned into a show," Slovis grouses. "Any Legal Aid lawyer could win this." Slovis -- who had managed to wrangle a misdemeanor and anger-management course for his client in a previous beating case -- resigned after Puffy brought in Cochran.

Some predicted that Cochran and his equally media-savvy colleagues in the Combs case -- Ben Brafman and Murray Richman -- would soon find themselves jockeying for position, in a repeat of his famous struggle with Robert Shapiro. But Brafman says it hasn't happened. "From the moment he first proposed bringing me in as co-counsel on the Combs case, there has not been one minute of disagreement."

More serious are allegations that Cochran and his associates are resorting to dirty racial politics in the Puffy case. Some sources claim he was behind a persistent rumor that prompted the New York Times to investigate charges of racism against Matthew Bogdanos, the prosecutor in the case. After calling a number of judges and lawyers, Times reporters deemed the story untrue.

Asked specifically whether he was behind the Bogdanos smear attempt, Cochran vigorously denies it: "Wasn't me, wasn't me! I heard about it, though."

In any case, it's uncertain how well a racially based defense would play for the millionaire rapper. One lawyer warns that "what works in California will not work in New York. The black community regards Combs as an exploiter. A 'poor-Puffy' defense won't wash."

Richman, attorney for Combs's driver, Shyne Barrow (who faces the more serious charge of actually having fired a gun the night Puffy was arrested), disagrees: "I'm a white guy who has no problem with the race card. It's disingenuous to say race plays no part in these things. Whether defendants are white or black, it is a factor."

Some grumble it's a factor Cochran uses in his own interests. "If he disagrees with you, Cochran will say, 'You called me a nigger' -- that's character assassination!" complains one of Cochran's less admiring New York colleagues.

Cochran is well aware of such criticisms, and they occasionally they get under his skin. When Andrea Peyser implied he was a liar in one of her columns, he promptly sued the New York Post in Los Angeles for $10 million, arguing that because the Post is online, his reputation there had been damaged. The case was tossed out. "I learned never to sue anybody who buys ink by the barrel," he says now.

Though Cochran insists he has no regrets about defending Simpson, it's clear that he wants to get the case behind him. He's too big and he's worked too long in the white world playing by the rules to be dissed by the likes of the vice-president.

"I think he is genuinely religious," says Calvin Butts. "He's a lawyer, and what segments of the white community feel about him is totally unfair. White lawyers take cases like that, too. He never said he thought O.J. was innocent; he just defended a client. "

Racing around New York with Ernest behind the wheel, flying back and forth between the coasts, Cochran barely keeps up with all the requests for appearances -- ten or fifteen arrive in the mail every day, he says. But he tries. It's as though he were burning off bad karma, trying to prove his critics wrong. In the month I kept tabs on him, he spent more time making philanthropic calls and speaking at places like the Center for Constitutional Rights and Harvard Law School than he did handling legal matters. No group is too small or insignificant to deserve his presence. When he showed up at Antun's banquet hall in Queens for the annual Queens chapter NAACP dinner, he was backed into a corner by people wanting their pictures taken with him. The alarmed restaurant staff said that not even a recent Hillary visit had provoked such a mob rush.

In addition to donating his time, he's also been forking over cash. In 1998, Cochran, who is a millionaire many times over, endowed the Johnnie L. Cochran Art Foundation with seed money of $250,000, and he's also planning to endow a chair at Howard University. At the New-York Historical Society right now, there's an exhibit called "Elder Grace: The Nobility of Aging," co-sponsored by Dale and Johnnie Cochran.

"That's the kind of thing I like to do," he says. "I'm big on art as a bridge between communities. So I not only do the legal stuff; I try to do things in the community. Church-art-community, that's my thing." At Christmas he forked over $6,000 for a pew in the refurbished Abyssinian Baptist Church and another couple grand for a cornerstone.

Not long ago, after a conference with Puffy, he attended an NAACP awards dinner honoring one of the first artists funded by the Cochran Art Foundation. Standing next to a window in a solitary moment, Cochran reflected on his decision to abandon criminal law.

"You know, I always said that once I got Geronimo Pratt out, I could retire with a clear conscience. I got him out. I can't retire with a clear conscience yet, but I can certainly get out of criminal law. I felt it had reached a point of diminishing returns. You represent somebody and get them out, and then they're back in trouble again. And I started to worry about it.

"I'm near the end of my career. I'm 63. I figure I've got more years behind me than in front of me. And I figure, whether I'm here or not, it's the ideas that are important, and that's why I want to do things like work on the reparations group or endow something at Howard University, so the kids coming up learn they can't go out and make money and forget where they came from. You know, especially for those of us who are African-Americans, there but for the grace of God go I."