“The Gray House,” a limited series now streaming on Prime Video, purports to tell the fact-based story of Elizabeth Van Lew, who spied for the Union in the Civil War while living in the midst of Southern society in Richmond, Va. And in very broad terms it does, though it fills up the space within those outlines with an army of imagined details and melodramatic plots and subplots.
It is not the first work for the screen that betrays history by attempting to make it more exciting than it already is, and if you go in ready not to wonder or care what did or did not actually happen, and which characters are real or invented, you may make out alright. (If you do care, there is Gerri Willis’ 2025 volume “Lincoln’s Lady Spymaster: The Untold Story of the Abolitionist Southern Belle Who Helped Win the Civil War.”)
So I will not ring a bell every time the miniseries, which admittedly bills itself as “inspired by a true story,” diverts from the record, even though in my head it may be clanging.
It’s July 4, 1860, nine months before the beginning of the Civil War. Elizabeth (Daisy Head) lives in a mansion in Richmond with her mother Eliza (Mary-Louise Parker), and the two are throwing a party. Guests, including the historical Swedish novelist and social reformer Fredrika Bremer (Oxana Moravec), congressman Sherrard Clemens (Ionut Grama), Virginia Gov. Henry Wise (Mark Perry) and his awful son Obie (Blake Patrick Anderson), unload expository dialogue and provide a primer for anyone not acquainted with the roots of the Civil War. Meanwhile, a runaway slave shows up out back, pursued by hounds, having heard that the Van Lew house is the place to run for help. The women, who are against secession and for abolition but are practiced in the art of deceiving their neighbors, are involved with the Underground Railroad in some way that’s not exactly clear.
Among their servants — the Van Lew slaves were (secretly) freed upon the death of Elizabeth’s father — are head porter Isham, played by Ben Vereen, who it is a pure pleasure to see back on screen, and Mary Jane (Amethyst Davis). A well-educated, determined young woman who is just back from Liberia, which did not suit her — she calls it a “tricky little way of ridding America of free Blacks” — the series gives her a lot of agency and makes her a virtual partner in the spy ring. White and Black, they live as much like a family as is possible when some people are labor and others are management and it’s the antebellum, then the wartime South.
Also involved in Elizabeth’s tradecraft are Scottish baker Thomas McNiven (Christopher McDonald) and Clara Parish (Hannah James), a beautiful prostitute who dreams “of Bronte’s moors” and gets, of all things, a big musical number in an out-of-place Western saloon, like Marlene Dietrich in “Destry Rides Again.” (The saloon is a standing set at Castel Film Studios in Romania, where the production was based; their backlot Western street, too, makes an implausible appearance.)
Ben Vereen as Isham Worthy, a porter in the Van Lew home.
(Bogdan Merlusca/Prime Video)
Out of the loop are Elizabeth’s brother, John (Ewan Miller), whose heart is in the right place, but who’s married to Laurette (Catherine Hannay), whose heart is not. An avaricious, envious flirt on the undisguised lookout for something better, she is angry that John wouldn’t use slave labor to build their house. She’s Scarlett O’Hara, minus the intelligence and charm.
Calling roll on the enemy, we find present Confederate President Jefferson Davis (Sam Trammell), in whose house — the eponymous Gray House — Mary Jane will be embedded, with a cocked ear and a photographic memory, to gather intel; Secretary of War (and then State) Judah P. Benjamin (Rob Morrow), who has a thing for Clara, to whom he opines on property rights while they share a bathtub; and a pip-squeak John Wilkes Booth (Charles Craddock), popping in and out no reason, unless it’s to foreshadow the death of Lincoln (who makes a rearview cameo), or just because everybody’s heard of him. Below them, but more in the action, are the nasty, thuggish Sheriff Stokely Reeves (Paul Anderson) and slave hunter Bully Lumpkin (Robert Knepper); and while thuggery and violence were endemic in a racist South, caricature and cliche do your history lesson no favors, however valuable it is.
Because Hollywood hates, let’s call it a love vacuum when it comes to screen heroines, Elizabeth will find herself the object of not one, not two, but (at least) three admirers, who prize her brains and spirit and talent for conversation. (She is no frilly, fizzy, fuzzy Southern belle, like the mean girls around her sister-in-law.) There is Hamton Arsenault (Colin Morgan), a sort of Rhett Butler lite, visiting from New Orleans with a huge live alligator, because I guess that’s something you could manage in 1860 just to make a splash at a party a thousand miles away. Capt. William Lounsbury (Colin O’Donoghue) is a dashing Union officer, escaping a Confederate prison, who passes through the Van Lew house on the way to freedom; they click together like Legos. Finally, there’s shy puppy dog Erasmus Ross (Joshua McGuire), who works at the Van Lew’s hardware store and will later have a post at a prison for captured Union soldiers, which the Van Lews will turn to their advantage.
“The Gray House” isn’t all bad, and its intentions are good, but it’s dramatically predictable and at eight episodes, some over an hour, goes on much, much longer than it needs to, letting scenes play out past profitability and wasting time on extraneous subplots involving minor characters — and minor minor characters — that do nothing to enrich the fabric of the show. A duel between two characters with no significant connection to the rest of the story exists here seemingly just because their historical counterparts did fight one, and gives the filmmakers the chance to add a duel — on horseback, like jousting with guns — to the show.
Parker is always fine, though the part requires a bit too much Southern breathiness. Davis and Head make strong impressions, masking the pedestrian, sometimes cornball dialogue. (The miniseries was written by Leslie Greif and Darrell Fetty, who collaborated on “Hatfields & McCoys”, with an undiscernable assist from John Sayles.) Keith David, who plays real-life activist minister Henry H. Garnet, gives a seven-minute speech on education as if he’s performing a Shakespearean monologue, after which he faces down a murderous sheriff like he’s Shaft. It’s a high point of the series, and the one scene I was happy to see go long.
Directed by Roland Joffé, who four decades ago was Oscar-nominated for “The Killing Fields” and “The Mission,” the production is a mixed bag; much care has been lavished on the costumes; the crowd scenes are well populated; printed material is done really well. (It matters.) Battle scenes — including Bull Run, where picnicking tourists are accurately shown in attendance — are convincingly rendered. But Romania, whether on or off the studio lot, only occasionally musters a decent impression of 19th century Virginia, reminding you, as “The Gray House” often does, that this is only a movie.
PHOENIX — Flashing bleached hair under his cap as he settles in with his new team, Dodgers closer Edwin Díaz threw his first pitch of Thursday’s live bating practice session to Freddie Freeman. It was called a strike. As Díaz got set for his next pitch, Freeman tapped on his helmet in a playful attempt to challenge the call.
In response, Díaz tapped his cap twice.
These gestures will become the norm in major league baseball this season, starting this weekend, thanks to the Automated Ball-Strike (ABS) Challenge System.
Each team will begin games with two challenges, initiated by a pitcher, hitter or catcher tapping their head within seconds of the call — no dugout consultation allowed. The moment it’s challenged, a graphic will show the result of the challenge on the video board and once the call is confirmed or overturned, the game will go on.
Teams retain challenges when they’re successful and lose them when they’re not.
The added layer of strategy intrigues Stephen Nelson, the Dodgers’ radio play-by-play voice.
“As humans we are naturally resistant to change, especially baseball fans, and I say that as a baseball fan,” Nelson said this week at the team’s Camelback Ranch training facility. “So there’s definitely going to be that early period where everybody’s probably going to hate it, but you got to get through that.”
In recent years, MLB has tweaked the game — implementing a replay system to challenge calls on the field, placing a runner on second base to start extra innings, using a pitch clock. The ABS system has been tested in the minor leagues since 2022, and major leaguers got a taste of it during spring training last year and also in the All-Star Game.
In 288 spring games last year, there was an average of 4.1 challenges per game, adding an average of 57 seconds to it. Pitchers and catchers successfully overturned calls more often than hitters.
So who will be in charge of making challenges during at-bats?
“I will let the catcher dictate if he [wants] to challenge or not,” Díaz said this week. “I won’t do it … he’s been there all day long, they know the strike zone for the umpire.”
Dodgers manager Dave Roberts was hesitant to say the club will have a hard rule on who can call for challenges. He feels more comfortable with his catcher doing it than a hitter or pitcher, but if a catcher decides to challenge, he expects them to be right.
“He better be right,” Roberts said Friday.
“It’s good that we’re practicing in spring, but we’re having conversations about leverage and how to use it to our advantage,” he added.
Roberts said if hitters want to make a call, they need to be honest with themselves about their personal knowledge of the strike zone and their baseball IQ and understand when to challenge a call and when not to.
“There’s no perfect science to it, but we’re just going to keep talking about it, trying to educate our guys,” he said.
Luis Cruz, a former player and now a Spanish-language announcer for the Dodgers, said hitters don’t need to be thinking about challenging a call.
“I don’t want to have another thing in my mind … then you lose your focus on your at-bat,” he said.
Jackson Ferris to start Sunday’s game
Left-hander Jackson Ferris, the Dodgers’ minor league pitcher of the year in 2024, will start Sunday’s game against the San Diego Padres at the Peoria Sports Complex.
Ferris, acquired along with outfield prospect Zyhir Hope from the Chicago Cubs for Michael Busch two years ago, logged a 3.86 ERA and 1.46 walks plus hits per inning pitched across 26 games and 126 innings at double-A Tulsa last season.
“I like Jackson,” Roberts said. “I like the player. He’s a good kid. A lot of talent. I think for me, it’s just trying to harness his arsenal. It’s a good fastball. He needs to continue to get ahead, be able to put hitters away with the secondary pitches, be efficient with his pitches per inning, but I like Jackson. He’s really talented. He’s scratching the surface, but he’s gotta go out there and perform, so I’m excited to see him on Sunday, and throughout the spring.”
The Rev. Jesse Jackson, a child of Southern segregation who rose to national prominence as a powerful voice for Black economic and racial equality, has died.
Jackson, who had battled the neurodegenerative condition progressive supranuclear palsy for more than a decade, died at home surrounded by family. His daughter, Santita Jackson, confirmed his death with the Associated Press. He was 84. Jackson was originally diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in 2017 before the PSP diagnosis was confirmed in April.
Handsome and dynamic, an orator with a flair for memorable rhyme, Jackson was the first Black candidate for president to attract a major following, declaring in 1984 that “our time has come” and drawing about 3.5 million votes in Democratic primaries — roughly 1 in 5 of those cast.
Four years later, using the slogan “Keep hope alive,” he ran again, winning 7 million votes, second only to the eventual nominee, Massachusetts Gov. Michael S. Dukakis. His hourlong speech at the 1988 Democratic National Convention brought many delegates to tears and provided the gathering’s emotional high point.
Rev. Jesse Jackson and his wife, Jacqueline, acknowledge the cheers of delegates and supporters before his emotional speech to the Democratic National Convention in Atlanta on July 20, 1988.
(John Duricka / Associated Press)
“Every one of these funny labels they put on you, those of you who are watching this broadcast tonight in the projects, on the corners — I understand,” he said. “Call you outcast, low down, you can’t make it, you’re nothing, you’re from nobody, subclass, underclass; when you see Jesse Jackson, when my name goes in nomination, your name goes in nomination.”
For nearly a generation, from the 1970s into the 1990s, that ability to absorb the insults and rejection suffered by Black Americans and transmute them into a defiant rhetoric of success made Jackson the most prominent Black figure in the country. Both beneficiary and victim of white America’s longstanding insistence on having one media-anointed leader serve as the spokesman for tens of millions of Black citizens, he drew adulation and jeers but consistently held the spotlight.
Supporters greeted his speeches with chants of “Run, Jesse, run.” Opponents tracked every misstep, from audits of his grants in the 1970s to his use of the anti-Jewish slur “Hymietown” to refer to New York City during the 1984 campaign, to the disclosure, in 2001, that he had fathered a daughter in an extramarital affair.
As he dominated center stage, the thundering chorus of his speeches — “I am … somebody” — inspired his followers even as it sometimes sounded like a painful plea.
Jackson’s thirst for attention began in childhood. Born out of wedlock on Oct. 8, 1941, he often stood at the gate of his father’s home in Greenville, S.C., watching with envy as his half-brothers played, before returning to the home he shared with his mother, Helen Burns, and grandmother, Mathilda.
During high school, his father, Noah Robinson, a former professional boxer, would sometimes go to the football field to watch Jesse play. If he played well, Noah would sometimes tell others, “That’s one of mine.” For the most part, however, until Jesse was famous, he shunned his son, who was later adopted by the man his mother married, Charles Jackson.
It was his grandmother, known as Tibby, who encouraged Jackson’s ambition. A domestic in stringently segregated Greenville, Tibby brought home books and magazines, such as National Geographic, that her white employers’ children had discarded.
“Couldn’t read a word herself but she’d bring them back for me, you know, these cultural things used by the wealthy and refined,” Jackson once said. “All she knew was, their sons read those books. So I ought to read them too. She never stopped dreaming for me.”
Her dreams propelled Jackson toward college — as did a need to avenge the childhood taunts that echoed in his head. An honors student, he turned down a contract to pitch for the Chicago White Sox to accept a football scholarship to the University of Illinois.
At Christmas break, he came home with a list of books. A librarian at the McBee Avenue Colored Branch referred him to the white library downtown and called ahead to clear the way. When he entered the main library, two police officers stood at the loan desk. A librarian told him it would take at least six days to get the books from the shelves. When he offered to get them himself, the officers told him to leave.
“I just stared up at that ‘Greenville Public Library’ and tears came to my eyes,” Jackson told a biographer, Marshall Frady.
That summer, 1960, Jackson came home and led a sit-in at the library, his arrest a first taste of civil disobedience. In the fall, he transferred to North Carolina A&T State University in Greensboro. There he became the star quarterback and participated in the beginnings of the sit-ins that became a signature part of the civil rights movement led by the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.
“It wasn’t a matter of Gandhi or Dr. King then,” he said of the library sit-in, “it was just my own private pride and self-respect.”
With his height and his oratorical flourishes, Jackson was a charismatic figure who led protests in Greensboro. Once, during a demonstration outside a cafeteria, as police were about to arrest the demonstrators, Jackson suggested they kneel and recite the Lord’s Prayer.
“Police all took off their caps and bowed their heads,” he said. “Can’t arrest folks prayin’.”
Then he led the demonstrators in “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
“They stopped, put their hands over their heart,” Jackson said. “Can’t arrest folks singing the national anthem.”
After half an hour, he recalled, “we got tired and let ’em arrest us.”
Elected student body president, Jackson graduated in 1963. A grant from the Rockefeller Fund for Theological Education brought him to the Chicago Theological Seminary, where he hoped to find a venue for social activism.
That summer, Jackson traveled to Washington, where he heard King deliver his famous “I Have a Dream” speech. Two years later, he and a group of college buddies piled into vans to drive south for King’s Selma-to-Montgomery march. He met King there, and early the next year, King asked Jackson to head his Southern Christian Leadership Conference’s Operation Breadbasket in Chicago. The goal was to win economic gains for Black people with a combination of consumer boycotts and negotiated settlements.
At 24, Jackson was the youngest of King’s aides. Operating out of a hole-in-the-wall office at SCLC’s South Side headquarters, he began by organizing preachers, arranging for them to urge their congregations on Easter to boycott products made by a local dairy that employed no Black workers.
During the following week, Country Delight lost more than half a million dollars in revenue. Within days, the company offered a deal: 44 jobs for Black workers. Without waiting for a boycott, other dairy companies called with offers, too.
King soon asked Jackson to be the national director of Operation Breadbasket. Jackson hesitated — the job required him to leave the seminary six months short of graduation. Jackson recounted in his autobiography that King told him, “Come with me full time and you’ll learn more theology in six months than you would in six years at the seminary.” He earned his ordination several years later.
In 1968, Jesse Jackson stands to the left of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tenn., where King was assassinated the next day.
(Charles Kelly / Associated Press )
In April 1968, Jackson joined King in Memphis, where the civil rights leader had decided to stand with striking Black sanitation workers. Few of King’s staff supported the effort, worrying that the strike — and the planned Poor People’s Campaign in Washington — distracted from the main goal of attaining voting and political rights for Black Americans.
During a planning meeting, King blew up at his aides, including Jackson. “If you’re so interested in doing your own thing, that you can’t do what this organization is structured to do, if you want to carve out your own niche in society, go ahead,” King yelled at Jackson, according to the latter’s account. “But for God’s sake, don’t bother me!”
The next day, standing below the balcony of the Lorraine Motel where the team was staying in Memphis, King yelled down at Jackson in joviality, as if to mitigate the outburst, inviting him to dinner.
Within moments, shots rang out. Jackson later said he ran upstairs and caught King’s head as he lay dying. Andrew Young, a King aide who later became U.S. ambassador to the United Nations, told Frady that he doubted Jackson had cradled King’s head, but that they all had rushed to the scene and all had gotten blood on their clothes.
But if all of them were touched by King’s blood, only Jackson wore his gore-stained olive turtleneck for days, sleeping and grieving in it, wearing it on NBC’s “Today Show” and before the Chicago City Council. In dramatizing the moment to his own benefit, Jackson provoked hostility from King’s widow and others in the movement’s leadership that lasted decades.
Richard Hatcher, the first Black mayor of Gary, Ind., and a Jackson supporter, recalled that once Jackson decided to run for president, the campaign thought it had the backing of the Black leadership.
“Big mistake. Big mistake,” Hatcher said. “Over the following months, every time things seemed to get going, here would come a statement from Atlanta, from Andy [Young] or Joe Lowery or Mrs. King, ‘We don’t think this is a good idea at all.’“
As Jackson’s media prominence grew — including a cover photo on Time magazine in 1970 — tensions erupted between Jackson and SCLC, in part because of the sloppy bookkeeping that became a Jackson characteristic. In late 1971, SCLC’s board suspended Jackson for “administrative impropriety” and “repeated violation of organization discipline.” Jackson resigned, saying, “I need air. I must have room to grow.”
Rev. Jesse Jackson raises a clenched fist from a police van after he and 11 others from Operation Breadbasket were arrested during a sit-in at the Atlantic and Pacific Tea Co., offices in New York City on Feb. 2, 1971. The organization, part of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, has been protesting A&P’s alleged discrimination against blacks.
(MARTY LEDERHANDLER / Associated Press)
Calling a dozen Black celebrities to New York’s Commodore Hotel, Jackson formed his own organization. Originally called People United to Save Humanity — the presumptuous title was soon changed to People United to Serve Humanity — PUSH became his pulpit. Like Operation Breadbasket, its goal was to boost minority employment and ownership.
Jackson traveled the country preaching self-esteem and self-discipline. Thousands of youngsters took pledges to say no to drugs, turn off their television sets, study. They became the core of his voter registration drives, the inspiration for the “I am somebody” chant that would define his public ministry.
As with Operation Breadbasket, Jackson used PUSH to hold corporate America to account. In 1982, for example, he launched a boycott of Anheuser-Busch with the slogan “this Bud’s a dud.”
“We spend approximately $800 million with them [annually]. Yet, out of 950 wholesale distributorships, only one is Black-owned,” Jackson said.
Shortly thereafter, Anheuser-Busch contributed $10,000 to Jackson’s Citizenship Education Fund, contributed more than $500,000 to the Rainbow PUSH coalition, and established a $10-million fund to help minorities buy distributorships.
In 1998, 16 years later, the River North beer distributorship in Chicago was purchased by two of Jackson’s sons, Yusef and Jonathan. (Jackson’s eldest son, Jesse Jackson Jr., won election to Congress from Chicago in 1995, but resigned and was convicted of fraud in 2013 for misuse of campaign funds. Jackson and his wife, Jacqueline, also had two daughters, Jacqueline and Santita. A third daughter, Ashley Laverne Jackson, was the child of his relationship with a PUSH staff member, Karin Stanford.)
Critics called the PUSH campaigns elaborate shakedowns. Others, like Jeffrey Campbell, president of Burger King when Jackson opened negotiations in 1983, found the encounter with Jackson and his rhetoric of economic empowerment inspiring.
“Before they came in, my view was that we ought to fight them, that this guy Jackson was a monster, and I had the backing of my bosses to walk out if necessary,” Campbell told the Los Angeles Times in 1987. But Campbell said he quickly changed his mind.
“He got to me very quickly, without me realizing it, when he started talking about fairness. He would say: What is fair? Blacks give you 15% of your business — isn’t it fair that you give 15% of your business, your jobs, your purchases back to the Black community, the Black businesses?
“That little seed began to grow in the back of my mind,” Campbell said. “It was the right question to ask me.”
How Jackson handled money gave critics additional openings. Between 1972 and 1988, PUSH and its affiliates attracted more than $17 million in federal grants and private contributions. After many audits, the Justice Department sought $1.2 million in repayments, citing poor recordkeeping and a lack of documentation.
Jackson gave little thought to such issues. “I am a tree-shaker, not a jelly-maker,” he would often say.
Management held little interest for him. But politics was a different matter.
From the moment he began urging and registering Black Americans to vote, Jackson found his milieu. He used PUSH resources to staff get-out-the-vote drives that helped elect Hatcher in Gary, Kenneth Gibson in Newark, N.J., and Carl Stokes in Cleveland.
In those days, he also advocated participating in both parties, what he called “a balance of power.” In 1972, he claimed he had registered 40,000 Black voters to support Illinois’ white Republican senator, Charles Percy.
That same year, at the Democratic convention in Miami, Jackson unseated Chicago Mayor Richard Daley’s 58-member Illinois delegation and replaced it with a “rainbow” of his own, even though he had never voted in a Democratic primary. Liberal Democrats who despised Daley as a corrupt big-city boss hailed Jackson as a hero.
In the decade to come, Jackson basked in celebrity and international travel, including a controversial meeting with Yasser Arafat. Jackson met the then-leader of the Palestine Liberation Organization in 1979 when he traveled to Syria to free U.S. pilot Robert Goodman, who’d been shot down while on a bombing mission. By the time Jackson declared his 1984 presidential campaign, he had burnished his foreign policy credentials.
At the convention that year in San Francisco, he predicted that in an era of Reaganomics, a Rainbow Coalition of ethnic and religious identities could retake the White House.
“We must leave the racial battleground and come to economic common ground and moral higher ground,” he said in a memorable speech.
“America, our time has come. We come from disgrace to amazing grace. Our time has come,” he said. “Give me your tired, give me your poor, your huddled masses who yearn to breathe free and come November, there will be a change, because our time has come.” Delegates roared to their feet.
The Rev. Jesse Jackson, a candidate for the democratic nomination for President, works the crowd from onstage following a speech at the Cincinnati Convention center, Friday, April 13, 1984.
(Al Behrman / Associated Press)
But they did not nominate him. Nor did the convention of 1988. Addressing Black ministers in Los Angeles in 1995, the hurt still showed as Jackson railed at the injustice of beating Al Gore in the presidential primaries, only to watch as he was tapped by Bill Clinton to be his running mate in 1992.
“In 1988, I beat him in Iowa, a state 98% white; he said it was ’cause of liberals and farmers. So I beat him in New Hampshire; he said it was ’cause he was off campaigning in the South. So I beat him in the South on Super Tuesday; he said Dukakis had split his support. I beat him then in Illinois, in Michigan; he said he wasn’t really trying. I beat him then in New York; said he ran out of money. But now, here I am this afternoon, talking to y’all in this church in South Central L.A. — and he’s vice president of the United States.”
To many of his Democratic opponents, however, Jackson’s “rainbow coalition” symbolized not common ground, but the party’s devolution into a collection of identity caucuses whose narrow causes doomed them to defeat. In 1992, many of those critics gathered around Clinton as he formulated his “New Democrat” campaign. Clinton soon used Jackson as a foil.
The occasion came when Jackson invited rap singer and activist Sister Souljah to a political event featuring the Arkansas governor. In an interview, Souljah had wondered why after all the animus of white people toward Black people, it was unacceptable for Black people to kill whites. Clinton, instead of delivering the usual liberal-candidate-seeks-Black-votes hominy, lashed out at her words.
The moment bought Clinton a priceless image of willingness to speak truth to the party’s interest groups but came at the price of Jackson’s rage.
“I can maybe work with him, but I know now who he is, what he is. There’s nothin’ he won’t do,” Jackson said to Frady. “He’s immune to shame.”
By then, however, Jackson’s prominence had already begun to wane. Indeed, the role of race leader, itself, had started to disappear. The civil rights revolution in which Jackson had figured so prominently had allowed a new and more diverse generation of Black elected officials, corporate executives and public figures to flourish. Their success eroded his singular platform.
Democratic presidential hopeful Sen. Barack Obama, D-Ill., right, laughs after saying goodbye to Rev. Jesse Jackson, reflected left, after Obama addressed the Rainbow PUSH Coalition’s annual conference breakfast in Rosemont, Ill. on June 4, 2007
(harles Rex Arbogast / Associated Press)
Jackson continued to travel, agitate, protest, but the spotlight had moved on. He dreamed that Jesse Jr. might one day win the office he had pursued. When, instead, another Black Democrat from Chicago, Barack Obama, headed toward the Democratic nomination in 2008, Jackson’s frustration spilled into public with a vulgar criticism of Obama caught on microphone.
In Obama’s White House, he suffered what for him might have been the severest penalty — being ignored.
Yet to those who had seen him in his prime, his image remained indelible.
“When they write the history of this campaign,” then-New York Gov. Mario Cuomo said after the 1984 contest, “the longest chapter will be on Jackson. The man didn’t have two cents. He didn’t have one television or radio ad. And look what he did.”
Jackson is survived by his wife, Jacqueline, and six children, Jesse Jr., Yusef, Jonathan, Jacqueline, Santita and Ashley.
the Rev. Jesse Jackson speaks at the League of United Latin American Citizens convention Friday, June 30, 2006, in Milwaukee. (AP Photo/Morry Gash)
Michael Silverblatt, the longtime host of the KCRW radio show “Bookworm” — known for interviews of authors so in depth that they sometimes left his subjects astounded at his breadth of knowledge of their work — has died. He was 73.
Silverblatt died Saturday at home after a protracted illness, a close friend confirmed.
Although Silverblatt’s 30-minute show, which ran from 1989 to 2022 and was nationally syndicated, included interviews with celebrated authors including Gore Vidal, Kazuo Ishiguro, David Foster Wallace, Susan Orlean, Joan Didion and Zadie Smith, the real star of the show was the host himself, the nasal-voiced radio personality who more than once in life was told he did not have a voice for his medium.
His show represents one of the most significant archives of conversations with major literary powerhouses from the late 20th and early 21st centuries.
But Silverblatt knew that he was as much a character as the people he interviewed.
“I’m as fantastical a creature as anything in Oz or in Wonderland,” he said during a talk in front of the Cornell University English department in 2010. “I like it if people can say, ‘I never met anyone like him,’ and by that they should mean that it wasn’t an unpleasant experience.”
Born in 1952, the Brooklyn native learned to love reading as a child when he was introduced to “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” Neighbors would see him walking the streets of Brooklyn with his head in a book and would sometimes call his parents out of fear he might get hurt.
But until he left home for the University at Buffalo, State University of New York, at the age of 16, Silverblatt has said, he had never met an author.
His college, however, was filled with such famous authors as Michel Foucault, John Barth, Donald Barthelme and J.M. Coetzee, who were all working as professors.
Silverblatt was shy and too embarrassed to speak during class because of his inability to clearly pronounce the letter “L,” which appears three times in his own name. Yet he considered the authors to be his friends, even if they did not know it yet, he said during the Cornell talk.
He would approach them after class to speak about their work.
Despite his interest in literature, Silverblatt’s parents wanted him to become a mail carrier, he said. The summer after his freshman year, Silverblatt worked a New York City mail route, delivering letters to the mayor’s mansion on an Upper East Side route that took him past numerous old bookstores and used-books shops. During that job, he said in the Cornell talk, he purchased the complete works of Charles Dickens.
Silverblatt moved to Los Angeles after college in the mid-1970s and worked in Hollywood in public relations and script development.
Like many young writers in Los Angeles, he wrote a script that never got made.
It was in Los Angeles that Silverblatt met Ruth Seymour, the longtime head of KCRW.
Seymour had just returned to the United States from Russia and was at a dinner party where everyone was discussing Hollywood. There, she and Silverblatt became immersed in a one-on-one discussion of Russian poetry.
“He’s a great raconteur and so the rest of the world just vanished,” Seymour told Times columnist Lynell George in 1997. “Afterward I just turned and asked him: ‘Have you ever thought about doing radio?’”
For the next 33 years, that’s exactly what he thought about.
“Michael was a genius. He could be mesmerizing and always, always, always brilliant,” said Alan Howard, who edited “Bookworm” for 31 years.
“It’s an extraordinary archive that exists, and I don’t think anyone else has ever created such an archive of intelligent, interesting people being asked about their work,” Howard said. “Michael was very proud of the show. He devoted his life to the show.”
Silverblatt once dreamed of being on the other side of the microphone, as a writer in his own right, Howard said. But he faced bouts of writer’s block through his 20s and gave up writing.
“Eventually, he came to find peace with the reality of that,” Howard said.
Instead of writing, he became an accumulator of a vast amount of other writers’ work — in his library as well as the repository in his head. He had an incredible memory for the books he read.
Silverblatt converted the apartment next to his Fairfax apartment into a library where he kept thousands of books, Howard said.
“It was heaven,” he said. “It was a fabulous library.”
“He was such a singular person,” said Jennifer Ferro, now the president of KCRW. “He had a voice you would never expect would be on radio.”
Alan Felsenthal, a poet who considered Silverblatt a mentor, called Silverblatt’s voice “sensitive and tender.”
Felsenthal said the show was about creating a space of “infinite compassion,” where writers could share things they might not share in everyday conversation.
“Michael was one of a kind, truly singular. And his voice is too,” Felsenthal said.
One of the most important tenets of Silverblatt’s approach was that he not only read the book he was discussing on his show that day, but also read the entire oeuvre of the authors he interviewed.
“A significant writer would come in and be bowled over by Michael’s depth of vision of the work at hand,” Howard said.
David Foster Wallace, in one interview, said he wanted Silverblatt to adopt him.
Silverblatt said he strove to read an author’s entire body of work, but he never claimed to have read it all if he hadn’t.
“In general I try to read the author’s complete work. … That’s not always true, and I never say it if it isn’t true. But more often than not, I have, at least, read the majority of the work. And sometimes it’s a superhuman challenge,” he said in the 1997 Times column.
The voracious reader said that the best books, those that brought him happiness, were not the ones that ease our way in this strange and difficult world.
“The books I love the most made it harder for me to live,” he said.
Silverblatt is survived by his sister, Joan Bykofsky.
Six months and 16 Oscar nominations ago, Delroy Lindo hopped on a Zoom call with the awards consultants running the campaign for Ryan Coogler’s genre-defying American horror story, “Sinners.” Actors don’t often participate in these meetings. But Lindo had received so much love for his turn as bluesman Delta Slim since “Sinners” premiered in April, he figured, “Why not sit in?” Mostly, he just wanted to ask one simple question: How can we make the most of this moment?
“I don’t know what their answer was, but it seems to have worked,” I tell him over lunch recently.
Lindo starts rapping on the wood table separating us and doesn’t stop until I ask if he’s a man given to superstition.
“Can I tell you where I think it comes from?” he asks. “I’m acutely aware absolutely nothing is promised. There’s no such thing as a sure thing. Anything can happen. So in knocking wood, one is trying to increase one’s chances that the outcome will be what one wants.”
So you’ve been knocking on wood for the last six months?
Now I’m the one who’s laughing, which Lindo appreciates. But he has more to say on the subject.
“You have to understand something,” he continues. “When an actor does a piece of work and it really touches people and has an impact like it did with Delta Slim and ‘Sinners,’ you can’t help but think how it might be broadened. I try to maintain an emotional distance because I have no control over much of it. Awards season.” He shakes his head. “So …” Lindo pounds on the table again. “Knock … on … wood.”
You want an illustration of the unpredictable nature of the acting profession? Lindo and I wouldn’t be at this table talking and rapping and toasting the first Oscar nomination of his long career if one particular cut of “Sinners,” the version Coogler showed him at the Imax headquarters in Playa Vista more than a year ago, had gone out into the world.
Lindo, left, on the set of “Sinners” with co-star Michael B. Jordan and writer-director Ryan Coogler.
(Eli Ade / Warner Bros. Pictures)
If you’ve seen the film, you’ll no doubt remember Delta Slim delivering a monologue in the car riding to the juke joint with Stack (Michael B. Jordan) and Preacher Boy (Miles Caton) where he recalls the lynching of a fellow musician. The scene ends with Lindo breaking into a guttural humming and drumming, expressing pain that transcends words.
When Lindo saw the movie that first time, the monologue had been truncated, and the scene preceding it, where their car passes a chain gang and Delta Slim stands and exhorts the prisoners to “hold your heads,” was gone too.
After the credits finished rolling and the lights came up, Coogler asked Lindo what he thought of the film. Lindo looked at him. “Can we talk, man?” They went outside, and Lindo laid out in his steady, resonant baritone why he thought Coogler needed to reinstate the chain-gang scene, which reveals Delta Slim’s origin story — and surely, since the chain-gang scene is intertwined with the monologue in the car, that should go back into the movie too.
“What Ryan did so brilliantly is he took the time to introduce all of the main characters in their native environments so the audience gets invested in them and what they mean to the community,” Lindo says. “For Delta Slim, those scenes were the fundamental building blocks.”
“The Delta Slim monologue had a lot of ‘Is it in, is it out?’ debate,” “Sinners” film editor Michael P. Shawver says. “But I knew in my heart and soul I was never going let the movie out without that being in it.”
Coogler, it turns out, saw it that way too.
Delroy Lindo.
(Bexx Francois / For The Times)
“I couldn’t imagine making a movie about the blues without giving some deeper context on what that music really signifies,” Coogler writes in an email. “It’s easy to get lost in the rhythm and the artistry of it all, but the blues was born from a lot of pain and adversity in a particular time and place. When I wrote the script, I felt like I needed a living, breathing embodiment of that, and Delroy nailed it.”
“We could have filmed that monologue a thousand different times and it would have taken on new life with each take,” Coogler continues. “The gut-punch way he ends it, going from telling the story of a lynching to drumming along and humming … it’s macabre, sorrowful and beautiful all at the same time. It shows you exactly why Delroy’s such a masterful actor. If you ever needed to give someone the world’s fastest lesson in what the blues is about, he gives it to you right there.”
“God bless him,” Lindo says.
“Working for the camera, we’re at the mercy of the editing process,” Lindo notes. He speaks slowly, deliberately, always choosing his words carefully because language is important to him. It’s his currency.
How does he feel about that loss of control?
“It’s scary,” Lindo says. “One had better make one’s peace with that very quickly. If you don’t, you will get your feelings hurt. It’ll be a problem.”
Asked to pinpoint when he came to terms with that, Lindo remembers “Clockers,” the 1995 Spike Lee crime drama in which he played the intimidating drug kingpin Rodney Little. It was his third collaboration with Lee, following “Malcolm X” and “Crooklyn,” and the two enjoyed a mutual respect and rapport. But Lee still cut three of Lindo’s scenes, which Lindo understood — “kind of, sort of.” Lee was looking at the larger story. Those scenes weren’t essential.
“Making one’s peace with it is not the same as accepting it and being happy with it,” Lindo says, raising an index finger, a gesture he often makes when telling you something he considers important. “It’s just the way it is. It’s a fact of life.”
When talking about his career, Lindo, 73, tells me more than once that “it’s not where you start, it’s where you finish.”
The first time he tells me this we are talking about one of his early lead acting turns, starring in the 1983 Yale Repertory Theatre production of “A Raisin in the Sun,” the story of a struggling Black family dealing with discrimination in 1950s South Chicago. Lindo played the frustrated patriarch, Walter Lee, and won some strong reviews. But he felt like he was the “weak link” in the production. In a GQ profile, it was written that Lindo, born in London, couldn’t convince himself that the African American experience was his to interpret.
“Nope,” Lindo says. “I did not say that.” Again, the index finger. “You’re giving me the opportunity to set the record straight.” He pauses and closes his eyes. “Doing that play, I had an inner monologue playing in my head that cast doubt on my ability to play the part successfully. And it continued and it grew. It became a tape and then an album and then a series of albums. It eroded my confidence.”
“You know what it was?” he continues. “It was a self-esteem issue. It was an issue of me saying to myself, ‘You’re not good enough. You want to do one of the great parts in the theater? No. You don’t have it.’ Now, what’s the root of all that?” Lindo laughs, clasps his hands together and raises them. “The roots of that are food for myself and a therapist.”
But there is a happy ending to the story. Lindo was cast once more as Walter Lee, for a production of “A Raisin in the Sun” mounted at the Kennedy Center in 1986. Lloyd Richards again was directing, indicating to Lindo that maybe he wasn’t as bad as he thought he had been. Richards did tell Lindo that he needed to jettison some of the neurotic choices he was making as an actor.
“Those are the words he used, ‘neurotic choices,’” Lindo says, shaking his head. He pauses. “Man, I’m giving you a lot here. But it’s OK. You know why it’s OK?”
Because you’re enjoying our conversation? I venture.
Delroy Lindo.
(Bexx Francois / For The Times)
“No,” Lindo says. “I’m not particularly enjoying telling you about my failures. But this was an absolute period of growth for me as an actor all because I learned the most important thing: preparation, preparation, preparation.”
For his reprise of “A Raisin in the Sun,” Lindo called musical multihyphenate Oscar Brown Jr. and asked if he could fly to Chicago and pick his brain about life on the city’s South Side in the 1950s. Lindo walked the streets where “Raisin” playwright Lorraine Hansberry lived, steeping himself in what it meant to exist in that place and time. After that, the tape was no longer playing in his head, even when co-star Esther Rolle’s face fell after she realized that Lindo had been cast as Walter Lee. She thought she’d be headlining with Glynn Turman, but Turman had dropped out.
“Eight days, maybe nine into rehearsals, Esther turned to me — and this is when I knew it was going to be all right — and she said, ‘You’re a nice actor,’” Lindo remembers, smiling.
Preparation, preparation, preparation. For Delta Slim, Lindo read books on the blues, listened to Son House, Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf and immersed himself in the culture of the Mississippi Delta. When it came time to shoot that monologue in the car, he was ready. On the next-to-last take, Lindo improvised, letting music take the place of words. Jordan went with it, turning to Caton in character, saying, “You got that guitar in your hand, don’t you, boy?” Caton begins playing.
“Man, we were all in the work,” Lindo says.
Where did that improvisation come from? I ask.
“It’s the musical manifestation of the pain I’m feeling,” Lindo says. “It’s the only thing I know how to do in that moment.”
It’s the blues.
“It’s the blues, man,” Lindo says. “I’ve heard it said numerous times: That’s where the blues comes from. And as an actor who participated in that moment, communicating that is extraordinary and profoundly gratifying.”
MINNEAPOLIS — Alberto Castañeda Mondragón says his memory was so jumbled after a beating by immigration officers that he initially could not remember he had a daughter and still struggles to recall treasured moments like the night he taught her to dance.
But the violence he endured last month in Minnesota while being detained is seared into his battered brain.
He remembers Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents pulling him from a friend’s car on Jan. 8 outside a St. Paul shopping center and throwing him to the ground, handcuffing him, then punching him and striking his head with a steel baton. He remembers being dragged into an SUV and taken to a detention facility, where he said he was beaten again.
He also remembers the emergency room and the intense pain from eight skull fractures and five life-threatening brain hemorrhages.
“They started beating me right away when they arrested me,” the Mexican immigrant recounted last week to the Associated Press, which recently reported on how his case contributed to mounting friction between federal immigration agents and a Minneapolis hospital.
Castañeda Mondragón, 31, is one of an unknown number of immigration detainees who, despite avoiding deportation during the Trump administration’s enforcement crackdown, have been left with lasting injuries following violent encounters with ICE officers. His case is one of the excessive-force claims the federal government has thus far declined to investigate.
He was hurt so badly he was disoriented for days at Hennepin County Medical Center, where ICE officers constantly watched over him.
A dubious claim
The officers told nurses Castañeda Mondragón “purposefully ran headfirst into a brick wall,” an account his caregivers immediately doubted. A CT scan showed fractures to the front, back and both sides of his skull — injuries a doctor told AP were inconsistent with a fall.
“There was never a wall,” Castañeda Mondragón said in Spanish, recalling ICE officers striking him with the same metal rod used to break the windows of the vehicle he was in. He later identified it as an ASP, a telescoping baton routinely carried by law enforcement.
Training materials and police use-of-force policies across the U.S. say such a baton can be used to hit the arms, legs and body. But striking the head, neck or spine is considered potentially deadly force.
“The only time a person can be struck in the head with any baton is when the person presents the same threat that would permit the use of a firearm — a lethal threat to the officer or others,” said Joe Key, a former Baltimore police lieutenant and use-of-force expert who testifies in defense of police.
Once he was taken to an ICE holding facility at Ft. Snelling in suburban Minneapolis, Castañeda Mondragón said officers resumed beating him. Recognizing that he was seriously hurt, he said, he pleaded with them to stop, but they just “laughed at me and hit me again.”
“They were very racist people,” he said. “No one insulted them, neither me nor the other person they detained me with. It was their character, their racism toward us, for being immigrants.”
The Department of Homeland Security, which includes ICE, did not respond to repeated requests for comment over the last two weeks on Castañeda Mondragón’s injuries.
It is unclear whether his arrest was captured on body-camera video or if there might be additional recordings from security cameras at the detention center.
In a recent bid to boost transparency, Homeland Security announced a broad rollout of body cameras for immigration officers in Minneapolis as the government draws down ICE’s presence there.
ICE deportation officer William J. Robinson did not say how Castañeda Mondragón’s skull was smashed in a Jan. 20 declaration filed in federal court. During the intake process, it was determined he “had a head injury that required emergency medical treatment,” he wrote in the filing.
The declaration also stated that Castañeda Mondragón entered the U.S. legally in March 2022, and that the agency determined only after his arrest that he had overstayed his visa. A federal judge later ruled his arrest had been unlawful and ordered him released from ICE custody.
‘Hope they don’t kill you’
A video posted to social media captured the moments immediately after Castañeda Mondragón’s arrest as four masked men walk him handcuffed through a parking lot. The video shows him unsteady and stumbling, held up by ICE officers.
“Don’t resist!” shouts the woman who is recording. “‘Cause they ain’t gonna do nothing but bang you up some more.
“Hope they don’t kill you,” she adds.
“And y’all gave the man a concussion,” a male bystander shouts.
The witness who posted the video declined to speak with AP or provide consent for the video’s publication, but Castañeda Mondragón confirmed he is the handcuffed man seen in the recording.
At least one ICE officer later told staff at the medical center that Castañeda Mondragón “got his [expletive] rocked,” according to court documents filed by a lawyer seeking his release and nurses who spoke with AP.
AP interviewed a doctor and five nurses about Castañeda Mondragón’s treatment at Hennepin County Medical Center and the presence of ICE officers inside the hospital. They spoke on condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to discuss patient care and feared retaliation. AP also consulted an outside physician, who affirmed the injuries were inconsistent with an accidental fall or running into a wall.
Minnesota state law requires health professionals to report to law enforcement any wounds that could have been perpetrated as part of a crime.
A hospital spokeswoman declined to say last week whether anyone at the facility had done so. However, after the Jan. 31 publication of AP’s initial story about Castañeda Mondragón’s beating and arrest, hospital administrators opened an internal inquiry seeking to determine which staff members have spoken to the media, according to internal communications viewed by AP.
Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz posted a link to AP’s prior story about Castañeda Mondragón, but his office has not said whether state authorities would pursue answers.
“Law enforcement cannot be lawless,” Walz wrote in the post on X. “Thousands of aggressive, untrained agents of the federal government continue to injure and terrorize Minnesotans. This must end.”
Castañeda Mondragón’s arrest came a day after the slaying of Renee Good, the first of two fatal shootings of U.S. citizens in Minneapolis by immigration officers, triggering widespread public protests.
Calls for accountability
Minnesota congressional leaders and other elected officials, including St. Paul Mayor Kaohly Her, called last week for an investigation of Castañeda Mondragón’s injuries.
The Ramsey County attorney’s office, which oversees St. Paul, urged Castañeda Mondragón to file a police report to prompt an investigation. He said he plans to file a complaint. A St. Paul police spokesperson said the department would investigate “all alleged crimes that are reported to us.”
While the Trump administration insists ICE limits its operations to immigrants with violent rap sheets, Castañeda Mondragón has no criminal record.
“We are seeing a repeated pattern of Trump Administration officials attempting to lie and gaslight the American people when it comes to the cruelty of this ICE operation in Minnesota,” U.S. Sen. Tina Smith, a Minnesota Democrat, said in a statement.
Rep. Kelly Morrison, another Democrat and a doctor, recently toured the Whipple Building, the ICE facility at Ft. Snelling. She said she saw severe overcrowding, unsanitary conditions and an almost complete lack of medical care.
“If any one of our police officers did this, you know what just happened in Minnesota with George Floyd, we hold them accountable,” said Democratic Rep. Betty McCollum, whose district includes St. Paul.
A native of Veracruz, Mexico, Castañeda Mondragón came to Minnesota nearly four years ago on a temporary work visa and found jobs as a driver and roofer. He uses his earnings to support his elderly father, who is disabled and diabetic, and his 10-year-old daughter.
On the day of his arrest, he was running errands with a friend when they suddenly found themselves surrounded by ICE agents. The agents began breaking the windows and opening the doors of the vehicle. He said the first person who hit him “got ugly with me for being Mexican” and not having documents showing his immigration status.
About four hours after his arrest, court records show, Castañeda Mondragón was taken to an emergency room in the suburb of Edina with swelling and bruising around his right eye and bleeding. He was then transferred to Hennepin County Medical Center in Minneapolis, where he told staff he had been “dragged and mistreated by federal agents,” before his condition deteriorated, court records show.
A week into his hospitalization, caregivers described him as minimally responsive. As his condition slowly improved, hospital staff handed him his cellphone, and he spoke with his child in Mexico, whom he could not remember.
“I am your daughter,” she told him. “You left when I was 6 years old.”
His head injuries erased past experiences that for his daughter are unforgettable, including birthday parties and the day he left for the United States. She’s been trying to revive his memory in daily calls.
“When I turned 5, you taught me how to dance for the first time,” she reminded him recently.
“All these moments, really, for me, have been forgotten,″ he said.
He showed gradual improvement and, to the surprise of some who treated him, was released from the hospital on Jan. 27.
Long recovery lies ahead
He faces a long recovery and an uncertain future. Questions loom about whether he will be able to continue to support his family back in Mexico. “My family depends on me,” he said.
Though his bruises have faded, the effects of his traumatic brain injuries linger. In addition to the problems with his memory, he also has issues with balance and coordination that could prove debilitating for a man whose work requires going up and down ladders. He said he is unable to bathe himself without help.
“I can’t get on a roof now,” he said.
Castañeda Mondragón, who does not have health insurance, said doctors have told him he needs ongoing care. Unable to earn a living, he is relying on support from co-workers and members of the Minneapolis-St. Paul community who are raising money to help provide food, housing and medical care. He has launched a GoFundMe.
Still, he hopes to stay in the U.S. and to provide again someday for his loved ones. He differentiates between people in Minnesota, where he said he has felt welcome, and the federal officers who beat him.
“It’s immense luck to have survived, to be able to be in this country again, to be able to heal, and to try to move forward,” he said. “For me, it’s the best luck in the world.”
But when he closes his eyes at night, the fear that ICE officers will come for him dominates his dreams. He is now terrified to leave his apartment, he said.
“You’re left with the nightmare of going to work and being stopped,” Castañeda Mondragón said, “or that you’re buying your food somewhere, your lunch, and they show up and stop you again. They hit you.”
Brook, Biesecker, Mustian and Attanasio write for the Associated Press and reported from Minneapolis, Washington, New York and Seattle, respectively.
Bethany Cosentino, the solo artist and co-founder of the rock band Best Coast, posted an open letter castigating her booking agency Wasserman Music over its founder’s connections to Jeffrey Epstein and relationship with convicted child sex trafficker Ghislaine Maxwell.
Agency founder Casey Wasserman — also the head of the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics organizing committee — was included in a recently released tranche of federal documents related to the Jeffrey Epstein investigation. While Wasserman was long known to have have flown with his then-wife Laura on Epstein’s plane with the disgraced financier, these new documents included sexually suggestive messages between Wasserman and Maxwell, Epstein’s consigliere who is serving a lengthy sentence in federal prison for child sex trafficking.
In a statement to the Hollywod Reporter, Wasserman said, “I deeply regret my correspondence with Ghislaine Maxwell which took place over two decades ago, long before her horrific crimes came to light. I never had a personal or business relationship with Jeffrey Epstein. As is well documented, I went on a humanitarian trip as part of a delegation with the Clinton Foundation in 2002 on the Epstein plane. I am terribly sorry for having any association with either of them.”
Meanwhile, Cosentino, a Wasserman client since 2021, wrote in a letter posted to social media that her agency head’s response to the backlash was “not enough… Regret without accountability is just damage control.”
“We are tired of learning, over and over, that men who control access, resources, money and so-called safety in our industry are given endless grace,” Cosentino wrote. “We are tired of being asked to treat proximity to something horrific as an unfortunate situation we should simply move past — especially when the person involved still holds all the power.”
“This letter is my public refusal to accept that this is ‘just how things are,’” she continued.
Cosentino specified that she is “In the Sam Hunt business,” referring to her longtime agent. “I am not in the Wasserman business. I have asked to remove my name and the band’s name from the company site. The position Casey Wasserman has put his agents in is inexcusable. This is a call for him to step down and a change of business name be imminent.”
In the messages between Wasserman and Maxwell, Maxwell said she “thought of [Wasserman] at inappropriate moments,” to which Wasserman answered “I think of you all the time… So what do I have to do to see you in a tight leather outfit? I am in NY tonight, youre not, what am I to do? Xoxo cw”
Later, Wasserman wrote “I thought we would start at that place that you know of, and then continue the massage concept into your bed…and then again in the morning…not sure if or when we would stop.” She responded: “Umm – all that rubbing – are you sure you can take it? The thought frankly is leaving me a little breathless. There are a few spots that apparently drive a man wild -I suppose I could practise them on you and you could let me know if they work or not?”
Wasserman Music is a leading talent agency, representing top acts like Chappell Roan and Kendrick Lamar. Previously, Billie Eilish left Wasserman after reports surfaced of separate incidents of alleged sexual misconduct from Wasserman.
Local politicians have called for Wasserman to back away from the Olympics committee. “I think Casey Wasserman needs to step down,” said L.A. County Supervisor Janice Hahn. “Having him represent us on the world stage distracts focus from our athletes and the enormous effort needed to prepare for 2028.”
