20
It was afternoon, and we were experiencing something rare in Southern California—rain. The percussive sound on the roof was a hypnotic symphony. The drops hitting the pool in the backyard reminded me of thousands of dancers. The ferns and flowers in the garden seemed to be reaching up and saying thank you to the heavens.
Rain. So simple and such a wonderful pleasure to those of us rationing water as we suffered through a drought.
I was hunkered down with my family in our cozy home when something occurred that was even rarer than the rain: the buzzer on our front gate rang. Teruko, Hanako, and I looked at each other as if we didn’t know what to do. We didn’t. None of us moved. This never happened in Beverly Hills. No one ever stopped by unannounced and rang the bell. There was even an old joke that said you never met your neighbors in L.A. unless there was an earthquake. Then it was four in the morning, and everyone was in their underwear.
Our buzzer rang again.
Someone wanted our attention.
Teruko and Hanako used the intercom to ask who was there. A man answered. He said he was with a friend and their car had broken down in front of our driveway. He wondered if they could come in and use the phone to call for help. At least that’s what my wife and daughter told me that he said. Because of the rain, his voice wasn’t as clear to me as it might have been otherwise. I was wary.
But Teruko and Hanako were beside themselves. Could it be? It sounded like him, they said.
They buzzed the gate and instructed the guy to ring the bell at the second, smaller gate outside our front door and they’d let him—or them—in. I was livid. What the hell were they doing letting a stranger—or strangers—come into the house? How could they fall for such a story? It was an old ruse: Our car broke down and we need to use the phone.
“But Dad,” Hanako said, “it’s Tom Cruise!”
“Yeah, right,” I said.
“No, it is. Didn’t you hear his voice?”
“No, I heard the rain,” I said.
“It’s Tom Cruise,” she reiterated.
Then there was a knock on our front door. Apparently, the smaller gate was open. Okay, now they had access. Taking no chances, I slipped a small handgun into my bathrobe pocket and answered the door. If it wasn’t Tom Cruise, I’d be ready. And if it was…
I opened the door, and there on the other side of the gate was Tom Cruise. I think he was as surprised to see Billy Dee Williams in a bathrobe as I was to see Tom Cruise in a black leather jacket dripping wet. We had a good chuckle. Tom made his call—and he made my wife’s and my daughter’s day. A week later, Tom sent me a beautiful antique watch as a thank-you. He was my kind of superstar: a nice guy.
Hanako happened to be home that week on winter break from Brown University, one of the best colleges in the country—and I couldn’t have been prouder of her. Neither Teruko nor I ever pushed her to achieve academically. We didn’t have to. As Hanako once told us, doing well in school was her way of rebelling against us for not having any rules at home. On her application, in the box that asked about ethnicity, she had checked Other. I applauded the choice. “That’s my girl,” I said. Like me, she had always been a talented artist and a very good painter, so I wasn’t surprised when she chose art history as her major. But I balked when she called home and said she was also taking a class on witchcraft. I immediately thought back to my grandmother and her West Indian voodoo.
“Wait, I’m paying fifty thousand dollars a year for you to learn about witchcraft?” I said.
“Not just witchcraft,” she said. “It’s called Witchcraft and Vampirism.”
“So you’re learning about vampires, too?”
“That’s more about psychology, Daddy,” she said. “We read Freud and Jung and that kind of stuff. The witchcraft is about occultism. It makes sense.”
“Really?”
“Daddy, you’re the one who’s always telling me to pursue my interests, and that’s what I’m doing.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
I tried to be similarly understanding when I heard that Tim Burton was making Batman Returns, the sequel to the 1989 original, and I wasn’t going to be involved. Although I’d signed a one-picture deal when I made Batman, I expected that my character, Harvey Dent, would morph into Two-Face and that I would play him. That was the reason I’d taken the part in the first place. I wanted to play an evil bad guy. But Burton’s sequel didn’t include Two-Face, and that was that. It was his prerogative.
Two years later director Joel Schumacher took over the franchise and returned Two-Face to his first installment, Batman Forever, but he cast Tommy Lee Jones in the role without ever contacting me. I didn’t even get a courtesy phone call. A rumor that the studio had to pay me to make room for Tommy was false. As I said at the time, you only get paid when you act.
Although disappointed, I was open-minded. Tommy was an actor whose work I always found interesting, and his interpretation of Two-Face was no exception.
But it wasn’t what I would’ve done. I imagined playing Two-Face as a flamboyant, predatory, omnisexual narcissist—someone whose unbridled evil thrilled and delighted him to the core. I don’t want this construed in any way other than the way I had in mind: a nonobvious choice, something that would have shocked and entertained fans and critics and been a helluva lot of fun for me. I wanted to be outlandish. I wanted to go against type. Squeaky clean is no fun.
In the end, it was simply a missed opportunity. I still occasionally think about it. I’m still curious to know what I could’ve brought to the role.
Instead I went to work on the Canadian independent film Giant Steps, the story of a friendship between a down-on-his-luck jazz pianist and a high school trumpeter with an abusive father. The film was inspired by John Coltrane’s classic album of the same name, and though my character, Slate Thompson, wasn’t Two-Face, and this film would not be the smash that Batman Forever would be, the part was too good to turn down. As Coltrane himself said, “There are always new sounds to imagine; new feelings to get at.” The same was true for acting.
To prepare, I took piano lessons and played for my friend Herbie Hancock, who came by the house a few times to offer tips and share stories from his career. I also knew this world from the many late nights I’d spent in clubs back in the ’50s and ’60s, and I drew inspiration from Monk and Miles, who’d recently passed away, and also Betty Carter, one of the all-time great singers and someone whose abstract approach could inspire her to leave the stage only to emerge singing again in the back of the room.
During production, I stayed in character on and off the set. I wore dark glasses no matter if it was day or night and spoke in Slate’s gravel-strewn rasp. Everything that came out of me was preceded by a “Yeah, baby.” In my mind, it was always a quarter past midnight. I had so much fun making the movie that I probably gave the impression I was going to leave Billy Dee behind permanently. I could’ve been Slate forever.
In a way, I did stay in character. After the movie, I produced a series of jazz-oriented paintings. The Savoy was inspired by the stories my mother had told me about dancing in the Savoy Ballroom in the ’30s, as well as my own experiences at the club, where I saw women dressed to show their sophistication and style come into the club only to be carried out at the end of the night falling-down drunk.
Another piece, Minton’s, commemorated the jazz club where bebop started just after World War II, on 118th Street and Seventh Avenue, at the Hotel Cecil. The painting featured Dizzy Gillespie, Monk, and Parker, the men to whom bebop is widely attributed, though at the center, wearing a white ten-gallon hat that dominates the foreground, is someone few would probably recognize: Charlie Christian, the first Black musician hired by Benny Goodman. The rhythm guitarist from Texas was considered the spiritual father of bebop.
Al Duckett was writing a script about him when we first met, and it’s too bad that it never got made, because when the talk is about the origins of bebop, most people mention Dizzy, Charlie Parker, and Monk, and Charlie Christian is often forgotten. He died of tuberculosis while he was in his twenties, before his contributions were widely acknowledged. But the way he played rhythmic chords instead of melodies inspired other musicians to try the same with their own instruments, and the sounds of bebop were born.
Giant Steps was a good movie that could’ve been better if the second half hadn’t taken the safe route by showing the kid that Slate had mentored going back to school to please his father, rather than following the music. In fact, if he had taken that giant step, I think there could’ve been a sequel about both their fates. My performance was criticized as clichéd, but what are clichés other than statements of truth? Guys like Slate existed. “To feel the beat,” he said, “you have to listen to your heart.” That was also true.
In June 1993, after twenty years of marriage, Teruko and I filed for divorce. In court papers, we cited irreconcilable differences. It was the reason almost every couple gives to explain the dissolution of their marriage, except in our case, it was true and had been from the beginning of our relationship. But the arrangement we’d established over the years, living our relatively separate lives, no longer seemed to work. We were like other people our age whose children grow up and move out of the house and they find themselves ready to make a change that has been brewing for a while.
Teruko and I hired attorneys and instructed them to work out an amicable split. We may not have wanted to stay married, but we were not enemies. Negotiations went back and forth without any progress until one day when I overheard my lawyer making lunch plans with Teruko’s lawyer. It sounded as if they were arranging a social occasion, and it struck me as absurd. Were we paying for their lunch? Was our divorce going to be billed by the hour or by entrée?
When I was in A Taste of Honey, Hermione Baddeley took over for Angela Lansbury, and I heard she didn’t live with her husband. They were married, but they lived their own separate lives. At twenty-three years old, I thought such an arrangement was absurd. Now, at fifty-six, it made sense. Dollars and common sense. I phoned Teruko. “We shouldn’t do this with lawyers,” I said. “Otherwise, I fear we’re going to spend all our money on them. I think we can figure this out on our own.”
She agreed, and after several long discussions, we agreed to separate but stay married—and save our money in the process. It’s funny the way time can change your perspective and have you doing things you never thought possible. But maybe everything in the past prepares you to deal with the present. As for the future, you’re on your own.
I rented a house in Beverly Hills, and Patricia and I moved in together. We shared a sense of relief and joy, now that we no longer had to hide or pretend. Our twenty-year love affair would now be out in the open and ours forever. I was glad to be able to provide a stable situation for this intelligent, passionate woman, which I had wanted to do for a long time. I didn’t know if it was possible to heal the wounds from her past, but I wanted to try, and I thought living together might finally help. For a while, this new arrangement worked. I acted and painted, while Patricia arranged gallery shows for my artwork.
She inspired a favorite painting of mine, Girl Waiting for Her Lover. In the painting, I portrayed how the anticipation of a rendezvous like ours often generates a fantasy that surpasses reality. It’s like a romantic movie you’re living in real life. You know it’s not right, but it’s too good to resist. And so it was for me and Patricia for nearly two decades. But within a year or two of living together, I found myself dividing my time between her and my previous home with Teruko. Patricia was upset. “You’re riding the fence,” she said. “Make up your mind.”
By January 1996, three years into this domestic arrangement, it was clear to me that we should never have cohabited. Making love to her had been wonderful. Making a life with someone so emotionally damaged was hard, if not impossible, and it led to the most humiliating experience of my life.
Patricia and I were having dinner at a West Hollywood restaurant, discussing the galleries where my paintings were being exhibited. She was managing my art business and doing an excellent job at it. I frequently expressed my appreciation of her work, and I remember doing so again at dinner. I also suggested she reach out to a more prestigious gallery to see if they might be interested in showing my work. I’d had a museum show in North Carolina, but I wanted more like that, and exposing my work to more serious collectors seemed like a necessary step toward that goal.
Patricia interpreted that as a criticism of her work and accused me of not being grateful for her efforts. The opposite was true, and I’d said nothing remotely close to a criticism, but such misinterpretations were not uncommon when talking to her. I could never tell when a word might land wrong and trigger a reaction, and it was impossible to reason with her when she got like this, and so it was. She stormed out of the restaurant.
During our drive home, she continued to accuse me of not respecting her hard work or her in general. I just stared straight ahead and drove.
At home, she appeared to settle down. She went in one direction, and I changed clothes before heading to my studio. I was working on a painting when flashing red lights outside the window caught my eye. The crackle of walkie-talkies broke the silence. There was a knock on the front door. A couple of LAPD officers explained that they had received a report of domestic violence.
“Are you referring to me?” I asked.
They nodded and said yes, they were sent to investigate. I took a deep breath. I didn’t understand. Patricia was standing to the side. I turned toward her. She gave me a smug look like she was getting even with me.
“She’s not telling the truth,” I said.
The police officers were taking it all in through their experienced eyes. They scrutinized me, assessed the immediate surroundings and the atmosphere in the house. I took one of the officers to my studio. I repeated my confusion, said we’d had an argument, and said I knew in my heart I could never harm Patricia or any woman. I wasn’t a violent person, I said. I’d never hit, harm, or abuse anyone.
I could tell he was sympathetic. I sensed he believed me. He was relaxed. I showed him some of my work. He commiserated with me, explaining that his ex-girlfriend had called in a false report on him. “I went through the same thing,” he said. “We still have to take you into the station. I’m sorry.” I stood and closed my studio, as if straightening up the paints and brushes might somehow set things right. I was shaking my head in disbelief as I turned off the lights. The cops apologized again for the inconvenience and blamed it on the O. J. Simpson trial. “We aren’t going to handcuff you,” one of them said. “There’s obviously no need.”
At the station, I was questioned by a detective I recognized from the Simpson trial. The association rattled me. The night was becoming more surreal by the minute. I couldn’t believe any part of it was happening. It was the most harrowing and humiliating night of my life. Not only because of what I was going through at the station. And not only because the accusations were false. I could handle that. I knew life could take strange turns.
No, what made me sick to my stomach was what my family, friends, and others were going to think when word got out, as it inevitably would—and did.
At some very late hour, one of the detectives drove me home. He stopped for gas on the way and apologized again before turning into my driveway and wishing me good night. I went inside but knew I had to get out quickly. I couldn’t stay there with Patricia. I called my mother, thinking I would stay at her place. Then I changed my mind. I was a grown-up, a man, and I had to deal with it that way. I phoned Teruko and said I was coming home.
Outside, I was met by paparazzi and reporters. Lights flashed, and questions were shouted at me. This was it, I thought, the final moments of my pristine reputation, and nobody would ever know the truth. Thank goodness it was a short walk to my car. I pulled my jacket up and tried to hide. I was so ashamed—the fact I hadn’t done anything wrong wouldn’t matter. I was tabloid roadkill.
Soon afterward, Patricia recanted her story and the charges against me were eventually expunged. But the damage had been done. The incident was published in newspapers, magazines, and tabloids. It was an association I never imagined would be attached to my name, and unfortunately, due to the power of the internet, it has continued to haunt me.
My family stood by me during this difficult time and kept me afloat when I felt like the only direction I was headed was down. My mother and sister, my children, and even Teruko—they knew me, their Sonny, their father and husband, and they reminded me who I was—a human being with faults and weaknesses, but a kind, peaceful, and loving man who would never do what I had been accused of. The whole situation was a nightmare. Gradually, I stepped back into public view, wounded but believing the truth would prevail, and resolved to stay the course that had served me well—be productive, do good work, enjoy life, and keep moving forward.
By addressing this situation here, my hope is to clear any doubts or misconceptions that I would ever engage in any form of violence. I’ve been told it’s ancient history, long forgotten, and while that might be true for other people, it’s remained a source of pain and embarrassment for me, something that still causes me to put my head in my hands and shudder with disbelief, and something I want to put behind me for good. I loved Patricia. I tried to give her self-esteem when she never had any. I only wish her well.
I think sometimes the universe interrupts life, shaking things up, forcing a necessary pause and reset and reconsideration of life. This was one of those instances. Over time the pain dissipates, but at least in my case the wound did not heal. For that reason, I was reluctant to return to this sad and disturbing time in my life. I have nothing to hide. The truth is the most powerful story we can tell, and I stand firm in mine.
One afternoon in 1997, Teruko and I came home and found notices pasted on the front door from the IRS, informing us that we were in danger of losing our house and other assets. We were shocked, then terrified. Losing our house? Our assets? We called the IRS and spoke to an agent who said we owed the government an exorbitant amount of money. Our finances had been handled by the same business manager for years. Apparently, our taxes hadn’t been paid in nearly the same number of years. I couldn’t handle another ridiculous public episode.
Ordinarily I would’ve called my business manager, but obviously I couldn’t, and I turned instead to Marci Fine, a financial expert whom I had known for nearly two decades. I had watched her rise from an ambitious new hire fresh out of college to partner at my business manager’s firm. However, she had recently left the firm and was debating whether to join another or start her own. Over the years I had come to admire her direct style and blunt honesty, and, more importantly, I trusted her.
I told her that I feared another public incident. I didn’t want my name in the headlines again for something that wasn’t my fault.
“You have to hire an attorney,” she said.
She was right, and thank God I listened to her. This savvy young woman with the striking blond looks of a cheerleader and the toughness of a Navy SEAL guided us out of financial trouble and earned my forever gratitude and friendship. Ever since, she has been an integral part of my life, more of a soulmate and force of positive energy who also plays a crucial role in my personal and professional life. Thanks to her, I faced the facts that come with being sixty years old. I had to do something I’d never done: plan for the future.
I kept a Bible near my bed—some days I read it, some days I just checked to make sure it was there, but most of the time it sat there, quietly waiting until it was needed. One morning, amid all this tumult, I sat up in bed, opened my Bible, and found a handwritten letter from my mother tucked inside. She’d sent it when I was having my troubles with Patricia, and I must have put it away for safekeeping. Now, whether I found it again or it found me was impossible to say, but her loving words provided the soothing reminder I needed:
Dear Son,
You have fulfilled my dreams in every way with the help of Jehovah. Through Him, all things are possible.
I know you fight back at times, but He knows what is in your heart and that is the reason I believe He does not give up on you (smile). He uses your strength to do all of the wonderful things you have done for me. Also for Lady and her children. They are always expressing their gratitude. Jehovah prepared you for this as He knew you had a beautiful heart.
Inside of you is a caring and loving soul. You should see yourself when you are making someone happy. You are glowing all over. That is who you are. You are a good role model for anyone in the world. Beyond that handsome face, you make people feel good. You are indeed very rare. I see it more and more each day.
You have fulfilled my dreams as an actor and a “star,” as I always wanted to be a movie star from childhood. But I also dreamed of having a flower garden with lots of beautiful greenery, and thanks to you I have both.
Jehovah blessed me with beautiful children and grandchildren, and all of you have beautiful hearts, too. What more could one want to make her happy!
I love you,
Mommy