Afroman was just trying to turn lemons into “Lemon Pound Cake” when he started making music videos and social media posts mocking the law enforcement officers who conducted a heavy-handed raid on his Ohio home.

Home surveillance video of the August 2022 raid shows half a dozen gun-wielding law-enforcement officers from the Adams County Sheriff’s Office deputies kicking down his door, combing through his CD collection, going through his suit pockets, flipping through a wad of cash and, in one case, briefly getting distracted by a cake dish on the kitchen counter.

The search, on suspicion of drug trafficking and kidnapping, didn’t yield any evidence or charges against the rapper, whose legal name is Joseph Foreman. But he says officers broke his gate and security surveillance wiring, took $400 in cash and frightened his family. He wasn’t home at the time, but his wife and kids, then 10 and 12, were present.

“I asked myself, as a powerless Black man in America, what can I do to the cops that kicked my door in, tried to kill me in front of my kids, stole my money and disconnected my cameras?” Afroman told NPR in 2023. “And the only thing I could come up with was make a funny rap song about them … use the money to pay for the damages they did and move on.”

The rapper, best known for early aughts hits like “Because I Got High” and “Crazy Rap (Colt 45 and 2 Zig-Zags),” made waves again with the 2023 release of Lemon Pound Cake. Its 14 songs have titles like “The Police Raid,” “Why You Disconnecting My Video Camera” and “Will You Help Me Repair My Door,” featuring home surveillance footage in the music videos.

He also posted memes and sold merchandise satirizing the incident and the people involved. Common themes range from poking fun at the deputies’ appearances (comparing them to Family Guy’s Peter Griffin and Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame) to more serious allegations of extramarital affairs and pedophilia amongst department members.

Afroman called his approach “the smartest, most peaceful solution.” But the sheriff’s deputies disagreed. The seven law enforcement officers sued him in 2023 for defamation and invasion of privacy, saying his unauthorized use of their likenesses hurt their reputations and made it harder to do their jobs. They sought the content’s removal and $3.9 million in damages.

That didn’t stop Afroman from releasing increasingly personal songs about the deputies involved, including one ahead of his trial this week called “The Batteram Hymn of the Police Whistleblower.”

“They vandalize my property, my money came up short / they disconnect my cameras because they are a poor sport,” he sings while marching solemnly in an American flag suit. “They’re the predators and the victims and they’re suing me in court / my proof’s on the Internet.”

The three-day trial focused on heavy topics like policing and free speech, though there was no shortage of viral, sitcom-esque exchanges. On Wednesday, after less than a day of deliberations, the jury sided squarely with the rapper.

“I didn’t win, America won,” Afroman, 51, told reporters outside the court, dressed in his American flag-patterned suit, tie and aviators, topped with a white fur coat. “America still has freedom of speech. It’s still for the people, by the people.”

NPR has reached out to both the Adams County Sheriff’s Office and its lawyer, but did not hear back in time for publication.

A quick recap of a quick trial 

Both sides clearly felt wronged by the other, but the primary question before the jury was whether Afroman’s response to the raid counted as protected free speech. He and his lawyer argued it did.

“I got the right to kick a can in my backyard, use my freedom of speech, turn my bad times into a good time,” the rapper said from the stand. “Yes, I do, and I think I’m a sport for doing so, because I don’t go to their house, kick down their doors, flip them off on their surveillance cameras, then try to play the victim and sue them.”

He also said none of this would have happened if they hadn’t raided his house: “This whole thing is their fault, and they’re suing me for their mistake.”

But Robert Klingler, representing the deputies, framed it to the jury this way: “A search warrant execution that you think was unfair … doesn’t justify telling intentional lies designed to hurt people.” He said a verdict in their favor would “make up in some way for what they’ve been through.”

Several of the law enforcement officers testified about how Afroman’s actions affected their personal and professional lives.

Shawn Cooley — the now-retired deputy who was caught on camera checking out the cake — said he’s received “hundreds of poundcakes at work from different people” and was even recognized by cops while working cases in other jurisdictions, in addition to his own community members.

“I had one guy come out of a bedroom after me, call me a thief and want to know why I stole Afroman’s money,” Cooley said. “It just went from being a nice, quiet community, a job you felt safe in, to a place where you had to look over your shoulder every second.”

Another, Brian Newland, said he was forced to quit his “dream job” with the sheriff’s office due to Afroman’s claims of him being a pedophile, which he denies. Deputy Lisa Phillips cried on the stand about one of Afroman’s more explicit songs that questioned her gender and sexuality.

When asked if he saw that, Afroman acknowledged that Phillips was upset by the online trolling, “just like I was upset when she was standing in front of my kids with an AR-15 in her hand around the trigger.”

“But I’m not a person, she is,” Afroman added. “So, I’m sorry for being a victim, let’s talk about the predators.”

In addition to traumatizing his family and damaging his property, Afroman maintained that the deputies stole money from him. They seized thousands of dollars in cash from his home, which Afroman said was payment for a gig, but returned it $400 short. The sheriff’s office has explained the discrepancy by saying deputies originally miscounted the money, which Newland took responsibility for on the stand.

The defense only called one witness: Rhonda Grooms, a teacher and the ex-wife of sheriff’s deputy Cooley. She was asked whether she and her students were familiar with the Cardi B song “WAP,” which stirred controversy with its overtly sexual lyrics in 2020, and testified that none of them took the words literally.

Afroman’s lawyer, David Osborne, pointed to other explicit rap songs to argue that artists tend to exaggerate for the sake of entertainment (at one point he argued that no one listens to Lil Wayne’s song “P***y Monster” and says “there’s a monster in that song”).

He said that’s what Afroman was doing in his songs, and that many of the terms that deputies found offensive were not facts but matters of opinion — like one that calls Sgt. Randy Walters a “son of a b***h,” which Osborne said there was no definitive way to prove or disprove.

“She’s been dead for years,” Walters replied matter-of-factly, prompting a chuckle and condolences from the defense lawyer.

In his closing statements, Osborne pointed to rap as an established form of social commentary, saying police and public officials are called names online all the time, whether or not they like it. And he rephrased the plaintiff’s question about what a liable verdict would mean.

“What does this message send if we find that music and social commentary, while maybe not the most tasteful thing in the world, is silenced because a public official [was] hurt by it?” Osborne asked.

Viral moments put the case in the public eye

Some of the most fever-dream-like moments of the trial took off in social media clips: Afroman defiant in his American-flag suit, deputies soberly discussing lemon pound cake, the defense lawyer’s garbling of Cardi B’s name.

Many of the commenters remarked that by bringing the case to court, the deputies brought it to the public’s attention. Several highlighted the irony of an invasion of privacy case going viral online, calling it an example of the “Streisand effect” (named after Barbra Streisand’s 2003 lawsuit to remove a photo of her home from the web that only brought more eyes to it).

The”Lemon Pound Cake” music video has 3.8 million views on YouTube as of Thursday — and the top comments are all about the trial.

“Shout out to the cops for making sure I saw this absolute bop!” reads one with over 8,000 likes.

Afroman, who said on the stand that he did an estimated 250 shows last year, acknowledged that the attention had boosted his follower count, which is almost 600,000 on Instagram alone.

“All the publicity from the officers’ lawsuit on me is running up my numbers,” he said.

During his decade on the BBC period drama Peaky Blinders, Cillian Murphy matured visibly as a man, and also as an actor. Steven Knight wrote such a challenging and nuanced role for him, as gangster Tommy Shelby, that it wasn’t surprising at all that, when the series concluded, Murphy was tapped to star as J. Robert Oppenheimer by Christopher Nolan.

It also wasn’t surprising, if you’d devoured all six seasons of Peaky Blinders, that Murphy would be not only willing, but eager, to revisit the character of Tommy in a movie-length sequel. Especially when the script is written by series creator Steven Knight, and brings the story to a dramatic conclusion.

The drama in Peaky Blinders: The Immortal Man is provided by both personal and historical challenges. We last saw Tommy, in the final episode of Peaky Blinders, in the 1930s. Prohibition had been repealed in the U.S., the Nazi Party was rising in Germany, and Tommy’s volatile brother, Arthur, was about to die.

The movie jumps ahead to November 1940, when England already is at war with Germany. A munitions factory staffed by women in Birmingham, Tommy’s hometown, is bombed by aerial strikes from the Nazis, and claims more than 100 victims.

Tommy has long since secluded himself far away, isolated in a remote farmhouse, haunted by wartime memories and what he fears are family ghosts. But the bombing brings a visit from his sister Ada (Sophie Rundle). She informs him not only of the devastation to Birmingham, but the fact that his estranged son has taken control of his old gang, the Peaky Blinders, and is making new and dangerous moves and alliances.

Tommy would prefer to stay distant, and uninvolved. But the recklessness of his son Duke (Barry Keoghan) leaves him little choice. Duke meets with Beckett (Tim Roth), a British Nazi sympathizer who finds in Duke an important and agreeable collaborator.

Soon Tommy finds himself having to take sides and do battle — either defending or betraying his own country, and either saving or opposing his own son. The stakes couldn’t be much higher — or, in writer Knight’s hands, more unpredictable or gripping.

Knight always populates his dramas with terrific actors and vibrant characters, and in The Immortal Man we get delightful return visits from, among others, Peaky Blinders series players Rebecca Ferguson, Stephen Graham and Packy Lee.

And most of all, we get Knight’s brilliant approach to his period dramas, the way he folds the fictional and the factual. He’s done it so well, so many times, for so many outstanding TV series, and I’ve given rave reviews to most of them, including A Thousand Blows, The Veil, House of Guinness and All the Light We Cannot See.

Some of Knight’s shows eluded me at the time, but I’ve since caught up with and been delighted by them. Like Taboo, from 2017, which featured great early performances by both Tom Hardy and Jessie Buckley, who just won a best actress Oscar for Hamnet.

You can watch The Immortal Man all by itself, but if you’re uninitiated in what’s come before, you shouldn’t. All six seasons of Peaky Blinders are available on Netflix, and there are only six episodes per season — so even if you start from the beginning, you’ll get to this new movie sequel before you know it. Like any good Knight drama — and they’re all good — Peaky Blinders is addictive, easy to consume, and impossible to forget.

Anxieties due to war. A culture inhospitable to LGBTQ+ communities. And an underpinning of loneliness and suppressed yearning.

The play “5 Lesbians Eating a Quiche” is set in 1956, but its themes resonate in 2026. The United States is at war. Attacks on gay marriage and other LGBTQ+ rights remain a cornerstone of today’s conservative movement. A reimagining of the 2011 production, one popular with universities and fringe festivals, seeks to further modernize the show in which a morning gathering quickly turns into a stay in a Cold War-era bomb shelter after near nuclear annihilation.

When I arrived at the back room of a Glendale church, I was given a new name. It was clear that “Todd” was not welcome here. “Joan” turned out to be a suitable replacement, and I was immediately asked how my life had been since my husband had died. For on this night I would no longer be occupying the role of a straight white male. Every audience member is asked to take on the persona of a widow, for losing a husband appeared to be a perquisite to enter this meeting of the Susan B. Anthony Society for the Sisters of Gertude Stein.

How did he die, I was asked. “Ski accident,” I blurted out. “Yours?” A camping travesty that led to a bear mauling, I was told. Ad-libbing, in addition to quiche, was on the menu tonight. Metaphors, absurdities and seriousness intermingle in this production from New Forms LA and directed by Marissa Pattullo.

Pattullo’s vision for “5 Lesbians Eating a Quiche” ramps up the interactivity, seeking to transform a largely traditional proscenium show, albeit one with a few moments of fourth-wall breaking, into one that is centered around audience participation. Staged in a flex space without a tinge of irony at the Glendale Church of the Brethren, “5 Lesbians,” written by Evan Linder and Andrew Hobgood, has been reconstructed as a largely immersive production, that is one that asks audiences to lean in and interact.

While there is a small stage, it is used sparingly. The five-person cast roams the room, sitting at various circular tables to blur the lines between script and improvisation. Typically a svelte 75-minute show, on the night I saw the production it swelled to about two hours, allowing time for drinks, mingling and, of course, the eating of a quiche. Pattullo has added an intermission, with quiches courtesy of Kitchen Mouse and Just What I Kneaded included in the ticket.

For quiche, I was told often, was the primary topic of conversation at the Easter-timed meeting, so much so that it was clear within moments that this was a gathering not of breakfast enthusiasts but of the repressed. The hidden meaning is no secret; it’s in the title of the play.

“It’s a giant metaphor,” Pattullo, 30, says. The show, she adds, “keeps finding ways to make sense with the times, whether it’s Trump being elected, or we’re at war. Or gay marriage. All of those things. A bomb going off and being trapped inside. It speaks to whoever is watching it.”

Pattullo, who splits time building New Forms LA and serving tables at Los Feliz’s Little Dom’s, first discovered the show while in college in the Midwest. It immediately resonated, and Pattullo has been tinkering with ways to perform it live ever since. During the worst of the COVID-19 pandemic, she staged an online version of the show, and debuted it as an immersive production last winter. It’s back for two weekends this month.

“5 Lesbians” makes a relatively smooth transition to the immersive format. Perhaps that’s because the audience, in the script, is cast as attendees of the Susan B. Anthony Society for the Sisters of Gertude Stein’s brunch meeting, whose motto is “no men, no meat, all manners.” For about the first 30 minutes of the show we largely interact with the actors. Dale Prist (Nicole Ohara) has hidden ambitions. Vern Schultz (Chandler Cummings) seems ready for the group to cut its charade. Lulie Stanwyck (Noelle Urbano) is fighting so hard to stay prim and proper that she feels on the verge of bursting.

“I really like to play,” Pattullo says, referencing how “5 Lesbians” lends itself to improvisation. “Some of the girls I think are very ‘stick to the script.’ I’m like, ‘Stray from the script.’ If people come in late, call them out. If people are talking, call them out. You can adjust and improvise in immersive theater. Having a script but being able to break from it, is really fun for me. It tickles me.”

Wren Robin (Emily Yetter), Vern Schultz (Chandler Cummings) and Lulie Stanwyck (Noelle Urbano) protect breakfast in “5 Lesbians Eating a Quiche.”

(New Forms LA)

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There’s an underlying tension in the show because it walks a line between silliness and graveness. Ultimately, “5 Lesbians” is about finding joy in dark times, and moments inspire uncomfortable laughter, such as jokes about gay marriage being legal in four years’ time (1960) or Ginny Cadbury (Jessica Damouni) devouring a quiche in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. But it’s also a show about how stressful moments can bring about vulnerability and community, as the whole church practically exhaled when Wren Robbin (Emily Yetter) finally let her hair down and expressed who she truly was.

“Even when we did it back when I was in college, Trump had just won, so it just feels like it’s keeping relevant,” Pattullo says. The timeliness, she says, makes it such an amusing play to perform.

Pattullo will sometimes, depending on cast availability, take on a role in the show. It’s a chance, she says, to amplify the play’s wackiness, which she believes helps puts audiences at ease and makes its difficult subject matter easier to digest. She tries to create the most outlandish tale possible for when relaying to guests one on one how her husband perished.

“My story was a raccoon attack,” she says. “Because my husband thought the raccoon was behaving with foreign intent, like the raccoon was a spy or something. It was just stupid.”

Or it was evidence of how immersive theater can delight when it deviates from the script.