Lifestyle
Afroman prevails in cops’ music video defamation suit after a brief but viral trial
A jury sided with apper Afroman, whose legal name is Joseph Foreman, in a defamation lawsuit brought by Ohio police who raided his home.
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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.
Sunday Puzzle
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This week’s challenge
Today’s puzzle is a tribute to Mimi. Every answer is a familiar two word phrase or name in which each word starts with the letters MI-.
Ex. Assignment for soldiers –> MILITARY MISSION
1. Pageant title for a contestant from Detroit
2. One of the Twin Cities
3. Nickname for the river through New Orleans
4. Super short skirt
5. Neighborhood in Los Angeles that contains Museum Row
6. Just over four times the distance from the earth to the moon
7. Goateed sing-along conductor of old TV
8. American financier who pioneered so-called “junk bonds”
9. Little accident
10. Land-based weapon in America’s nuclear arsenal
11. In “Snow White,” the evil queen’s words before “on the wall”
Last week’s challenge
Last week’s challenge comes from Benita Rice, of Salem, Ore. Name a famous foreign landmark (5,4). Change the eighth letter to a V and rearrange the result to make an adjective that describes this landmark. What landmark is it?
Answer
Notre Dame –> Renovated
Winner
Chee Sing Lee of Bangor, Maine
This week’s challenge
This week’s challenge comes from James Ellison, of Jefferson City, Mo. Think of a popular movie of the past decade. Change the last letter in its title. The result will suggest a lawsuit between two politicians of the late 20th century — one Republican and one Democrat. What’s the movie and who are the people?
If you know the answer to the challenge, submit it below by Thursday, April 23 at 3 p.m. ET. Listeners whose answers are selected win a chance to play the on-air puzzle.
This story is part of Image’s April’s Thresholds issue, a tour of L.A. architecture as it’s actually experienced.
A landmark is a landmark because it tells you that you’re home now — the piece of earth you’ve chosen to inhabit saying, “You’ve made it back, congratulations.” We identify our cities with their landmarks, and because we identify with our cities, we identify with the landmarks too. They are us and we are them, mirroring each other through eternity. A city like New York or Chicago, with the Chrysler Building, the Bean, etc., has landmarks that exist in the world’s popular consciousness. But L.A.’s most cherished landmarks belong to us and us alone, a secret you’re let in on if you live here long enough and pay attention.
The Fashion Nova baddie in horizontal sprawl off the Vertigo, for example, is an emblem for those in the know. Our twisted version of a capitalist guardian angel, patron saint of spandex in a cropped matching set. Welcome to El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Fashion Nova. Merging on the 110 South from the 10 East while the sunset burns and traffic thickens is a miracle in more ways than one, and in the spirit of compulsively performing the sign of the cross when you pass a church on the freeway, this billboard is deserving of its own acknowledgment.
It may not be the landmark L.A. asked for, but in Sayre Gomez’s painting “Vertigo,” you begin to understand why it’s the one we deserve. At the opening for “Precious Moments,” Gomez’s solo show at David Kordansky, the room was vibrating. A game of energetic ping-pong unfolded underneath the gallery’s fluorescent light, beams of identification, recollections or stabs of grief bouncing off each piece in the exhibition. People were seeing hyperspecific parts of a city they love reflected in a hyperspecific way — for better and for worse. Recognition has two edges and they both happen to be sharp. Gomez twists the knife deeper for a good cause: He wants you not just to look but to really see.
In his work exist iconic signs of beloved local establishments — like the Playpen — the blinding glint reflecting off downtown’s skyline, telephone poles regarded as totems. The line to see Gomez’s replica of L.A.’s graffiti towers, “Oceanwide Plaza,” snaked through the gallery’s courtyard. Once inside, at least three graffiti writers whose names were blasted on the replica pointed it out proudly, even gave out stickers to take home. The truth can be beautiful and it can be ugly — in this case it’s both — on the flip side showing up in the form of smog, tattered flags and an abandoned graffiti tower that starkly represents the pitfalls of capitalism and greed, a neon arrow pointing to the homelessness crisis.
Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave.
— Sayre Gomez
In the main gallery, I was stuck on “Vertigo.” On the 12-foot canvas, my eye went to the place out of focus: the thin strip of billboard in the background featuring a young woman with sand-dune hips, patent knee-high boots and long black hair laid up on her side, wearing cat ears and a tiger bodysuit as flush as second skin. The model made the kind of eye contact that felt dangerous — might cause an accident if you’re not careful. “#1 Halloween Destination … FASHION NOVA,” it read. I knew her, anyone who has driven through the two main arteries of Los Angeles knows her. The black-and-white smiley motif of the Vertigo, an events space, sat right next to her face, just happy to be there, it seemed, above a painted sign that says “Ready to Party?”
The sky was the color of cotton candy, but the stale kind that’s been hardening in a plastic bag for days after the fair. Something rancid about it. In the foreground of the painting was a car encampment with a tattered floral sheet woven through the windows, cloth tarps and couch cushions creating a shield against the elements. Small plastic children’s toys lined at the top of the car — dinosaurs and dump trucks and sharks — creating their own shrunken skyline in front of the Vertigo, signaling that young kids likely lived there. It’s less juxtaposition for juxtaposition’s sake and more an accurate reflection of the breakneck duality of living in a place like L.A.
Even angels exist within the context of their environments. Our Fashion Nova baddie hangs off the Vertigo, a building that has used its ad space as physical clickbait and political posturing for over a decade. It’s promoting the kind of fast fashion brand that’s been regarded as a case study on the industry’s environmental impact. In the years the billboard has been up, it’s looked over dozens and dozens of car encampments like the one depicted in Gomez’s piece.
She feels dubious, yes. But no less like ours.
Julissa James: I’ve lived in L.A. for 13 years now. For me, the city and the architecture of the city is less the Frank Lloyd Wrights and Frank Gehrys — there’s that — but other landmarks that signal, “Oh, I’m home.” The Fashion Nova baddie above the Vertigo has always been that for me. Your piece is layered and there’s so much more to it than just that, but that’s the first thing I saw and was like, “Whoa. I need to talk to Sayre. We need to talk about ‘Vertigo.’”
Sayre Gomez: It’s like L.A.’s Statue of Liberty. It’s the city of anti-landmarks, you know what I mean? I mean, there’s the Hollywood sign, which I think is so telling, because it’s the remnants of a real estate venture. The city is built by real estate schemes and 100 years later we’re feeling the effects of it. You’ve got empty skyscrapers and a massive homeless catastrophe. L.A. doesn’t really have real landmarks. It has anti-landmarks.
JJ: When did the Fashion Nova billboard above the Vertigo click for you as something that felt representative of the city, or something that you wanted to depict?
SG: My studio is in Boyle Heights, so I pass that billboard multiple times a week. This is my 20th year in L.A. and that building’s always been a big mystery to me. It was empty when I moved here before this guy Shawn Farr bought it and turned it into Casa Vertigo. I think he probably makes more money on it with the ad space than anything. I know nobody who has ever been there. Very mysterious to me. So that’s what I was drawn to.
(Paul Salveson from David Kordansky Gallery)
The Vertigo has always been mysterious to me. And that whole fashion industry is mysterious to me — the kind of shmatta, American Apparel-adjacent, or maybe coming out of the wake of that. These kinds of businesses, or the representations of these businesses, how do they function and how do they flourish? Is it aboveboard? What more perfectly encapsulates that than that building? It’s this weird thing you can’t quite figure out but somehow it has a lot of money and then it’s an event space, supposedly billed as that. Clearly it’s this big ad thing, and I’m very interested in the changing dynamics of capital. The capital of yesteryear, which was based on the brick and mortar, where things are being made in a specific location, maybe on an assembly line or in a specific way, to a kind of capital that is based solely on advertising or on viewership. These beautiful buildings acting as pedestals for some kind of ad space, you know? It becomes an anti-landmark for me. Something where I’m like, “Oh, there’s that thing again.”
JJ: It’s this gorgeous Beaux Arts building …
SG: It’s a Freemason building!
JJ: When I’ve talked to some people about the Vertigo, they’re like, “the Fashion Nova building?”
SG: They always have the woman in the same pose — same pose, different clothes. If you remember before Fashion Nova, they would have these provocative ad campaigns or provocative slogans. “Twerk Miley” was up, remember that? They did a Trump one: “TRUMP NOW.” They did one for Kanye when he ran for president. The 10 and the 110 are literally the crossroads of the city, so it’s really poised to be a special building. It has a special designation because of the location.
JJ: Talk to me about the process of doing this piece. Where did it start and how did it evolve?
SG: I was cruising around that vicinity trying to see if I could get a good vantage point to take photos of Vertigo. And then I stumbled upon this car — the car that’s in the foreground of the painting. Anytime I see an encampment that has kids’ toys, things that reference back to the lives of children, it hits hard. But I like to lay it all out there. I like to make things confrontational. I want it to be difficult. The painting isn’t based on a one-to-one photo [Gomez paints from a composite rendering of images he’s taken around town], but I knew that I wanted to use that car, and I knew I wanted to get the Vertigo building, and so I started just messing around with different iterations. I could never find a good angle to take a good photo of the building, so I just went on Vertigo’s website and I was like, “I’m just using these.” I switched the sky and put a more moody, atmospheric sky in.
JJ: Which I loved, because we know that feeling — you’re merging onto the 110 and you see a beautiful sunset. The euphoria of like, “L.A. is the best city in the world.” But you know what? What I found so interesting about your piece is that it was revealing to me about myself, but also about so many of us that live in L.A. and have lived here for years and have developed a jadedness. When I saw your piece, immediately I was like, “Oh my God, the Vertigo! The Vertigo! The Vertigo!” And then I was like, “OK, wait, hold on, there’s so much more going on here.” But the fact that my eye went to that first instead of the car encampment, the kids’ toys, brought up a lot of questions about my own relationship to the city and the things that we choose to see, the things that maybe we’ve seen so much of that we subconsciously filter it out. Why was it important for you to put these two things up against each other in this way?
SG: Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave. That’s what I’m doing in my work at large. I use the sunsets and the beauty to create a dialogue, to entice people to sort of look a little bit at how things are contextualized, how things act, what’s actually happening. I don’t make things in a vacuum. I was working on this show and I was going to really push this agenda of incorporating more of my experience with my kids into the work. That’s also a double-edged sword. I wanted to interject some levity, because the work can get so dark. I wanted to bring in some iconography from their world and things that they get excited about. When you’re juxtaposing that with really stark things, it becomes darker. I want to thicken the stock a little bit. Make things a little more complex.
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