Fifty years ago this week, the smoothest voice soul music ever knew was silenced forever. Sam Cooke died needlessly, unexpectedly and mysteriously in a seedy motel just a couple blocks away from the swanky Hollywood Park Racetrack in Los Angeles, California. The man contemporaries called “The King of Soul” found himself on the wrong end of a .22 caliber pistol wielded by a middle-aged black woman who, under different circumstances, might have counted herself among Sam’s legion of fans.
Sam Cook (he added the “e” later to his stage name) was born to a rich musical heritage on January 22, 1931 in Clarksdale, Mississippi. Clarksdale is a Mississippi Delta city surrounded by cotton fields located downstream from Memphis, Tennessee, the area widely regarded as the birthplace of the blues. The Clarksdale area was hometown to many of America’s most influential bluesmen, including Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, BB King, Howlin’ Wolf and John Lee Hooker.
Cooke began his career as a gospel singer at age 9 and made his first record, a gospel tune, at age 17. He developed a huge following as a gospel artist and made his first “pop” record at age 25 in 1956 under the name “Dale Cook” in an attempt to not alienate his gospel fan base. The very next year, Sam released “You Send Me” which spent six weeks at No. 1 on the Billboard R&B chart. This kicked off a remarkable run of hit songs, including “Wonderful World,” “Chain Gang,” “Cupid,” “Bring It on Home,” “A Change Is Gonna Come,” “Twistin’ the Night Away” and “Another Saturday Night,” among others. Cooke had 30 U.S. top 40 hits between 1957 and 1964, and a further three after his death. He’s included on nearly every list of the greatest singers of all time, a charter member of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and was awarded a posthumous lifetime achievement Grammy.
But its the way he died that haunts me and millions of his fans half a century later. The sad story began at 9:00 p.m. on Thursday, December 10, 1964. Sam was having dinner with producer Al Schmitt and Schmitt’s wife, Joan at Martoni’s Italian restaurant off Sunset Boulevard in Hollwood. His most recent album, “Live at the Copa” was shooting up the charts and Sam was on the brink of race-defying superstardom on par with Nat “King” Cole and Sammy Davis, Jr.
Well-wishers kept stopping by the table, interrupting their conversation. Sam, who’d already had three or four martinis, eventually made his way over to the bar. When the food arrived, Al Schmitt went to get Sam and found him laughing and swapping stories with a group of friends and music business associates. Sam was buying, and he flashed a wad of bills, what looked like thousands of dollars. He told Al that he and his wife should go ahead with their meal.
At a booth near the bar, Sam caught the eye of a baby-faced 22-year-old Asian girl (her mother was Chinese, her father English). The diminutive 5’ 3”, 112 lb. girl was sitting with three guys. Sam was certain he’d seen her before. One of the guys, a guitar player Sam knew, introduced her as Elisa Boyer. Sam sat down next to her and before long, the pair were laughing, drinking and snuggling in the booth like a pair of teenagers at a drive-in. Sam never returned to dinner with the Schmitts but promised them that he’d meet them at a nearby nightclub for cocktails.
The inebriated couple left Martoni’s around 1 a.m. in Sam’s brand new red Ferrari and headed to meet the Schmitts at the nightclub called PJ’s. By the time they arrived, the Schmitts were gone. In the club, Sam got into a heated argument with some guy who was hitting on Boyer. She asked Sam to take her home, and they left at 2 a.m. According to Boyer, Sam sped down Santa Monica Blvd., and against her protests, pulled onto the freeway. She later told police that she asked again to be taken home, but Sam said, “Don’t worry now. I just want to go for a little ride.” He stroked her hair and told her how pretty she was.
They exited the highway at Figueroa Street, near LAX. Boyer asked again to be taken home, but Sam drove 17 miles south of Hollywood to the Hacienda Motel in gritty south-central Los Angeles. The Hacienda didn’t get a lot of customers in brand new red Ferraris. It was a $3-a-night dive on South Figueroa Street — the sort of place where the desk clerk kept a pistol handy. “Everyone Welcome,” read the sign out front. Defined by the vernacular of the era, “Everyone” meant blacks. He got out of the car and walked up to a glass partition at the manager’s office while Boyer remained in the car. He registered under his own name with the clerk, 55-year-old Bertha Franklin. Franklin eyed Boyer in the car, and told Sam that he’d have to sign in as Mr. and Mrs. if they wanted to stay there.
According to Boyer’s account, Sam drove around to the back of the motel. Boyer claimed he then dragged her into the room, pinned her on the bed and started to tear her clothes off. “I knew he was going to rape me,” she told the police. She went into the bathroom and tried to lock the door, but the latch was broken. She tried the window but it was painted shut. When she came out, Sam was already undressed. He groped her, then went into the bathroom himself. Boyer, wearing only a slip and a bra, picked up her clothes and ran out of the room.
Boyer said she began to pound on the night manager’s door but got no answer. At the time, Bertha Franklin was on the phone talking to the owner of the property, Evelyn Carr. She told Carr “wait a minute” and went to answer the door, but no one was there. Franklin then picked up the phone and continued her phone call. Boyer, afraid that Cooke would soon be coming after her, didn’t wait around for Bertha to open the door. She ran around the corner and up the street for about a half a block, dumped the pile of clothes on the ground and got dressed. Tangled in the pile were Sam’s shirt, pants and underwear (along with his wallet and most likely, the wad of cash that Al Schmitt had seen at Martoni’s). She stashed them under a stairwell, found a phone booth and called the police. Boyer’s call was logged in at 3:08 am: “Will you please come down to this number. I don’t know where I am, I’m kidnapped.”
At that instant, Sam Cooke roared up to Franklin’s office in his Ferrari, he left the motor running and the driver’s door open. He was wearing his sports jacket, one shoe and nothing else. He pounded on the door, screaming “Is the girl in there?” According to Franklin, Sam began to twist the doorknob wildly and ram the door with his shoulder. The frame ripped loose and the latch gave way. Sam charged in, looking for Boyer.
Franklin, still on the phone with Evelyn Carr, told Cooke that she didn’t know where the girl was. Franklin later told police, “He just kept saying where was the girl, I told him to get the police if he wanted to search my place. He said, ‘Damn the police,’ and started working on the door with his shoulder … It wasn’t long before he was in. … When he walked in, he walked straight to the kitchen, and then he came back and went into the bedroom. Then he came out. I was standing there in the floor and he grabbed both of my arms and started twisting them and asking me where was the girl.”
Through it all, Evelyn Carr was listening over the phone. Bertha Franklin, though shorter than Sam, outweighed him by about 30 pounds. She would later tell police: “He fell on top of me … I tried to bite him through that jacket: biting, scratching and everything. Finally, I got up, when I kicked him … I run and grabbed the pistol off the TV, and I shot … at close range … three times.” Two of the bullets missed, but one entered Sam’s left side, passing through his heart and right lung. Sam fell back, and in astonishment, uttered his last words: “Lady, you shot me.” Sam rose one last time and charged at her, but she repelled his attack with several hard blows to the head and face with a broomstick. This time, he stayed down.
Next week: Part 2
Al Hunter is the author of the “Haunted Indianapolis” and co-author of the “Haunted Irvington” and “Indiana National Road” book series. His newest book is “Bumps in the Night. Stories from the Weekly View.” Contact Al directly at Huntvault@aol.com or become a friend on Facebook.
