Remember the Time: Protecting Michael Jackson in His Final Days

by Bill Whitfield

  REMEMBER THE TIME

  Copyright © 2014 by Bill Whitfield and Javon Beard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. For information address Weinstein Books, 250 West 57th Street, 15th Floor, New York, NY 10107.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-60286-251-7 (e-book)

  Published by Weinstein Books

  A member of the Perseus Books Group

  www.weinsteinbooks.com

  Weinstein Books are available at special discounts for bulk purchases in the U.S. by corporations, institutions and other organizations. For more information, please contact the Special Markets Department at the Perseus Books Group, 2300 Chestnut Street, Suite 200, Philadelphia, PA 19103, call (800) 810-4145, ext. 5000, or e-mail special.markets@perseusbooks.com.

  FIRST EDITION

  246897531

  I dedicate this book to Prince, Paris, and Blanket. Their father guided and prepared them for a world that he knew would be challenging for them. Through his spirit he will continue to guide them and, when called upon, I will be there for them as well.

  —Bill

  I dedicate this book to my twin, Jovon. I wish you were here to share this moment with me. Rest in peace. Gone but never forgotten. Love you always! I also dedicate this book to Michael Jackson. Thank you for believing in me and giving me the opportunity of a life time. And to Prince, Paris, and Blanket. It was a pleasure serving you. You guys were one of the highlights of coming to work every day. I’m always here if you need me.

  —Javon

  INTRODUCTION

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  Can We Go Back to Neverland?

  PART TWO

  Why Don’t They Just Leave Me Alone?

  PART THREE

  This Is It

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  INDEX

  INTRODUCTION

  You would not be reading this if Michael Jackson was still alive.

  For over two and a half years, from December 2006 until his death in June 2009, we were employed as the personal security team for Michael Jackson, the most famous and most successful entertainer in history. For a significant part of that time, we were the only gatekeepers between his family and the outside world, and we have a story to tell.

  The world of personal security is not something that most people are familiar with. People see us on TV, and they probably think we’re just a bunch of thick-necked bruisers in black suits standing by the door. That’s not who we are. We’re not bouncers. Many of us are former law-enforcement, sometimes ex-military, people who have studied and trained in the art of private security. In today’s celebrity-obsessed culture, the lives of movie stars and professional athletes are valuable currency. Their privacy is under constant assault. Executive protection is a serious business. We’re entrusted with the welfare of spouses, children, and classified documents. We run countersurveillance in hotels, restaurants, and hospital rooms. We set up false identities to move people around the globe in secret. And when we leave, if we’ve done our jobs right, it’s like we were never there. But we’re always there—standing in the background, listening, and observing. We know the things the tabloids pretend to know. We know the things you wish you knew.

  In private security, getting hired is not just based on experience and skill. Someone has to vouch for you. You don’t bring someone into this business unless you know they can be trusted. People who tell stories out of school, they don’t stick around. That’s how it works. You see everything. You hear everything. You know nothing. If you’re asked, you don’t recall. If you’re subpoenaed, you make yourself scarce. That’s how it works in this profession, and that is how we handle the affairs of our clients today.

  Michael Jackson was not a typical client. We were the sworn keepers of his secrets in life, but his death has forced us into a position we’ve never been entirely comfortable with. The questions surrounding his death—who had access to him at what times and for what purpose—put a glaring spotlight on our role as his first line of defense. We’ve tried to keep our profile as low as possible. We’ve turned down repeated cash offers from tabloids trying to get us to spill secrets about the more controversial aspects of Mr. Jackson’s life. Compelled to testify in the murder trial of Dr. Conrad Murray and deposed in the civil litigation between the Jackson estate and AEG Live, the promoters for Mr. Jackson’s never-performed comeback show, This Is It, we answered the questions put to us, truthfully and to the best of our knowledge, but provided no more information beyond what was legally required of us. We had no desire to be dragged into that circus.

  We have spoken publicly only twice before, in brief televised interviews with Nightline and Good Morning America, which aired in March 2010. Our purpose in doing so was simple: to tell the truth about the Michael Jackson we knew. We wanted the world to see a glimpse of the good man and wonderful father that we had the privilege of serving. Mr. Jackson’s fans, whom he deeply appreciated and loved, deserve to see that part of him. Our purpose has not changed. We decided that a book written by us—a direct account unfiltered by reporters and commentators—would be the most effective means to set the record straight.

  We have tried our best to strike a balance between the need for honesty and our obligation to secrecy. The individuals that you will see named in this book—Mr. Jackson’s famous siblings; Raymone Bain, his manager; Grace Rwaramba, his children’s nanny—are all public figures well known to anyone who has followed Michael Jackson’s story in the past. Therefore we feel there is little breach of confidentiality in identifying them here. They have been included because it would be impossible to tell the story without doing so. Otherwise, we have done our best to leave the names of private individuals out of our account. Besides, more than enough has been written about the hordes of lawyers, managers, and hangers-on who populated the fringes of Mr. Jackson’s life. Our focus is on the only person in this story that readers really care about.

  In many ways, this is a story that only we can tell. While hundreds of people came in and out of Michael Jackson’s life at various points, in his final years, before This Is It, there was almost no one else around. Days and weeks went by when it was just us, Mr. Jackson, and his three children, Prince, Paris, and Blanket. Mr. Jackson has been robbed of the chance to tell the story himself. His children were too young to remember or fully grasp everything that transpired, and they deserve to have these events recorded and remembered as they actually happened. So that leaves us.

  Just as there are those who seek to drag Mr. Jackson’s name through the mud, there are those who insist that he was a saint, an angelic figure to be put on a pedestal. He was neither. Michael Jackson was, like all of us, a complicated human being. A deeply religious man who gave millions to charity and brightened our lives with his talent, he also struggled with personal pain in a way that few can really understand. This book celebrates the good times and great achievements of his life, but it does not shy away from the more difficult and troubling moments that he endured. Our aim is simply to present the whole story in an honest, sympathetic light in order to give a well-rounded view of the events that we witnessed.

  Lastly, given the unseemly behavior that has surrounded the handling of Michael Jackson’s tremendous fortune, we would like to make one thing clear: we are not writing this book for financial reward. As we mentioned, we have already turned down
substantial cash offers to tell our story. When Mr. Jackson died, we had two years left on our contract with his management company. Though we were legally within our rights to pursue what was owed to us, we had no desire to join the stampede of creditors rushing in to get their pound of flesh. When Mr. Jackson passed away, we considered any outstanding debts to be wiped clean. Unlike many others, we have pursued no claims against his estate.

  So far, we haven’t even been paid for this book. While some close to Mr. Jackson raced to get six-figure paydays for tell-all memoirs in the wake of his death, we have chosen a different route. When we signed the contract for Remember the Time, we personally received no money at all. The modest, up-front advance that our publisher paid did not go to us. It was used to cover the expenses of producing the book: traveling to meet with editors, hiring a professional writer to help us craft our story, etc. Beyond that, the time and energy required to see this project to completion came out of our own pocket. It has not been an easy journey. In preparing this book for publication, we have endured and overcome many obstacles that were put in front of us. As with everything involving Mr. Jackson, we encountered the ugliness of his world in trying to do right by him.

  We want our reward to come from you, the fans, and only if you decide that we have earned it. Michael Jackson still has a vast legion of dedicated followers worldwide. You deserve an honest and thoughtful testimony of his life. You deserve to know who he really was. We believe that this book will finally give that to you. If you agree, if you put your hard-earned cash on the counter to buy it, that will let us know our efforts were worthwhile. Either way, we will still sleep easy knowing that we have been true to Mr. Jackson’s legacy while remaining true to our own principles. Protecting Michael Jackson was an experience like no other. It brought us a deeper and more profound understanding of the man and his music, and it changed the way we look at the world forever. We are sharing our story with you now in the hope that you will be changed by it as well.

  PROLOGUE

  December 22, 2006

  McCarran International Airport

  Las Vegas, NV

  Bill: It was three days before Christmas, around ten o’clock at night, and I was sitting in a motorcade of four black Cadillac Escalades out on the tarmac. I’d been hired for a security detail. A client was flying into Las Vegas on a private jet from outside the country; I was there to escort him from the airport to a gated house in the Summerlin neighborhood, over on the northwest side of town. I was in the passenger seat of the lead SUV. The vehicle designated as the mother car—meaning the one that would transport the client—was just behind me. I was scanning the air above us, looking for the plane.

  People think of Las Vegas as nothing but neon lights, hot pavement, and desert. But in the winter? At night? Once the sun sets, the temperature drops quick. Out at the airport, it was well below freezing. I had the heater turned up full blast to keep out the cold while we waited. The fact that we’d been given vehicle access to the tarmac, that was unusual. It wasn’t something I was used to, even for big-name clients. But in this town, in this line of work, unusual is the norm. It’s Vegas. An armed motorcade like this one might be hired for a movie star or a CEO, an athlete or a politician. Hell, I might’ve been hired to help a deposed dictator fleeing a revolution in some third-world country somewhere. I didn’t actually know who I was there to pick up.

  A couple days earlier, I’d come home from a three-month assignment that spanned two countries and five states. All I wanted was to rest and spend time with my daughter. Then I got a call from an associate of mine, Jeff Adams. Jeff and I were tight, almost like family. We’d worked together many times. He asked me if I was available to lead a security detail for a high-profile dignitary arriving in Las Vegas in two weeks. I would pick him up and escort him from point A to point B. Jeff said, “I’ve been in touch with the client’s assistant, a man named John Feldman. I told him about your background. He wants you to fax him your résumé and a copy of your driver’s license so they can do a background check on you.” He gave me an overseas fax number, and I jotted it down.

  “Who’s the client?” I asked.

  Jeff paused. He said, “I can’t give you that information just yet. But trust me, you’ll be glad you took this one—and you’ll need to be armed.”

  I was a little apprehensive about committing, not knowing who it was for. But I’d been in the business long enough to know that sometimes this was just how things worked. Until trust is established, information is on a need-to-know basis. You’re contracted for two hours, you show up, execute the assignment, and that’s that. I’d done plenty of details just like it. I told him to count me in.

  Over the next two weeks, these people did a background check on me, brought me on board, and I began making the arrangements. Two days before the client was to arrive, Jeff and I did what’s known as a pre-advance detail, mapping out the best route from the airport to this person’s new home, driving the route together, making note of every stop sign, timing the traffic lights, mapping out any congested areas we might encounter along the way. We decided that I would handle transportation from the airport to the house, and Jeff would be waiting for us when we got there.

  On the day of the detail, I arrived at the airport at seven-thirty. I’d told the car service to have its vehicles there by eight. When they arrived, I conducted a thorough inspection of each one. As I was doing that, I noticed that the rearview mirrors were equipped with video cameras aimed at the vehicle passenger seats. I called Jeff. “No cameras,” he said. “Period.” So I went vehicle to vehicle and disconnected each one.

  At ten o’clock, we proceeded onto the tarmac. At 10:35, a Gulfstream V landed and taxied in our direction. I instructed the drivers to pull alongside the plane as the stairway was dropped. I exited my vehicle and walked back to the mother car, which had stopped right at the foot of the steps. I stood there and waited, ready to open the rear door for the passengers. The flight crew and the other drivers started loading the luggage into the SUVs.

  First to deplane was a man in his late forties, black guy, neatly groomed but not particularly noteworthy. Then a woman came out. She had a sleeping child in her arms, and she carried him carefully down the steps. They were followed by two other children, both about elementary school age. They all climbed in the car. I thought, Okay, that must be it. I went to close the door and one of the kids spoke up and said, “Where’s Daddy?”

  Daddy?

  I looked back up at the plane. This man was coming down. He was dressed in all black, his face covered with a black scarf. As he got closer, I noticed his feet: slip-on loafers, slender ankles and white socks sticking out of these high-water pants. He came down, passed me, and climbed into the SUV with the children. I closed the door, got back in the lead vehicle, and we left the airport.

  With the holiday traffic, it took us forty-five minutes to get to the house. Jeff was waiting. We pulled into the driveway; the gate closed behind us. My car stopped in front, and the mother car drove around the side to let the family out in private. I helped unload the luggage—there were at least thirty bags—and we brought it all inside. Then I went back out to the driveway.

  Jeff came out of the house. Over the two-way radio, he said, “We good?”

  “Code 4,” I said.

  At that point, I figured I was done. I got my subject from point A to point B. It’s a wrap. But the curiosity was killing me. I walked over to Jeff and said, “So tell me. Who is that guy?”

  Jeff got this big grin on his face. “Didn’t you see him?” he said.

  I shrugged. “Sure. I saw a skinny dude, a chick, and three kids.”

  Jeff leaned in and whispered, “That’s Michael Jackson.”

  I just stared at him. “Get the fuck outta here!”

  He put his right hand in the air. “Death before dishonor,” he said. “Real talk.”

  I didn’t believe it. He laughed at me a bit. Then the assistant, Feldman, the first guy who’d com
e off the jet, called for us to come inside. As we went in, I was like, Yo, really? Am I really gettin’ ready to meet Michael Jackson?

  We went inside and this same guy was coming over to me with no scarf covering his face, and I was like, Oh shit. There I was, standing in front of Michael Jackson, shaking his hand. It was surreal. Jeff introduced us. In this soft, quiet voice, Mr. Jackson said, “Hello, it’s nice to meet you.”

  I said, “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’ve been a huge fan for a long time.”

  Huge fan? I never said that kind of thing to clients. Doing what I do, I’ve gotten used to being around famous people. But my heart was pounding in my chest; the hairs on my neck were standing up. I was trying to maintain my professionalism, but inside I was like a little kid. I was a huge fan. I still had my old Jackson 5 albums, the 45s and 33s, all of them. I still remembered watching him and his brothers on Soul Train, watching him do the robot to “Dancing Machine.”

  We talked a bit about Motown Records, because I’d done some work for them and he’d seen that on my résumé. His children were behind him. Paris and Prince both said hello. Blanket was very reserved and quiet, hiding behind his father and giving a little wave.

  Mr. Jackson said, “Kids, this is Bill. He’s our new security.”

  I was like, Huh? New security? What’s he talking about? I’d been told this was point A to point B. Pick up a check and go home. An alarm started going off in the back of my head. And then Mr. Jackson said—more like a statement than a question—“You’ll be staying the night, right?”

  “Um . . . yes. Yessir.”

  “Great,” he said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  They all said good night and went upstairs. I looked at both Jeff and Feldman. I said, “We need to talk.” We went out and stood in the driveway, and I said, “What’s going on here? Where’s this dude’s security?”