Remember the Time: Protecting Michael Jackson in His Final Days

by Bill Whitfield

  Besides, if you really want to know something? When you’re on a detail long enough, you’ll find out. It will come. You start overhearing conversations. You start getting emails, taking phone calls. You see who’s visiting, so on. You keep your thoughts to yourself. You just watch and listen, and pretty soon all your questions will be answered without you having to ask them.

  2

  Growing up, Michael Jackson idolized James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, the Hardest-Working Man in Show Business. Watching Brown on television and from the wings at Harlem’s Apollo Theater, the young performer studied and absorbed the master’s every move. Though he would go on to learn at the feet of Motown greats like Marvin Gaye, Diana Ross, and Smokey Robinson, Michael Jackson would insist throughout his life that James Brown had been his deepest and most lasting influence.

  On Christmas Eve, as Jackson and his family were preparing to celebrate the holidays, his childhood idol was checking into a hospital in Atlanta, Georgia, complaining of exhaustion and a debilitating cough. Just hours later, in the early morning of Christmas Day, the seventy-three-year-old Brown died of congestive heart failure brought on by complications from pneumonia. On December 30, leaving his children in the care of their nanny, Jackson flew to Augusta, Georgia, and attended Brown’s memorial service, joining several other luminaries onstage to eulogize the departed singer. It was Jackson’s first public appearance in the United States since leaving the country a year and a half before.

  While waiting for Jackson to return, Bill Whitfield and Jeff Adams began making arrangements to beef up the family’s security detail for New Year’s Eve. Adams, already contracted to another client, would not be on hand much longer, so he reached out to his cousin Javon Beard. Twenty-six years old and a father of three, Javon Beard grew up in the heart of South Central Los Angeles, his father a postal worker and his mother a clerk for FedEx. One of six children, Beard had an older sister, a twin brother, younger twin sisters, and a younger baby brother. His own twin, Jovon, was born with cerebral palsy and died at the age of seven.

  The Beards lived with their grandmother near the corner of 46th and Western, an area notorious for drug activity and gang violence at the height of the crack-cocaine era. Javon escaped the streets by throwing himself into the basketball team at Inglewood High School, one of the most competitive squads in the country, with the hope that his athletic talents would open the door to a college degree. But one night, filling up at a gas station a few blocks from home, Javon was shot in the arm during an attempted carjacking. His dream of an athletic career and a college scholarship over, he graduated from Inglewood and took a full-time job as a security guard at the Hyperion Treatment Plant, where he was promoted to head of security.

  After years of dealing with the harsh Los Angeles streets, Javon decided to leave South Central for a safer, more stable environment. While visiting family in Las Vegas in 2004, he interviewed for a position at the Summer Bay time-share resort, got the job, and moved out the very next week. He worked his way up from a front-desk security post to be an executive housekeeper/security manager, overseeing a staff of two hundred security and maintenance personnel.

  Unlike Bill Whitfield, Javon Beard had never done high-profile celebrity protection in his life, but he did possess the one qualification that mattered: he was family, and he could be trusted. So on New Year’s Eve, just hours before the Jackson family planned to head out for the night, Jeff Adams reached out to his cousin to offer him a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  Javon: I had “Smooth Criminal” set up as the ringtone on my cell phone, so that’s what I heard when I got Jeff’s call. It was around one-thirty in the afternoon. At first I thought he was calling to coordinate for that night, because all our family members were coming in for this big New Year’s party I’d put together. I’d rented a suite at the Bellagio, been planning on it for months. But as soon as I picked up the call, I could tell his tone was real strange. He was being short with me. He said, “What are you doing right now?”

  I said, “I’m getting ready for tonight.”

  I was really pressed for time. The city closes the Strip to vehicle traffic on New Year’s so people can come down to see the fireworks. I told Jeff, “I’m trying to get down to the Strip because they close it at five, and it’s almost two now.”

  “You at the house?”

  “Yeah, I’m at the house.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “What for?”

  “I need to talk to you, and it can’t be on the phone. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t go nowhere.”

  Then he hung up, real abrupt. Didn’t even say good-bye.

  When he got to the house, I was out front, loading the car. I had a friend there helping me pack. Jeff looked at this guy and said he needed to talk to me in private. So we went inside, he sat me down and said, “Okay, I know you’re not going to want to do this. I know you’ve got plans, but I’ve got a serious favor to ask and I need someone I can trust. Can you work tonight?”

  I said, “Hell, no.”

  First off, it was New Year’s. Second, I already had this suite at the Bellagio. You’re talking seven hundred dollars a night with a two-night minimum, and my credit card had already been charged. I was out fourteen hundred dollars, and that was the discount rate; I’d had to book months in advance to get it.

  I didn’t need the work, either. I’d made my way up at the time-share, was making $65,000 a year. I was doing good, and now I was ready to kick back and celebrate. I said to Jeff, “Man, I’m straight. I’ve got my bread coming in right now. I’m not looking to ruin my New Year’s plans for a one-night detail.” He kept on me. Finally I said, “Who’s the client?”

  He said, “I can’t tell you. All I can say is it’s a high-profile dignitary.”

  I laughed. I said, “Jeff, you know you my cousin, but I’m not even listenin’ to that. I’m not about to cancel my plans unless you tell me facts.”

  He thought about it for a second and said, “Okay, I’m breaking confidentiality here, but since you’re family I’ll tell you.” Then he leaned in close and said, “It’s Michael Jackson.”

  “Get the fuck outta here!”

  “I’m serious. It’s Michael Jackson.”

  I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t messing with me. He explained the whole situation. “More than likely it’s going to be a permanent job if you want,” he said. “Just go on this detail tonight, and it could turn into a whole lot more.”

  I said, “No way, Jeff. I know how the personal security business works from watching you. It’s touch and go, and I’ve already got a steady thing.”

  He told me it was pretty definite but the one thing he couldn’t vouch for was whether Mr. Jackson was going to like me or not. He said, “The guy’s picky sometimes. He can be very choosy about who represents him.” Finally he said, “Look, I know Mr. Jackson’s going to end up liking you, so I’m going to make it worth your while. I’ll help you tell the family that you’re not going to make the party. I’ll take the heat for that, and I’ll pay for the room.”

  I said, “You’re gonna give me fourteen hundred dollars?”

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a thousand in cash. “It’s all I’ve got on me,” he said, “but come with me to an ATM and I’ll get you the rest.”

  Once he did that? I knew it was good. I told him I was on board.

  He said, “Do you have a black suit?” I did, but it was at the cleaners, and they were closed. The suits I had at the house were all bright colors—people who know me know I’m kind of a colorful guy—and with security it’s strictly black or navy blue. Can’t wear nothing else. So Jeff said, “Okay, we need to go and get you a new suit.”

  It was already after two o’clock on New Year’s Eve, and since I’m six foot five, we had to hurry up and find a 48 Long that didn’t need to be tailored—there’s no tailors working on New Year’s. We went to the Boulevard Mall, then the Meadows Mall. Finally w
e hit the Burlington Coat Factory and found a suit that fit me perfectly. We bought it, rushed back to my place, I put an iron on it, and headed to Mr. Jackson’s house.

  We pulled up to the house a little before five. I was getting nervous. Bill came out and opened the gate for us. That was my first time meeting Bill. He looked at me and said, “You ready to be a part of this?”

  I said, “I hope so.” But I was still really nervous about the whole thing. I didn’t really know if it was something I could handle.

  Bill said, “Well, you are tall. Might be good for something.”

  We drove up to the door. Jeff got out and went inside, left me in the car for about thirty minutes. I kept checking my watch, checking my suit, making sure my tie was fixed. Finally, Jeff came out and said, “Okay, let’s go in. I spoke highly of you and he respects my opinion, so I think it’s going to be a done deal.”

  Then he took me inside. Mr. Jackson came down the stairs. He had a surgical mask on, was wearing one of those white, Hanes V-neck T-shirts and pajama pants with his little white socks sticking out. First thing I noticed was just how frail and thin he was. When I went to shake his hand, I was careful just to lightly touch him. I was scared I was going to break him, because he seemed so fragile.

  He started to say something, but I couldn’t understand him because his voice was all muffled with that surgical mask on. I was trying to be all humble and respectful, but he was talking and I kept going, “Huh? Excuse me?” Then he lifted the mask up a bit and said, “Hello, Javon. I’ve heard a lot about you. Are you ready to be a part of my security team?”

  I said, “Absolutely, sir. I’m very excited to be a part of the team. I hope it’ll become something permanent.”

  He said, “I don’t see why not. Can I trust you?”

  “Yes, sir. You definitely can.”

  “Okay, welcome then.”

  He called the kids down. Prince and Paris walked right up and shook my hand. Mr. Jackson had to push Blanket to say hi. Then they ran right back to doing whatever they were doing before. Mr. Jackson said, “Don’t pay them no mind. This is routine for them. They’re used to meeting so many new people. But they mean well.”

  We talked a bit more and then he went back upstairs. Me, Bill, and Jeff spent the next few hours planning the detail. They took me on a walk through the property, showed me what was what. About ten o’clock that night, Mr. Jackson and the kids came down all dressed up and we drove over to the MGM Grand. The hotel management arranged for us to come in through the stage door.

  The show had already started when we got there. We slipped in; Mr. Jackson and the kids took their seats in the front row. I sat right behind them. Bill posted up by the exit door, stage left. We watched the show, then slipped out before the lights came back up. Mr. Jackson took his kids to meet David Copperfield backstage. They chatted for a few minutes. Then we got in the vehicles and took them home to bed.

  The next morning I called my office, gave them my notice, and I went to work for Michael Jackson.

  3

  In 1990, Michael Jackson opened the gates of his Neverland Valley Ranch to the public for the first time. Named after the fantastical island in J. M. Barrie’s classic Peter Pan—the place where children never grow up—the sprawling, 2,700-acre estate was nestled deep in the Santa Ynez Mountains, about a hundred miles north of Los Angeles.

  The new home was a significant upgrade for the then thirty-one-year-old singer, who had spent his earliest years in a tiny, two-bedroom cottage in Gary, Indiana. Even at the pinnacle of his success in the 1980s, Jackson had continued to live with his parents at Hayvenhurst, the Jackson family compound in Encino, California. Finally ready to move out on his own, Jackson bought Neverland, then called the Sycamore Valley Ranch, for $17 million in March 1988. He went on to spend two years and an additional $55 million converting it into a spectacular playground and showplace for his imagination.

  Neverland’s visitors entered the ranch at its train station, boarding a steam engine that took them up to the main house. The house itself, a massive Tudor-style mansion, was situated on a five-acre lake with a man-made waterfall. Hidden speakers, disguised as rocks, were strategically placed throughout the gardens to play music all through the day. Bronze statues of children at play and life-sized mannequins of Peter Pan and Tinker Bell and other classic children’s characters populated the grounds. Neverland had its own amusement park, complete with a Ferris wheel, bumper cars, and roller coasters; its own movie theater, filled with rows of plush velvet seats and a fully stocked concession stand; and even its own zoo, showcasing giraffes, lions, and zebras. With a staff of over sixty employees, the estate reportedly cost over $4 million a year to operate.

  Neverland, Jackson often said, was his sanctuary, a place to recapture the childhood he’d lost when he was pushed into stardom at such an early age. Given the life he’d lived, Jackson wanted to share Neverland with children of all ages, particularly those for whom childhood had brought more hardship than joy. Among his many charitable activities, he opened his amusement park to children’s hospitals and inner-city church groups year round, for free, entertaining thousands of sick and disadvantaged kids over the years.

  But on November 18, 2003, Jackson’s sanctuary was destroyed. That morning, armed with a search warrant, a team of seventy Santa Barbara sheriffs raided the estate, looking for evidence to corroborate the accusations of child abuse that had been leveled against him. For the next fourteen hours, officers went room to room, ransacking the mansion and rifling through the singer’s personal effects; Jackson, in Las Vegas to promote his 9/11 charity single, “What More Can I Give,” was powerless to stop it. The entire search was documented by video camera and later shown in court, exposing Jackson’s private world for everyone to see. After the raid, Jackson declared that Neverland was no longer his home. When he had to live there during his trial, he refused to go back in the main residence; he stayed in one of his own guesthouses. When the trial was over, he vowed he would never return.

  With Jackson living abroad, Neverland fell into steep decline. He could no longer cover the estate’s considerable operating costs. The roller coasters sat idle. The grounds were no longer maintained. The animals in the zoo could not be properly cared for. By the end of 2005, Neverland’s workers’ compensation insurance had lapsed, and Jackson owed his staff over $300,000 in back wages. On March 9, 2006, the state of California served notice that the property had to be closed until the outstanding labor issues were resolved. The estate was officially shuttered. Its few remaining staffers were let go, leaving one security guard posted at the front gate. The animals were donated to zoos and wildlife preserves in California, Arizona, and elsewhere. The train station and the amusement park were mothballed and left to collect dust.

  When Jackson moved to Las Vegas at the end of 2006, his management rented him a house at 2785 South Monte Cristo Way. As with a lot of Las Vegas architecture, the fifteen-thousand-square-foot, seven-bedroom, ten-bath mansion was a bit over the top. Just inside the house’s gated entrance was a circular drive that surrounded a small fountain and led to a covered portico outside the main entrance. Inside, a grand, two-story foyer opened on to an absurdly oversized living room with a vaulted ceiling gilded with massive chandeliers. To the foyer’s left was a private movie theater; to the right, a sweeping marble staircase that led upstairs to the children’s bedrooms and Jackson’s two-thousand-square-foot master suite, which ran the entire length of the north face of the house. At the rear of the ground floor, the kitchen and dining area overlooked the pool house and private tennis court in the backyard.

  Outside, tucked out of view from the street, sat the garage, reached via a driveway that split off from the courtyard in the front. It was here that Bill and Javon set up their base of operations—and they had their work cut out for them. While the opulent home may have seemed fit for a celebrity of Michael Jackson’s stature, his new security team quickly realized that it was anything but.

 
; Bill: Mr. Jackson didn’t choose the house; someone else made the arrangements on his behalf while he was overseas. From a security point of view, it was a nightmare, located on the wide-open corner of an intersection, exposed on two sides. The neighbors could see directly into the backyard where the children played. And once word got out that Michael Jackson was living there? We had paparazzi climbing the trees, trying to get shots of him and the kids. The front doors were visible from the street, and they were glass-paned, which meant you could see straight into the house from outside the gate. We had to suggest that Mr. Jackson not use the front door unless he was receiving guests. For routine comings and goings, he went through the garage.

  The house came with a security system. There were digital cameras covering the property, all wired to a room upstairs with a bank of monitors. I spent a day up there messing with all that gear, only to find that a lot of the equipment wasn’t even working. Out of fifteen cameras on the property, maybe four or five of them worked. That was horrible.

  It was a horrible house. It was the kind of house where the garage had been designed with a space for a limousine, but the way the driveway was angled, you couldn’t actually drive a limousine into the garage. If you wanted to put a limousine in that spot you’d have to drop it in from the roof.

  Javon: It was a nice place to look at, eye-candy wise. Marble floors. Marble staircase. Big chandeliers. But the plumbing and everything? Terrible. There was this beautiful water fountain in front of the house. Mr. Jackson loved the fountain, but for some reason we could never figure out, all the water completely drained out of it every two days. Every time it emptied out, we’d have to go and fill it with the garden hose. Every time it rained, the whole side yard flooded, leaving this deep, mud-filled trench running the whole length of the house.