Apparently, Michael knew the royal family in Bahrain, and so he hunkered down with them. Of course, later on the Prince would sue Michael for breach of contract, saying they had a deal to make records and Michael reneged.
So what else was new?
It was Michael’s lack of personal responsibility that made me want to have nothing to do with him after the trial. I was able to get past the molestation accusations in my reporting of him. After all, I believed him to be not guilty in the Arvizo mess pretty much from the very beginning. However, I simply couldn’t reconcile his total disregard for other people in his life. In my mind, he owed his family something for their loyalty. Perhaps they had pressured him into participating in ventures in which he wasn’t interested in the past, but this time I felt he had an obligation to at least try to work with them again. After all, their support must have meant something to him during the trial. There were Jacksons there every single day. Beyond that, I couldn’t understand his lack of loyalty to all of the people who kept Neverland afloat in his absence during the trial. As soon as the trial was over, practically everyone was let go without severance pay. Dozens of caretakers, maids and other functionaries – people with children at home who had given their all to Michael – were just dismissed by him, seemingly without a second thought. Then there was the onslaught of lawsuits by former attorneys and business associates, one after another after the trial. Of course, Jackson had been anything but the consummate businessman for at least the previous ten years, but now things were out of control. Did he ever pay anyone with whom he made a deal? Did he ever sign a contract he didn’t break? It was so obvious to me that he was not a man of his word and, to be frank – as his biographer and someone who had known him for so long – it just pissed me off. ‘I’m a man of honor,’ he once told me. It was when I had made a joke about his marriage to Lisa Marie Presley on the TV show Good Morning America, and he called to chastise me. ‘If you believe anything about me, believe that.’ Indeed, looking back on it now, I guess I felt let down by Michael Jackson. So for years after the trial, I didn’t want to write about him. ‘But you have to be more objective,’ one editor told me. ‘Yeah, well,’ I responded. ‘When he starts paying his bills, maybe then I’ll start writing about him again.’
In my view, Michael Jackson had a golden opportunity to reclaim his career after the trial. I couldn’t understand why he wanted to blow it on such an epic scale. He kept promising records that never came out, dates that never materialized. He seemed to not have a place to live: He and his children would live with friends in one city and then migrate to another as if they were homeless. I didn’t want to know anything about any of it, it all seemed so disappointing and useless to me.
Looking back on it now, I wish I’d had more sympathy for a man so clearly in pain. He never got over the trial; that trauma was still eating away at him. I understand that now. How could he care about anyone else when he was just trying to get through the day himself? ‘Anyone who thinks he is just going to bounce back after such public humiliation doesn’t know Michael Jackson,’ his former manager Frank Dileo had told me on that June day when he was acquitted. ‘This is devastating. For a guy like Michael, this is life-ruining, I’m afraid.’
Indeed, after Santa Maria, little mattered to Michael – except for, perhaps, the only thing that should have mattered: his children. His career was in a shambles and his finances in ruin, but it was of no consequence as far as he was concerned. He had the love of his three children, the two Prince Michaels and Paris, and as long as that was the case, he figured he’d be fine. Ironically, considering his nomadic existence, those who know him best like to think that those post–Santa Maria years were among his best in the sense that he had truly re-prioritized his life. No longer did he care if he was Number One or not, and that had certainly been a goal of his for most of his time on this planet. He no longer had the kind of fire in his belly a person needs to do what Michael Jackson had already done with his life and career. For those who wanted to see him back on top, his lack of passion for his career was difficult to accept. But maybe he had given all he had to give. Maybe, after so many decades in the spotlight, it was finally time for us to just leave him alone.
Turning Fifty
A middle-aged man wearing pajamas is being pushed in a wheelchair down a busy sidewalk by an assistant. He is gaunt and frail-looking. His skin seems to be peeling. His fingernails are a sickening shade of yellow – or is it brown? A surgical mask covers the bottom half of his face, large sunglasses shield the top. He is wearing a red Marines baseball cap. Meanwhile, three children walk ahead of him, a girl with two boys. They seem happy – all three adorable in colorful clothing. They wear large caps but, apparently, not in a deliberate attempt to shield their faces. ‘Slow down,’ the man commands in a hoarse whisper. However, they ignore him as they quickly cross the street. Once on the other side of the street and in front of a book store, they wait for the man in the wheelchair. When he is finally rolled their way, one of the children dutifully holds the door as the man is wheeled into the store. ‘Thank you,’ he says weakly. Then, just as the three children are about to enter the establishment, a wide-eyed stranger approaches the smallest of them. ‘Was that... ?’ she begins to ask. The boy is about to answer when a large man comes between him and the woman. ‘No. That was not,’ says the man as he takes the boy by the hand and rushes him into the store. But then the young boy turns to his inquisitor, smiles broadly and mouths just two words: Michael Jackson.
The scene I’ve just described was typical of what went on in Michael’s life almost every day while he lived in Las Vegas, Nevada, in 2008. For the most part, he spent his time wandering about the city with a gaggle of bodyguards and his three precocious children: Prince Michael I (eleven), Paris (ten) and Prince Michael II (six). He was almost always in a wheelchair, wearing a bizarre outfit and appearing to be at death’s door. Meanwhile, his record-breaking career seemed to be a thing of the past. By all accounts, he was still not motivated to do anything. He had no real plans for the future. He was deeply in debt. As he reached his fiftieth birthday on 29 August, one question sprung to mind: How in the world did it come to this for a kid from Gary who once had it all?
At this time – the summer of 2008 – Michael had a deal pending to do a series of shows in Las Vegas. However, he still didn’t seem to want to work. In his defence, the standards of excellence he set for himself so many years before were so high, they were practically impossible for him to meet. He put it best to me more than ten years ago. ‘When I go onstage, people expect a lot. They want the dancing, they want the spins, and all. They want the whole package. But that’s a lot of work. I don’t know how much longer I can do it. I don’t know when it’ll just not be possible.’
It’s true that Jackson couldn’t go on tour doing anything less than what he did many years ago, his impact on our culture was so great. However, at fifty, he had arthritic-like trouble with his knees, his ankles... even the joints in his fingers. ‘This is why he uses the wheelchair,’ said a source at the time. ‘He’s breaking down in so many ways. It’s hard to imagine him on stage. In fact, it’s hard for him to imagine it. And if he can’t see it, no one else ever will...
‘But what’s lacking these days is probably the most important part of any entertainer – his self-confidence,’ continued the same source. ‘It’s what gave him his drive, his creative spirit and voice. But it seems to be gone.’
Also, it seemed that Michael believed the masses of fans who once flocked to his concerts wouldn’t be there for him in 2008. He feared his followers had been turned against him by the trial. For instance, at a meeting with a promoter in Las Vegas, he expressed amazement by the success of the re-release of Thriller. ‘I’m really shocked,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe people actually bought it. I heard it sold more than three million copies. Can you believe it?’
‘It was the first time I had ever known him to be surprised by something doing well,’ said an int
imate at that meeting. ‘He was usually surprised by things that did not go well. Plus, Thriller has already sold more than 100 million copies, so another three doesn’t seem like much. That he thinks it is suggests that his expectations are pretty low.’
To commemorate the occasion of his fiftieth birthday, a CD called King of Pop was released worldwide. British fans compiled the track listing on certain media websites. Basically, it was eighteen of the best Jackson songs as selected by the public. Also, he was the guest vocalist on a song called ‘Hold My Hand’, by a recording artist called Akon. He sounded terrific on it, suggesting that the voice was still there if he was at all interested in using it. But, alas, touring still seemed out of the question. Nothing would have been more embarrassing to him than announcing a tour and then having it suffer weak ticket sales.
Another former associate of Jackson’s saw him in August 2008 at the Treasure Island Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas where he and his children saw a performance of Mystèry by Cirque du Soleil. ‘I had heard that he’d recently purchased a home outside of Poughkeepsie, New York, for a million dollars,’ said that source. ‘It’s in the suburbs, in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. Seemed strange to me, but... that’s Michael. However, when I asked him about it, he said, “I think someone in my organization bought that for me. I don’t know... Sounds nice, though. I’ll bet the kids would love it.” He truly did not know the details.
‘I asked about Neverland and if he was happy that it’d been saved. [Jackson’s abandoned hideaway had been scheduled for foreclosure because he was in default on the $25 million loan. But an investment group called Colony Capital LLC purchased the loan at the last minute and saved it.] “Neverland? Why, I don’t know anything at all about Neverland,” Michael told me. “That’s someone else’s problem now, I think. But I’m not sure... ”
‘Then I asked him if he had any plans,’ continued the source. ‘ “For what?” he said. “For the future. Recordings? Tours?” By this time, I could see that he was agitated by my questions. “Look, my plan is to see every magic show in Las Vegas,” he finally said. “That’s my plan.” Then he turned and walked away.’
‘He seems very sad and alone,’ another source told me in the summer of 2008. ‘It’s as if all of those years of success really mean nothing. It was just all fast living and bad personal decisions and hard, hard work. He’s got the Beatles catalog and that’s worth a lot, but it’s all on paper – money put aside for his kids. If he liquidates it, he’d probably spend it all, so it’s good that it’s tied up in loans and other fiscal problems.
‘Thank goodness for his kids, though,’ continued the source. ‘They give him hope.’
From all accounts, Michael was at his best when parenting his children, Prince Michael I, Paris and Prince Michael II, also known as Blanket. All three are very stunning, with high cheekbones and deep-set features. Michael saw a lot of his youthful self in his children, especially in Prince Michael I. All three have musical ability and a sense of style, but he always thought Prince Michael I would be the next star in the family.
For a man so youth-obsessed, so intent on fashioning himself as a child long after he was an adult, many people in his life feared that 29 August would perhaps be a day of reckoning for Michael Jackson. He was middle-aged – past it, really – and there was no turning back now.
‘He spends a lot of time looking in the mirror,’ revealed one of his associates at the time. ‘I think he has certain regrets – like the plastic surgery. “I don’t know what I was thinking back then,” he recently said. “Everyone makes mistakes when they’re young, I guess. But I still look okay, don’t I? I mean, for forty?” I said, “Mike, you’re gonna be fifty.” He gave me an impish smile and said, “It all went by so fast, didn’t it? I wish I could do it all over again, I really do.” ’
Michael made no plans to celebrate his fiftieth, other than in a small, private way with his children. And this time there was no big interview with me to commemorate the occasion. As it happened, turning fifty was not a big deal to Michael anyway. ‘He was sort of fine with it,’ one of his brothers told me. ‘I don’t know... in a sense I was hoping for more of a reaction, I guess. Even despair. At least that’s a real reaction, you know? It’s like that goddamn trial deadened him inside. I want to say, “Mike, wake up! It’s passing you by. Get with it, bro. Live your life before it’s too late.” ’
Gone Too Soon
1958 – 2009
On the afternoon of 25 June 2009, I was tooling along in my convertible on the 101 North freeway from Burbank back to my home in Encino – into which I’d just moved two months earlier. The top was down, the California sun was blazing and, as always, my music was blasting loud. On this afternoon it was ‘I Wanna Be Where You Are’, by Michael, a great little song he recorded for Motown in 1971. I remember thinking that it sounded particularly vibrant and exciting on that afternoon. What an astounding performance from a thirteen-year-old kid. I remembered the day it was released. At the time, I wondered if he would ever leave the Jackson 5. No, I had decided; they were just too close. ‘Corner of the Sky’ was next on my CD’s line-up. By the time that one was issued in 1973, The Jackson 5’s career at Motown was in a steady nosedive, but who cared about such things back then? Certainly not me. Each brother had a chance to sing on ‘Corner of the Sky’, and for any fan of the group, that was all the proof needed to suggest that Michael wasn’t being singled out. I smiled at this memory of my youthful naïveté. As I drove along, it truly felt as if I was having a nostalgic Jackson 5 moment like no other. ‘I want my life to be something more than long,’ Michael sang as I pulled into my driveway.
As soon as I got home, the news hit that Michael had been taken to the hospital suffering from cardiac arrest. I was suspicious. He’d been rehearsing for a series of fifty concerts to take place from July to March 2010 in London – his great comeback, or so it was hoped. It was a lot to take on, and anyone who knew Michael knew that when he was in preparation for these kinds of endeavors he was prone to severe panic attacks. I recalled what happened when he was supposed to do just one show at the Beacon Theater in New York a number of years ago. He had a panic attack that resembled a heart attack, and it was not only about the performance at hand – a single show! – but also about his failing marriage to Lisa Marie Presley. He ended up in the hospital. His handler, Bob Jones, told the media it was some sort of rare rib infection. When I asked Bob about it years later, he confessed, ‘We thought it was a heart attack. It wasn’t. He simply lost it because of the circumstances of his life at that time. The boy was totally messed up, that’s all I can tell you.’ I figured this latest scare was more of the same.
I wish it had been.
The news that Michael Joseph Jackson had died after being rushed to the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center hit most people with the kind of defining-moment impact of President John F Kennedy’s death, or that of his son, John-John, or Princess Diana... John Lennon. People will always remember what they were doing when they learned of Michael’s passing. I immediately went to work reporting the story for CBS News.
The news cycle was fast moving and difficult to reconcile, especially when it became clear that, probably, Michael’s cardiac arrest was the result of a drug overdose. Numerous vials of the dangerous anesthesia Diprivan (propofol) were found in his rented Holmby Hills estate shortly after a nurse named Cherilyn Lee went on the record as saying that Jackson had asked her to seek it out for him. It is taken intravenously and should never be administered outside a hospital. Many doctors went on the record saying that while they have heard of the drug being abused by health care professionals, who have ready access to it, they had not heard of it being used as a sleep aid medication. ‘Propofol induces coma, it does not induce sleep,’ Dr Zeev Kain, the chair of the anesthesiology department at the University of California Irvine, said. ‘I can put you in a coma for as many days as you want. And, in fact, in intensive care units who have patients who are on a ventilator, that’s on
e of the drugs they use.’ Dr Rakesh Marwah, of the anesthesiology department at the Stanford University School of Medicine, added that the drug can definitely lead to cardiac arrest without proper monitoring. ‘Propofol slows down the heart rate and slows down the respiratory rate and slows down the vital functions of the body,’ he explained. Not enough carbon dioxide exits the body; not enough oxygen enters. And the situation can cause the heart to abruptly stop. ‘[It is] as dangerous as it comes,’ Kain said. ‘You will die if you will give yourself, or if somebody will give you, propofol and you’re not in the proper medical hands.’
‘I want it to hit my vein and I want to be asleep,’ Michael had told his nurse of the drug he so wanted, which she refused to find for him. ‘I don’t even want to wait a second for it to get into my system. I want to be knocked out, asleep.’
It made sense, even if it was chilling. Michael probably would have paid a million dollars for a good night’s sleep. He’d suffered from insomnia for many years, but that was the least of his problems. He also had lupus, the chronic autoimmune disease that plagued him for years. Of course, he had vitiligo, even if there was some dispute as to whether it was genetic or a form brought on as a consequence of skin bleaching agents he’d used over the years. There were other physical ailments as well having to do with his back, his knees and other problems associated with a dancer’s body as it ages. Also, much of the plastic surgery he’d had over the years began to affect him as he aged. He was deeply ashamed of the way he looked as a result of the plastic surgery – much of which he regretted – and the ravages of lupus, so he would therefore dress in strange outfits to hide his body, with standard-issue surgical masks and hats and sunglasses. The stranger he looked, the more attention he attracted; and the more attention he generated, the greater his unhappiness. It was a vicious cycle, and not one with which he was unfamiliar. On top of everything else, he suffered from severe bouts of depression. It’s no wonder he was given so many different kinds of prescriptions.
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