Before You Judge Me

by Tavis Smiley

  Still unwilling to go to the propofol, Murray injects Michael with two milligrams of the benzodiazepine drug Versed, another heavy sedative.

  Tossing and turning, Michael grows frantic. He wants sleep. He needs sleep. He cannot tolerate this state of insomnia when all the good feelings are turning bad. His mind is filling with fear. His mind is too active. His mind goes back to the words of Hamlet: “By a sleep to say we end / The heartache and the thousand natural shocks / That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation / Devoutly to be wished.” He wants to end the heartache of this free-floating anxiety; he wants to stop the thousand natural shocks; he wants the consummation brought by sweet unconsciousness. He thinks of the words of Henry IV, who cries, “O sleep, O gentle sleep, / Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, / That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down / And steep my senses in forgetfulness?” Michael wants to forget the agony of sleeplessness. He wants to be comforted by nature’s soft nurse. He wants to sleep.

  Dark night turns light. At dawn Michael is wide-awake. At 5 a.m. Murray gives him two more milligrams of Ativan, but the Ativan has no effect. Michael wants the one substance he knows will work. He wants his milk.

  But Murray, convinced that this strong combination of drugs will eventually prove effective, still refuses.

  The clock keeps ticking.

  Michael’s anxiety keeps building.

  Now it is 6 a.m., the bright sunshine blocked by the curtains.

  Now it is six thirty.

  Michael is still awake. Michael is more miserable than ever.

  Now it is seven thirty.

  Murray reaches for the Versed and injects Michael with another two milligrams. This has to work.

  It doesn’t.

  Eight a.m. Nine a.m.

  Michael still cannot sleep, cannot abide the anxiety.

  Ten a.m.

  Michael is frantic.

  Ten forty a.m.

  Michael has been up all night, all morning. Michael is insisting that Murray abandon his fruitless plan and give him what he needs. It is as though he is re-creating the drama in the song “Morphine”: “Today he wants it twice as bad… Yesterday you had his trust / Today he’s taking twice as much.”

  Murray capitulates.

  Using the IV drip, he pushes twenty-five milligrams of propofol into Michael’s veins.

  At long last, the great artist finally goes under.

  Little more than a half hour later, Murray is distracted. He makes three phone calls. The first is to his office in Las Vegas; it lasts thirty-one minutes. The second call, a short one, is to a patient. The third call is to a cocktail waitress in Houston. It is during the third call—shortly before noon—that the physician finally realizes that something is terribly wrong. Michael has stopped breathing. The doctor drops the receiver and runs to Michael’s side, where he frantically begins performing CPR.

  It is too late. Michael has fallen into a full cardiac arrest.

  At twenty-one minutes past noon, 911 is called.

  At twenty-six minutes past noon, paramedics arrive.

  At fifty-seven minutes past noon, paramedics pronounce Michael dead.

  He is taken in an ambulance to the nearby UCLA Medical Center, where all further attempts to revive him prove futile.

  Experts will later speculate that in a hospital setting—with a heart monitor, blood pressure monitor, and defibrillator, none of which were present at Carolwood—his life could have been saved.

  The official time of death is given as 2:26 p.m.

  It is a little after midnight in London when fans, counting down the days before Michael’s opening show at the O2, begin hearing reports. Texts and emails furiously fly over the city. Social media blows up. And everywhere the reaction is incredulity. It must be a hoax.

  In Tokyo it is already Friday morning. Tens of millions of people awaken to the news. Searching for the truth, hoping against hope that it is merely a ruse, anxiety-ridden Michael fans crash website after website, typing in their queries and requests: “Is Michael dead?” “Tell me this is some sick joke.” “Affirm that Michael is alive.”

  Johannesburg, Moscow, São Paulo, Bayreuth, Berlin, Lisbon, Istanbul. Continent by continent, country by country, city by city, village by village, the news sinks in. The tragic truth can no longer be denied.

  On that same Thursday, the day of his death, I am traveling to where my journey—as well as Michael’s—began. I am in our home state of Indiana, where I’ve been invited to address a body of educators in Indianapolis. As I’m walking from the car to the auditorium, my cell phone goes ballistic with a series of messages, all saying the same thing: Michael Jackson is dead at fifty. I stagger to the podium. I have no choice but to tell the assemblage, “It pains me beyond measure to bring this news. But I can’t even think about beginning my lecture today without acknowledging the loss of our most beloved native son.” When I announce the death of Michael, there are gasps and cries. Grown men and women openly weep. I weep.

  When the weeping is over, I have no choice but to deliver my talk. I manage to get through the ordeal, but I’m not all right. I’m not all there. I can’t stop thinking of Michael. And neither can the rest of the world.

  26

  Before You Judge Me

  The ensuing drama brought on by Michael’s demise mirrored the preceding drama of his life on earth.

  The autopsy report gave the cause of death as “acute propofol intoxication” and indicated that, surprisingly, in most respects Michael was in good health. The report stated further, “Full patient monitoring is required anytime propofol is given. The most essential monitor is a person trained in anesthesia and in resuscitation who is continuously present and not involved in the ongoing surgical/diagnostic procedure.” Dr. David Adams, the anesthesiologist whom Michael and Murray interviewed in Las Vegas but didn’t hire, could have been that person.

  Two and a half years later, on November 29, 2011, Dr. Conrad Murray was sentenced to four years for involuntary manslaughter. He was released after serving two years in the Men’s Central Jail in downtown Los Angeles.

  On October 2, 2013, Michael’s mother, Katherine Jackson, lost a $1.5 billion negligence lawsuit against AEG, claiming that the promoters were responsible for her son’s death.

  Amid a storm of controversies, Michael’s estate, administered by his onetime attorney John Branca and music executive John McClain, paid off his enormous debts and, through a brilliant recrafting of the Michael Jackson brand, earned millions for Michael’s beneficiaries named in his will: his three children and his mother, charged with their care.

  This book began with a simple query: what happened in the last sixteen weeks of Michael’s life that caused his tragically premature death? After scrutinizing the litany of facts and poring over thousands upon thousands of pages—books, articles, and court transcripts—I find myself moving toward a conclusion that inevitably takes the form of still another question.

  Given the extraordinary obstacles he faced, the stresses that pulled him apart, how did Michael survive as long as he did? How did he manage to negotiate the pernicious psychological and cultural conundrums he faced as a hypersensitive child, vulnerable teenager, and wildly conflicted adult?

  In other words, what gave Michael the fortitude to prevail for over four decades as an artist of international stature and influence?

  To answer the question, I accept Michael’s admonition when, in his song “Childhood,” he wrote, “Before you judge me, try hard to love me.”

  Loving Michael means understanding Michael. And understanding Michael means opening our hearts to both the luminous beauty and frightful pain inherent in his life story. All we can do is go back and attempt to answer the most haunting and essential question of all:

  Who, exactly, is Michael Jackson?

  Michael is six and he is thinking that the ability to sing is the greatest gift God has ever given him. He can’t understand this gift as anything other than a divine present. Only months b
efore, his mother pointed out to his father that Michael can sing, and he has recently joined the family band. Now, though, he is going to sing a solo in front of the elementary school where he attends first grade. He chooses “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” because it is his favorite song from a film he has recently seen, The Sound of Music. He is too young to describe the emotions flooding his heart, too young to use the word “inspiring.” But he is clearly inspired. In his simple white shirt and black trousers, he faces the students and teachers with uncanny confidence. The confidence does not come from any prior experience. It does not come from arrogance. Young Michael radiates confidence because of his belief that he has been chosen as the right messenger—even the righteous messenger—to tell this story of hope. His voice never wavers, his pitch never falters. The pure beauty of his voice leaves his audience stunned. When he has sung the last perfect note, the onlookers rise to their feet and shout their approval. At this moment, he realizes his life’s calling. He has never felt more alive.

  He has never felt more alive, more excited, than when he arrives in Los Angeles at the end of the sixties and finds himself shuttling back and forth between the luxurious homes of Berry Gordy and Diana Ross. In the privileged seclusion of Beverly Hills, there is no harsh winter, no visible poverty. Given the sensational string of number one Jackson 5 hits, there seems to be no limit to the group’s potential. In a matter of months, Michael’s world has turned from gray to golden. For the first time, he is reading books about the great artists who express the beauty of human life in highly personal ways. He cannot help but wonder if he himself can grow into such an artist. The question seems to be answered when Michael, just barely a teenager, has his first solo hit, “Got to Be There.” A deep equivocation emerges: his devotion to his family on one hand, his passion for self-expression on the other.

  He has never felt more alive, more curious, than when, seeking creative freedom, he and his brothers leave the brilliant Motown producers and writers, whom he has studied for years, and sign with CBS/Epic records, where they are teamed with the equally brilliant writer-producers Gamble and Huff. Michael’s concentration intensifies. His creative courage is galvanized as he realizes his own ability to craft a sound all his own. The studio becomes his dojo, and before the age of twenty, he becomes a young master.

  Excitement is in the air, and Michael has never felt more alive than when he finds himself on a spectacular movie set at Astoria Studios in Queens, New York, where, costumed as the Scarecrow, hungry for knowledge—a theatrical metaphor close to his heart—he becomes the breakout star in The Wiz. Excitement gains even more momentum when, in reading the film’s script, he recognizes that spiritual teaching can come from outside the narrow confines of his childhood church. From his costar Diana Ross and the film’s screenwriter, Joel Schumacher, Michael learns about the teachings of Werner Erhard and the est movement, which stresses self-reliance, self-assertion, and self-belief.

  The Scarecrow does, in fact, locate his intelligence. His intelligence has always been a part of him; it simply required recognition. The Wiz, as played by Richard Pryor, may be a false guru, but Quincy Jones, the musical force behind the film, is real. His cultural knowledge is vast. Michael taps him as his next great teacher, and together they dance into the disco era with a seamless, sensuous sound that will put Michael’s career on a trajectory that sets the pop music world aflame.

  Excitedly, thrillingly, Michael tells us to get on the floor and “dance with me.” We accept. We dance. We follow his every fabulous move.

  Michael is excited, even thrilled, to finally separate himself from a tyrannical father, dependent brothers, and a church whose doctrines he no longer believes. He is nearly thirty when, rich beyond reason, he finally finds the strength to leave his parents’ house and create a home entirely his own. For Michael, home is a fairy tale. Home is an amusement park. Home is a hideaway. Home is a child’s playhouse. Home is a comforting dream, a place where he can act the fool and engage in silly pranks. Home is where he welcomes whomever he likes, anyone and everyone who excites his imagination and rewards him with warm feelings of acceptance. Aging movie stars. Children. Gurus. Families that act as surrogates for his own warring family.

  Michael is exhilarated when he realizes that, after working for a decade with master musician Quincy Jones, his own musical powers have never been stronger, his own musical vision never more focused. He will surpass the seemingly unsurpassable. He will go beyond the scope of Off the Wall, Thriller, and Bad. He will find daring new collaborators and create daring new work. He will move from the incandescent Dangerous to the even more ambitious HIStory. He will join and unjoin the genres in a way that no one has ever done before. He will push the boundaries of musical film. He will don fat suits and play the part of his sworn enemies, wooing and winning his public with the sheer dazzle of his dance. Creatively, he will no longer require the support of a strongman—a Joseph, a Berry, or a Quincy. He will be out there alone, on his own, and he will continue to create.

  His spirit is soaring when he is assured that the vicious attacks against him—attacks emanating from avaricious predators looking to extort him for millions, attacks accusing him of being perversely abnormal—will finally be silenced when he does what he has long sought to do: create a normal family of his own. His determination will defeat all barriers, all skeptics. When one wife proves incompatible, he will try again. When a second wife is equally incompatible, his drive is not diminished. On his own enigmatic terms, he succeeds. His focus is not on a spouse; it is on progeny, his own beloved brood of children who will finally assuage the terrible loneliness that has haunted him since childhood, children who will be raised to respect the values he himself so deeply respects: love, tolerance, and compassion.

  His excitement has reached new heights. With all his heart he is feeling that this is a man he can trust, a documentarian whose empathetic portrayal of Princess Diana turned world opinion in her favor. The princess was suddenly viewed with great sympathy. After years of being brutalized by the press, Michael yearns for the same sympathy, the same turnaround in his favor. For eight months he allows British filmmaker Martin Bashir full access. Michael’s advisors warn him that such openness is ill-advised and even potentially dangerous. Michael doesn’t agree. It is 2003. A decade has passed since the accusation that led to a torrent of negative press whose impact, in Michael’s mind, has permanently altered the world’s perception of him. For all the right reasons, he wants that perception changed. He wants to be seen, understood, and loved for who he is. Michael knows that his openhearted approach, his trust in a documentarian who unabashedly expresses his admiration for him, will result in a much-needed makeover of his image.

  The television film, Living with Michael Jackson, becomes a scandal. The filmmaker portrays Michael in the worst possible light. Remarks are pulled out of context, and Michael’s behavior is made to seem suspect, if not criminal. Soon after, criminal charges are filed and Michael is forced to stand trial for sixteen weeks, during which the evidence against him falls apart. He is acquitted on every count.

  At trial’s end, Michael collapses. He leaves the Western world behind. There is speculation that this ordeal, the most painful of his life, will destroy his spirit and forever dampen his creative fire.

  The fire is back, the spirit is renewed, and in the few days just before his death, Michael has never felt more alive. Michael is thinking. Michael is feeling. In his mind, in his heart, in the deepest part of his soul, the dragons have been slayed. The poisonous doubts have been purged. His identification as an artist and the power and purity of his art have overcome the negative forces.

  He is thinking of everything that has transpired since he announced the This Is It shows in London sixteen weeks earlier—the same number of weeks it took to endure his 2005 trial, after which he emerged victorious. Now he’s certain that he will emerge victorious again.

  After three brilliant rehearsals, Michael is back in the groove. While the revolvin
g door of advisors, managers, and promoters may have made him dizzy at first, he has now finally found stability.

  He is excited that a good portion of his extraordinary body of work will once again be on display for the world to see. There are the beloved songs, the bewitching dances, the ingenious short films. There’s the full range of every emotion in his head and heart—anger and frustration, joy and doubt—as well as his social concerns and psychological preoccupations. Plus monsters and gangsters, happiness and hope, the vision of a decaying world, the vision of a healing world, the whole spectrum of life as it has lived inside Michael’s mind since he was a little boy.

  The show will be spectacular.

  The show will be followed by other shows, other songs and dances and movies. The classical music he will compose, the feature films he will create and star in, the pop-rock-soul albums he will release—new, fresh ideas are blossoming at a remarkably rapid rate. He perceives the world as beautiful. The world is wondrous. The world is abundant. The world is filled with endless creative possibilities.

  Michael is more alive than ever.

  Afterword

  My connection to Michael is both personal and passionate.

  It began in 1969, the year I turned five. Reared in a Pentecostal household where pop music entertainment was prohibited, I was an obedient child. But when I heard the Jackson 5’s initial run of hits, I flipped. And when I learned that, like me, the boys hailed from Indiana, I did a double flip. I crossed the line and became a lifetime fan of a sound that, although secular, struck me with sacred intensity. Michael Jackson was singing the truth.