You Are Not Alone_Michael, Through a Brother’s Eyes (43 page)

Nanny Grace had already explained to me that the current security set-up wasn’t working for him and I suggested to him that he needed people who were not afraid of anyone and shared his trust in God. I knew the sons of Louis Farrakhan, leader of the Nation of Islam, and he had a team of bodyguards ideally suited for the job. Sure of what he had read about Islam, and everything Muhammad Ali had told him, Michael liked this idea but 9/11 was still America’s open wound. He knew the distinction between true Muslims and the extremists who abuse Islam, but the matter had to be handled discreetly.

‘You’re going to have a set of new suits and ties with black faces around you – no one will notice,’ I reassured him.

Of course, people did notice, which led to suggestions that ‘fundamentalists’ surrounded him and would brainwash him. People forgot that Michael’s faith in God was too strong to be swayed by any movement and the Nation was there for its effective security, not any kind of ideology. But the fuss amused us both and we wondered what Ali would make of it all. Anyhow, after a meeting in Vegas with the Nation of Islam, Michael was happy with the people who called him ‘Sir’ and gave him respect. He felt comfortable that everything was locked down again.

Meanwhile, our brother Randy had started working for Michael as his right-hand man and once more they shared the closeness they had enjoyed at Hayvenhurst before Randy left. Randy’s contacts led Michael to defence attorney Tom Mesereau, a man unfazed by the celebrity culture and uninterested in grandstanding. His only concern was ‘the integrity, decency, honour, charity, innocence and vindication’ of Michael. There was no doubt we had the right man for the job.

The moment I met this unflappable character and heard his optimism on how each witness would fold under cross-examination, I felt a sliver of hope that had been impossible to find in Sneddon’s injustice. That hope would grow during the trial as Tom exposed a prosecution case built on sand. He’d also found out that the 1993 accuser Jordie Chandler had refused to testify and ‘even if he had, we had witnesses who were going to say he told them it never happened and he would never talk to his parents again for what they made him say.’ (The boy hadn’t spoken to his parents for 11 years.) No wonder Michael felt emboldened by Tom’s presence as the case went to trial.

It was the end of February 2005.

COME DAY ONE OF THE TRIAL,
the family were at Neverland. Michael rose early to make sure he was mentally prepared, his hair done, his costume pristine, and his makeup perfect, as applied by Karen Faye. Everyone was pensive; everyone ate lightly. It was hard not to view the whole scene as some backstage venue, waiting
to walk on for a show we never wanted to do. And this was our time to find out what we were made of as a family, as brothers and sisters. Everything we had ever avoided or not confronted came down to the following weeks because this was about looking an ugly reality in the face; it wasn’t about superficial fame or success, or being the best or Michael being the King of Pop – we had to leave all those cloaks at the door. Inside that courtroom it was about raw human truth – the good, the bad and the ugly – and being out of control.

On that first day, as we sat inside Sneddon’s house of cards, I looked at Michael, dressed in a military jacket with red arm-band, and was amazed by how crystal-sharp he seemed; arriving with an attitude that said: ‘Bring it on. Give it your best shot’. He walked in there head held high … and smelling good. That was because he wore a Dolce & Gabbana cologne with a red top that was my favourite, too. If I wear it today around Prince and Paris, they say, ‘You smell just like Daddy!’

There was one day when we were driving into court and Michael was spraying it all over his clothes in a swirl of mist. Mother – who complained that she was allergic to perfumes – started coughing. ‘You all putting on too much! I cannot breathe! Stop it now …’

Michael started laughing and sprayed some more. ‘It smells good, Mother … you want some, Jermaine?!’

So I added a quick squirt to my neck. Mother tutted, tried to keep a serious face and then couldn’t help but smile at the wind up. Moments like that always did help break the tension that preceded a day in court.

On the days when I travelled with Michael in the black SUV, security sat up front and Joseph was seated behind. Mother, Michael and I shared the same row. Leaving Neverland, there were always lots of fans at the gate, holding up their banners of love and innocence, cheering us off. I’ll never forget the moment when Michael made the driver stop because he’d spotted an image a woman was holding out. He lowered the window, shook her hand
and took from her a photo of a baby that caught his eye. ‘It’s beautiful … what a beautiful child,’ he said.

‘I love you Michael!’ she said.

‘WE LOVE YOU MICHAEL!’ the entire crowd cheered, and we pulled away. He often took the seat on the right against the blackened window, ear-phones plugged in, listening to music. One time, during that first week, I passed him my CD player and ear-phones. ‘Listen to this … it’s a strong song,’ I said.

‘Run Johnny Run’ was a song I’d written for Tito before any of this police stuff happened, but its theme seemed kind of apt because this secret soundtrack to our ride into court was about a black man falsely accused of raping a white woman in an old southern town and ‘Johnny’ needs to run because the whole town’s convinced he did it. As those first lyrics say:
‘You telling me and I know you didn’t touch her/But the white man don’t trust ya/He’ll bring you in and handcuff ya/Tie you up on a tree and then cut ya/All the things said is what they say/It goes around and become heresay …’

Michael was listening as he looked out the window, foot tapping to the chorus. By the time we took the off-ramp to the court house, he was playing it for a second time (not that anyone would have told Tom Mesereau because he didn’t want no race talk in the public arena). As the SUV pulled up and security jumped out, Michael handed me back the ear-phones. ‘Great story. Would make a great video!’ he said, mischievously.

‘Are you ready, Michael?’ asked his security, interrupting the spark of an idea.

One. Two. Three. Open the doors. And the silence of a Santa Maria morning was broken by 100 fluttering cameras, the cheers of fans and yelled-out questions from the media as Michael took his composed walk into court.

THE COURT HAD ALLOCATED SIX SEATS
for the family so we supported Michael in shifts.

When I was there, I sat on the front row behind him, maybe seven feet away, my eyes boring into the back of his head,
wondering what he was thinking. I did that with everyone as I scanned the room. I guessed at expressions on different jurors’ faces, and watched when they did or did not make notes. I stared at Judge Melville and wondered if he realised how he wasn’t really presiding over this débâcle: God was. I looked at Mother, who attended every day without fail, poised and beautiful in her vigil to the truth. I don’t think I truly understood her strength until now: she was crushed inside but never showed it. Her pride and belief in her son were evident to all and I have this indelible image of Michael in the corridors, holding out his arm for Mother to link so that she could be steadier as she walked, and yet her very presence every day was his stability. Joseph was also there. Rock-solid in support. His stern, daily frown never gave away his innermost feelings and he was a man of few words privately, too, never voicing anything but his belief that Michael would be freed. It was that kind of certain belief that gave all of us strength, I think.

I also watched the media who packed into that room as Sneddon’s witnesses provided their lewd testimony – and journalists rushed out of the door to spread the prosecution allegations that Michael plied his ‘victims’ with alcohol, had read porn with them, had touched the boy and kept his family ‘captive’.

The media rushed to be first to break the latest evidence – and somewhere in the stampede, trampled into the ground, was the truth that Tom Mesereau extracted during the cross-examination. Like when it was revealed that Michael hadn’t plied anyone with alcohol but the boys had known where the wine-cellar key was kept. Or when Gavin Arvizo said, yes, that was the porn magazine Michael had used with him – only for Tom to point out its issue date was August 2003. Or when Janet Arvizo confirmed they were held ‘captive’ at Neverland – only for Tom to prove that they had left and returned on three separate occasions of their own free will. Or when Gavin told the pre-trial Grand Jury that he was molested on 7 February – but the charges at trial related to ‘some time between 20 February and 12 March 2003’.

But Tom’s greatest coup was to reveal that the Arvizo family had once sued the department store chain J. C. Penney for millions and settled for $150,000 when the mother said she was inappropriately touched by security guards after they had stopped her son for taking an item of clothing. Janet Arvizo was also charged with (and later convicted of) welfare fraud against the Government. I think the jury had this family’s measure after that.

It was actually on day one when it was obvious Sneddon had no case because his first key witness was Martin Bashir. I couldn’t believe that his warped documentary, which was shown to the jury, was the foundation to the case but, apparently, it demonstrated ‘motive’.

And people wondered why we called it ‘trial by media’.

THE COURT CASE DIDN’T JUST IMPACT
on Michael’s reputation: it hurt his finances, too. His focus had to be on clearing his name for 18 months, not making music, and that pushed him further into debt, especially after the cancellation of the
Invincible
tour had cost him at least $100 million. Meanwhile, his bank loan had risen, with interest, to $272 million and Neverland cost $1 million a month to run, which
didn’t
include payments on a $23 million line of credit taken out against the ranch. It was clear to me that since the
Invincible
album, Michael had started to feel the squeeze even if matters were not yet at crisis point, because the music catalogue was providing him with a yearly income of $25 million. The problem was that his spending matched what was coming in.

During the trial, I had to go to Bahrain for a few days. I stayed in touch with Mother and Tom by phone, but didn’t tell anyone I was there to do a deal that would ease Michael’s financial worries. Once he was free of court, I wanted him to be free of debt’s burden, too. That was what I was aiming for as I spent time with Prince Abdullah, the King’s second son. My good friend Ali Qamber had introduced us. He had explained that the Prince was producing a local artist but was keen to expand not only a record label but a
leisure entertainment arm, too. Michael had tried to do this with Kingdom Entertainment years earlier and his vision for hotels, theme parks and movies never tired – it represented ‘the next level’ in a direction away from music. Also, after his experience of American justice, he had been talking about finding sanctuary in the East with the children once the trial was over.

The timing of everything presented an opportunity to bring together the Prince and his wealth and Michael and I as collaborators in not only music but movies. This was a win-win, but more importantly, a chance for him to get back on track.

When I arrived in the Bahraini capital of Manama, Ali drove me to a little recording studio. He told me that the Prince was ‘excited to meet a member of the Jackson family.’

‘That’s a good starting point!’ I joked, thinking he was humouring me. But when I arrived, the Prince rolled out a Jackson 5 poster and asked me to sign it, then started to talk about his musical ambitions and bank-rolling a whole new venture under a new label and company called Two Seas. Next thing I knew, we were sitting in the desert in one of those red royal tents, signing contracts to share the company between him, Michael and me with a 33.3 per cent share each.

When I returned to California, I put Michael on the phone to Prince Abdullah one morning on the ride to court. They spoke excitedly about plans for the future, exchanged numbers and, from then on, remained in regular contact.

DURING MY TIME AWAY, IT WAS
obvious from looking at Michael that sitting in court listening to lie after lie was a withering experience. It was, for him, the legal equivalent of putting a man in the stocks to have everyone and anyone throw lies at him.

Often, he returned to the ranch in the evening and locked himself away in his room until the next morning. On security advice he had also started to wear a bulletproof vest – the crowds outside the court were growing, and who knew what kind of nut was out there? The mere fact he was
having
to wear one did nothing for his spirits.

His case was the biggest news story in the world. We were told there were 1,800 accredited reporters and producers outside, and the media tents looked like the command centre for a military operation. On another corner of the court premises stood a mass of Michael’s fans, with their banners and flags. And in the middle stood Michael, whose tolerance for the whole circus had long expired. His exasperation had first blown that day in hospital in his pyjamas, but I also remember the day when he was fed up of all the rules and formalities that had dominated his life for almost five months.

I was sitting behind him when he tentatively raised a hand to the judge, like the kid in class interrupting a lesson to ask a question, only Michael wanted to be excused to go to the restroom. It was more of a raised index finger, held at eye-level, but he seemed unsure whether he could interrupt proceedings or not. When he went unseen, he lowered his hand and waited for another minute or so. Then, he tried again, but Judge Melville never acknowledged his gesture and this must have been a time during Tom’s cross-examination because he wasn’t next to him to ask.

Fed up at going unnoticed, Michael’s bladder reached the point of not caring, and he quietly got up, turned, and tapped me on the shoulder. I followed him out of the door and, surrounded by his security, we walked down the hallway and up the steps to the restroom. We left the guard at the door and Michael rushed into a stall and peed like a racehorse.