I had been in good spirits that day, but when Sylvia entered, clearly disturbed about something else, she picked up the case, and flung it like a Frisbee, I broke. I couldn’t stop myself from crying. Shanna heard me and came out to the hall, saying, “Robyn, are you all right?” I hadn’t ever cried like that before, and certainly not in a professional setting. The partnership was irreparably destroyed.
Back at Nippy Inc., I headed to Los Angeles to meet with the Disney team on The Preacher’s Wife. Whitney’s third film was already under way, costarring Denzel Washington, who was highly respected for his films Philadelphia and Malcolm X. But in Whitney’s world things really couldn’t have been much worse. She was distracted, worn down, manipulated, and too easily taken advantage of. It seemed that no one other than Silvia and me was looking out for what was best for Whitney. Where I had once been the point of entry for everything coming in for Whitney, I was no longer able to effectively support her, because I was spending most of my time navigating the obstacle courses within her own company. Once again, Whitney had signed on to do a movie that she wasn’t ready for. Typically, in December Whitney headed to Florida or the islands. But here she was, under pressure, under extreme conditions, enduring a brutally cold winter, and doing a significant number of outdoor scenes. She could have said no and probably wished she had—she could have done a gospel album without doing a movie. Instead, she had another starring role and no growth opportunity within it for her future production goals.
Other than when Whitney and Denzel had scenes together, we didn’t spend much time with him while shooting in New Jersey. Whenever he wasn’t in a scene, he returned to his trailer. Given the temperature, no one took that personally, and we assumed that was his way of working and keeping his focus. But when we arrived in Maine, where we expected it would be even colder, the weather was balmy and we saw Denzel come alive with his happy, charismatic side. He was the consummate professional.
The shoot rekindled the kinship between Loretta Devine, Gregory Hines, and Whitney, all of whom were in Waiting to Exhale, and introduced Whitney to Jenifer Lewis, who was warm, friendly, and crazy hilarious.
Mervyn Warren, of the popular a cappella gospel group Take 6, was the film’s music supervisor. Whitney had been a fan of the group since the release of their debut album and wanted Mervyn, who had done a lot of the arranging and production on the group, to be integrally involved. In the studio Whit and Merv’s relationship was harmonious and inspiring, which wasn’t at all surprising. She was singing the music she loved the most, and it showed. I focused on the gospel side of the project. I’d spent time traveling with Angie and Debbie Winans on their debut record, Angie & Debbie, which introduced me to the world of gospel radio. A company called Gospel Centric had been hired to work the music, ensure radio play, handle marketing, and set up the most important media interviews for Whitney to do.
While we were shooting in Newark, the day came for the church scene to be filmed, and the Georgia Mass Choir arrived. We were outside shooting for most of the day, and if Whitney was outside, I had to be there as well, watching the progress and giving her extra strength by letting her see that I was freezing, too. Finally, we entered Trinity United Methodist Church, and as we thawed, Whitney changed into a gold church robe.
The director was Penny Marshall. Coming from a family of comedic creators, Penny was good-natured and effortlessly funny. The West Coaster moved about in the cold winter of Newark in an oversize parka, the fur-trimmed hood pulled up over her head. Penny came over to give Whitney the breakdown of upcoming scenes, most of which she was in, and with a lot of lines. Knowing Whitney’s voice was already going from the earlier outdoor scenes, Penny suggested, “Now, Whitney, you can take it easy. Just lip-sync and let the choir do the singing, okay?”
“Okay, Penny,” she replied.
With Penny behind the camera in the back of the church, Whitney, Silvia, and I made our way down the aisle to the front, where the members of Georgia Mass were taking their positions on the stage’s risers. I watched Whitney begin to get energized, with the church packed with cast members and extras seated in the pews. Whit strolled over to the podium, quietly rehearsing a few lines to herself. Then her mouth stopped moving as she looked out into the “congregation.” Feeling it, too, Jenifer Lewis shouted something like, “It’s already heating up in here!”
As the choir did their vocal warm-ups, Whit stood to the side of the stage for last-minute makeup touch-ups. It was a few minutes before cameras were ready to roll. Whitney’s ears tuned in as she hummed along, exercising her cords. Turning to me, she stated, “You don’t lip-sync with the Georgia Mass Choir in town.” Anyone inside that church who had never felt the spirit before sure did that day! Praise and worship filled the entire space with “Joy to the World,” “I Go to the Rock,” “Help Is on the Way,” and “I Love the Lord.” The Holy One’s presence filled me, too.
I had made my way to the back of the church near Penny and the camera crew. Penny watched the scene on the monitor, her hand raised to say “Cut!” But her body was facing one direction and her head another. She finally yelled the word cut, jangled like she’d just finished wrestling a bull. I don’t think Penny Marshall had ever been to that kind of church before!
We went to Portland for the ice skating scene, and everyone was happy about the unexpectedly mild temperature. All except the poor crew, who then had one heck of a time making snow and ice, as the pond melted.
The Preacher’s Wife soundtrack was released on November 26, 1996, debuting at the top of the gospel charts and staying there for twenty-six consecutive weeks. It was and still is the most successful gospel album of all time. I kept the lines of communication open with the Gospel Centric team working the project. Meanwhile, Arista was laser focused only on the songs that Clive had a hand in, “I Believe in You and Me,” “Somebody Bigger Than You and I,” “My Heart Is Calling,” two tracks with Shanna’s smoky-raspy flavor on backing vocals, and then the Annie Lennox–penned “Step by Step.” It was the gospel portion of the album that had the momentum, dominating the charts. Executives working the soundtrack at Gospel Centric said they were receiving zero support from Arista to build on what they had and take it into the mainstream. After all, it was the Christmas season, and who knows what could have happened if they had worked together?
Whitney was executive producer on the soundtrack. Maureen Crowe, who was consulting at Arista, called me to say that she and Roy Lott, Clive’s number two, had agreed that I should have an associate producer credit. I thought, Ain’t this some shit. They wouldn’t give me any kind of credit on The Bodyguard, but they were happy to attach my name to a gospel record they had no intention of getting behind. But instead I said, “Good looking out, Maureen, and thank you.” I had nothin’ but love for my Long Island sista. When it was all over Whitney voiced her disappointment in Arista’s lack of support, saying, “They buckled at the knees.”
Twenty
SOS
One day I was leaving the house for work when my cell rang. It was Silvia. “Robyn, it’s me. I can’t handle this. Bobby and Whitney are fighting again!” The day before, Whitney and Silvia had flown from Jersey to Atlanta so Whit could surprise her husband, who was on the road with New Edition. It was evening when they arrived at the Ritz-Carlton, and they went straight to his room, knocking and knocking on the door, but no answer. They headed down to the front desk, where Whitney requested a key to her husband’s room, but the hotel refused to grant entry. So, she paid for a room on the same floor.
When they returned upstairs, Tommy, Kenny (Bobby’s producer/bodyguard), and another guy were in the hallway. Whitney asked where her husband was. Then the door opened and Bobby emerged.
“I don’t want you here. This is my thing, my time.”
“Why didn’t you open the door when I knocked?” Whitney asked. In response, her husband moved closer and hocked a loogie directly in her face. She took o
ff down the hall in tears, Silvia by her side, Bobby following, cursing. He pushed into the room behind them, picked up a glass, and hurled it at Whitney. Reflexively, Sil pushed her out of the way, the glass narrowly missing Whit before smashing into the wall and shattering. Whitney grabbed the hotel phone to dial her father, but before she could finish dialing, Bobby snatched the receiver out of her hand, striking her on the head with it. She screamed before sinking to the floor, head in her hands.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar story. Bobby reminded me of my father, who fathered multiple children outside of his marriage and then abused my mother and falsely accused her of cheating on him, erupting into jealous, violent rages in front of us kids.
Soon after, Whitney’s security man, who was staying across the street at another hotel, was called to the Ritz-Carlton to ride with Silvia and Whit to the airport. But halfway there, Whitney changed her mind and decided to go back. Making it all even worse, the security guard was fired after Bobby accused Whitney of sleeping with him.
This sort of scenario played out again and again, eventually becoming the norm. It was confusing and sickening to watch. I couldn’t figure out why it was taking Whitney so long to come to her senses. Every time something happened, I said to myself, “This is it.” Bobby saved his worst behavior for when I wasn’t around, but the stories always made their way back to me.
The drugs didn’t help, of course. I wish I could say Whitney was focused and aware of the goings-on around her, but she was not. And I was no longer in a position to inform her or prevent any of it. When Whitney would go home, she wasn’t catching up on much-needed rest. Why do that when you can go even higher? Her marriage was extinguishing what little self-esteem she had left. She once hired an undercover detective to follow Bobby’s every move and confirm what she already knew. That time, her husband was in Los Angeles shaking it up with a well-known musician’s daughter. I was at the house when Whit gave Aunt Bae’s daughter Laurie a package with the taped evidence inside, telling her to take it downstairs and put it away. I never asked to see the video. I hoped that this time she might finally cut him loose. But again, she did nothing. I knew she was getting deeper and deeper into the drugs and I needed to help her.
The next time Whitney joined Bobby on the road, Bobbi Kris, Silvia, and Shelly came along with her. It wasn’t long before Silvia called me from her Detroit hotel room, frantic. “Robyn, you have to come. Whitney looks a mess and I can’t do anything to help her.”
“What’s she doing?”
“She’s been getting high for days and everybody on this tour is laughing at her. She looks terrible, Robyn. You have to come help her.”
In no time, I was boarding a plane.
I arrived at the hotel to find the lobby bustling with tour personnel. There were a few familiar faces, but I kept my eyes low, heading straight to Silvia’s room on the first floor, near Nip’s. As I walked through, I heard someone call my name. I turned my head and waved to one of the dancers, never breaking my stride. As I neared her door, I saw Silvia’s head peek out and then she said softly, “Come in.” Aunt Bae’s daughter Shelly and Bobbi Kris were watching television on the sofa as Silvia began her update: “Whitney doesn’t know that you’re here. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s not in her right mind.” As we headed back toward the lobby, Silvia relayed that Bobby had gotten another room on a different floor so he could shack up with some woman. Whitney suspected he was messing around, and they’d been arguing.
Silvia knocked on the door to Whitney’s room, which oddly was only about twenty feet from the lobby desk. “Whitney, open the door. It’s me, Silvia.” The door opened, and Nip turned away without noticing me. As I entered the room, she turned back and eyed me, her face defiant. I tried to think of the right thing to say, but no words came to mind. The room was a narrow space, with tacky, second-rate décor—hardly the luxury accommodation to which we had become accustomed. She looked unkempt, drawn, her weave dry and pulled back sloppily.
I wanted to hug her, to pull her to me and take her out of there. I embraced her and she didn’t resist, but her body was limp, as though she couldn’t really feel me. “Hi, Robyn,” she said, drugs in her voice.
“We’ve been hearing all kinds of stuff so I came to check on you and make sure you were all right. Silvia said she needed help and we should bring you home.”
“Really? I need to go home?” she replied, looking at Silvia.
I pulled up a chair and sat, scanning the room, thinking of the best way to move Whitney out of there discreetly. I whispered to Silvia, “Let’s take her down to your room.”
But before we could move, in walked Bobby, belligerent. “Look at you. You look a mess,” he said to Nip. Then, spotting me, he said, “What the fuck is she doing here? You called her?”
Whitney’s pathetic response: “No, I didn’t call her here.”
I jumped in. “I came because I got a call that Nip isn’t doing well and needs to go home.”
This was a chance for Bobby to show that he cared about his wife, my friend. Or at least an out for him so he could continue practicing his typical behavior unhindered. Instead, he asked, “Nippy, do you need to go home?” It was clear what he wanted her answer to be.
“No, I don’t need to go home,” she answered, turning to me. “You need to go home, Robyn.”
“I flew here because I needed to know that you were all right. I’m looking at you and you are not all right. You need to get out of here, Nip.”
She just peered at me and said, “I’m fine.” I rose, walked out of the door, and flew back to Jersey.
Upon my return, I filled in Mr. Houston and Donna on Whitney’s condition, adding that there was no one there to provide her security other than Bobby’s “bodyguard.” But after telling them, I didn’t hear another word about it.
I stayed in close contact with Silvia, keeping my two-way pager powered on and next to me through the day and night. Sure enough, one morning Silvia phoned me in a panic, saying she couldn’t find Whitney. They were at some hotel in a remote part of the country and now Whitney was missing. I asked, “Where’s Bobby?” She told me that he, along with the rest of the tour, had already left that location, taking Krissi and Shelly with them. I stayed on the phone while Sil asked the front desk staff if they had seen Whitney Houston.
Silvia said that she would call back. When she did, it was from a taxi on her way to the airport. She had learned that Whitney had had the hotel book her a flight to Miami and arrange a car to take her to the airport. Silvia immediately phoned the airline, asking them to hold the flight. When Silvia arrived at the airport, they had isolated Whitney safely in a private room. Silvia took her into the bathroom, cleaned her up, helped her change into fresh clothes, and added a touch of color to her lips. The next time I heard from her, they were back on the tour bus. Bobby’s brother Tommy had picked them up from the airport. In hindsight, Silvia was sorry she hadn’t tried harder to get Whitney to Florida, away from the madness.
When Whitney, Krissi, Shelly, and Silvia returned, Sil was determined to tell Whitney’s parents about what had gone on. She was at the end of her rope and tired of being stuck in the middle of the Whitney and Bobby show. She was stressed to the max, uncomfortable around Bobby, and afraid for Whit. Most important, she felt it was her duty to inform John and Cissy of the gravity of their daughter’s drug problem.
The thing is, we all heard the noise from the tour. The tabloids ensured that, and John had even gotten a call from someone who had toured with us back in the day who said he had run into Whitney and didn’t even realize until afterward that it was her.
Silvia’s meeting with Whitney’s parents lasted nearly an hour, and when it was over she swung by my area, which now took up the entire length of the back of the building. Silvia plopped down in the chair across from me and said, “I told them everything.”
“Good,” I replied. “Goo
d.” Maybe now they’d finally do something.
That May, Whitney was booked to travel to the Pacific Rim for eight to ten dates in Japan, Thailand, Australia, Taiwan, and Hawaii, which was a total surprise to me. From what I could see, everybody was looped in but me. Then Silvia phoned to tell me the latest developments: Silvia was being placed at the studio (i.e., punished) and was not allowed inside Whitney’s house. She also told me that she would not be traveling with Whitney on the Pacific Rim Tour. Silvia wanted to know why this was happening. “What did I do?” she wondered.
My detective hat was on, but honestly, I didn’t know where to start. It just didn’t make sense. Those responsible for making certain that Sil stayed behind left Whitney without the person who knew exactly what her needs were and how to keep her comfortable. With the tour departure date a few weeks away, I set out to find out whatever I could quietly, without making too much of a fuss. I hung around, looking for a moment when I could speak to Whitney privately. I didn’t trust anybody.
Meanwhile, Whitney remained out of sight and silent. I decided that in solidarity with Silvia, I, too, would stay behind. When I finally saw Whitney, she already knew that I wasn’t going. “So you’re not coming, Rob?”
“No,” I said. “We have a couple of sessions lined up at the studio and it’s best I be there.”
Sitting on the sofa, she nodded in agreement. Bae, Carol, and a few others moved about in the kitchen. Plopping down next to Nip, I asked how she was feeling.
A Song for You Page 21