Remember the Time: Protecting Michael Jackson in His Final Days

by Bill Whitfield

  4

  In May 1970, the Jackson 5 flew into Philadelphia to kick off their first national tour as an official Motown act. They had signed with the famous Detroit label just two years before, and their debut single, “I Want You Back,” had been released the previous fall, shooting straight to No. 1 on the Billboard charts. That feat would be matched by each of their next three singles, making the Jackson 5 the first recording act in history to have four consecutive debut songs reach the top of the charts. Through record sales and radio play, the group’s popularity had been building, and when their plane landed at Philadelphia International Airport, over three thousand fans mobbed the terminal. The following night, during their performance, a cordon of one hundred police officers was required to keep the crowd of sixteen thousand from rushing the stage.

  Michael Jackson was only eleven years old, but the script of his life had already been written. For the next four decades, massive crowds would shadow his every public move, laying siege to his hotel rooms and camping outside the gates of his homes. When Thriller was released on November 30, 1982, the adulation he’d experienced as part of the Jackson 5 was eclipsed by a level of fame unprecedented in the history of entertainment. Thriller stayed in the Billboard Top 10 for eighty weeks. Thirty-seven of those weeks were spent at No. 1. Seven of its nine tracks became Top 10 singles. The album won eight Grammys out of a record-setting twelve nominations. In its first year alone, Thriller sold over 22 million copies. As one Jackson observer noted, Thriller transcended its status as a mere musical album and became something more like a household appliance—it was something that everybody just had.

  Pop superstars had existed before Michael Jackson, of course. Frank Sinatra, Elvis, and the Beatles all dominated the music scene in their respective eras. But Michael Jackson appeared at a propitious—and, in hindsight, fleeting—moment in the evolution of both music and technology. Broadcast and satellite television were just cementing their hold on the international media landscape, and the rapid digital distribution of the Internet age had not yet fragmented that landscape into a million little niches. It was a brief window in which the world was uniquely primed for a global commercial phenomenon, and that phenomenon was Michael Jackson, the newly crowned King of Pop.

  When Thriller’s follow-up, Bad, was released in August 1987, it became the No. 1 album not just in America but in a record-setting twenty-five countries. It generated five No. 1 singles and sold 17 million copies in its first year, two-thirds of those sales coming from outside the United States. Bad would also launch Jackson’s first-ever solo tour. He put on 123 concerts in fifteen countries on four continents, playing to a total audience of 4.5 million and grossing a total $125 million, making Bad, up to that point, the most highly-attended and highest-earning tour of all time. In every city Jackson played, he moved through the streets with an armed motorcade fit for a head of state.

  By the turn of the century, Jackson’s popularity had dimmed somewhat. When his last studio album Invincible was released in 2001, many considered it a commercial disappointment compared to his earlier work. Still, it sold 11 million copies worldwide, more than most artists could dream of. Even if casual listeners had moved on, Jackson still had a passionate fan base. This was particularly true outside the United States, where the allegations made against him were given far less credence in the popular media.

  Indeed, the more Jackson was attacked in the tabloids, the more devoted his community of fans became; loyalty to the singer in the face of adversity became its own badge of honor. Millions of listeners in dozens of countries formed an elaborate network of clubs and groups, publishing newsletters, trading memorabilia. The most die-hard among them followed Jackson from country to country, wherever he went. And during his months-long trial in 2005, hundreds of them converged to stand vigil outside the courthouse, cheering his every coming and going and praying for his acquittal.

  What made the phenomenon of Jackson’s fan base unique was not just their devotion to him, but his reciprocal embrace of them. As much as the singer would come to despise the prison that fame had put him in, he never lost his love for the people who had made him famous. The fans, Jackson believed, not the record execs and the concert promoters, were the ones responsible for his success. He felt personally indebted to each and every one. Their steadfast loyalty was something the singer had rarely experienced in his private life. And because his fans never lost faith in him, Michael Jackson never forgot about them.

  Bill: For the first couple weeks, everything was quiet. Then we started to see cars. People would drive by the house. Some would linger, stop and look, and then drive off. There was this one car, a red car that would park across the street from the house and just sit there. I’d watch it through the security cameras. This was at least a couple times a week. Sometimes daily.

  Eventually I got a glimpse of the driver. It was a woman, petite, with light-brown hair. She would get out of the car and she would just pace. I’d heard about the kind of fans who were attracted to Michael Jackson. They were in love with him. From a security standpoint, I perceived them as a threat at first. When you see a car parked outside the gate, you don’t know if it’s just a fan or someone worse, a stalker, someone who’s completely unhinged. I’d never seen this person before, so one afternoon I went out to the car and talked to her. She was from California. She said she didn’t live far from Neverland. She said she knew Michael and that she was a friend of his. I said, “So you’re just gonna sit out here?”

  She said, “It’s okay. He knows.”

  Whenever we went on a detail, this girl would get out of her car and stand up to be seen, hoping he’d notice her. It was usually just me or Javon in the car and we wouldn’t stop. The first time we were leaving the house with Mr. Jackson in the back, she stood up out of her car and I said, “There’s that girl again.”

  Mr. Jackson looked up and said, “Who?”

  I said, “That girl right there.”

  He said, “Oh, yes. I know her. Slow down.”

  We stopped and he put the window down and they had a conversation like they were old pals. “How are the kids doing?” “How do you like Vegas?” “Are you going to stay here long?” Hearing them speak, I didn’t get the feeling that she was a stalker. She was just a real, dedicated fan. The conversation sounded innocent, friendly, trusting. A little flirtatious, to be honest. They just talked. It came to the point I had to remind him, “Sir, we have to go.”

  He told her what time we’d be back and that he hoped he’d see her then, just like you’d say, “See you later,” to a good friend. As we drove away, he said, “Yeah, she goes everywhere I go.”

  Near the end of January, Mr. Jackson did an interview with the Associated Press, confirming that he was back in the country. After that, the fans really started coming. They were parked outside all day. Usually about four or five cars. Sometimes more. They’d come to the house each morning, park in front of the house, sit out there in lawn chairs, go home at night. Whenever our vehicles left the property, Mr. Jackson would roll down the window and say, “Hi. We’ll be back in about twenty minutes.” We’d take off, and they’d just sit and wait. We’d come back, he’d wave at them, go back in the house, and then they’d sit and wait some more. It was his presence, his aura. They just wanted to be near him.

  Javon: The neighbors hated it. The fans were usually well behaved, but this was a high-end residential neighborhood. The CEO of Sprint lived next door. Gary Payton, the NBA player, was two doors down. You had these million-dollar homes and all these people setting up camp on the street. As far as the neighbors were concerned, the fans were a nuisance. Folks were always calling the cops. They would show up and hassle the fans until they left. Then the next day, the fans would be right back at it.

  Bill: One day, there were three cop cars out there, and Mr. Jackson saw them from his window. He came out to the security trailer and told me, “I don’t want my fans being harassed. I need you to let the police know that it’s o
kay for them to be here as long as they’re on my side of the property.”

  I went out and told the officers that. Cop asked me if I was a resident. I said, “No, but I’m doing a personal security detail for the owner of this house.”

  He said, “Who is that?”

  I didn’t answer. I just gave him a shrug. Then one of the fans said, “Michael Jackson lives there.”

  I didn’t confirm or deny it. I just said. “The owner of the house does not have a problem with these people being out here.”

  The fans started clapping and saying, “You see? You see?”

  The officer warned them that if they made any noise and he had to come back, arrests would be made. I didn’t feel like that was the end of it, and it wasn’t. Neighbors kept complaining, and the police kept coming back. Finally, Mr. Jackson said he was going to talk to his attorney. I don’t know who they spoke to or what strings were pulled, but after that the police never came back and the fans stayed.

  Javon: They were there through the winter months. They were there through the summer months. It’d be hot as hell out there, and they’d just be camped out on the pavement, waiting. On really hot days, Mr. Jackson would send us out with soft drinks and plates of snacks. The ones who stayed long enough, he sent us out there to give them folding chairs. We even rolled out the lawn furniture from the pool house.

  There was this one girl who was adamant about seeing Mr. Jackson. She was there every single day. Every. Single. Day. She claimed a permanent place for herself on the pavement right next to the driveway, and she was always trying to pass Mr. Jackson things through the window of the car. One time, she ran up and handed Mr. Jackson a stack of nude photos of herself. Somehow he always found time to stop and chat with her on the way out.

  Bill: Every time we left the house, the fans would run up to try and get a glimpse of him. If the kids were in the car, we’d keep the windows up and drive on; Mr. Jackson didn’t want anybody getting too close to his kids. But if it was just us, he insisted on stopping and saying hello and signing as many autographs as possible. We were always nervous with that, but he’d insist. Most of them were respectful, courteous, but there were times it would get out of control and I’d have to jump out of the car to back everyone up. Whenever I got into it like that, Mr. Jackson would always talk me down. “Bill, be nice to my fans,” he’d say. “They’re not going to let anything happen to me. They’re harmless.”

  Part of our apprehension was that at first we didn’t understand what his relationship with his fans was. We were surprised to learn that he stayed in touch with some of them, would correspond with them. They would call his manager and send messages through her. When he talked to them, there were a lot of exchanges of “I love you” and “I love you more.” They were always bringing him presents, personal things. They’d say, “I made this for you”; “Here’s a stuffed animal”; “Here’s a Peter Pan trinket.”

  His relationship with his fans—I’d never seen anything like it with other celebrities. Never. No matter how famous. With other celebrities, you see the groupies hanging around, but these were not groupies. Mr. Jackson actually knew a lot of them individually. He remembered what show he first met them at, how many years they’d known each other. He’d point out fans that he’d seen in other countries. Here we were in Las Vegas, and he was going, “That one there, I remember him from Germany.”

  It was an interesting relationship, him and the fans. He loved them as much as they loved him. From his bedroom window upstairs, he could look directly out to the street where they were camped out. Sometimes we’d glance up and see him, looking out from behind the curtains, just watching them, observing them. They’d sit and wait; he’d sit and watch.

  Javon: The only real problem with the fans was that they drew the paparazzi. Usually it would just be three or four fans, the regulars. But when it became ten or eleven or a couple dozen? That’s when we had a paparazzi problem. It was a bigger scene to get a picture of.

  The photographers never got much of a glimpse of him, though. We would always load him into the vehicles through the garage. We used decoy vehicles too. I would go out in Mr. Jackson’s primary vehicle and start heading one way, and Bill would take the other vehicle with Mr. Jackson to a different location while they were following me.

  For the really desperate ones, down the street there was a tree they would climb up in and try and take pictures. I caught a guy up there one time and told him to come down. After he climbed down, I demanded to see his camera. But he wouldn’t give it over. He said that everything he was doing was legal and he wasn’t trespassing. Basically, he was like, “I’m gonna get my pictures, so get over it.” Wasn’t much I could do, so I just let him go.

  A picture of Mr. Jackson and his kids would have probably been worth tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars. One night, we took Mr. Jackson and his kids to have dinner at the Wynn hotel. I was on post outside the dining room when this guy came up to me, came right up to my side and leaned in and said, “How’d you like to earn an easy fifty thousand?”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I know who you work for. You give me the exact whereabouts of Michael Jackson and his kids at a specific time next week, and the money’s yours. Call me tomorrow if you want to know more.”

  Then he shoved a business card in my hand and walked off. I didn’t say anything to Mr. Jackson. I took the card to Bill and he ran a check on the guy, found out he was a paparazzi. We figured if we just did nothing and ignored it, the problem would pass. So that’s what we did. Then about a week later, we were driving in the car, the classical music was on real loud, and Mr. Jackson said, “Javon, can you turn down the radio for a moment? I have a question for you.”

  I turned the music down. “Yes, Mr. Jackson?”

  “Did you get an unusual offer from someone last week?”

  I froze. Oh, shit. At that moment I knew exactly what had happened: he’d sent the photographer, to test me.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. I turned around to look him in the eye, and I explained how the whole thing had gone down.

  He said, “I’m proud of you, Javon.” It was like he was real happy that I’d passed the test, that he’d found somebody he could trust. “If you had even called that man’s number, I would have fired you. But you did the right thing. The only mistake you made was you didn’t tell me that it happened.”

  “Yes, sir, I know, and I am sorry about that, but I didn’t want to worry you.”

  Bill spoke up and said, “It’s my fault, sir. Javon told me about this, and once I found out it was just about a photograph and not a real threat, I was the one that made the decision not to worry you with it.”

  Mr. Jackson said, “Thank you, but you always have to tell me everything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Before that, I think he had sort of been on the fence about me. Everything went through Feldman to Bill to me, so I didn’t interact with him that much. Once he put me through that test, that’s really when he started to feel that he could trust me more.

  Bill: Him testing Javon like that showed us just how little trust he had in people in general. Prior to working for Mr. Jackson, my main job had always been handling external threats—stalkers, the paparazzi. That type of stuff I knew how to deal with. But what Mr. Jackson was really paranoid about, the thing he felt he needed most from us, was protection from the people who were already in his life. He wanted us there so he could hide his movements from his own lawyers and managers. He wanted us there to be a buffer between him and his own family.

  We knew he and the family were distant. You could tell that much just from reading about them. But we were also given instructions by his managers and the lawyers that made us feel the problems in the family were much worse than your typical, run-of-the-mill dysfunction. Pretty early on, we learned that if Mr. Jackson’s family tried to reach out to him and come to the house, we were not supposed to let him know. Raymone said, “Any time his
family comes around, call me. Call the management company.” Both Feldman and Raymone gave us those directions.

  No one in his family was allowed past the front gate without advance notice, with the exception of Mrs. Jackson, his mother. If she showed up, we’d open up the gate and she’d go right on into the house. She could come unannounced. Everyone else needed an appointment, and that was a very delicate situation to handle.

  5

  In the shifting racial landscape of the 1960s, the success of Motown Records was driven not just by the talent of its artists, but also by the marketing genius of its owner and founder, Berry Gordy. Gordy took black singers and performers and polished their public images to perfection, making them “safe” and appealing to white audiences, who flocked to record stores and bought the label’s records by the millions. The Jacksons, a tight-knit, church-going, blue-collar family, were prime candidates for one of Gordy’s signature makeovers—living proof of the success that awaited hard-working black families in a newly desegregated America.

  This neatly packaged story had the benefit of being at least partially true. Joe Jackson, a crane operator at Inland Steel in East Chicago, channeled his love of music into his children, and his relentless ambition bootstrapped his family from seemingly impossible circumstances into Southern California’s land of opportunity. His sons—handsome, wholesome, and well mannered—had shared a triple bunk bed in a single bedroom and rehearsed hours every day after school, staying out of trouble. The Jackson daughters, Rebbie, La Toya, and baby Janet, were cute and precocious and promised to be stars one day in their own right. Katherine, the family’s steadfast matriarch, was a devout member of the Jehovah’s Witness faith who had raised all her children to be good and decent and God-fearing.

  Behind that image, as with all families, lay a more complicated reality. Years later, it would be revealed that Joe didn’t just push his children but was physically abusive to them, beating them with belts and electrical cords for the slightest infraction. Joe was also a serial philanderer who used his newfound success to bed a steady stream of willing admirers. In 1974, he fathered a daughter outside of marriage and kept his second family a secret for years.