The big question, of course, is whether or not Michael was addicted. For anyone privy to his real world, this question merely stated the obvious: Of course he was, and everyone knew it. ‘If he could get his hands on some Demerol, you can be sure he’d do it,’ said one person close to him. ‘I can’t count the number of times people close to him tried interventions. There was no reaching him, though. You can’t help a person who doesn’t want it.’ Sources close to Jackson told CNN’s Dr Sanjay Gupta that the singer actually traveled with an anesthesiologist who would ‘take him down’ at night and ‘bring him back up’ during a world tour in the mid-90s.
It’s true that Michael was used to getting what he wanted in his life, and if it was a certain drug to ease his emotional or physical pain he expected to be able to get his hands on it, no questions asked. However, he was not a man who just wanted to get high for kicks. He wasn’t scoring his drugs from some roadie behind a tour bus. He was getting them from licensed doctors who were answering his cries for help. Should some of those doctors have known better than to just give Michael what he wanted rather than find some better way to treat him? Obviously. But one put it best to me when he said, ‘When you were sitting there in the room with him, and he’s crying and he’s in pain and he hasn’t slept in a week... and he begs and begs you for help, you had to help. You had to. People on the outside find it easy to judge and point fingers. You have to be there to understand his level of physical and emotional pain.’ It’s telling that the drug he most seemed to crave was a kind of anesthesia. He wanted to be numb, not only to his pain, but to the world. It was as if he’d had enough and he wanted out.
Michael’s finances were always the subject of great interest, and the most common question at his death was: How broke was he? There’s no simple answer to that query, and anyone on the outside of Michael’s circle who tries to assemble bits and pieces of financial information in order to get a clear understanding of what’s going on is a person who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I spent many hours with Michael’s brilliant attorney John Branca, who structured Michael’s finances. (Michael was best man at John’s wedding in 1987, that’s how close they were.)
As much as I know about his wealth, I still don’t fully understand the details and, when reporting the story, have never tried to act as if I do. I know this much, though: As long as there was a million dollars somewhere that Michael could get his hands on – even if some of it was hidden in a pillow case by his kids’ nanny, Grace – he was fine. (And, yes, apparently that would happen!) Gone was the shrewd businessman of the 1980s who stayed on top of every one of his bank accounts and demanded full disclosure of detail from Branca – who worked for Michael from 1980 until 2006 and then returned shortly before his death.
Though Branca came back to a messy quagmire of debt and asset leverage that would probably baffle even the most expert financier, Michael was, for the most part, not that concerned about any of it. Again, the molestation trial in Santa Maria can be pointed to as the primary reason Michael lost interest in his wealth. Nothing much mattered to him after the trial. He told people close to him that the reason he had signed on to do the London concerts was not because of the hundreds of millions of dollars that could be generated. It was, as he put it: ‘Because my kids are old enough to appreciate what I do, and I’m young enough to still do it. I don’t care if people don’t show up,’ he said, maybe a little disingenuously. Of course, the tickets sold out unbelievably quickly – the public still wanted Michael, that much was clear.
Judging from the way he performed on the brief clip of ‘They Don’t Care About Us,’ released after his death by AEG Live, the concert’s promoters, Michael was in fine form. He seemed to really want to make a point with this show – that he was back and still The King, and he looked, at least from this particular clip, as if he could have pulled it off. Amazingly, despite his lack of self-confidence and his broken down body, the man still had what it took and he looked damn good. That said, it would be foolhardy to think that the coming dates would have gone off without a hitch. After all, nothing in Michael’s life and career in recent times was ever easy. There were probably plenty of canceled concerts on the horizon due to ‘illness’, ‘exhaustion’, ‘dehydration’ and all of the other common maladies of performers under duress. Still, the shows he would have gotten through would have been memorable. For any diehard fan, it seemed Michael Jackson was really ready to deliver. Moreover, the fact that he had brought back the great duo of the 1980s who helped mastermind his biggest successes – his former lawyer John Branca, and former manager Frank DiLeo – suggested that maybe he had his eye on the future, and maybe, just maybe, he actually cared about it.
The last time I saw Michael Jackson face to face was on verdict day in Santa Maria when I congratulated him on his victory but he seemed to not understand what was happening. The haunted look in his eyes that day disturbed me for many months after the trial. I spoke to him on the phone only twice in the intervening four years, both very brief conversations for magazine stories about career plans that didn’t materialize. When I sent him a copy of my Elizabeth Taylor biography, he called to tell me he enjoyed it. He sounded good, but how could anyone know for sure? Ten minutes after he hung up, I received another telephone call, this one from one of his flacks. ‘Don’t you dare use Michael’s compliment as an endorsement of your book,’ I was told. How annoying. ‘Please,’ I told the caller, ‘I’ve been around a long time. I know better. Give me a break.’ The handler sighed into the phone. ‘We’ve all been around a long time,’ she said, now seeming exhausted. ‘Maybe too long, huh?’ I agreed. ‘Yeah... maybe a little.’
I was at CBS News getting ready to tape a segment about Michael’s family when the will was filed. As I stood among my colleagues and pored over the contents, the mention of Diana Ross caught my eye. It was his wish that she – not Debbie Rowe – care for his children in the event that Katherine not be able to do so. It seemed absolutely appropriate to me.
Michael lived with Diana for a short time when he first moved to Los Angeles at the age of eleven. He idolised her and she doted upon him, even though she had a busy life and was about to leave The Supremes for a solo career. Then she went on to have five children of her own, not one of whom has ever been in any kind of public scandal. She and Michael hadn’t been close recently, but that’s only because Michael wasn’t close to many people in the last four years of his life. What a tribute to their enduring friendship that he would trust her with what meant the most to him – his children. ‘You are going to be a great, great star,’ she’d once told him over breakfast when he was eleven, according to what he once told me. Then, with maternal purpose, she added, ‘Now eat your cereal.’
It was as if Michael considered Diana’s prediction to be a mandate because, certainly, there was never a bigger star than Michael Jackson. Whether it was the beautiful melodies of his music, the harmony as it poured out of his voice, or the staccato-like dance moves that reached a penultimate crescendo with his gravity defying moonwalk, Michael Jackson had a unique ability to inspire, to give hope to, to unite. Where others have tried – and often in vain – to use their talents and skills in a way that honors God and the inherent goodness of his nature, Michael Jackson was able to unite millions of people, regardless of race, creed, religion, age, gender, sexuality or nationality, behind messages of service and sacrifice, peace and love, hope and change and the freedom of expression. Whether through songs like ‘Heal the World’, ‘We Are the World’ or ‘Man in the Mirror’, he brought the plight of the world’s suffering to the attention of all as only he could. In many respects he gave a voice to the voiceless, a face to the faceless and hope to the hopeless. If a little African-American boy from Gary, Indiana, could make it to the 2,600-acre Neverland Valley Ranch in Santa Barbara, California, then maybe it was possible for anyone to make it. With hard work and determination, maybe we could all reach for our dreams. Michael Jackson certainly did just that, didn’t he
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The Man in the Mirror
I cannot imagine a world without Michael Jackson in it.
For the past forty years we have all been witness to Michael’s heroic rise and tragic fall. We cheered as he made history with record after record, album after album. We watched in awe as he broke barriers and made impossibilities become realities. We appreciated his iconic sense of style – one sequined white glove, white socks, black leather shoes, red leather jackets, and a black fedora – and longed to do the moonwalk with perfect precision. We watched in shock as he transformed his image time and time again. We felt outrage at the allegations of child molestation, not knowing who or what to believe. And we watched in sadness as the world’s longest-running reality show reached its tragic and somewhat surreal conclusion on 25 June 2009.
After his death, I went back to Neverland to conduct a tour of the estate as part of my coverage of Michael’s death for CBS News. The first time I set foot on the property was before Michael had even purchased it. As it happened, in the spring of 1983 Michael’s publicist, Bob Jones, invited a few select members of the press to the Santa Ynez Valley to watch as Michael and Paul McCartney made the video for ‘Say, Say, Say’. Something happened – we never did find out what – and Michael didn’t show up for the taping. So Paul invited the contingent of reporters to the home he was renting during the production – Sycamore Valley Ranch, which, of course, became Neverland. Once we got to the ranch, we in the press corp never even saw Paul again. However, he made sure we were well fed and then sent us on our way. I wasn’t invited into the house but from the spacious grounds – acre after bucolic acre – I knew it was a special place. When I found out six years later that Michael had purchased the home, I thought he was certainly moving up in the world.
Standing in the empty main house after his death, I remembered the four or five occasions – all press events to announce certain charities in which Michael was involved – I was invited to the estate during the seventeen years Michael lived there: 1988 through 2005, certainly many of the most pivotal and, also, confounding years of his life. The house and surrounding grounds were always filled with laughter and music, even if at times it seemed a somewhat eerie and unreal place. In the past, I had only been permitted access to the living and dining rooms and, once, as I recall it, into the kitchen. I believe I was in the library once with Michael’s attorney John Branca as well. But now, on this strange day, I had free reign to explore the entire estate. There’s something very sad about an abandoned home, and Michael’s was no exception. Seeing it empty was a strange experience. Even Michael had never seen it that way; he purchased it furnished and then added his own – many of his own – pieces. He would have been astounded to see the place so completely empty. How lucky Michael was to live here, I thought. To have come from such meager beginnings in Gary, Indiana – and I’d also been to that small clapboard house, incidentally – to this sumptuous estate was, without a doubt, a journey like no other. I remember him pointing out the barbecue area outside the kitchen and telling me, ‘You can take all of Hayvenhurst’ – the estate he and his family bought in the early 1970s and which he remodeled in the 1980s after buying out his father – ‘and fit it right there in that little corner. How about that!’
But what must it have been like, I wondered, for Michael to walk the bricked halls of the main house in the middle of the night, fearing that he might spend almost twenty years of his life in a jail cell? That had to have been the flip side of living at Neverland in his final years there. How did he ever survive the fear, the anguish? And then I thought, My God! If he had gone to prison, maybe he would still be alive! But, then again, what kind of life would that have been for Michael Jackson? No, I decided, he would rather be dead than be in prison. No doubt about that, I’m afraid.
As I walked into Michael’s bedroom, it was as if his spirit still remained. I looked at the fireplace and imagined it lit with a warm glow. I thought about the painting of The Last Supper that had once been placed over his bed, with Michael in Christ’s place. I thought it was the most ridiculous and maybe even blasphemous piece of art I’d ever heard of when I learned that he’d bought it for this room. But suddenly, standing there, it seemed to make sense to me. Crucified by the circumstances of his life, it was as if poor Michael Jackson had no chance at all.
I thought about him alone at night in that very room, trying in vain to sleep. Rising, pacing the halls, going back to bed... surrounded by bottles of pills and who knows what else... taking anything to escape the insomnia, the anxiety. The never-ending tape loop of his thoughts. I walked into his bathroom and over to his sink. I looked at the tile on the counter – each one seemed to be a royal crest from a different European family. There I stood, gazing at the very mirror into which Michael had stared day after day, while probably wondering the same questions that many of us have asked ourselves at one time or another in our lives: Why do I look this way? Why do I feel this way? What can I do now to make that one crucial change that will help me, if not to truly love myself, at least to achieve some peace of mind? And I looked into my own eyes. I studied the reflection of a man in the mirror who had spent so many years of his own life trying to comprehend another person’s journey, looking for threadbare clues that might answer the simple question: Why? As I did, I began to realize that, as is always the case with our most legendary celebrities and icons, while their gifts, talent and dynamism are often unparalleled, they are at the very core no different, no more or less unique, extraordinary and difficult to understand than anyone else. I began to feel at one with the sheer humanity of Michael Jackson, and all its complexity, fallibility and grace. I never thought such a thing possible about somebody at once so magical and yet so mystifying to the point of madness. Our lives had been so different. But, finally, I think I understood the truth about Michael – a truth that, in the end, is far easier to understand than the man who personified it on the greatest stage of all for a generation. Like most of us, he was a man who did the best he could with the cards he’d been dealt, sometimes with magnificent results, sometimes with tragic failure; the results of which were magnified a thousand times over because of his astounding success, and the vulnerable young age at which he achieved it. Indeed, staring at my own reflection in Michael Jackson’s mirror, I began to feel such empathy for him, such pity for him...and such great love for him as well. But more than anything, I felt immeasurable sorrow for him and for what his life should have been like – could have been like – in only...
Illustration
Michael Jackson at the age of twelve in 1970. (© 1970 Soul magazine. All Rights Reserved.)
The Jacksons posed for a family photo in June 1970. Top row: Jermaine, fifteen; LaToya, fourteen, Tito, sixteen; Jackie, nineteen. Bottom row: Michael, eleven; Randy, seven; Joe; Janet, four; and Marlon, thirteen. (© 1970 Soul magazine. All Rights Reserved.)
Michael in 1971. (J. Randy Taraborrelli Collection)
An early publicity photo of The Jackson 5 (1969). Top Row: Tito, sixteen; Jackie, eighteen; Jermaine, fifteen. Bottom Row: Marlon, twelve; and Michael, eleven. (Retro Photo)
By the time The Jackson 5 played the Los Angeles Forum in 1970 ‘Jackson Mania’ was in full bloom. Michael seems to be doing his best James Brown impression here. (Retro Photo)
By the end of 1972, the family was enjoying tremendous success. Top row: Jackie, twenty-one; Katherine (with newly frosted hair); Joe; Janet, six; Jermaine, eighteen; Michael, fourteen. Bottom row: Marlon, fifteen; Randy, ten; Tito, nineteen; and LaToya, sixteen. (J. Randy Taraborrelli Collection)
Diana Ross was credited with discovering The Jackson 5. Here, she seems to be telling Michael and Marlon, ‘Now here’s what I want you to say…” (J. Randy Taraborrelli Collection)
Twelve-year-old Michael doing his slick Frank Sinatra impression on Diana Ross’s Diana! Special, April 1971. (J. Randy Taraborrelli Collection)
Thirteen-year-old Michael in his bedroom, posing with one of his many pet rats. The b
edroom walls were always covered with cartoon figures and publicity photos of entertainers (note the pictures of The Jackson 5 and The Supremes). (J. Randy Taraborrelli Collection)
Tito was the first brother to marry. Dee Dee Martes was told to sign a prenuptial agreement before the wedding on 17 June 1972. (Retro Photo)
When Jermaine Jackson married Berry Gordy’s daughter, Hazel, the ceremony made the worldwide news. (J. Randy Taraborrelli Collection)
Jackie married Enid Spann on 24 November 1974. Theirs was a sometimes difficult union and Enid held on as long as she could. (J. Randy Taraborrelli Collection)
When Marlon married Carol Parker on 16 August 1975, the couple kept their union a secret… rather than risk the wrath of Marlon’s father, Joe. (Retro Photo)
Michael in 1977, at the age of nineteen, before plastic surgery. (© 1977 Soul magazine. All Rights Reserved.)
Michael Jackson and J. Randy Taraborrelli as youngsters in the late 1970s, before the madness set in…
Michael turned twenty-one in August 1979. Here, he poses for a photo wearing a rebel cap – perhaps signifying a newfound independence. From this time on Michael would have a hand in all of his business matters. (© 1979 Soul magazine. All Rights Reserved.)
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