Attorneys and media commentators would wonder if Michael was ‘playing the victim’ on the public stage yet the man I saw in private looked like he was using every sinew to keep standing and performing. I didn’t see a man folding or pleading for understanding, not until that degrading body search which would come two months later. Physically, it was clear that the ordeal was taking its toll, but his spirit was indomitable.
Before we left, we reminded him that we were there to support him, and said we’d return tomorrow. Which we did. We told him he was going to get through this. We said the tough-talking things that brothers say, but the outcome of the investigation didn’t seem to worry him too much. Instead, the next day when we met, he seemed preoccupied with another puzzle. ‘What are they trying to do to me? Why do you think this is happening?’ he wondered aloud.
AS A FAMILY, WE FELT OUR solidarity was unbreakable. As long as we stood as one, we felt sure that justice would prevail. So when La Toya popped up on television from Tel Aviv to denounce Michael, it felt like being T-boned at a crossroads. ‘Michael is my brother,’ she said, ‘and I love him a great deal, but I cannot and will not be a silent collaborator of his crimes against small children.’
I watched that press conference and her follow-up interview with NBC the next morning, and couldn’t believe how freely she was talking on camera, seemingly ad-libbing. To the watching public, La Toya’s interviews looked like a damning and convincing condemnation but we knew our sister and the kind of language she’d normally use. The moment she said Mother had referred to Michael as ‘a damn faggot’, we knew the truth: they were the planted words of her manager-boyfriend Jack Gordon who, according to La Toya, would have knocked her black and blue, had she not said what he wanted. This is not my story to tell. It is La Toya’s, and she’s shared her version of events in her own book, Starting Over. The main thing to know is that Michael, and the rest of the family, forgave her.
ABOUT TWO MONTHS LATER, IN NOVEMBER, just when we thought that life couldn’t get much worse, we heard Michael had suffered some kind of meltdown and been taken into rehab in England. It seemed to take us an age to get a handle on what was happening, but we knew Elizabeth Taylor, Bill Bray and Karen Faye were with him and he was cancelling the rest of his Dangerous World Tour. He had left Mexico City and flown to London. It was obvious that, in the time since we had left him, his physical and mental state had deteriorated.
Michael had developed a dependency on his prescribed painkiller, Demerol. With all the suffering he was going through over the false allegations, it had hit him hard. A doctor had recognised what was going on and now Michael had to face up to a six-week rehabilitation programme under the professional care of Dr Beechy Colelough. Inevitably the timing led to accusations that this was a cynical ploy to delay the legal process. It has always struck me that when Michael was alive, everyone was keen to say that he was feigning this condition, yet when he was dead, they were happy to call him ‘an addict’. We had known Michael was taking Demerol ever since he was burned in 1984. I know little about his time in rehab so I can’t talk about it here but it’s not right for certain impressions to persist, especially when people label him ‘an addict’ or ‘a junkie’.
There is a world of difference between someone becoming an addict due to bad choices and someone accidentally becoming dependent on a prescribed medicine. Michael was vehemently anti-drugs and was devastated to find himself trapped in a dependency primarily caused by the medication’s side-effects. I’ve read accounts that hype up how, on occasion, his speech was slurred and he appeared glassy-eyed and ‘high’. But what few have perhaps considered is that Demerol, to the best of my limited knowledge, affects the nervous system, blocks pain and creates a sensation not dissimilar to a high.
In 1997, Michael wrote a song called ‘Morphine’, which ridiculed the hysteria that surrounded this issue. The lyrics – ‘Demerol/ Demerol/Oh God he’s taking Demerol’ – say it all. That song was his response to the critics 12 years before he died. Sadly, it was never going to be the final word, but he was a man in pain from 1984, as caused by a terrible accident. Then, he was diagnosed with lupus, which itself can cause untold pain. I can’t talk about that because I don’t know how chronic it can be, but there are, apparently, another two million Americans who can. And all Michael ever wanted was for the pain – internal and external – to leave him alone.
WHEN MICHAEL FINALLY RETURNED TO AMERICA, stable after his stint in rehab, his health and well-being were paramount to everyone, but things didn’t look promising. First, he was in the intensity of the media spotlight. Then both District Attorneys decided to convene Grand Juries in seeking an indictment. Michael was adamant that he wanted to clear his name but it didn’t seem that he would be walking into the great Courts of Justice of California; more as if he would be sitting at the tables in Las Vegas and gambling his liberty and career. At least, that was how his camp viewed it. But here’s what most people don’t know: Michael’s personal choice was to take the risk and go to trial – a criminal trial with the penalty of prison, not a civil trial with the possibility of financial damages. That was how confident he was of his own innocence. He even instructed his attorneys to file a motion to delay the civil case so the criminal trial could go ahead, putting the ‘beyond all reasonable doubt’ test before ‘the balance of probability’. That way, an acquittal would seriously have weakened Dr Chandler’s lawsuit.
But, in November 1993, a judge denied that motion because no charges had been brought. Instead he allowed a speedy trial for the civil case because no one wanted the boy’s memory to fade and a trial date was set for the following March. That decision changed everything: if the civil lawsuit went against him, how could he possibly expect a fair criminal trial? In those circumstances, it was no surprise when a decision was taken to settle the case out of court. This payment – said to have been in the region of $15 million – was not hush money and it was not about cheating justice because justice was cheating Michael. It was, if anything, about saving him from a travesty of justice. People forget that the insurers governing his personal liability were also involved in this decision. Remember, Michael’s intention was to fight this case. In the ever-changing circumstances, and amid all sorts of other legal motions, a team decision was taken to settle but that settlement stated in writing that payment was not an admission of guilt.
Another myth that needs debunking is that Michael bought the Chandlers’ silence with this money: the settlement only prohibited the Chandlers from talking to the media; it did not prevent them testifying in any future criminal proceedings, as time would prove. This settlement was the only way to end the nightmare quickly. At the time, it seemed the best choice among bad options – and Dr Chandler really wasn’t the winner because it was said that he and his wife only received about $1.5 million each from the settlement, with the rest going to the boy, Jordie – who grew up to become estranged from his parents.
In November 2009, four months after Michael’s death, Dr Chandler, then 65, was found dead in his apartment in New Jersey. He had suffered a gun-shot wound to the head and was found lying with the gun in his hand.
BY EARLY 1994, AND AFTER SPENDING millions of dollars, convening two Grand Juries and talking to more than 150 witnesses, including all of the kids who’d spent time at Neverland, the LAPD and District Attorney Tom Sneddon conceded there was no case to answer.
Unfortunately Sneddon refused to close the case. It was, he said, ‘suspended’, leaving the door open for anyone who came forward in the future. The media wouldn’t stop its pursuit, either.
Two years later, in 1995, my partner, Margaret, received a phone call from a friendly journalist warning us that a rumour was circulating about a ‘secret’ videotape. ‘And what was this tape supposed to show?’ I asked.
‘Michael in the shower … with Jeremy,’ she said. Our son. Michael’s nephew. ‘They’re printing a story saying Michael has paid us off to keep silent.’ We could only despair, not kno
wing whether to weep for the truth or scream at the madness of it all.
Our attorneys immediately made the National Enquirer understand that if it so much as published the first sentence of that lie it would be closed down within a week. For once, it listened. Sadly, the producers of a ‘hard news’ television show called Hard Copy – a.k.a. Hard Copy, Soft Facts – ran a story about a videotape being found and its correspondent Diane Dimond breathlessly reported to viewers, and later to radio station KABC-AM, that the police would be re-examining the case against Michael. That same week, LAPD confirmed no such videotape existed.
It transpired that the source of this lie was none other than Victor Gutierrez, the freelance writer from Venice Beach. Michael’s legal team launched a lawsuit for defamation. A judge and jury found that the story was false and malicious, and awarded my brother $2.7 million in damages. Gutierrez filed for bankruptcy and fled to Mexico. But despite that small victory, I think I knew then, in the back of my mind, that this whole saga would never go away.
WITH THE HORROR OF 1993 BEHIND him, a vindicated Michael moved on. He had resolved not to change his philosophy of life or his attitudes towards children based on one experience with one family. In his mind, love never surrendered to hate. He trusted what was in his heart, and that God knew the truth. He did not allow those events to taint his love for children and he would not permit outside influences to reshape who he was. That is strength, not weakness. He would install certain safeguards: he’d never again share a bed with a child, and he wouldn’t be alone in a bedroom with one. Otherwise, Neverland would continue to operate on its foundations of trust, love and charity.
THE JACKSON FAMILY HONOURS WENT AHEAD in February 1994 at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. We had specifically wanted Oprah Winfrey to host the evening. As the one person who had given Michael a sympathetic television platform almost a year earlier, it seemed fitting that she should welcome him on an evening that was all about humanity. In December 1993, she joined President Bill Clinton at the White House to support a new law against child abusers, the National Child Protection Act. Now, we thought, she could line up alongside Michael, the biggest champion of children, and declare her support.
We were surprised to hear her decline, saying she didn’t think she would be a good host, but she wished us the best of luck. It was a shame – we knew how much she loved Michael – but it didn’t detract from the occasion. When he walked out on stage, the entire auditorium gave him a standing ovation that must have lasted beyond 10 minutes. It was wonderful to see him onstage looking so revitalised and healthy after all the bullshit. He was radiant and happy.
Moving into 1994, there was good reason for him to feel on top of the world because he had finally found his true counterpart in a woman: someone who had had a restrictive childhood, wasn’t impressed by his fame, had experienced living under a spotlight and didn’t need him for his money. Someone who absolutely understood his world and needed nothing from him but love. Lisa Marie Presley ticked all the boxes.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Love, Chess and Destiny
LOOKING BACK, LISA MARIE PRESLEY WAS always popping up on the periphery of Michael’s life, sporadically flashing by unnoticed until their paths converged. Retracing destiny’s map today, it seems clear it was always God’s plan that they unite.
I’m not one for coincidences; I don’t think there is such a thing. And I know that Michael felt there was a strong element of ‘meant to be’ when they first met as adults in late 1992. He viewed destiny as a game of chess: we, the people, are the pieces and God was the player, moving us around the board until King takes Queen.
By the time of the big Oprah interview, Michael had already started a phone relationship with Lisa Marie, building up towards their ultimate romance – which ends the lie about a ‘publicity marriage to restore his reputation’ after the events of 1993. As a couple, they were flirting and talking, and starting to feel something long before the extortion nightmare began.
In fact, destiny’s journey began in 1974 when we were in Vegas doing the family variety show. Somewhere between those bookings, we went to nearby Tahoe for a performance at the Sahara-Tahoe casino lounge. That sort of intimate venue seated about 1,000 people and pulled in the likes of Frank Sinatra and Charlie Rich. At some point during our down-time, Jackie must have wandered off with Michael because they found themselves in one of those wide, service-type elevators. Apparently, they were standing around, watching their feet, when the elevator stopped. The doors opened and Elvis stepped in, slicked hair and sparkling white jumpsuit with high collar, a thick towel around his neck. He looked at Jackie and Michael. ‘You’re those Jackson boys?’ he asked.
They nodded, dumbstruck. You’d think that once you’d met the likes of Smokey Robinson, Sammy Davis Junior and Jackie Wilson, nothing could faze you, but the randomness of that shared elevator ride was the biggest unexpected thrill. Not that it lasted long. Seconds later, the doors opened again and Elvis was on his way. ‘Good luck, fellas!’ he said. That was the day Michael met the future father-in-law he would never know.
I was mad to have missed out, but some years later, back in Nevada, I found myself in a hotel – I can’t remember which one – and spotted Elvis’s right-hand man, Colonel Tom Parker, amid a cloud of cigar smoke. He was a legend: the manager of all managers. Bespectacled and rotund, with his trademark red scarf around his double-chin, he was sitting at a restaurant table near the casino. I dared to venture over and say hi. Before I knew it, we were sitting down, talking all matters Elvis and the Jackson 5, as 20-year-old me pretended to puff on one of his big-ass cigars. He was fascinated by Mother and Joseph. ‘Tell me, how did they produce all that talent in just one family? That’s what I wanna know,’ he said, probably working out the commission percentages in his head and multiplying it by nine.
When he asked me to fire at him any question about Elvis – and after I had found out that ‘The King’ loved doughnuts and the blues group Muddy Waters (not to be confused with the artist) – I couldn’t resist asking the one thing that had always intrigued me: ‘Is it true that you split everything 50:50 with Mr Elvis?’
He laughed at my audacity. ‘Yeah.’ He let out another thick swirl of smoke.
I was still pretty green about all matters business but even I was thinking Elvis must be mad to give away half his earnings, but Colonel Parker was shrewd. He sat there all relaxed but commanding – like he owned the very spot where we were seated – and we spoke about how much of a partnership he’d shared with Elvis, how trust was everything in this business, and how Elvis set the bar as the hardest-working man he knew. Later, when I told the brothers about this inspirational meeting, Michael only wanted to know one thing: ‘Did you ask him if Jackie Wilson was one of his favourites?’ Now there was a question I should have asked. ‘Because it sure looks like he stole his moves!’ he joked.
We did find out one thing from Colonel Parker: Elvis’s six-year-old daughter Lisa Marie was a ‘big Jackson 5’ fan, who had already seen us perform – she’d attended a show with one of her father’s backing singers. Years later, someone said that she was brought backstage to meet us.
The next time I saw Lisa Marie was maybe 17 years later around 1990–1 in a pharmacy in the Brentwood district of LA. I wondered about going over to say hello but she looked frazzled and I hesitated. Soon afterwards, in 1992, she and Michael discovered that they had a mutual friend in the Australian artist Brett Livingstone Strong, and the man who had found my brother his secret hideaway in an airport hangar now played unintentional match-maker. He brought them together at a dinner and from that day – when she was still married to Danny Keough – an innocent friendship began, the slow-forming foundation to a very real romance.
Throughout Michael’s ordeal in 1993, Lisa Marie was one of those friends he called on for advice by phone wherever he was in the world. There were others: hotel owner Steve Wynn, talent manager Sandy Gallin and MCA Records’ David Geffen but she impressed him with h
er no-nonsense, straightforward, hard advice. With so many voices around him, she was a refreshing sounding-board. She took no bullshit, and when she saw it around him, she made her feelings about certain people very clear. That kind of frankness always made my brother chuckle. There were no show-business airs and graces, and she was feminine, fine-looking and strong. I’d say the attraction was obvious.
The world didn’t see them step out together until 1994 – which is presumably why there was talk about a marriage of convenience – but she had actually joined Michael in public in May 1993 at some charity kids’ event out east as a guest of ex-American President Jimmy Carter.
Michael never missed an opportunity to meet a president! Not only had he read up on nearly every one of them, but his coffee-table in the living room at Neverland was decorated with framed photographs of him meeting Presidents Carter, Clinton and Reagan. Michael was very proud of that presidential showcase and he became particularly friendly with the Clintons. Soon the house would be filled with photographs of Lisa Marie, her two children, and Michael. It had taken 20 years since they first flashed by one another in 1974 and now Jackson was in love with Presley. The King’s daughter and the King of Pop – God doesn’t write better movie scripts than that.
IT WAS A QUIET WEDDING. SO QUIET that we didn’t even know it was happening. The ceremony took place in the Dominican Republic in August 1994 and a decision was clearly taken not to inform either family: a ‘we-want-no-fuss’ affair. The fewer people who knew about it, the less chance there was of the press finding out. Had Mother been there, she might have reminded the officiating minister that her son’s name was not ‘Michael Joseph Jackson’, as was said in the vows, much to Michael’s amusement. Once they were declared man and wife, the over-excited groom phoned Mother from their hotel suite with his ‘big news’, but she thought it was one of his pranks. ‘You’re telling me you married Lisa Marie Presley? No, you did not,’ she said.