You Are Not Alone_Michael, Through a Brother’s Eyes (44 page)

‘Can you believe that?!’ he shouted out, ‘I try to get his attention and he just ignores me! What did he want me to do – pee in the courtroom?’ As he washed his hands at the sink, he kept venting to my reflection in the mirror.

‘You did the right thing – don’t let it get to you,’ I said.

‘
Everything
is getting to me! I don’t understand how people can twist things so horribly,’ he said. I could tell this toilet break was as much about respite as anything else and he just stood there, appreciating those briefest moments of being in a room with no eyes on him and no lies being heard; able to speak, able to be heard.

‘It takes many people to lie, it takes only one person to tell the truth. Remember that,’ I said. And with that, he straightened himself up in the mirror, took a deep breath, turned on his heels and we headed back for the court room.

SIXTY-SIX DAYS IS HOW LONG THE
justice process took before Michael’s freedom was placed in the hands of the eight women and four men on the jury.

And God.

We were all allowed to decamp to Neverland, where we waited in limbo for the next six days as the jury considered the 14 counts: the felonies that would carry a prison term and the misdemeanours that would see him walk free but with an indelible stain.

As each day came and went, our minds spun:
If they’re taking this long, it must be a good sign, right? Or are they taking so long because some are convinced and some are not? What if they can’t decide – will it be a retrial?
Waiting for a jury and watching your brother wonder whether he’ll be free to make music again is torturous.

The authorities had surrounded Neverland with sheriff patrol cars and men in beige police uniforms stood guard at every conceivable entry and exit point. It seemed excessive, but everything about the case had appeared so.

As I waited, and as a glutton for punishment, I turned on the television news channels in my room. Nancy Grace on CNN was characteristically breathless in her prediction of guilty verdicts. I hopped around different channels but that seemed to be the consensus. So, Sneddon had the media with its shallow examination. All we could hope for was that Tom Mesereau had the jury.

I was sitting with Tito on the edge of the fountain near the theme park. Every ride, and every memory of fun we’d ever shared, stood still as we shelled peanuts and made them our lunch. We talked, speculated, worried. Above us, two news helicopters kept hovering. For once, I was able to ignore them. Then, from behind us, we heard a speeding car. ‘They have verdicts!’ the driver shouted.

In the car, we learned that Judge Melville had given the family 45 minutes to get to court. It was now about one o’clock on the afternoon of 13 June 2005.

We ran to the main house and grabbed our jackets. Everyone was climbing into the convoy of vehicles. Michael, wearing his sunglasses, was already in the car. He was sitting next to Rebbie, who had the Bible in her hand: she was reading from the scriptures. As he listened, he rocked in his seat. ‘Why? Why?
Why?
’ he kept repeating, beating a fist into his right knee, ‘Why does it have to come to this?’ Rebbie went on reading as Randy climbed in beside her – and she continued to read all the way to court. During the previous weeks, Michael had privately attended two meetings at the local Kingdom Hall, returning to his Jehovah’s Witness roots in his darkest hour. We laughed because both services were in Spanish but I don’t think he had to hear the content, he just needed to feel close to all that he knew, forgiving all that had gone before.

I was in the car behind them as we set off for court. Around my neck was a gift from the new woman in my life, my future wife: Halima Rashid. We had recently met in line at Starbucks. Destiny’s chess board. King takes Queen.

Come verdict week, she had given me a gold chain with a Muslim prayer in Arabic inscribed on the medallion: ‘He knows what is before them and what is behind them, they do not comprehend any of his knowledge except what He wills …’ I clutched it in my palm and held it to my lips all the way there. ‘My brother is coming back home to this ranch … my brother is coming back home to this ranch,’ I kept whispering, as we pulled away from Neverland, passing the fans who had remained there the whole time. ‘1000% Innocent!’ said a banner.

Please, God, let it be a sign.

THE COURT REFUSED TO ALLOCATE US
four extra seats on verdict day. Six seats only for the family. Rules were rules. Janet and I decided to let the others go ahead. Part of me didn’t know if
I was capable of watching my brother stand, surrounded by marshals, as the jury foreman read out 14 verdicts.

My sister and I went to an upstairs room. Just me, her and security in this windowless box, deaf and blind to whatever was playing out in the court room beneath us. We prayed. We hugged. We paced. We waited.

And then I heard a cheer from outside. Followed by another.

I rushed out the door, chasing this cheer like it was a missing child that I was desperate to find. Then came another, louder this time.

Down the hallway, I found a small window all taped up. I ripped it off and pulled the window ajar just enough to see outside. That was when I saw a woman releasing white doves with each cheer. ‘JANET! JANET!’ I screamed and started running back to my sister, who rushed out the doorway. ‘THEY’RE RELEASING DOVES!’

At that very moment, a lady came bounding up the stairs. ‘He’s freed on all counts! They’ve freed him on all counts!’

I wish I could convey the elation that I felt in that moment but put me in front of 200,000 people in the biggest venue in the world and it wouldn’t match it.

We raced downstairs and waited outside the doors until they opened, and out walked Michael, surrounded by the rest of the family and Tom Mesereau. Michael wasn’t smiling, like everyone else: he looked stunned, and we just kept walking. There was no time for hugs. We could do all that back at Neverland. I didn’t even have a chance to enjoy Sneddon’s humiliation. He, with his crack detectives, will go down in history as the team who took on my brother and lost. Twice.

We walked outside as a family, and were greeted by the biggest cheer. I wanted to find the lady who had released the 14 white doves at each ‘not guilty’ verdict – she had done the greatest thing and we all, even Michael, commented on it. On that walk to freedom beneath his umbrella, he ignored the media and saluted his fans. Just before he got into the SUV, he turned to shake Tom
Mesereau’s hand. And then the convoy took us back to Neverland, where Prince, Paris and ‘Blanket’ were waiting with Nanny Grace. Life could finally return to normal, and we honestly thought that the worst was behind us.

I SAW THE PERFORMER’S GLINT RETURN
to Michael’s eyes around the Fall of 2008 – the period when his life was back on track, his health was nearing peak fitness and he was physically preparing for the greatest comeback ever seen. He was, for the first time in a long time,
just happy
. I wasn’t the only one who observed this rebirth: people who had worked with him for years saw it and they, like me, could detect when the creative flame had started to burn again inside him, lighting him up. The world has read that Michael was reduced to a frail old man in faltering health, forever broken by the trial, a performer physically unable to tour again, whose voice would never be the same, and the tabloid myth that he was slowly being killed by a drug dependency. None of this was true, as borne out by the sweat stains on the walls of his dance studio and the vocals he’d been laying down on sublime, but unfinished tracks.

The guesswork about his health, especially after his death, summed up the theme of Michael’s life: gossip and wild interpretation warped the true picture. People point to a particular
photograph, taken in July 2008, of my brother being pushed in a wheelchair, with captions like ‘too weak to stand, looking frail and in no condition to perform …’ That was exactly what Michael wanted the media and his biographers to write because the man who was forever underestimated was fooling everyone. It was an act. He was in one of his disguises, making everyone
think
he wasn’t ready or capable. He of all people knew the power of an image, and he was aware that everyone doubted he still had ‘it’. So imagine – just imagine – if he bounced back and surprised the world, going from
that
state to
this
; from that ‘before’ shot to this ‘after’. Michael was doing a Willy Wonka, walking out of the chocolate factory to greet the crowds with a crippling limp as everyone gasps with shock – and then he stumbles … tosses away the cane, does a somersault and everyone cheers. Gotcha. Because no comeback is truly a comeback until the odds
seem
impossible.

Michael’s life had long been defined by indelible images that captured a myth: from oxygen chambers to surgical masks, from hotel balconies to ‘whiter’ skin. This was him having the last laugh. I knew it. The people around him – the ones he trusted – knew it. The rest of the world would find out in London. But the clues were always there because he was such a fiercely private man, knowing when to turn on and turn off the PR tap. He never, ever turned out in public unless pristine and immaculately dressed, and he did everything possible to cover his vitiligo, illnesses and self-perceived flaws because he didn’t want the mask to slip; he wanted no one to see any imperfection or doubt his greatness. Yet in Las Vegas that private man chose to go
shopping in public
, with his children, in a
wheelchair
, wearing a red baseball cap, slippers and sky-blue pyjama pants? (Remember how mortified he was when forced to show up in court wearing pyjamas?)

Think about it. Michael was a master manipulator of image, knowing that the media and paparazzi would like to think they’d ‘caught’ him off guard, looking frail, showing no sign of motivation. He wanted the ultimate vindication in the court of the world. The King of Pop turned Comeback King. Restored to the best and
the greatest. Silencing every doubter and hater. And here’s a fact to place alongside that wheelchair image: about two months later, he was engaged in a brutal choreography regime for a comeback tour that had not yet been revealed. He was dancing
hard
in four-hour sessions every day, even tiring out his choreographer LaVelle Smith Junior, whom he’d hired to get him back in shape. LaVelle was a dancer in the video for ‘Smooth Criminal’, who then became my brother’s trusted choreographer, which was why he was booked for private one-on-one sessions in Vegas.

Michael got stronger and stronger, week by week, and he shed weight when I didn’t think he had any more to lose. Again, some people point to this ‘thinness’ as if it were a disturbing sign, but he had shrunk ever since the trial and his fitness regime made him skinnier. It was also normal – during each tour he ever did, he’d lose three inches off his waist. Michael was simply shedding weight
because of those daily four hours of dance
. Not bad for a man who, according to one biographer, ‘needed a lung transplant’. In late 2008, he was so fit that, further down the line –
eight weeks before he died
– when he bumped into a friend in a doctor’s office, he lifted his shirt and said, ‘Have you seen my six-pack?’ The private truth versus the public image.

Those around Michael sensed he was warming up again when he started requesting CDs, just like old times. He was so obsessed about staying up-to-date with musical trends that
every week
he was sent the Top 10 from the
Billboard
Hot 100 burned onto one disc, plus four other discs with songs from the R&B, electro, dance and Euro scenes. He would listen to every track to determine what was hot and what was selling because he wanted to stay ahead of the curve. He hadn’t done that for a while. As one of his inner circle put it, ‘He was getting ready for his close-up again. He was writing songs, looking better, looking sharp, getting his act back together. He was at peace with himself.’ To me, this is both the beauty and the travesty: Michael was so excited about what the future held, and he had so many plans. He was buying a new property in Vegas and was determined to build a new Neverland, unstained by a
police raid; he looked forward to a short residency tour so that Prince, Paris and ‘Blanket’ could see their daddy on the road properly for the first time; he also knew that touring offered him the chance to regain control and make enough money so that he could, finally, clear his crippling debts. His outlook was positive again. His body was back in shape. His focus was the future.

After his ‘This Is It’ concerts were done, and he’d had a few weeks off, he looked forward to performing spot dates in China. In 2011, he was eyeing up the half-time slot at the Superbowl (the one that the Black Eyed Peas would end up doing) to repeat his legendary show of 1993. And then, some time before 2014, he had two more tours up his sleeve: the ‘back by popular demand’ dates that no one knew about. Despite what everyone thinks, the comeback concerts in London were the beginning, not the end. I know what Michael said in March 2009: ‘When I say this is it, it really means “this is it” … This is the final curtain-call.’ That was his great tease: he was a master salesman, too, and if the world thought that London would be their last opportunity to see him perform, then they would rush to buy tickets. The rules of limited supply and big demand. Many misunderstood his commercial astuteness because he excelled at smoke-and-mirrors, mystery and big surprises.

Admittedly, it wasn’t all hype. He worried that the tickets might not sell, so the tour announcement was also a toe in the water, to test the temperature of the public mood – his confidence had been shattered by everything he had been through. Could he sell out five concerts, let alone 10? That was why he chose London, not America: he was concerned that America wouldn’t accept him the way Europe would. That’s not a reflection on his fans: it’s an indication of how scarred he was by those years of child-molester headlines and the treatment he had received in his own country. It had made him doubt that his popularity had survived the allegations. Remember, it had been a long time since the ‘HIStory’ tour, and he was 50 years old now. It was also why the O2 arena, with 20,000 seating capacity, was chosen by a man who had once played to 180,000 people on Aintree racecourse in northern England. Start
small with the rebuild. Ease yourself in. I think he needed to see the scale of the love before he believed that his fans hadn’t turned against him.

Come 2008, Michael was not only hungry again, he had a five-year plan sketched out. But to make sense of all this, and to understand how this secret future started to form, I first need to take you back to 2005 when he walked out of court, vowed never to live again at Neverland, and went to make music in Bahrain with Prince Abdullah.

THE MOMENT THE AUTHORITIES RETURNED HIS
passport, Michael headed east with the kids and Nanny Grace, and explored the option of permanent residence. He viewed America as a great friend who had betrayed him and he wanted nothing to do with her for a while. But as some friends who didn’t step up in his hour of need will know, Michael always came around. He needed time to decompress because he suffered bouts of depression after the trial, which I believe was a natural reaction to the stress. When he boarded that plane, he was a shadow of his former self and he was immensely grateful to the Bahraini Royal Family for providing him with sanctuary.

I had initially worried about the outcome of everything out there: having been instrumental in setting up the framework for Two Seas Records, I found myself cut out of the equation. Suddenly it became a partnership between my brother and the Prince. In theory, I could have waved my signed contract but that was never an option because the last thing Michael needed was a lawsuit with himself stuck in the middle. Some grievances are not that important when measured against other priorities. What mattered was that Michael was having fun and everything seemed to be going well: the Prince paid for much of his lifestyle while he was in Bahrain. This kind of ‘hospitality’ is often customary with some of the Middle East’s ruling families. ‘Gifts’ are the norm, and that was why Michael, in good faith, considered the hospitality he enjoyed to be a gift; he didn’t realise this was all part of his contract. He just
felt he was there to create one album only – and that was when the project hit a giant misunderstanding. The signed contract had Michael tied up in some general management lock-down on music, musicals, movies and books. When Michael realised that, he walked away: he wasn’t being ‘owned’ by anyone. He diverted to London before switching to Dublin, Ireland, where he collaborated with will.i.am of the Black Eyed Peas, first staying at the dancer Michael Flatley’s house before renting another place. Then he flew over producer Ron Feemster: Ron had worked with the likes of Ne-Yo and 50 Cent.

Collaborating with these music-makers dovetailed with Michael’s need to stay current. But back in Bahrain, the Prince was not happy and, long story short, he filed a lawsuit in London, which cost Michael $5 million. It was disappointing to see a king’s son scrambling around like that, especially after my brother had done more to put Bahrain on the map in many minds than Formula 1 ever could. But it was also frustratingly characteristic of Michael to sign a contract without reading the small print – just as, in 2000, he had discovered his masters weren’t being returned by Sony. His blind faith in his advisers and the face-value honesty of others was his own Achilles’ heel and had been since Joseph handled our contracts as boys. The power he’d vested in others dawned on him one day when he overheard an attorney’s arrogant remark: ‘Michael can’t sign off on his own stuff! He
can’t approve anything
… We approve it.’ It was a stinging reminder that he was viewed as a business first and foremost, a person second.

It was that kind of comment, I think, which spurred him to try to assert his authority with certain agreements, but the reality was that his quest for autonomy left him vulnerable to lawsuits or being controlled. It always amazed me how, over the years, many professionals came and went through his revolving door and tried to control, manage or interfere in his world, always ring-fencing him. It was the strangest phenomenon to see professionals change when they were with him, adopting delusions of grandeur at having his ear, access to him or otherwise holding the reins. It was also hard
to hear my brother complain about different people being ‘controlling’, especially when he felt unable to speak up or take responsibility because of his dislike of confrontation. He terminated many associations by letter. As he always said, ‘I’m like my mother – I can’t fire anyone!’

But I don’t think we understood how much people took advantage of him – and how much he allowed it – until the 2005 court case, when we heard he had given June Chandler free rein with a credit card, and that almost $1 million was unaccounted for under one person’s watch because he’d signed over Power of Attorney. It was this kind of incident that prompted me to find the right kind of people to put around him. To be fair, Prince Abdullah appeared to be a fan, a good man and earnest. Unfortunately Michael misunderstood the contract; he often didn’t read contracts and so ended up walking into a $5 million debt that he simply couldn’t afford.

IT IS NO EXAGGERATION TO SAY
that Michael was under siege from lawsuits: they were flying at him from all directions – and from people who must have known he was in difficulty. He was the man everyone decided to kick while he was down: he was facing litigation totalling in excess of $100 million, with the added burden of his $300 million-plus borrowings. Had those lawsuits cashed in simultaneously, he would have been wiped out financially. Michael had tried to stop the buckling by restructuring his loans. The New York-based Fortress Investment Group bought his $272 million Bank of America debt, releasing him a new loan in excess of $300 million to free up more cash. I had thought that by paying off his first loan, as guaranteed by Sony, the record label would be out of the picture. I was wrong. It would become clear that Sony had helped facilitate the restructuring and in return, it secured
the option
to purchase 25 per cent of Michael’s half of the music catalogue. If his finances worsened, it held the right to match any future offer on his remaining 25 per cent to ensure it didn’t end up with an undesirable partner. But these were rights on paper: Michael still held
his 50 per cent, even if the arrangement strategically weakened his position.

In a crumb of good news, he bought back a 5 per cent share of the catalogue that his now ex-attorney John Branca had held. Michael was happy that John no longer had any financial interest in, or influence over, the catalogue. In my mind, this once great business relationship had floundered because John hadn’t nailed his colours exclusively to Michael’s mast when it mattered.