My Friend Michael 2011
 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE UNTHINKABLE


  OVER THE NEXT COUPLE YEARS MICHAEL AND I were in regular phone contact—as friends. He was working on This Is It, a series of fifty concerts that were to be held at London’s O2 Arena starting in July 2009. The shows would be his swan song. Even his children, who had never been allowed to see him perform live, would be in attendance—for the first and last time.

   At my suggestion, Michael brought back one of his former managers, Frank DiLeo, who hadn’t worked with him since I was a kid and Frank was on hand for the Victory tour. At some point Frank got in touch with me to ask that I join him in London to work on the concerts. He was getting older and felt he needed some help. “You’ll have to discuss it with Michael,” I said, “but if he’s open to it, I’m open to it.” The timing was right for me. I was looking for my next gig, and I felt close to Frank, who’d been a great mentor to me. But I left the decision in Michael’s hands. I didn’t want to force myself into the job.

   Soon after this, Michael and I had a brief conversation. He told me that my brother Eddie and James Porte were flying out to London and were planning on working hand in hand with him on his days off to produce the album they had begun in New Jersey. Michael enjoyed the creative synergies between the three of them and was enthusiastic about making music again. He was giving Eddie the chance he’d always promised him. This was Eddie’s moment.

   Michael said how happy he was to have Frank DiLeo back in his life, and then he got to the point of the call: he wanted me to join them in London.

   “Frank will get in touch with you,” he said. “Just work everything out with him and keep it confidential. Don’t say anything to anyone.” I smiled when I heard that. Some things never change. “I’m really proud of you,” I said. “I love you.”

   “I love you, too,” he said. “And now I gotta get going. We’re heading into rehearsal now.”

   It would be a baby step for me and Michael in our journey to reconciliation, and for all the bitterness and strife of recent years, I knew how great things could be. It was his final series of concerts, and I wanted to be a part of it. I was in Italy, on hold, waiting and expecting to go to London, when Michael died on June 25, 2009. It was ten years, to the day, from the night of the Michael Jackson & Friends concert in Seoul. Ten years exactly since the night I’d started working with Michael.

  

   IN CASTELBUONO, AFTER I LISTENED TO THE NEWS OF Michael’s death on my cell phone, I walked up and down the cobblestone streets by myself for some minutes while a friend drove my car home and my cousin Dario waited beside his car, letting me process my shock and grief. I was in a mental fog, and it felt as if the world were spinning around me. Random memories rose up from the depths and then melted back into them. Brief moments from the past, some happy, some sad, some small or big, some heartbreaking or funny, swirled up then vanished. I was still in this state when I climbed into Dario’s car.

   Part of me even hoped that this was another ruse of Michael’s. Michael had a history of missing concert dates. He’d ended the Dangerous tour early, of course, and later he’d canceled the Millennium concerts. But I was thinking particularly of a time in 1995, when I was fifteen. Michael was supposed to perform in a special for HBO, and I was looking forward to going to the show. But a week before the special, he said, “Frank, I have to tell you something. The show’s not going to happen.” A spiritual adviser had told him so. Indeed, just before the show, he collapsed in rehearsal. The show was canceled. Now I couldn’t help hoping that this was some kind of elaborate scheme to get out of the concerts. As my cousin drove me home, I called my family back in the States. Everyone was crying, but nobody could believe that Michael was gone. His death was surreal. I even spoke to my brother Eddie, our differences dissolving in the tears of this tragedy. There were no words any of us could find for each other. I sat there on the phone with my family, trying to make sense of everything, when one of them informed me that Michael had died of a drug overdose. When he was at our house in New Jersey, I knew that he hadn’t been on anything (he didn’t even want to touch wine), so the news came as a surprise to me. But at the time of his death, he’d been under pressure to perform, and I had seen that trigger his issues in the past.

   So many times Michael had told me that he would die from a shot. That was always the word he used, and whenever he said it, I inevitably thought of a gunshot, but in the end he was killed by a different kind of shot. To my mind, the biggest difference between being shot and dying of an injection was that the latter involved a choice, a conscious decision. Michael had called doctors to ask for an injection on countless occasions. He had always had the option to stop this kind of shot from coming. At that moment it all seemed like such a waste to me.

   And yet I knew that it was too easy to blame Michael for bringing this on himself and, even more, that it was unfair. Michael’s pain and suffering were real and ran deep. Yes, there were safer ways for him to alleviate the pain, and he tried many of them. His studies, his meditation, his songwriting and performing, his humanitarian efforts, his creation and enjoyment of Neverland, and, above all, his children were all efforts to diminish the pain, and, in the case of his children, to transcend it with a love that meant more to him than all the other activities put together. But in the end, physical and mental anguish prevailed, and Michael died in his endless quest to attain some inner peace.

   Certainly he hadn’t been planning to die for a long time. He loved every moment he spent raising his kids, and was far from done in his creation of his family. He wanted more kids. Moreover, Prince, Paris, and Blanket had a lot of growing up to do, and he anticipated sharing in all of the milestones that would mark their futures.

   “Frank,” he would say, “can you imagine when Prince is old enough and we can have a glass of wine with him and just talk?” He also spoke about meeting Paris’s future husband and making sure he was the right man for her. He joked with his children, saying, “Each of you is going to give me ten grandkids.” There was no way Michael would ever have deliberately left his kids behind. He even imagined meeting his great-grandchildren. When it came to family, he was thinking long-term for both of us. He would say, “Frank, I can’t wait to tell your kids stories about you.”

   In the days after his death, my anger turned to the people around him. Where were they? I wondered. Why didn’t they make sure this didn’t, this couldn’t happen? Someone should have protected him. I should have protected him. But I never imagined that something like this would happen. As I can’t stop repeating, the last time I’d seen Michael was in New Jersey, and although almost two years had passed since then, he was completely clean at the time—not even drinking alcohol. His entire focus had been on getting back to work.

   I remembered a conversation I had with Frank DiLeo, just a month or two earlier, during which he said, “We’ve got to make sure he’s eating more. He’s too skinny.” But he also told me that Michael was performing well, that he had great energy, and that the show was going to be incredible: “It’s amazing,” Frank exclaimed, “what he can still do at fifty years old. We’ve just got to keep these crazy doctors away, and everything will be great.” Then I knew Frank was battling with the doctors as I had.

   Of course I had my suspicions about the dangers of the medicines that Michael was using, and I knew from the anesthesiologist who had been so forthcoming with me in New York that propofol was safe—if the dosage was properly monitored. The doctors Michael had seen were always specialists, experts in their fields. But Conrad Murray, the doctor who administered the propofol that killed Michael, was not an anesthesiologist; he was a cardiologist. It never occurred to me that anyone but an expert would administer such a drug, and this belief allayed any fears I had about the risks Michael was running. He was a person with a serious sleep disorder, who’d been led down the wrong medical path. Propofol was not a safe way to find sleep, but it was the only solution Michael had found. Knowing him as I did, I can say with confidence that the night he died, all he wanted was to be fresh for rehearsal the next day.

   My brother Eddie flew directly to Los Angeles, to support Michael’s kids and family. Randy, one of Michael’s closest siblings, always steered clear of politics, and now he was again taking the lead for the Jackson family, graciously and efficiently overseeing the details. A week and a half later I flew to L.A., too. The memorial was held on July 7 at the Staples Center, where Michael had been in rehearsals for his concerts. In some ways, the funeral was just another big show, and this shouldn’t have surprised me, since all of Michael’s life had been a spectacle. Intimacy was impossible in such an existence. Many of the people who were present at the funeral truly mourned Michael’s passing, but there were other people for whom it was an event that was comparable to attending the Academy Awards. But I know Michael would have loved to have everyone be a part of it. He was used to huge crowds. And all those faces were a reminder of how he brought people together and touched so many lives. All of us together in one room. Much as I wanted to say good-bye as a close friend, I recognized that Michael belonged to everyone.

   There were many familiar faces—Rodney Jerkins, Frank DiLeo, Karen Smith, Michael Bush, and of course his family members. I hugged them and saw in their eyes the same feelings of shock and loss that I felt. There was Karen Faye— “Turkle”— Michael’s makeup artist. When I saw her, I held her in my arms, both of us crying.

   “Michael loved you, Frank,” she wept. “You were like a son to him. He loved you, he loved you.”

   “Karen, he loved you, too,” I sobbed back.

   Michael’s family had always been there for him. Whatever differences they might have had, they always united when one of them needed help, and now they were united in their grief. I gave Jackie a hug, as well as Janet, Tito, and his sons. I hadn’t seen 3T for a while.

   “I’m so sorry,” I told them. “When things settle down, I’d really love to catch up with you guys.” They were good people. I had looked up to them as a child.

   Everyone seemed a little confused. It was so hard to believe that this was happening. Katherine, Michael’s mother, was keeping it together—everyone tried, especially for the children—but nothing could change the fact that the person being buried was her very own son. Still, to this day, she hasn’t been able to visit his grave at Forest Lawn Memorial Park. It’s just too hard.

   The service began, and much to my surprise, when the Reverend Al Sharpton got up to speak, I found myself deeply moved by his words. He talked about how Michael had served as a force to unite people in a color-blind world, saying that he hadn’t accepted limitations, and that he’d never given up. It was an uplifting speech. As I listened to the reverend’s words, I heard something of Michael’s own message, and I felt his radiant spirit fill the vast stadium. I believe that there is another world after this one —whether you want to call it heaven or something else—and I believe that Michael’s energy and presence were so powerful that he still has a presence, both here on Earth and in that other world, wherever it may be.

   I remember one winter night in Manhattan, soon after I’d started working for Michael, when, close to midnight, we got the urge to go down and hang out in Times Square. Without waking security, we slipped out of the hotel and took a cab. At the time, the Virgin Megastore was still in existence. It was open late, so we went there. Outside the store we noticed an old man. He had aluminum foil on his face and a fedora on his head, and he was dancing with great vigor. He must have been eighty years old, but he was dancing like a much younger man. Michael, who was just wearing winter clothes—no silly disguise—went up to him to get a closer look. Then he put twenty dollars in the ratty cardboard tip box on the sidewalk. The old fellow looked down, saw the twenty, and started dancing with an extra zing in his step. It was one of those moments—there wasn’t much to it—but part of what made it special was that our cabdriver had had no idea it was Michael Jackson who was sitting in the backseat of his cab, and the spirited old dancer hadn’t had a clue that many elements of his movements had been inspired by the man who tipped him twenty dollars. We walked around the streets of Times Square, just the two of us, Michael experiencing a rare moment of being out in the world without having to deal with a frenzied mob. He was just a human being, out taking a walk, and his friend was beside him. The night being, out taking a walk, and his friend was beside him. The night was ours.

   I had seen plenty of concerts, and now Michael the showman was gone, a great loss to so many people. I would miss Michael the performer, Michael the musician, Michael the artist, but more than anything, I would miss Michael the person, the teacher, the friend, the family member. I missed and mourned that moment in Times Square, and infinite small moments that I wanted to preserve forever. That was my real loss. The funeral didn’t give me closure, whatever people mean when they talk about closure, anyway. All I know is that time passes, and we have no other choice but to live on.

   As the funeral came to an end, Jermaine sang Michael’s song “Smile.” He had chosen well: Michael loved that song. After the memorial service, we drove from the Staples Center to the Beverly Wilshire hotel for a private wake. Paris, Prince, and Blanket were excited to see my family. They were in a cordoned off VIP section of the room, and as soon as Prince saw us, he exclaimed, “The Cascios are here.” We hurried forward to give them hugs, but security quickly stepped forward to block our path. “Let them through,” Prince said. “They’re like our family.” How many times can I say that Michael’s children were always his top priority? No matter where he was or what he was doing, the kids always had access to him, and they knew it. If he was in a meeting and one of the kids needed him for something, he’d stop everything, attend to the child, then return. If they made a fuss about going to sleep, he stayed with them, talked to them, explaining why they had to go to sleep and what he was doing or where he would be. He soothed them if they were upset. He never handed off a crying child to Grace or a babysitter. He always had the patience to stay with his children until they were calm. He always took that time, no matter how late for an appointment it would cause him to be. He was never angry or frustrated. His patience was infinite, and the result was that his children were grounded, secure, and open to the world. But now, in their greatest hour of need, when he would have wanted more than anything to soothe and reassure them, he wasn’t there, and there wasn’t much that my family could say to comfort them. We just held them and shared our grief. In this moment, as always in Michael’s life, his children came first.

   I later found out that their mother, Debbie, was thinking the same thing. Marc Schaffel had arranged tickets for Debbie—he was going to escort her—but the night before, in the Westin Hotel near the Staples Center, they had a long talk about whether or not she should attend. Much as she wanted to pay her respects, Debbie didn’t want to be a distraction for anyone. So, putting her own grief aside for the sake of propriety, she went quietly back to her ranch. After the wake, my family and I headed to a private room. The kids got into an elevator, and it quickly filled up with people who happened to be in front of us. We wanted to be with the kids, but we also didn’t want to be presumptuous.

   “We want the Cascios to ride with us,” Prince called out. So everyone else stepped out of the elevator and we rode with them. They were being very strong, but the sadness in their eyes was heartbreaking.

   Later that day, my family went back to Katherine Jackson’s estate, Hayvenhurst, to spend time with the Jackson family. At one point, while I was talking to Paris, she said, “Daddy told me all the crazy things you guys used to do together.” Michael had told her about our trip to Scotland—the ghost, the creepy hotel. Talking to Michael’s daughter, I knew that no matter what had happened between me and Michael, if he’d talked to his kids about it, then our past clearly meant as much to him as it meant to me. He never forgot that trip, and neither will I.

  

   MICHAEL’S RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS FAMILY HAD BEEN complicated, and some of the power struggles that were always part of his world were still being waged at the time of his death. Jermaine told the press that he was Michael’s backbone. The day after his death, Michael’s father, Joe, would appear at an award show, promoting his new record label. His brothers—Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, and Marlon—shot episodes of a reality show. True, the show had already been in the works, but the impression these events left, perhaps unfairly, was that the family was rather tastelessly capitalizing on the spotlight Michael’s death had thrown on them.

   The following Christmas, Prince, Paris, and Blanket came to our house in New Jersey. They’d always spent Christmases with us, either at Neverland or in New Jersey. That’s what they were used to doing, and their grandmother, Katherine, wanted to make sure to keep the traditions going so that the children’s lives weren’t any more disrupted than they had to be by the loss of their father. It was exactly what Michael would have wanted. Michael’s nephew TJ, Grace the nanny, and Omer Bhatti came along with them. For Christmas, my mother cooked her traditional turkey dinner, complete with all the dishes we knew were Michael’s favorites. We tried to enjoy ourselves, relaxing, reading books, watching movies, and playing video games. But it was a hard Christmas for all of us. The person who’d brought us all together wasn’t there. Michael had always played Santa, had always provided the energy to drive the whole event. He was the one who had stood under the tree, handing out the gifts. He was the spirit of our Christmases. Now my mother took the lead, as she tends to do in our family.

   During those holiday nights in New Jersey, I had a lot of dreams about Michael. I talked to him in those dreams. We reminisced. I told him I loved him and vice versa. I felt his presence, and I know that I wasn’t the only one. Various people reported that they’d caught sight of Michael walking the hallways of our house. My mother doesn’t believe in supernatural phenomena, but late one night she was in the kitchen washing dishes when Michael walked past her and said, “Hi, Connie.”

   Eddie and I were brothers, and growing up, we’d been best friends. I’d quarreled with him just as I’d quarreled with Michael, but while Michael and I had made our peace long before, Eddie and I had not. I couldn’t really blame my brother for trying to do everything he could to defend and protect Michael. Hadn’t I always tried to do the same? I had always been ready to talk our differences out, but this somehow never happened, and then, one day, Eddie had an eye-opening experience.

   Eddie, like me, would have done anything for Michael. He was deeply loyal. But after Michael’s death, John McClain and some Jackson family members started to turn on him, and Eddie found himself facing accusations as absurd as the ones that had been leveled at me—and that, I must repeat, Eddie had believed. It dawned on my brother that this was exactly what I had gone through, and with that realization, it was finally time for us to talk things out. Eddie said that he and Michael thought that I had betrayed him when they heard I wouldn’t testify. Michael had doubted the very quality that I thought bound us forever: my loyalty. Eddie, in his own loyalty to Michael, had doubted me alongside him.

   I explained to Eddie how untrue the accusation was and walked him through exactly what had happened, and now, at last, with his own experience of the malignant creatures that swam in the waters of Michael’s organization, he believed me. I asked Eddie the question that still haunted me— “Who told Michael that I didn’t want to testify on his behalf?” —and he couldn’t answer it. So it looks like I will never know the answer, and I have to wonder if the person was none other than Michael himself… Michael, who, with his crippling doubts, some justified, some completely fabricated, and his paranoia, was compelled to believe that nobody—not even the person who was closest to him—could be trusted.

   We talked about what Eddie was going through in his dealings with Michael’s estate. He and Michael had recorded twelve songs together, three of which Sony and the estate had picked for Michael’s posthumous album. But Eddie didn’t understand the down-and-dirty politics and the treachery that surrounded Michael’s business. Some people cast doubt on whether the songs Eddie had recorded with Michael were authentic. All of a sudden the word was that the Cascios were trying to cash in on Michael. I knew the personalities involved and had some idea of how to navigate through these shoals in order to help Eddie resolve his issues. Only now was my brother beginning to see how complex Michael’s world was and how quickly those who lived in it could turn on one of their own.

   Eddie and I talked for quite a while. In the end, he understood what I had been through and how it felt to have your intentions and actions so misrepresented. And I finally recognized where my brother was coming from. We should have talked much earlier. Life is too short to have unresolved issues with people you truly love. My brother had a newborn baby named Victoria Michael, the first grandchild in our family. I loved her and looked forward to being her uncle, and Eddie wanted me in her life. As a new parent, maybe he was seeing our relationship in a new light, realizing that he would want his own children to get along. Both Eddie and I had loved Michael, and both of us had a strong bond with him. We had shared this for many years as children, and we weren’t going to let it come between us as adults. Michael was gone. Our hearts were broken. But there was really nothing left to fight about. These days my brother and I are as close as we ever were, all the more close for having realized how much we shared. We are both happy to be brothers again.