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 Michael Jackson's BodyGuards Book

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PostSubject: Michael Jackson's BodyGuards Book   Thu Jul 17, 2014 6:11 am

Exclusive: Bodyguards Detail Michael Jackson’s Last 2 Years of Dwindling Finances, “Homelessness,” and Mysterious Lady Friends

In the last two years of his life, Michael Jackson entertained at least two mysterious lady friends. According to his bodyguards in their chock-full-of-stories book “Remember the Time,” the women simply showed up and Jackson knew them. Their code names were “Friend” and “Flower.”

The former was “drop dead gorgeous.” Jackson would meet her at a Hamptons Inn in Chantilly, Virginia in the summer of 2007 when he and his family were staying on the East Coast. Was she a hooker? Did Jackson pay her? The guards don’t know. The girl named “Flower” stayed at a place called– I love this– the Red Fox Inn in Middleburg, Virginia. (You can almost hear Redd Foxx shouting “Here comes the big one!”)

Was their, uh, sex involved? With “Friend” in the car, one of the bodyguards drove them to see the Washington Monument at night. “All we heard was smackin’ lips behind the curtain,” Bill Whitfield and Javon Beard write. Cops in tactical uniforms eventually stopped them and ran the car’s plates. It was registered to Michael Jackson. No ticket. But they got autographs.

Two new Michael Jackson books hit stores next week. Only one of them is of much interest. “Remember the Time” is written by the two main bodyguards who were with Jackson from the time he returned from Bahrain in December 2006 until his death on June 25th, 2009. The book should be called “Adventures in Babysitting.” Whitfield and Beard have so many good stories that you can’t put the book down.

Even if half of them are true, the book is a page turning “Thriller.”

Unlike the other book, “Michael Jackson Inc..” which is largely a clip job with a lot of omissions and errors, “Remember the Time” is about as close and personal a collection of original observations that you can get about Jackson during that period. The two guards were with him in Las Vegas, on his circuitous trip to Virginia, Maryland and New Jersey, back to Vegas, and finally, Los Angeles for the preparation of the “This is It” tour.

All the traveling was because Jackson would not return to Neverland after the 2005 trial ended. “It’s contaminated by evil,” he told his kids.

Not only that, Whitfield and Beard (Whitfield especially) was there was for the arrival of “Doctor” Tohme, all the shenanigans of publicist- turned manager Raymone Bain, and even the recording of the famed Cascio tracks that turned up on the “Michael” album.

There’s a lot of great stuff. Michael, they say, was obsessed with Bobby Brown’s song “My Prerogative.” He wanted to cover it.

A lot of “Remember the Time” has to do with money. Jackson was running out of it, like gas leaking out of a car. The ironic part is that he always had cash stashed away even as his credit cards were being turned down on romps through malls and toy stores. For weeks on end, the men say, they weren’t paid, but held on out of loyalty.

The saga of their own paychecks not coming through dovetails with stories I was breaking at the time about Jackson allowing his parents’ mortgage to fall into the hands of strangers, of employees at Neverland not being paid, and so on.

A few things of interest to kick us off:

Jackson’s credit was so bad that AT&T asked for a $5,000 deposit when he tried to get a cell phone.

Despite refusing to see his family– and their many efforts to see him– Jackson still had father Joe Jackson on his mind. Whenever anyone wronged him, Michael would say: “I should have my father kick their asses,” he’d say repeatedly.

Jackson was insulated from bad press. The only paper he read every day was The Wall Street Journal because it was the only place he wouldn’t run into Michael Jackson stories. Manager Raymone Bain kept bad stories away from him, and Jackson himself didn’t go on the internet.

Jackson was surprised to learn after some time that Raymone Bain wasn’t running a big management office for him. Her HQ was her home in Washington DC.

During this period, Jackson relied heavily on L.A. attorney Peter Lopez (who committed suicide in 2010, a year after Jackson died). He would call Lopez and ask him, “Peter I don’t know where my money is. Or how much money I have. Can you help me?”

The other lawyer during this time was Greg Cross, of the venerable DC firm Venable LLC. Bain and Venable were constantly squabbling within earshot of the bodyguards about Jackson’s perilous finances.

The guards discovered that Jackson had been hoarding Tabasco sauce in his rented Las Vegas home. “A shitload of it,” they write. The entire pantry in the kitchen was wall to wall with it.

Michael carried a silver briefcase with him wherever he went containing two Oscars from “Gone with the Wind.” He’d paid $1.5 million for them in 1999. They were his “hard asset” in case his back was really against the wall.

They frequently took Michael and his kids out on expeditions. Jackson would be veiled or in costume. One time they passed him off as Prince, the singer. At a Chuck E. Cheese, wily daughter Paris responded “As if” when a parent asked her if her veiled father was Michael Jackson.

In Virginia, the bodyguards say they “lived” at Burlington Coat Factory, buying clothes for themselves and the kids because the summer 2007 trip had gone on longer than anyone imagined.

Michael was constantly asking the bodyguards to inquire about buying crap he saw in stores or malls. He had them plunk down $1,000 for a life size set of “Simpsons” characters he saw in a movie theater lobby.

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PostSubject: Re: Michael Jackson's BodyGuards Book   Thu Jul 17, 2014 6:14 am

Jacko’s security team spills secrets from his wacky world

Bill Whitfield (near right) and Javon Beard spent the final 2½ years of Michael Jackson’s life by his side. Now, they’ve written a book about the reclusive pop star. Photo: Trent Black; Getty Images

In 2006, Bill Whitfield was hired by a friend to work security for a mystery client who turned out to be Michael Jackson.

To his shock, Whitfield, who had previously done security for Uptown Records founder Andre Harrell, was to be the entirety of Jackson’s new security detail. So Javon Beard, who had done security at a resort and at a treatment plant but never for a celebrity of this magnitude, was also recruited.

Whitfield and Beard spent 2½ years working together as Jackson’s security team, and often served as Jackson’s sole conduit to the outside world, planning every aspect of his life to ensure the safest possible conditions and keeping him shielded even from his own family — whom Michael required to make appointments before he would see them.

In their new book, “Remember the Time: Protecting Michael Jackson in His Final Days,” written with journalist Tanner Colby, they share their own perspective on the complex reality of Michael Jackson’s life in the years leading up to his death in June 2009.

Here, they reveal some of the craziest stories from their time with the King of Pop.

Family troubles

Whitfield was waiting for his boss to emerge from his home on Feb. 27, 2007, as Jackson prepared to attend Elizabeth Taylor’s 75th birthday party at a resort on Lake Las Vegas, Nevada, when he heard a loud smashing sound and saw a gray Mercedes SUV crash through the partially opened gate. Whitfield wound up facing down the driver, his laser-sighted pistol pointed straight at the man’s chest, only to realize just seconds before he was about to pull the trigger that it was Jackson’s younger brother, Randy.

Randy refused to leave until Michael paid him money he claimed he owed him, standing outside the house screaming, “Michael owe me money! I want my f – - kin’ money!” When he told Michael what was happening, he “raised his eyebrows for a moment,” then “winced” and said, “Get rid of him,” according to Whitfield. When Randy still wouldn’t leave 30 minutes later, a distraught Michael told his staff, “I’m just going to go to bed.” Randy stayed for two more hours before their father, Joe Jackson, was called, and convinced Randy to leave.

Michael was so distraught from the incident that he bailed on Taylor’s party, even though he’d been anxiously preparing for it for two weeks, including hiring Roberto Cavalli to design a special outfit for him, and flying in his hairstylist and makeup artist.

Michael’s panic attack

Jackson was so paranoid about safety that even with a fully armed security staff on premises, “he was always going around the house at 3 [or] 4 in the morning, checking locks on all the doors,” recalls Whitfield, who notes that Jackson “trusted no one” and “didn’t sleep much.” Jackson even had “panic buttons” installed in several rooms for him and his children to press if there were trouble. “The alarm didn’t sound inside the house,” writes Whitfield. “Just in the [security] trailer, to alert us. And it was a loud-ass alarm.”

The first time the panic button was pressed, early one morning in April 2007, Whitfield heard it in the security trailer, ran around the house toward the kitchen door and stormed the kitchen with his semi-automatic Glock drawn — only to find Jackson and his children quietly eating their cereal. “They saw me and they froze,” he writes. “[Jackson’s son Blanket] was across the room by the TV, where the panic button was mounted on the wall. He was just walking around, hitting buttons.” While everyone was safe, Jackson was not happy about having a weapon pulled on his family. “Oh,” writes Whitfield, “he got on me about that.”

Shocked by the real world

Whitfield recalls the first time Jackson ever saw homeless people, from the window of his limo while driving around Las Vegas in early 2007. According to Whitfield, “Mr. Jackson saw these people and said, ‘Why are these people out there?’ ”

“Those are homeless people, sir,” Whitfield replied. “He was like, ‘Really? Wow.’ ”

Jackson asked Beard, who was driving, to pull over, and he watched them in amazement from his limo. He then asked Beard to call a homeless woman over toward the car. Jackson gave her $300, leaving her close to tears as she thanked him profusely. But as Beard started to pull away, they noticed a man she was with try to take the money, so Jackson gave the man $300 as well. “The lady started crying,” writes Beard, “like she’d been saved.”

Jackson then spent the rest of the night giving hundred-dollar bills to homeless people. “It’s just amazing,” he later said. “This country is so rich, and these people are poor and living on the street.”

Kissing in the back seat

While in Virginia in September 2007, Jackson told Whitfield that he needed to pick someone up from the airport. When Whitfield asked if the person needed to be vetted, Jackson said no, and referred to his mystery visitor simply as “Friend.” This visitor, it turned out, was Jackson’s secret girlfriend.

When they picked her up at Dulles Airport, they found a raving beauty, about 5-foot-4 with an Eastern European accent and dark, curly hair. They picked her up and drove her to a Hampton Inn in Chantilly, about 45 minutes from where Jackson was living. For the week or so that she was in town, Whitfield would drive Jackson to see her after the kids went to sleep. They would sneak in through the hotel’s emergency exit, and Jackson would stay there for hours but never spend the night, always making sure he was home before his children awoke. Whitfield and Beard believe the relationship was special for Jackson, as he would have them get gifts for her, such as engraved items from Tiffany.

Jackson and “Friend” were always affectionate and cozy. Whenever they were together they would “hold hands, sit very close together in the car, hug, kiss,” according to Whitfield. There were even times when they’d arrive at a destination, and whichever man was driving them would struggle to get their attention because they were making out in the back.

Joke’s on Prince

Jackson loved to walk around in public, and would often go shopping in creative disguises, dressing like anything from a biker to a mummy. In the summer of 2007, Jackson vacationed in secret at a mansion 10 minutes outside of Middleburg, Va. When he wanted to shop at the local Walmart, he donned a veil, with Whitfield trailing 5 feet behind.

But rather than deflecting attention, the veil made the store’s security guard suspicious that he was going to rob the place. Police were called, and Whitfield needed to diffuse the situation, but didn’t want to reveal that it was Jackson, because a mob always managed to form when that happened. So he convinced the police officer that the man under the veil was Prince. The police backed off, and crowds that had started to form began to disperse.

As it happened, Jackson considered Prince a fierce rival. When he was later told that he had been represented as Prince, he laughed and replied, “No wonder they left us alone.”

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PostSubject: Re: Michael Jackson's BodyGuards Book   Thu Jul 17, 2014 6:14 am

The King of Pop in Exile

Michael Jackson’s personal security guards describe his final days.

This article is adapted from Remember the Time: Protecting Michael Jackson in His Final Days, by Bill Whitfield and Javon Beard, with Tanner Colby.

On Dec. 22, 2006, Michael Jackson’s private jet touched down at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas. Eighteen months earlier, Jackson had fled his native country, taking his three children and going into self-imposed exile, trying to escape the swarm of tabloid media coverage that had attended his 2005 trial on charges of child molestation. The trial exonerated Jackson of any wrongdoing, but he’d been devastated by the ordeal nonetheless—financia lly, physically, and emotionally—and hoped to find peace living overseas, first in the Middle Eastern kingdom of Bahrain and later in Ireland.

The singer likely would have stayed abroad for good, but mounting legal and financial problems forced him to return to the U.S., where an offer to perform as a headliner at a Vegas casino promised a steady income and a stable home for his family. World famous since the age of 10, Jackson had always relied on a personal security detail shadowing his every move, and upon his arrival in Vegas, the singer decided to replace the team that had served him overseas. The two men he hired for the new detail were Bill Whitfield, who’d previously served as head of security for Sean “P.Diddy” Combs, and Javon Beard, a trusted family member of one of Jackson’s associates.

For the next 2½ years, Whitfield and Beard worked as Jackson’s personal security team, stationed at his side almost 24 hours a day, often serving as the only gatekeepers between the outside world and the increasingly isolated King of Pop. In that time, they came to know a quiet man and a loving father very different from the figure depicted in the tabloids, and they were given a front-row seat for the unending parade of problems that had driven Jackson to live a life of seclusion behind the gates of his Las Vegas mansion.

Bill Whitfield: 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. 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.

We had fans that did drive-bys all the time. They’d come, circle the block, stop, look around, drive off. On this one particular day, would have been in early February, we saw a burgundy PT Cruiser going back and forth in front of the house. It had tinted windows, so we couldn’t see who it was. This car circled the block maybe four times and drove off. The next day, the same PT Cruiser came and pulled right up to the gate. Javon stayed in the trailer to watch the monitors. I went down to the gate to see what was what.

I got down there, and Mr. Jackson’s father, Joe Jackson, was getting out of the car. I stuck my hand through the gate to shake his and said, “How you doing, Mr. Jackson?”

He wouldn’t shake my hand. He just eyed me and said, “You’re probably one of those putting needles in my son’s arm.” I didn’t respond. He said, “I’m here to see Michael.”

I said, “OK,” left him there, and went back to the house to get Mr. Jackson. He was in his room, listening to music very loud. I knocked on the door and he came out, and I said, “Sir, your father’s outside.”

He said, “Does he have an appointment? Is he on the calendar?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

“No, no, no. I’m working. I cannot be disturbed when I’m being creative. Tell him he has to come back and make an appointment.”

I walked back out to the gate, thinking, Damn, I’ve got to go tell this man that he needs an appointment? To see his son? Uh-uh. I wasn’t doing that. I was gonna have to ad lib this one. I went down to the gate and told him that Mr. Jackson was busy, but if he came back tomorrow, I’d make sure to let his son know he wanted to visit. Then I held out my business card for him. He wouldn’t take it. He just went off on me. “I don’t need your damn number! If it wasn’t for me, none of you bastards would have a job! I’m the one started this shit!”

Once he started rapping all that? Our conversation was over. I walked off. He just stood there on the sidewalk, yelling at nobody in particular. Eventually he got in his little car and left. At that point, I started to wonder what kind of situation we’d walked into. I hadn’t signed up for this part, getting involved with family.

Javon Beard: Mr. Jackson and Elizabeth Taylor were old friends, and she was having a 75th birthday party at a resort out at Lake Las Vegas, this big, red-carpet affair. Her people had heard that Mr. Jackson was living here now, and they reached out to his manager to ask if he would attend. Of course Mr. Jackson wanted to go. So about two weeks out from the event, word came down to us, and things started to gear up.

First thing Mr. Jackson did was call Roberto Cavalli, the designer, to create a custom outfit for him for the party. Cavalli took an emergency flight out here. We picked him up from the MGM Grand, brought him to the house, and he and Mr. Jackson started designing this whole new thing for him just for the party.

Mr. Jackson was obsessing over every detail. He flew his hair-stylist and his makeup artist in too. Once we saw that? We knew he was really taking this seriously. We’d been working for him for over a month, and this was the first detail where he said, “Make sure you have on new suits.” Not just suits, new suits. “Clean the cars. Wax the cars. Make sure your shoes are shined like mirrors.” He never did that kind of thing before. This was the first time we’d be stepping out in public, where we knew that the paparazzi and the press were going to be there. So every day, Mr. Jackson was like, “You guys have to look great. I want everybody to look great.”

Whitfield: We hit the mall a few times, slipping in and out in disguises. Went to Tiffany’s, to Hallmark. He picked out some gifts, a birthday card. We’d hear him talking in the car about how amped he was. We were getting excited just being around him. It was the first time we’d really seen him like this.

Day of the party, he was in good spirits all day long. It was infectious. It spread to everybody in the house. “Hey, Mr. Jackson’s in a good mood!” Everybody was pumped. The whole atmosphere of the place changed. The security team, we were checking each other out, making sure we were all set. Suits pressed. Shoes shined. Even our weapons were polished. Shit, we looked good.

Beard: We were getting ready to walk out on the red carpet with Michael Jackson. It was surreal to us. We’re security, but we’re fans too. How could you not be? We were escorting the King of Pop to Elizabeth Taylor’s birthday party. This was top of the line. A-list.

Whitfield: We were ready to roll out, the cars were in the driveway, all set to go, and Mr. Jackson was taking forever to get ready. While we waited, I left to go and gas up one of the vehicles. I came back and they opened the gate for me and I pulled in on the right-hand side of the circular driveway. The gate was closing behind me. I was getting out of the car and the gate was just a couple feet from closing when all of a sudden—BAM!—there was this loud crash. I turned around to see this gray Mercedes SUV come smashing full speed into the gate. It started to wobble back open, like a garage door does when it can’t close. The Mercedes punched forward, scraping through the opening, and then it raced up the left side of the driveway. I was thinking this was some deranged person about to crash his car into the house. I pulled out my weapon and ran toward the car.

Beard: I was in the garage, waiting to lock up behind Mr. Jackson, who was on his way down. I heard the crash and looked up and saw Bill pull out his joint. The boss was coming through the garage door at that same moment. I screamed, “Mr. Jackson! No!” I grabbed him and pushed him back into the house and locked him inside. He was all freaked out, going, “What’s happening? Is everything okay?”

Whitfield: Everything felt like it was moving at super speed and in slow motion at the same time. The Mercedes came screeching to a halt right in front of the main door. I came between it and the house, drew my pistol and took aim at the driver. I had the laser sight right on his chest and the only thing running through my mind was, Whoever this is, they’re about to get shot.

The driver ducked down and out the corner of my eye I saw this woman in the passenger seat. That threw me. I wasn’t expecting to see a woman. Then the driver lifted his head up and I saw who it was and I froze. Holy shit, I thought. That’s his brother. That’s Randy Jackson. I was only a split second away from pulling the trigger. All I could think about was the madness that would have broken loose if I’d taken that shot. I could see the headlines: Michael Jackson’s Brother Shot by King of Pop’s Bodyguards.

Randy cracked his window open and yelled, “Get that gun out my face before I call the press.”

The press? That was the last thing the boss needed. I went up to the window and said, “Mr. Jackson, you can’t be doin’ this.”

“I’m here to see my brother,” he said.

“Not like this, you’re not. I’d appreciate it if you’d go back outside the gate. Go back outside, and I’ll inform Mr. Jackson that you’re here.”

“I ain’t moving until I see my brother!”

Beard: He started screaming, cussing his brains out, rapping all this stuff about money he’s owed and how he’s not leaving without it.

Whitfield: I left Javon and the others to watch Randy and went in the house to talk to Mr. Jackson. “Your brother Randy’s crashed the gate,” I told him. “He says he’s here to see you about some financial matters, and he won’t leave until he talks to you.”

Mr. Jackson raised his eyebrows for a moment. Then he winced and looked away. “Get rid of him,” he said.

I went back down to try to talk to Randy again. He wouldn’t move.

Beard: I had the idea to block Randy in with one of the trucks, bring the boss out through the side entrance, hop into a different car, and then slip away. But Mr. Jackson shot it down. He said, “He’ll just find out how to follow us to Liz’s party and cause a huge scene; she doesn’t deserve that.”

Whitfield: After about 30 more minutes, I went in the house and told Mr. Jackson again that Randy wasn’t leaving. Mr. Jackson sat there for a moment, then he let out a sigh and said, “OK. I’m just going to go to bed.”

He went upstairs, closed the door, and didn’t come back out.

Beard: That killed us. We were devastated, for Mr. Jackson and for ourselves. I was proud to work for him, and I wanted the chance to do that in public, to show people I worked for Michael Jackson. We had brand-new suits; we were very excited. Elizabeth Taylor’s birthday party? Are you kiddin’ me?! I’m just a normal guy. It was just human nature for us to be excited.

And Mr. Jackson? He’d been making plans for two weeks. This was so important to him. So for him to write it off and go to bed? That was a moment that let us know, okay, this family has some real power over him. It threw off his whole night.

After that, Mr. Jackson didn’t leave the house for three days. We didn’t hear from him. No phone calls, no communication, nothing. He just shut down.

Whitfield: A couple of weeks later, the whole family showed up—all of them. Around midnight, we walked out to the front and saw a bunch of people standing outside the gate. There were a whole lot of familiar faces. Looked like everybody except Randy and Marlon. For a minute it was like I was looking at some kind of Jackson reunion special.

Beard: They all had on hats and sunglasses. It was very incognito, this big family of famous people standing out on the sidewalk in the middle of the night, and quiet all around.

Whitfield: I walked up to the gate, asked them what their business was this time of night. They said, “We heard our brother’s sick. We came to make sure he’s OK.”

I told them I hadn’t seen any signs that Mr. Jackson wasn’t okay. They told me they wanted to see for themselves and weren’t leaving until they did. So now I was in a jam. We had strict instructions from Mr. Jackson not to bother him, but at the same time we couldn’t just leave the entire Jackson family standing in the street at 1 a.m. without it turning into a scene, which Mr. Jackson also wouldn’t want.

I told them to hold on. I went back to the house, rang the doorbell. When Mr. Jackson came to the door, I said, “Sir, your family is out front, and they insist on seeing you.”

He was not happy. He was pissed, and I could tell he was pissed at me for not handling the situation myself. I said, “They heard you were sick and they want to know if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said. “Tell them I’m fine.”

“Sir, they’re not leaving until they see you.”

He went quiet for a moment, then said, “OK, I’ll meet with them. But I don’t want them in the house.”

“I can bring them over to the security trailer. You can talk to them in there.”

“Fine. But I’ll only speak to my brothers.”

Then he asked if Randy was there. I said I didn’t see him. “Good,” he said. “I don’t want to see Randy.”

I went back to the gate and said, “Mr. Jackson just wants to see his brothers.”

This voice from the back said, “What about me?”

At first I couldn’t see who it was. Then I realized it was Janet.

“Sorry, ma’am. He said only his brothers.” She was not happy about that.

The brothers came in. I escorted them over to the trailer, and they stepped inside. Then I called Mr. Jackson and he came down and joined them. They closed the door and talked for about 20 minutes. Mr. Jackson came out first. Walked straight into the house. Didn’t say anything. The brothers came out, walked to the gate, and that was it. What they talked about, I don’t know.

Beard: They’d come because of a rumor they’d heard that their brother was sick, but Mr. Jackson wasn’t sick. The kids were. Back in January, they’d all come down with colds. Arrangements were made to see a private doctor at his office one evening, after regular hours. The receptionist in that office leaked the story that Michael Jackson had come in, and the family had heard about it. It seemed suspicious to them. They heard he was seen going to a doctor’s office in the middle of the night, and they wanted to make sure he was okay.

Whitfield: That was the difficulty of being Michael Jackson and trying to move around in the world. Just to take his kids to the doctor required days of planning and advance work. You’d use every precaution, and all it took was 15 seconds walking past the wrong person, some nosy receptionist, and all of a sudden you’ve got this rumor circulating.

Paris didn’t get better. Her cold wouldn’t go away, and Mr. Jackson was worried she was coming down with the flu. We couldn’t go to the emergency room, and Mr. Jackson didn’t trust going back to some strange office. He wanted a doctor who would come to the house. So the word was put out there to find a private physician who made house calls. I was given a name and told when to expect him.

On the scheduled night, this silver BMW 745i pulled up to the driveway and a tall, slender gentleman stepped out. He was wearing light blue medical scrubs. He walked up to the gate and introduced himself. “I’m Dr. Conrad Murray,” he said. “I’m here for a visit.”

I told him he was expected, opened the gate, and directed him as to where he could pull his vehicle in. He drove in, parked, and got out.

I had a confidentiality form waiting. Before I pulled it out, I asked him if he knew who he was here to see. He said no. I told him he’d need to sign the agreement before I could allow him to go inside. He said sure. I pulled it out, and he glanced at the heading on the document and saw the name Michael Jackson. His eyebrows raised up and he gave me this look, like, Are you serious?

I gave him a nod. He signed his name. We walked to the front of the house, and I rang the bell and we waited. I could see the silhouette of Mr. Jackson through the glass as he came over toward us. He opened the door, and I said, “Mr. Jackson, this is Dr. Murray. Dr. Murray, this is Mr. Jackson.”

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