I Was in Michael Jackson’s Room
This goes back a long time. Contrary to the accusations made against him, he didn’t offer me “the drink of Christ,” and he didn’t show me vulgar photos. The only thing I remember is a wooden chair and a shelf full of cinema memorabilia—Walt Disney, Three Stooges—and a picture of Michael Jackson himself as a “scarecrow” in the film “The Wiz,” hanging on the wall of the room.
To enter the grounds of his home, I called out my name into an electric box. A heavy black door opened slowly, and I went in. Before I could even step onto the long driveway, I had to pass alongside a cage of wild dogs.
“Act like you’re going to bite me,” Jackson said while pointing at the dogs with his hand. Obediently, I raised my fist and took a step toward him. The dogs rushed toward the cage walls. They barked and drooled from their mouths. While I tried to make sure my pants didn’t get wet, Jackson was laughing so hard he bent over on his knees.
He was an mysterious being. The life he described to me with his gentle, whisper-like voice was mixed with feelings of loneliness, separation, and sadness. He complained that he couldn’t go out because he feared crowds. Still, he said that at midnight he would secretly leave the house and look for someone in the streets—someone to talk to him for a few words. I couldn’t believe it until I heard the story from someone else. He said that one night, while he was driving near Jackson’s house, he saw him wandering around the home.
I left his house with a vague sense of regret for the most famous man in the world.
When I saw Michael Jackson in court wearing sweatpants that day, the feeling returned. At the time the court session was supposed to begin, he was absent. His defense attorneys said that Michael had been taken to the hospital that morning because of severe back pain. An angry judge threatened that if Jackson didn’t come to court within an hour, he would be sent to jail. One hour and three minutes later, Jackson arrived in court wearing sweatpants.
Now imagine you are Michael Jackson. Accusations have been made against you that, if proven, could send you to prison for at least 20 years. Even at this point, your delays in court, dancing on top of your car, and pushing the trial back by a week because of the flu have already pushed the judge far enough. Don’t you think you would try even harder from now on not to make the judge even angrier?
Yes, you would. I would too. I don’t care if my back hurts. If I have to lean on others, or walk with a cane, or appear in court in a wheelchair, or take refuge in painkillers—when the judge’s gavel announces that the court session is officially starting, I must be there.
Leonard Pitts Jr
Winner of the 2004 Best Critics Award
Source: American News