Unlike sick, sad Wally Wilson, the morbid yet lovable protagonist in “Blood Red Syrah,” I made it beyond the Neverland gates and entered the belly of the beast. I rode Michael Jackson’s little choo-choo train around the massive estate, posed for a photograph with my foot on the first rung of a sliding board, and stared into eerie frozen faces of bronze statues portraying children in playful poses.
Amid merry-go-round calliope music, Jackson’s magical carnival drew a small army of innocent, happy children deeper into his dark spell. Laughing, innocent and small, kids from a raw section of Los Angeles bused to Neverland for a day of paradise raced from one wonder to the next, their chaperones oblivious to the danger that lurked in every well-lit corner – from the flame red flamingos to the unlocked movie theater with all the free candy you could eat.
Help yourself to heaven, boys and girls.
Get ready to enter hell.
Feeling hot California sun on my face, I lifted the lid to a free snow cone cart, one of several Jackson strategically placed around his personal, private amusement park and built so tiny hands could easily reach inside for a cool, colorful treat. Pulling apart two white paper cones, I put them in my pocket as mementos, simple symbols of that village of the damned. Fifteen years later, I still have those flattened paper cones, pure and unused, stuffed in a cardboard box somewhere in the attic where one day they will yellow with age amid newspaper clippings from Jackson’s child molestation trial where I sat inside the courtroom everyday for 14 weeks when I covered that tragedy for the Santa Maria Times and SKY News.
Memories and lessons of loss came rushing back this week while I watched the HBO special “Leaving Neverland,” a documentary that batters the senses with two men’s heartbreaking stories about how Jackson tore apart their minds and sexually assaulted their bodies, how he brainwashed his captives better than any wartime prison camp and left them ragged and beaten for the rest of their lives.
Nobody ever leaves Neverland.
Jurors in Jackson’s trial told the world that prosecutors had not proven their lurid case against Jackson beyond a reasonable doubt, that ten criminal counts against arguably the world’s most recognizable entertainer were flimsy. Convinced Jackson was guilty of all ten felony counts against him, I sat behind Janet, LaToya and other Jackson family members that day in June 2005, listening as sobs and sniffles announced their relief. Jackson sat wiping his eyes, ready to again walk free and make new special friends among the army of children who still adored him.
Nothing would be the same for him or his countless special friends – the boys – always boys – who know he tortured and destroyed their lives with a golden touch.
All good fiction is based on reality. Life’s lessons live and breathe as writers invent characters that react to circumstances and create a story from conflict. That’s how Wally Wilson winds up standing outside the Neverland gates in “Blood Red Syrah.” Guilty, sick and dangerous, Wally recognizes another guilty, sick and dangerous man – a mad monster run amok.
Jackson is dead almost 10 years. Wally is make-believe. Yet other real-life fiends walk tall among the flashy lights of the carousel that illuminate our children’s most vulnerable dreams.
Unlike Wally, we must never just stand outside the gate. Kick it down. Fight back against untold damage done under cover of trust. At least try to increase the odds that the next child sex predator ghoul who comes bearing gifts will not be protected, enabled, defended and welcomed into our midst.