The following appeared as a column in the Los Angeles Daily News June 26, 2009, a day after Michael Jackson's death at his home.
Almost two decades ago, an actress friend and I posed as a grieving couple at a gravesite at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale, California, all just to catch a peak of a fellow mourner.
In May 1990 Michael Jackson attended the burial of his much-loved grandmother.
I was being wooed, as it were, to write an unauthorized biography about the world’s most mysterious man since the reclusive billionaire Howard Hughes, and I had insisted on at least getting a glimpse of the subject, if even from a distance, before I signed on.
As it turned out, I would have a face-to-face meeting with Michael Jackson himself, if only for a fleeting moment.
Michael was among the Jackson family members getting out of a limousine to attend the burial of his grandmother Martha Bridges, and his path to her gravesite took him directly past where we were standing, which we had known it would when we chose to stand there. When he was inches away, he slowed almost to a stop for a split-second and looked at us.
My friend, a gorgeous blonde from a popular TV show, could have that affect on people, which is why I had asked her to join me.
Michael was dressed in black except for a dark maroon shirt, sporting a black fedora under which his trademark black curls dangled over his forehead as if icicles of death. As he neared the tree shade approaching his grandmother's gravesite, he removed his sunglasses. He wasn’t wearing the surgical mask that had become a part of his wardrobe, and for an instant our faces couldn’t have been more than a foot apart.