Superstar, Michael Jackson, murdered his father Joe Jackson on the eve of Christmas, 1979. What drove him to commit such a passionate, heinous crime? Money? Greed? Fame? Th Jacksons and their reputation are sent into a spiral.
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The sheriff drove to a small house, no more than five minutes away from where Michael was arrested. The outside was freshly painted green. He knew because of the strong smell of paint, and the sight of the bit that had run off of the wet walls and dried in the crevices of the grass. There were two small windows on each side of the house. From one of them he could see a cluttered desk.
"Wait, what's this?" He asked the sheriff as he led him across wet grass.
"We're a small town with barely any criminals and no jail." He answered as he twisted the knob on an unlocked door. "You'll have to sit here and since you're from LA, somebody from there probably will come and get you."
Michael was hoping that the whole arrest situation could play out in Blythe, California. It was a small town with no one around. Since he had cash and card on him, he could bail himself out and find a way back to Los Angeles without anyone knowing.
The house was smaller inside. There was a short couch by the desk that Michael spotted earlier. On the desk was an unplugged coffee pot, a radio that buzzed, a white phone, and a few other misc. items. Behind it was a swivel chair. To the right of the desk, was a miniature cell. It was separated from the rest of the home by bars. A metal bench was built inside.
Michael tapped on the man's shoulder once he removed the handcuffs. He circled his wrists once they were freed. "Excuse me, sir? Is there any way that I could go through the process of being jailed here? So I can get a bond and go home without attracting the media's attention."
The sheriff was no taller than five and a half feet. He was shaped like an egg with legs, carrying a big stomach in front of him. His hair was thinning at the top.
He slid the barred door of the cell. "There isn't a judge in this town to sentence you. There isn't a jail here to be put in, if sentenced. There isn't one jail across this whole county. We usually find blood under the skin."
Michael walked into the cell and watched the man as he slid the door back and locked it. The man walked over to the chair and plopped down in it before picking up the phone. He put it on his ear and pressed keys on the keypad.
He noticed Michael watching him as the phone rang. "You can take a seat in there," It was more of an order than a suggestion. "Um, I have a young man here, down in Blythe. I was wondering if there was an officer who could come get him from my station."
Michael stayed put. He listened to every word the man said.
The man soaked in the person on the phone's response, before answering, "Reckless driving. He didn't hit anything or wreck the car, but he seemed drunk. The breathalyzer says he passed, but that thing's been acting funny for months." He laughed, "Yeah, he was driving like a schoolboy. He probably would've crashed if I didn't pull him over."
About a minute later, the man put the phone back on its base and turned his attention towards Michael. "There's an officer right down the road who was coming to get a crazy man. I guess the man fled, so you're lucky. You won't have to wait long to leave."
