Dish (42 page)

Kidman, who had grown up in Australia, was once described as “breathtakingly determined … She has pursued her career with the relentlessness of a heat-seeking missile.” Her first big film, the 1989 Australian suspense thriller
Dead Calm,
got some attention in the United States, but produced no offers of roles, so Kidman took charge of the situation. She got hold of a purloined copy of a script for
Ghost,
in which she recognized a potential blockbuster, and videotaped a private production of the film, with herself in the role that would go to Demi Moore. She sent the unorthodox audition video—unsolicited—to director Joel Rubin. “I don’t know how she got the script,” a stunned Rubin said. “But the video was an elaborate production—fully cast, blocked and acted with little sets and lights and everything. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Rubin was impressed, but not impressed enough to give Kidman the role. She got her break playing a brain surgeon in Tom Cruise’s
Days of Thunder;
after the movie appeared, she converted to Scientology, married Cruise, and the couple adopted two children in Florida, where a controversial Republican gubernatorial candidate, Anthony Martin, called for an investigation into the adoptions, calling them egregious examples of “baby selling.” Some critics questioned whether Kidman’s marriage to Cruise was a career move for both of them. Entertainment reporters debated
about whether or not the media had an obligation to investigate the possibility. On the one side, there were those who agreed with Pat Kingsley that stars’ private lives are nobody’s business; others countered that celebrities were among the richest, most influential people in the country and that the press should not put itself in the position—as it did in the days of Hedda and Louella—of perpetrating public relations myths. The rumors about the Cruise-Kidman marriage were so rampant, this argument went, that even if they weren’t true, the media had an obligation to address them. Accordingly, in a profile of Kidman,
McCall’s
ran an anonymous quote, attributed to “a prominent movie critic” who said he had “heard rumors” that Cruise and Kidman had married “to squelch the gay stuff” and that “Nicole was told that if she married Tom, CAA would make her a movie star.” The article also quoted a number of people who dismissed the speculation and said that Cruise and Kidman had an ideal marriage. Printing the rumor, however, spread it beyond the media and entertainment circles that traffic in such things and put them in mainstream America. “I spoke with Pat the day that story appeared,” said a writer. “She was devastated and crazed. When something like that happens, her fury knows no bounds.”

Cruise and Kidman were prepared to sue, but lawsuits—as everyone in Hollywood knew from the Carol Burnett episode—were too lengthy and too messy. Kingsley wanted a retraction and she wouldn’t wait until the next issue of
McCall’s
came out; it was delivered through Pat Kingsley’s office the day the offending magazine hit newsstands:
“McCall’s
knows of no evidence indicating that Mr. Cruise is sterile or homosexual, or that Ms. Kidman is anything other than a highly competent actress, or that they married for any reason other than mutual love and respect, or that any of the other reported rumors is true.”

Liz Smith also weighed in on the controversy. Ever since she’d been lured to
Newsday
and her column started appearing in the parent company’s
Los Angeles Times,
Smith was more eager than ever to make a big splash in Hollywood. The gossip columnist was a frequent house guest of director Joel Schumacher, who had set aside “the Liz Smith” room for her. “All this continuing controversy over Tom’s private life reminds me of a well-known director
who was asked what he thought about the much-gossiped-about Cruise-Nicole Kidman marriage,” Smith wrote. “He said, ‘You know, it’s none of my business. It’s none of your business. And frankly, I don’t care.’ Great answer.” The unnamed source in the item was Joel Schumacher; he also happened to be Kidman’s director in
Batman Forever
and Cruise’s director in
The Firm.

Vanity Fair
writer Jennet Conant also rushed to Cruise and Kidman’s defense. Conant, who was married to
60 Minutes
reporter Steve Kroft, told
USA Today
and the
New York Post’s
Page Six that the
McCall’s
story was inaccurate and unfair. “What reporters were doing to Tom and Nicole was a rabid invasion of their privacy,” Conant said. Tom and Nicole were “deeply in love” Conant insisted; she knew, she said, because they were friends. “I profiled Nicole twice, and she liked what I wrote,” said Conant. When the writer profiled Kidman for
Redbook,
she didn’t address the rumors. “It’s nobody’s business,” Conant maintained.
McCall’s
was just jealous, Conant told Page Six, because it didn’t have access like
Redbook.
After Conant’s comments appeared, Kingsley called the writer to thank her. The next year, when Kingsley was negotiating with
Vanity Fair
for the first ever joint interview with Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise, Kingsley asked for—and got—Jennet Conant. The reporter had no apologies for the fawning tone of the story. “This is not an investigation of criminals,” she said. “It’s fun stories about nice people who I happen to like a lot.” Later, when
Vanity Fair
profiled Tom Cruise’s good friend George Clooney,
*
also a PMK client, Conant got that assignment too. The Stephanie Mansfields of entertainment journalism were being edged out by writers who were more cooperative with the Pat Kingsleys of the world. “Pat and I deal with each other on a very professional level,” said Conant. “There’s never been any restrictions, she’s never asked me to sign anything … They know they can trust me. They know I never hit below the belt.”

Indeed, by the late 1990s, negative articles about Cruise, like the one in
McCall’s
or fact-filled ones like Stephanie Mansfield’s,
were a rarity. Kingsley had succeeded in intimidating the entertainment press so thoroughly that it was willing to publish increasingly implausible celebrations of the actor’s good deeds.

In 1996, around the time
Mission Impossible
was being released, Tom Cruise, who both directed and produced the movie, was being depicted in the media as a real-life action hero for a series of heroic rescues: he had saved the life of a boy being crushed by his throng of fans and paparazzi, he had come to the aid of a woman who had been hit by a car. In August, Cruise made headlines for saving the lives of a French family whose yacht exploded off the Isle of Capri. Articles and TV segments around the world applauded the actor’s bravery: “No Mission Impossible” declared one newspaper. “Tom Terrific,” proclaimed
People
magazine. The only problem was—it never happened. While there
was
an accident, neither Cruise nor anyone on his yacht participated in the rescue in any way, according to a spokesman for the coast guard in Capri, which rescued the family and brought it to safety on the yacht on which the star was sailing. Cruise, according to the coast guard spokesman, never lifted a finger in the actual rescue. The star did, however, visit the victims in the hospital. When questioned about the story, Kingsley at first praised Cruise’s heroics and courage. “If I’m ever in danger,” she said, “I hope Tom Cruise is around!” When pressed for a specific description of Cruise’s heroism, however, she got vague. And when presented with the coast guard’s official version of events, Kingsley backed off.

“The press made up the story!” she declared angrily. “They got it wrong!” And then she added triumphantly: “They always do.”

Private Investigator Anthony Pellicano was on the
Dangerous
tour in Bangkok with Michael Jackson when he got the call: police had raided Neverland, the singer’s 2,700-acre ranch; they had a search warrant; they brought in a locksmith; they seized videotapes and photographs. This is trouble, Pellicano knew, but then again, trouble was Pellicano’s business.

It was Sunday, August 22, 1993, still before dawn in California, but Pellicano telephoned criminal lawyer Howard Weitzman in Los Angeles anyway. “Wake up,” Pellicano told Weitzman. They had a lot of work to do.

Hard Copy
correspondent Diane Dimond spent most of Monday, August 23, at her cubicle in the Mae West Building of Paramount Studios, tracking down the names in Heidi Fleiss’s little black book. Shortly before 4 P.M., Dimond’s boss, Executive Producer Linda Bell Blue, tapped her on the shoulder. “In about seven minutes, Channel 4 is going to run a story about Michael Jackson,” Blue said. “I don’t really know what it is, but come to my office. Let’s watch it.”

“The L.A.P.D just a few moments ago confirmed for us that entertainer Michael Jackson is the subject of a criminal investigation,” reported KNBC-TV’s Colan Nolan. This should be interesting, Dimond thought as she and Blue leaned forward, eager to find out why the police were investigating the world’s biggest pop star. They didn’t find out from KNBC-TV. “It was an odd story,” said Dimond. “They said police were looking for something, but they didn’t say what or why.”

Bell turned to Dimond: “You’re on the Michael Jackson story.”

Dimond elbowed her way through the crowd of other reporters, photographers, and camera crews that crowded into Howard Weitzman’s Century City office the following day for a press conference the lawyer had called in reaction to the mysterious investigation of Michael Jackson. Bert Fields, the smooth-talking, powerhouse attorney whose clients included Dustin Hoffman, John Travolta, Warren Beatty, David Geffen, and Tom Cruise, was also on the case, but the front man was the more combative Weitzman. “I’m going to make a statement in a moment,” Weitzman told the crowd. “If you guys will act like humans, which is real difficult for you all …”

Weitzman then introduced Jackson’s “security consultant,” Anthony Pellicano. A slight, well-groomed man with receding wavy hair and hound-dog eyes stepped up to the mike. There is no truth, Pellicano told the crowd, to the child molestation charges against Michael Jackson. A collective gasp came from the journalists. This was the first time anyone officially disclosed why police were investigating Jackson. Then Pellicano threw a curve ball: What the case was really about, the security consultant said, was blackmail. “A demand for twenty million dollars was presented and it was flatly refused,” Pellicano told the stunned reporters. “We had no intention to do anything with it. We wanted to see how far they went.” When Jackson’s people refused to pay, the accusers went to the authorities, Pellicano said. “I am actively engaged in investigating that extortion attempt.”

Dimond’s jaw dropped. She was stunned—not just by the charges of child molestation, and not just by the blackmail allegations—but because she believed she recognized Pellicano’s voice.
After Dimond reported on the apparent ties between the Hollywood Madam and Columbia Pictures, an anonymous man with a Chicago accent began calling her, trying to persuade her that certain people were trying to frame Columbia executives.