My Son Marshall, My Son Eminem (17 page)

But Betti Renee was there when we arrived. When I dropped Nathan off, she had security order me off the premises. So I checked into a nearby Motel 6. I had stayed there in the past and got to know most of the help—they were always very accommodating.

Nathan returned early that evening, saying he didn’t feel welcome at the mansion because there were so many hangers-on around. I rented a DVD player and invited over some of his old school friends, and we spent the rest of the week holed up at the motel watching old movies.

Nathan wanted to go on tour with Marshall. I really wasn’t sure, but Marshall got on the phone to me and said, “I promise there will be no alcohol, no dope smoking. I won’t let him do any of that.”

When Nathan came back he told me there were Playboy bunnies and pretty girls everywhere and weed-smoking on the tour bus. He said things that made my hair curl. I’ve always encouraged my sons to talk to me about everything. No subject has ever been taboo.

Marshall also fretted about the way Kim handled his fame. She was envious of him, complaining she couldn’t go anywhere without being hassled. She didn’t bother to hide the fact that she was seeing other men. She still had a hold over Marshall. He wasn’t allowed to date, even though they were separated, but she did what she wanted.

Marshall put the Sterling Heights house up for sale. I’d never even been inside, as Kim had called security on me if I did anything other than drop off presents for Hailie or collect Nathan when he visited. I never usually got out of the car.

I went up to the house once and I could see it had marble floors and chandeliers when I peeked through the glass of the front door. But that was it. Marshall soon found another place in Manchester Estates in nearby Clinton Township. It was a mansion inside a gated community, which meant he could keep the fans at bay.

Marshall’s trial for pistol-whipping John Guerra was slated to start on Valentine’s Day. He phoned me from Europe, where he was on tour, worried he was going to jail and wouldn’t see Hailie for the next five years.

“Are you coming to the trial?” he asked.

Even though we were still involved in the lawsuit, and, according to the media that now accompanied Marshall wherever he went, we’d fallen out big time, I didn’t hesitate. My son needed me. I’d have jumped in front of a train if he’d asked me to.

Nathan, who was now almost fifteen, was back on tour with Marshall. I still worried, even though he called most nights to let me know he was okay.

I feared for Marshall, too. At the start of his tour in Germany he’d gone on stage with a chainsaw, simulated murder, and had apparently swallowed a handful of ecstasy pills. The next stop was Britain, where the police warned he’d be arrested if found with illegal substances.

It wasn’t hard to keep up with news of my son. I had only to switch on the TV or pick up a newspaper to find out what he was doing. My phone at the taxi company was also ringing off the hook. Journalists from all over Europe wanted to interview me. Several simply turned up at my door.

Britain’s
Mail on Sunday
offered me the chance to set the record straight. Here’s part of the article I wrote:

I want to try to explain to his fans—and all the parents who I know are horrified by the lyrics in his songs—what makes my son tick. I want people to understand that the hate-filled rapper on stage is Eminem, and not my boy Marshall. Basically, no one should take anything he says seriously—he doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t hate women or homosexuals and he’s not violent.

He is making money out of negative issues because he could not make it as a rap star any other way. When he first started to write filthy lyrics I asked him why. His answer was the more foul he was, the more people loved him.

The European press had a field day with Marshall. They called him Public Eminem Number One. They likened his concerts to Hitler Youth rallies because he whipped up so much hatred with his homophobic and misogynistic songs.

Here’s a piece that appeared in the
Daily Mail
just before he arrived in the United Kingdom:

The Eminem phenomenon has divided the world. His violent lyrics, dripping with grotesque imagery and obsessive profanities, have appalled parents. Little wonder, perhaps, that American President George W. Bush once described him as “the most dangerous threat to American children since polio.”

Christian groups have despaired over his songs and their impact on young people. One influential American Rightwing preacher suggested that parents might need to arrange exorcisms for their children if they spent too much time listening to Eminem’s music.

The article went on to say that kids didn’t take his stuff seriously, and that the crazed-fan character on his latest hit, “Stan,” was considered by some as a “stunning commentary on modern celebrity.” Along the route, my son had also been compared to the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins and Elvis Presley.

Scotland’s
Daily Record
traced his roots back to Edinburgh and suggested he could be descended from their national poet, Robert Burns. They even quoted an expert saying they looked similar and were both famous for drunken bad behavior!

The British
Daily Mirror
interviewed Bruce. Once again, he claimed I’d disappeared with Marshall and he’d spent years trying to find us. Part of the article read:

Speaking from his modest flat near San Diego, California, the factory worker revealed he just wanted his angry rapper son to know he was after his forgiveness—not his money. His only memory of his son is a faded baby picture he took with him when he left.

Struggling to control his emotions, Bruce said: “I desperately want to meet my son and tell him I love him. I’m not interested in his money. I just want to talk to him. I want him to know that I’m here for him if he lets me back into his life.”

He claimed to have just one grainy photo of himself holding his son as a toddler. That was something I found very odd, because Marshall’s baby book—which I’d left behind when we fled from Bruce—had somehow made its way to Germany. A magazine there had reprinted lots of pictures from it and quoted Bruce at length. Still, at least in the
Mirror
article, he acknowledged his past addictions, saying he now attended Alcoholics Anonymous and counseling sessions at a drink and drugs rehab center.

Nathan returned from Europe all excited about the places he’d been. He said Kim still managed to create havoc from 3,500 miles away, sparking a big feud when she could not get through on the phone to Marshall’s hotel in Manchester. It also transpired that the British police had swooped on Marshall’s so-called ecstasy pills. It turned out they were bits of dried-up chewing gum! Needless to say, I was relieved.

Marshall pleaded guilty to carrying a concealed weapon.

I was furious. It meant he would have a criminal record. But he said his lawyers had struck a deal with the prosecutors, who’d agreed to drop the more serious charge of assault with a deadly weapon, which carried a fouryear jail sentence. Even so, he still feared he’d be imprisoned and again asked me to be there for him at the next hearing.

At the beginning of April, Nathan and I drove to Michigan and checked into a luxurious hotel near the Macomb County Court House. We hid away on the second floor; Marshall was on the ground floor. The staff was lovely, but early on they called me and asked if I could possibly pick up his clothes. There was stuff all over the floor and, because he was famous, they’d been told they could not move anything if they were to enter his room.

Marshall believed he’d be sent to jail because of who he was. But he insisted to me that he hadn’t pistol-whipped Guerra.

“I hit him with my fist, the gun just fell out of my pants,” he told me. “I swear, if I’d have hit him with the gun I’d have split his head open. I was so angry.”

Nathan and I slipped into the back of the court just before the end of the hearing. The public benches were packed with kids wearing Eminem Tshirts. My heart was in my mouth as the prosecutor asked the judge to sentence Marshall to six months in jail. Marshall, looking the height of respectability in spectacles and a smart dark suit and tie, hung his head and showed no emotion.

The judge, Antonio Viviano, sided with the defense. He gave Marshall two years’ probation, saying he had no previous criminal record and the gun wasn’t

loaded. He also ordered Marshall to pay $7,500 in fines and costs, banned him from possessing firearms, and ordered him to submit to regular drug testing. Marshall was also barred from drinking excessively and had to get permission to leave the country.

“I consider probation to be punishment,” the judge warned him. “I don’t consider it a slap on the wrist. If you come back to this court, I can sentence you to up to five years in prison.”

Outside we all heaved a big sigh of relief. I hated the fact that Marshall had a criminal record, but at least he wasn’t jailed.

He still had to stand trial in nearby Oakland County on two weapons charges stemming from his run-in with Insane Clown Posse’s Douglas Dail, and he was battling Kim, who’d filed for divorce in March, over custody of Hailie, and money.

And first we had to sort out my lawsuit against Marshall. Every time I asked my lawyer to stop my lawsuit he said, “It’s come this far. We can’t stop it now.”

Marshall offered me $25,000. He promised to send it direct to my lawyer, saying, “I swear to God I will help you for the rest of your life. I just want you to stop this case.” I had already left a message after my letters, and my calls were going nowhere.

Of course, I agreed. He knew I would do anything in the world for him.

I called Marshall’s lawyer, Peter Peacock, and left a long message on his voicemail, saying I wanted to settle.

Then I turned to an attorney called Michael Marsalese. He agreed to help, but we had only a matter of days before the case was due to be heard in Michigan. I waited back home in Missouri because I could not take time off from work. Michael called me and asked if I’d left a message for Marshall’s lawyer. I said yes. Michael read my words back to me. He sounded furious. The court had a transcript.

I’d said, “I’m going to be acting, I guess, on my own behalf. I understand that the offer would still be available to me for $25,000, and I will settle with Mr. Gibson myself…. I’d just like to see the case ceased, over and done with, and put it to rest once and for all.”

Michael said he’d try to sort it out. I hadn’t signed any agreement; it was all oral. I didn’t care. I wanted it all to go away.

The judge ruled that the $25,000 settlement was valid; the money was sent to the lawyers. All but $1,600 of it went to legal fees.

Marshall phoned me. “I’m not sorry,” he shouted. “Now you’ll regret it.”

“Son, keep your money,” I said.

“No, I want you to have the money,” he yelled. “You want to see how bad I can get. There’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

The line went dead. I could not get back through.

He changed all of his telephone numbers. I frantically tried reaching him through his management company, the studio, his staff, anything. He would not return my calls.

I’d lost Marshall out of my life over a silly misunderstanding.

A few weeks later, I received a tape of Marshall’s deposition. I could barely watch it. I was just so upset by everything. Marshall’s people had told me to keep the court case going to sell records, but God only knows what they had said to him about me. Now we were truly estranged, and I cried all the time. The slightest little thing reduced me to tears. Marshall still phoned for Nathan, but he refused to talk to me.

If I answered, he just snarled, “Put me onto my brother.”

On other occasions he got his management to call. If I managed to intercept, he just said, “Let me talk to Nate.”

I wasn’t allowed to see Hailie. Marshall had threatened I’d never see her again. Now he stuck to his guns. I dropped presents—usually Barbie dolls that I knew she loved—at his house. I was told she didn’t play with dolls anymore. She was five and mixing pretend-martinis in her toy kitchen.

Marshall was back in court for sentencing in the Douglas Dail incident. He pleaded no contest to carrying a concealed weapon and brandishing a firearm in public. The judge, Denise Langford Morris, made headlines by rapping at him, “Don’t misstep, don’t fall down. Now it’s time for you to please stand up.”

She ordered him to do community service and pay $2,360, and sentenced him to a year’s probation. Again, he had to submit to drug and alcohol tests, but the judge added another rider: he had to get her permission to leave Michigan. Now it meant he couldn’t even leave the state.

Nathan wanted to move back to Michigan because of Marshall. We needed a fresh start.

Marshall was playing at the Detroit Silverdome. Nathan had several tickets, and he wanted to go too. Despite everything, I was proud of my son, and I just wanted to see him again.

But when we got to the box office, there were no tickets. It turned out we’d mixed the dates up—we were due the following night. I managed to buy tickets from a scalper in the street. Once inside, I slid into my seat and hoped no one recognized me.

The show had barely begun when Marshall launched into an attack on me. He stood on the stage, shouted, “Fuck you, Debbie,” and made an obscene gesture with his finger. A spotlight spun around the audience, then fell on me. The crowd erupted. Some drunks behind us started jeering and swearing at me.

I was rescued by a reporter. She hauled me out and took me to the safety of the VIP area.

“You’ll get hurt down there,” she said. “A guy was pouring beer down your back.”

Needless to say, I did not attend the following night’s concert. I was too upset. Later I found out that Marshall was disappointed. He thought I was going to be in the audience and had actually cleaned up his act.

“Why didn’t she come? I didn’t say, ‘Fuck you, Debbie!’ So she would have enjoyed it. I cleaned up my act for her,” he said, apparently unaware I’d been there the previous evening.