Conrad Murray’s Interview about his Book on Michael Jackson
This is what Conrad Murray and actor Risitas have to say about Michael Jackson (a parody).
This video was inspired by Risitas (actor) and Conrad Murray (so-called doctor) who was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter of Michael Jackson and sentenced to 4 years in prison. He served half the sentence and was released from jail because of overcrowding. Now he has self-published a “tell-all” book about his deceased patient.
The video is based on Murray’s narrative, kindly presented to the world by Radar Online, The Sun, The Mirror and other esteemed sources.
Here are some of the details.
Michael Jackson’s Killer, Dr. Conrad Murray, “Publishes” E Book And No One Buys It
August 10, 2016
Someone asked me today if the “book” written by Dr. Conrad Murray, the man who killed Michael Jackson, had been published.
I had to look on Amazon.
It does seem like Murray released his e book “This Is It! The Secret Lives of Dr. Conrad Murray and Michael Jackson” on July 26th.
The public has responded with a gigantic Yawn. “Secret Lives” is currently number 25,408 on amazon.com, on their paid Kindle chart.
I didn’t download it, and won’t pay for it. I guess hardly anyone else will, either.
If you know anyone who actually did do that, ask them to email me at firstname.lastname@example.org
It really doesn’t matter what Murray writes. He was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter. He should be in jail still, but was released because of overcrowding. His medical license has been suspended or revoked in the states where he practiced. The book will never see hardcover.
The Daily Telegraph (excerpts):
Conrad Murray and Michael Jackson – what we learnt from the doctor’s terrible book
29 JULY 2016
To the majority of people who have heard of him, Dr Conrad Murray is the physician who was found responsible for the death of Michael Jackson. Murray was imprisoned for involuntary manslaughter in 2011 after it was found that the King of Pop died from a significant overdose of the anaesthetic propofol.
As of last week, however, Murray is also an author. The 63-year-old former doctor and businessman self-published This Is It! The Secret Lives of Dr Conrad Murray and Michael Jackson, his memoir and version of events as Jackson’s personal doctor ahead of the star’s ill-fated This Is It tour in 2009.
All of these are mired in several thousand words of self-aggrandising, poorly punctuated and repetitive text. We know, because we’ve read it. These are the highlights:
Jackson and Murray’s friendship was exceptional
Despite only treating Michael for the first time a few years before his death, Murray’s book follows the story of their friendship, and how the doctor was one of the few people allowed into Michael’s inner circle. According to Murray, he swiftly became Michael’s confidante, gaining his trust to be told dark truths about the singer’s troubled life that no others had heard.
Although Murray claims that he never took payment for his services from Michael, he writes animatedly about the debt Jackson and AEG owe him over his hours of service ahead of the This Is It tour. Here are some of the statements he made about his relationship with the singer: “I am 6’ 5” and in me Michael Jackson found a protective father figure (though I was not old enough to be his dad) with whom he felt utterly safe”
“I know doctor Conrad, I really love and trust you, you’re my family, you Prince Paris, Blanket and I that is my family, that’s how I see it, that’s what I want for the rest of my life, that is how it will be.”
“He speaks to me, not guarded; he’s relaxed as when on stage performing to thousands of fans.”
Murray was pretty special, right from the start
In his epilogue, Murray will maintain that the adversity he faced in later life had begun “in-utero [when] I survived the stresses of my mother’s discouragement, her broken heart and dismay”. Like founding father Alexander Hamilton, Murray was born “to an unwed mother in a small Carribbean island [and] worked his way up the ladder to become one of America’s most respected physicians”.
Here is how he explained his arrival, in third person: “The baby boy, Conrad, would grow up to one day be able to serve all of humanity… After my birth all of [his mother’s] immediate scourge and suffering would change, no one could resist baby Conrad.”
“We all have characteristics that define who we are as men and women, for me the traits that bind me in general are my selflessness and altruism. I want to serve all others, regardless of race, color, creed, adversity or socio-economic challenges.”
Murray treated Mother Theresa, but didn’t know who she was
Throughout his book, Murray tells a number of stories of altruism. One of the earliest ones is about how he saved Mother Theresa’s life by fitting her with a pacemaker. However, he simply thought she was an “underprivileged person in a foreign country”, and refused to take payment for his services:
“I loved the way I dedicated my services to her, it was totally selfless because when I agreed to serve her, I literally had no idea then that she was widely known. That was despite having been given her name and demographics by her spokesperson. Giving of myself to an unknown stranger for no compensation is why I love this memory so much, and how it came to be. I still feel the love and fulfillment in my heart. The feeling will last forever. The story highlights my willingness to help others with no preconditions, only my love, altruism, and humility, to always give unconditionally. [Her staff asked] “Will there be a cost for your service doctor?” I answered NO!”
Murray wasn’t gay, although his classmates thought he was
“I studied a lot, was always able and prepared to fully participate in discussions during classes, always hygienically fresh and nicely clad. But above all, many young women on campus viewed me as being too soft, extremely polite, respectable, unusually gentle and probably somewhat atypical for a college young man. They concluded that I was gay…WRONG!”
Murray is a snappy dresser
Murray wants his readers to know he cuts a fine dash and knows good clothes when he sees them. Even at moments of great tension – such as, for instance, the last time he sees his son, Che, before he is sent to prison (“He was dressed in a little navy blue Nike tracksuit with white strip on the side of the trousers and sleeves of the jacket, and his gym shoes”) he won’t miss an opportunity to describe the fashion around him:
This was the outfit he put on to treat Jackson the night before he died:
“Next I jumped into an off-white linen cargo trousers and a white Ed Hardy t-shirt, after brushing my teeth and quickly combing through my short-cropped hair, I was ready to go.”
This is what walking into prison was like:
“I had to strip down from my fashionable suit and Bruno Magli shoes to a black canvas slippers, a white t-shirt and a thin synthetic lemon colored boxer shorts after spreading open my backside and every other orifice on my body for the sheriffs intake team to examine”
This was what Murray wore in medical school:
“By the end of the first full week of classes the ties, the Blazers and tweed pants, even the burgundy loafers were gone. My new garb became cut off jeans at the knees, T-shirts and gym shoes… keeping things simple, and real. I was humbled.”
Murray nearly died trying to save Jackson
While evidence presented at the California v Murray case and post-mortem findings contradict this, Murray writes that he nearly died trying to resuscitate Jackson after finding his body:
“In the process of heroically attempting to resuscitate Michael I developed for the first time in my entire existence chest pains and shortness of breath that felt like cardiac at the time I was performing CPR. I remember thinking then that I was going to die myself.
“For an instance, I sadly pondered at a point that day that we both could have been discovered dead.”
Murray has a really fancy bedroom
This is what he missed in prison:
“Thinking back I had left a beautiful spacious home, my masters bedroom alone was a good 2,000 square feet and which included his and hers vanity with high-end granite counter tops, His and hers walking and dressing closets, Jacuzzi type jetted spar tub, a master’s bedroom vestibule for private reading and relaxation, separate fire place, and climate control zone, the bedroom itself had its own large exterior Patio, over looking the 18th green on the golf course of Red-rock country club, in Las Vegas.”
And finally here are some pieces from Murray’s tale:
My mind was made up that night.
“I’m not going to see Michael, he’ll be fine and able to sleep on his own by the time he is through with rehearsals and takes the long drive home. It will be very late and he will also be exhausted.”
The flickering of lights on the ceiling faded away until I realised I had fallen asleep when suddenly I was awakened by the ringtone of my cellphone. It showed the number of brother Michael Amir, the personal assistant of Michael Jackson. It was 12:25AM on June 25th. I cringed, then answered, “yes, what do you want?”
He said, “Mr. Jackson will finish rehearsals in the next 10 minutes and he wanted to know if you’ll be at the house when he arrives.”
I said to him, “I was not planning to be there tonight, it’s already past midnight, this is ridiculous, I’m not a machine, l too need my rest, just like he does. I didn’t come to Los Angeles for this.”
Then after thinking of Michael and his tenuous state of affairs, his future hanging by a thread, I fretfully got up from bed to go to work.
I should have followed my intuition for once. I found tonight’s request very unreasonable because of the time, after midnight, I did not sign up for this. Not to help Michael Jackson go to sleep artificially every night.
I did not need this job, I was doing well on my own until both he and AEG duped me into closing the doors to my practices for this piece of shit. I’d rather have awakened to a call from Michael that night saying, “I’m tired, I got home late, I’m going to sleep, see you in the morning”, but that would be hoping for a miracle.
He was not yet at home, when I arrived, the time was around 1:00 am.
I took a one litre bag of normal saline solution, spiked the bag of fluid with a single IV line then hung the bag of fluid on the IV pole. The bag of normal saline was prepared for IV hydration of Michael tonight following his rehearsals at the Staples Center.
When Michael danced in rehearsals or a show he could drop more than five pounds in a single session from sweating, hence the reason for mild rehydration.
After preparing the normal saline, I sat on a chair towards the left lower foot of his bed, awaiting his arrival. On the inside of the house, it was very still, the three children were asleep soundly in their rooms. Shortly after that, the tall lanky figure dressed in an orange trousers, black jacket and a black hat suddenly walked through the door. It was Michael!
The broad smile, lighting up his face, as on every other occasion he had seen me.
“Good to see you and thanks for coming.”
“You’re welcome Mike.”
“Hey Conrad, I’ll get a quick shower and come back to you, ok.”
“That will be fine.”
“Hey Conrad, have you had dinner, don’t forget I have the cook prepare a meal for you every day, and keep it in the warmer for you.”
“Yes Mike I’m aware of it, but you know I don’t like to eat so late at night.”
“I’ll have them prepare it anyway.”
“No problem Mike. So tell me Michael, how was rehearsal today?”
“I’d say it was ok, only got to about 50 per cent of my capacity. Fifty to sixty per cent seems to be all I can do.”
“What limits your performance? Are you having chest pains, shortness of breath, pains in your hip knees or feet during rehearsals?”
“No nothing like that. Conrad you think I’ll have a heart attack.”
“I can’t make that prediction Michael, but your risk for a heart attack is quite low. However, we all know nothing is impossible.”
“Yeah, I guess so! Ok, let me go and shower I’ll be right back.”
Sorry for the interruption, but the police transcript of Murray’s interview has a different version of the same conversation:
- DETECTIVE SMITH: And once Michael arrives, what takes place?
- MURRAY: He, I usually ask – he said, “Good night. Hi. How are you?” And I said the same to him. And then he says – I said, “How was your day? Are you fine? What are you feeling?” And he says, “Oh, tired and fatigued, and I’m treated like I’m machine because of” – he said that. “But let me just have a quick shower and change, and I’ll come back to you”.
Back to Murray’s book:
Michael was never abandoned by me and nothing that I gave him would have killed him or caused him harm.
After leaving Michael’s bedside following 35 minutes of direct monitoring I conducted multiple pieces of business in adjacent chambers within the master suite. I used my cell phone to call my offices in Las Vegas and Houston as well as to Stacey Howe, my office administrator of roughly 17 years.
I couldn’t wait to get out of the house, I said to myself. However, I intended to wait until around noon then I would wake up Michael, remove the IV normal saline from his leg, and encourage him to attend rehearsals that day.
Still having a little time to burn, I thought I’d call this girl, Sade Anding whom I befriended in Houston. She was a waitress at a pretty decent steak house. She had left me numerous messages over two weeks and I never called her back, this could be the opportunity for me to touch base with her. The call will be a short one, we never did have many extended conversations as I recalled.
I dialled Sade’s number, she came on the line within a couple of rings, we began to speak, I next wedged the phone between my right shoulder and neck, opened the strings to my beige linen trousers, pulled it down partially and started to pee. I didn’t think she would hear me taking a p*ss while she was on the phone.
After finishing I pulled up my pants tied up the strings and started my casual slow trek back towards Michael; I was still on the phone with Sade. As I walked back through the chambers and cleared the doorway between the dressing chamber and the master’s retreat, which was adjacent to the bedroom. I was getting closer to Michael now.
That is when I suddenly encountered the unexpected. Michael was laying differently on the bed, he also looked different, I picked up the pace towards him.
He was not in the same position as when I last saw him. His head was off the pillow, his body was shifted slightly down towards the foot of the bed and nearer the edge towards the right side of the bed.
He was still attached to a condom catheter, and on his right leg and slightly below the left knee he was attached to a clear bag of IV normal saline solution, that was hung from an IV pole.
The nasal prongs from his oxygen tank was off his face, and resting on the right side of his pillow on the bed, the pillow was no longer under his head as when last seen.
“Michael! Michael! Are you ok?”
Not a sound he was making, not a breath he was taking, not a single pulse, sustained or intermittent was truly discernible.
He was lifeless.
Shocked, in dismay, and disbelief, but with no timidity I began an assessment of him.
What the f**k happened here?
What did he do in my absence?
I therefore, immediately sprang into action and started cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR), immediately after confirming that he was pulseless. I started with chest compressions and an Ambu-Bag for minute ventilation.
I had to save him.
I had to save Michael.
I shortly thereafter changed from using the Ambu-Bag and attempted mouth to mouth ventilation because being a single operator it was easier to attempt resuscitation that way. Sade Anding might have heard the inaudible sounds she described as someone coughing during her sworn testimony, it could have been me, but once I found Michael in that lifeless state, my focus was all or none to help him, so I sprung into immediate action to do whatever it took to help him survive this crisis.
This battle he must win. Sade was the least of my concerns at that moment.
As I worked feverishly on Michael, I may have even placed myself in danger of having a heart attack, because I developed symptoms in the attempt to resuscitate him, but I did not quit, nor give in to my concern.
I however, kept hoping and looking towards the bedroom door that someone would show up especially after I spoke to Michael Amir and told him I had an emergency, please send security. I could have been screaming for help at the top of my voice, but from that deeply cavernous master bedroom, no one would hear me.
In the process of heroically attempting to resuscitate Michael I developed for the first time in my entire existence chest pains and shortness of breath that felt like cardiac at the time I was performing CPR. I remember thinking then that I was going to die myself.
I hopelessly stared in the vicinity of the doorway more times than I could count. Every time hoping for a miracle that someone would knock, someone would show up, but there were no knocks and no one showed up.
I also remembered staring at the black house phone on the night stand while I continued CPR, beading in perspiration, and recalling that not a single telephone land line was functional in that house. It was extremely difficult working relentlessly on Michael as a lone operator not knowing where to find help, nevertheless, I couldn’t give up on him, not unless I physiologically collapsed or my body quitted involuntarily against my volition.
I finally had no choice but to run downstairs using the back stairwell searching for help from any adult I could find, because no one came to my rescue, that’s when I had to leave Michael alone and run downstairs screaming for help. After attempting CPR unsuccessfully I’d say for at least five to seven minutes, I’m not able to give an accurate account of the loss of time to get help during the crisis.
By the time security arrived, the first one on the scene was Alberto Alvarez. Trailing immediately behind and keeping up the pace with Alberto were both Paris and Prince who ran into the room almost simultaneously with him. Paris shouted “daddy, daddy”, and broke down in tears as she pushed her way deeper into the room barely passing Alberto.
Prince was running right behind Paris, he broke his stride as he entered the room, he appeared to be in total shock. He had tears in his eyes but I don’t recall him making a sound.
Before any of them could get close to me or Michael I shouted to Alberto Alvarez, please usher the children out of the room, and not have them see their father like this. He quickly grabbed them by their arms and escorted them out of the room.
I shouted to him, “Did you call 911?”
“Not yet. I’m going to call them now.”
He took out his cell phone from the inner pocket of his jacket, and placed the call to 911. When the operator answered the phone, Alvarez was like a cripple, and stammering, he did not know a thing about his boss. He could not answer simple questions based on what he was seeing on the scene.
I had to perform CPR alone during this time, then shout the answers to the 911 operator questions to Alberto across the room so that he could transfer the information to the 911 operator.
Before I give the details of what happened in the bedroom after paramedics arrived, let me preface it with the following statement. When someone calls 911 during an emergency, except for the blasting horns of sirens and flashing lights on emergency vehicles, you just don’t know what else you’re guaranteed to get. You hope for the best.
That was the same as in Michael’s case, but had he wished or prayed for a good, not an excellent group, just a good group to appear on the scene, his prayers were definitely not answered this summer day.
And let me also say that I’ve had the honour to work with excellent paramedics and other medical personnel as a physician, but in this particular case, this was a poor example of greatness, pardon my directness.
They had no difficulty intubating Michael. But beyond that task, absolutely nothing else was done successfully for that man by paramedics, especially during the next 25 to 30 minutes following intubation. And after doing nothing except milling around aimlessly and fumbling, they wanted to pronounce him dead at the scene, based on a Los Angeles “timed protocol.”
I was furious and foaming in rage.
“What do you mean call it? You guys have not done a single thing to impress upon me that you treated him effectively since you arrived. Your attempt sucked! You lost his IV access when moving him to the floor, and you took another 20 to 25 minutes before you could replace it, then you gave him an insufficient half ass amount of medicines after 25 minutes on the scene and decided to call it a day only because you have to follow protocol.
And finally you placed an IV line in his neck and want to use this to feign off your weak clinical skills, as if you did something for him. I save lives in critical states every day, and what you’ve done today is what I consider a pathetic effort. Get UCLA ER physicians on the line for me now! I’m assuming care and responsibility to take him to the nearest tertiary medical care centre with your help to transport him!”
The ER physician at UCLA agreed to relinquish and transferred care to me, I said to her prepare for us we are on our way to you.
The battle to keep him alive was far from over, to give him a fair chance of survival, and to save him just got more intense. I was not going to allow Michael to receive less than the maximum heroic measures, if it meant there was a chance for his survival, I was going to make sure, he got that chance. I was not ready to give up nonchalantly, nor to lose him, not this way. I wanted him to be around for his children.
After giving him more bicarbonate, epinephrine and atropine, chest compressions continued, he was still pulseless as when I first found him. He was transferred from his bedroom to the ambulance that was parked in the front yard. As we descended the stairs with him on the gurney, I followed last in line but immediately behind, keeping it all in sight.
I remembered on the last descent of stairs I looked towards my left side, towards the black grand piano and saw the children standing holding their nanny, their arms was bracing some part of her garment, and her arms holding them all.
The mood in the house was totally sombre. Anguish filled the air, a sight not to be forgotten.
I still couldn’t believe it might be the last time he would be leaving that residence and might not be coming back, the fate of which was also the same for me, I’ve never been back to that home, and have no desire to do so.
Isn’t this Egomaniac so delusional that he needs a doctor himself?
And if someone still believes that story about the girl, ask yourself a question – would Michael need a clown he hardly knew to talk to his long-time pal?