Michael is still a thriller

Don’t think for a second that people aren’t used to a touch of Hollywood in this unflashy city 2 1/2 hours north of Los Angeles. Why, just a few years back, locals like to brag, they filmed parts of “Grumpy Old Men” somewhere around here. And three or four decades ago the great Cecil B. DeMille cast the region as a Holy Land body-double in his epic “The Ten Commandments.”

But there’s celebrity, and there’s Celebrity. There’s Charlton Heston in long white whiskers, and there’s the Prince of Pop in sunglasses and surgical mask. There are star-gazer trials, and there’s Michael Jackson being sued for millions by a longtime business associate for allegedly reneging on two 1999 New Year’s Eve concerts.

Time will tell, but this could be as much celebrity as some Santa Marians can stomach.

“This [case] is a big deal, but it’s a quiet place for the most part,” said Darrell Parker, court administrator for Santa Barbara Superior Court, as he chatted with reporters Thursday morning in a parking lot. “This is an agricultural community. Most of the farmers don’t give a damn.”

At that moment the wind shifted, delivering a blast of warm, sour air from the farmlands just outside of town. Parker grinned. “That’s the fertilizer you smell,” he said.

You could sense that other potent currents were swirling in this fast-developing burg of 80,000, which now rivals its swanky neighbor, Santa Barbara, as the county’s largest. Formerly a dusty inland farm town, Santa Maria has grown into a more complex quasi-urban area where Latinos now make up the majority. At times, the tensions are palpable.

Steve Corbett, a columnist for the Santa Maria Times who has written sympathetically about a 24-year-old undocumented Mexican farm worker accused of dumping her newborn son in a trash receptacle, says her case has split the community and prompted the most vicious hate mail he’s ever received. As for the region’s feelings about its wealthiest resident, Corbett said, “The way people are here, it’s like, ‘Michael is wonderful and don’t ask questions.’ ”

The vast majority of the 450 autograph hounds and well-wishers who came out to cheer the singer’s appearance on Thursday afternoon were Latino and African American. Their profile contrasted sharply with most of the sheriff’s deputies and police officers on hand, as well as the media swarm and the jury sequestered inside.

Surface appearances are, of course, always a matter of intense interest where Jackson is concerned. On Wednesday, the first day of testimony, the doe-eyed singer turned up with his trademark kabuki coiffure, wearing a surgical mask and a bandage on his nose. But what type of bandage, 8 billion human beings wanted to know?

Several media professionals busied themselves with these critical matters the next morning while awaiting Jackson’s arrival. “Hey, Larry, I just got a good description of his nose from the court reporter who sits right next to him,” one reporter burbled into her cell phone. “It’s being described as a transparent bandage, not flesh-colored.”

The case of Marcel Avram vs. Michael Jackson, which is expected to run far into December, is being heard in Superior Court here because Jackson’s palatial Neverland estate lies nearby in the Santa Inez Valley. Though locals said that Jackson is rarely seen in town (Hint: Try evenings at Toys ‘R Us. Seriously), sightings have become a popular local pastime.

“I used to like to dance around in my diaper to Michael Jackson,” said Heather Anadon, 18, by way of explaining why she had come out at sunrise with her friend, Olivia Acton, 19, to stand behind a police barricade in hopes of spotting the singer. Both had brought their uniforms from Hot Dog on a Stick, where they work, in hopes of getting Jackson to autograph them.

On Wednesday, the peanut gallery had been packed with high school students -- until the authorities started taking down names to report as truants. Some said the turnout had been fanned by a morning-radio personality who was giving away “Free Michael” T-shirts. If you’re a teenager, said Anadon, Santa Maria is not exactly a happening place: “All you have to go to is the movies and miniature golfing.”

Corrie Bryson, 39, brought her four children to the courthouse on Thursday -- Chryshea, 6; Chynna, 11; Anthony, 13; and Jason, 8 -- reasoning that it was cheaper than four concert tickets. “To get that live glimpse of an icon, they would probably have to pay $500,” Bryson said. “That’s mainly the thing, to see him, to support him.”

Away from the crowds, the sentiments were harsher. “I think it’s disgusting,” said Donna Kraus, a retiree who moved from West L.A. several years ago. “I think he’s weird,” Kraus continued as she rested on a bench by the carousel at the town mall. “He’s not a man, he’s not a woman, he’s just nothing.”

For all the pregame chatter, Jackson’s second day in court had all the makings of a spectacular anti-climax. By 10 a.m. nearly all the players were in place: Avram, the plaintiff; the lawyers for both sides; Superior Court Judge Zel Canter; reporters; photographers; and several spectators who’d won lottery slots for the few remaining seats.

But the piece de resistance didn’t arrive. No explanation was given. Court was recessed until 1 p.m., and most of the gathering straggled off to lunch.

Cassie Cespedes, a petite, middle-aged woman who’d literally jumped for joy when hers was the first name called in the lottery, wasn’t giving up hope of seeing “my idol.” Clutching a tattered Special Olympics envelope that she hoped to ask Jackson to sign, Cespedes, who has epilepsy, is a Special Olympics athlete and a karaoke singer. Her two favorite numbers are “I’ll Be There” and “Dancing Machine,” both ‘70s Michael signatures. Finally, the hour arrived and the piece de resistance pulled up in a Ford Econoline van. After a delay of several minutes, a black umbrella popped open and Jackson stepped out underneath it, looking like a figure in a Magritte painting.

Then he did something unexpected. He began working the crowd. He signed photos, album covers and whatever else was thrust at him, posed for the cameras, and after several minutes blew kisses as his handlers bustled him into the courtroom.

At last, court was in session. While chants of “Michael! Michael!” could be heard outside during Jackson’s testimony over the next 3 1/2 hours, his performance was decidedly undramatic. “I don’t remember,” he said repeatedly in response to questions from the plaintiff’s attorney, Louis Miller. “I don’t understand the question.” Between responses, Jackson often paused for glacial intervals. Occasionally he rocked slightly, back and forth, giggled, or smiled toward his supporters in the audience.

After a long “comfort break” shortly after 2, Miller resumed his questions, but with a frustrated edge. When Jackson asked for what seemed like the 100th time for a question to be repeated, Miller retorted, “I’m going to let the court reporter do it because I’m getting a little tired of standing up here myself.”

By now it was growing dark, and the judge and attorneys turned to procedural matters after dismissing the jury. Jackson was due to fly to Germany soon to collect a humanitarian award. Did the plaintiff’s attorney think he could wrap up his questioning before that? Miller wearily replied that he would try.

Then a side door opened and Jackson swept out to sign more autographs and hug a young fan in a wheelchair.

As the crowd pressed forward, a sheriff’s deputy rolled his eyes. “For this guy?” he asked a reporter.

Yep, for this guy -- not fully boy or man, neither visibly black nor visibly white. Enigmatic, adulated, ridiculed, real but not real, and always somehow beyond reach even when he’s only a few feet away.