Pilgrims in Celebrity Cult Flock to Jackson

A light drizzle falls as the faithful press against a chain-link fence, praying for a glimpse of their savior. Inside the nearby courtroom, with a hairdo more frightening than a crown of thorns, Michael Jackson awaits judgment.

“Michael said himself that he’d slit his wrists before he’d harm a child,” says a Jackson believer who identifies himself as B.J. Hickman Jackson.

It is not possible to verify names out here, or anything else for that matter. The enlightened and the deranged are indistinguishable, as in all religions.

Hickman Jackson, 18, says he dropped out of high school in Tennessee and made the pilgrimage by bus.

“We’ve Had Enough!” his sign says.

“Michael Is Innocent!”

Innocent of charges that he molested a young boy just down the road at Neverland ranch.

Innocent of charges; guilty of love.

“Michael loves children all over the world,” Hickman Jackson says. “He wants to help children, not hurt them.”

Hickman’s cellphone rings to the tune of the Jackson hit “Beat It.”

“Neverland ranch,” he answers.

Some have called the pop icon a has-been, sure. But couldn’t you say the same thing about all the saints?

“It’s just sad,” Dianne Horn says of Hickman Jackson and the pop star’s other disciples, who refuse to believe the possibility that a man who likes to share his bed with children might have a problem.

Horn is handing out literature about the abuse of children. Someone has to speak up for Jackson’s alleged victim, she says.

“They’re lost, with no one and nothing in their lives,” Horn says of Jackson’s supporters. “They have such low self-esteem, and they look up to him like he’s a god.”

We’re all lost, Dianne, and guess what:

The president can’t save us, and neither can the pope. In this culture, we can’t believe in the existence of anyone who isn’t a regular on “Larry King Live.”

Speaking of cable, satellite dishes have washed up in the neighborhood like giant seashells.

Across the street from the courthouse, Santa Maria attorney Joseph Gallas has rented his parking lot to CNN, which has assembled enough equipment to cover a holy war.

TV anchors walk down the street in full makeup.

A sign in a parked Toyota says, “France Supports MJ.”

A homeless man air-strums a broken guitar, takes requests, then goes on break.

A phalanx of motorcycle cops stands by, waiting to escort Jackson back to Neverland.

Fellini peeks down from behind a cloud.

“I wrote that in 1968 with Richie Havens,” says the homeless man, James, after pretending to play his guitar while singing about rainbows.

“Rainbows were big back then,” adds James, who lives out of a shopping cart. “I gotta get my CD out there.”

The former Nichole Miller tells me that, just like B.J. Hickman Jackson, she has changed her last name to Jackson. She pulls out her driver’s license to prove it.

Nichole Miller Jackson, it says. Of Santa Barbara.

She’s holding a plastic Rite-Aid bag and tells me the contents are for Michael.

“What is it?” I ask, half expecting frankincense, if not myrrh.

“Flu medicine for Michael,” says the 36-year-old musician, standing near the two black GMC Yukons that serve as holy rollers for the King of Pop and his entourage.

The singer was sick recently, Miller Jackson notes. So she went to the drugstore for some Tylenol, Alka-Seltzer, Robitussin and Hall’s cough drops, and she’s hoping to pass them on to one of Jackson’s handlers.

As the spectacle of Jackson’s daily departure draws near, more pilgrims arrive.

The curious.

The damaged.

The tortured.

Maybe that’s the connection.

You could call them nuts, but you could use worse names for the media monster that seduces all of us and turns the cult of celebrity into the national religion.

“What could be better than standing up for truth and justice,” 22-year-old Ben Simpson of Lompoc says when I ask if he had nothing better to do than holler support for Michael Jackson.

On the street, middle-aged fans stand back from the pack, cameras at the ready, too shy to admit they are members of this cult.

James, guitar in hand, turns down a request.

“I don’t do Santana,” he says.

More than three dozen people are clamoring at the gates, waiting to be healed by the power of celebrity.

The two Yukons are wheeled into place and B.J. Hickman Jackson climbs a step stool to lead a chant.

“How do you spell Michael Jackson? I-N-N-O-C-E-N-T.”

Finally Jackson appears in the distance, dressed for the circus, resurrected for now. The crowd roars as he flashes the peace sign and smiles, his face radiant enough to absolve even my sins.

As the Yukons begin to roll, B.J. joins the stampede, running alongside. The last thing I see is the 18-year-old kid from Tennessee leaning over a fence, waving his sign and screaming for his master’s notice.

Steve Lopez writes Sunday, Wednesday and Friday. Reach him at steve.lopez@latimes.com and read previous columns at www.latimes.com/lopez