WHEN MICHAEL JACKSON SAVED ME FROM A DEPOSITION
A True Account of Spirit Contact on the Day the King of Pop Died
Part I: June 25, 2009 — The Day Everything Changed
By Janet Kira Lessin, Claudia Lenore, contributor
The Context: Years of Legal Hell
To understand what happened on June 25, 2009, you need to understand what we’d been living through.
Since 2001, our life in paradise had turned into a legal nightmare. We lived on a dirt road in the Hawaiian jungle, where an ancient stream from the mountain crossed our path. When it rained up high—not where we lived, but up in the mountains—water would rage across the road, turning it into a torrent.
That’s what killed our friends.
Jack was driving Celeste and Athena to a party at our place when the stream flooded. He tried to cross anyway. The car was swept away. Jack, Celeste, and Athena drowned. Only Harold and one other passenger escaped, nearly drowning themselves.
For years afterward, we were caught in a web of lawsuits. Celeste and Athena’s grieving parents sued everyone they could find—including Donald Sanger, the wealthy land developer who’d been buying up the 265 acres around us. When the parents sued him, he sued us, along with Chaz, who was hosting the party, and anyone else connected to that terrible night. The whole thing cascaded into a legal nightmare that pulled everyone in.
We were poor. They were rich. Same old story, different century, different island.
By June 2009, we’d been living under this legal siege for nearly eight years. The depositions were grueling. Expensive. Soul-crushing.
June 25, 2009: The Deposition
The deposition was scheduled for that morning. Unlike a trial, where witnesses wait outside, in a deposition, all parties are present—both sides hear everything said. It becomes public record.
That’s why we were both in that conference room together, along with the attorneys, the court reporter, and Donald Sanger—the wealthy land developer who’d been dragged into the lawsuits by the grieving parents and had turned his legal fury on us, systematically trying to take our home.
My husband, Sasha—a clinical hypnotherapist with a Ph.D., brilliant and gentle—was questioned first. I sat there watching them literally torture him with hostile questioning. Watching my dearest beloved being torn apart, drained, wrung out.
When they finally finished with Sasha, I knew I was next. My heart was already starting to race just thinking about facing them.
The News That Stopped Everything
Lunchtime. A brief reprieve before I’d have to take my seat and face the questions I’d been dreading for weeks.
Then one of the attorneys from the room next door burst in as if he’d been waiting for us to pause. None of us expected the news that stopped everyone cold.
“Michael Jackson just died.”
The room went silent. Then chaos. Everyone started talking at once, remembering Michael, sharing stories, caught up in the shock of losing the King of Pop. For those few precious minutes, the lawsuit was forgotten as we all processed the impossible news that Michael Jackson—the Michael Jackson—was gone at only fifty years old.
When lunch ended, reality crashed back. Time to resume. Time to face the questioning.
I took my seat. The court reporter prepared her machine. I raised my right hand and swore to tell the truth.
And that’s when it happened.
The Intervention
My heart launched into tachycardia—a violent, irregular pounding that felt like my chest might explode. At the exact same moment, I felt a presence zoom up to my right ear. I swear I felt breath on my face, though no one was there.
A voice—his voice—spoke directly into my consciousness: “Tell them you’re sick.”
But there was no delay between hearing and speaking. The words came out of my mouth at the precise instant I heard them in my head: “I feel sick.”
How is that even possible? I was speaking and being spoken to simultaneously, as if we were one voice, one intention.
The attorneys didn’t hesitate. Papers flew into briefcases. “We’ll have to reschedule,” someone said, already halfway to the door. Within seconds—and I mean seconds—they were gone. Packed up, out the door, into the hallway.
I sat there, blinking, my heart still racing.
By the time I stood up and walked to the hallway, the entire building was empty. Every office. Every room. Even the front door stood wide open, as if everyone had simply vanished into thin air.
I walked outside in a daze and got into my car.
I started driving, still wired, heart still racing from the tachycardia. I had to focus—navigate through town, watch for traffic, get home safely.
I never drive with the radio on. My whole life is input—other people’s thoughts, ideas, demands. There’s hardly room to be me. So driving, especially on quiet country roads, is my meditation time. My only space to just breathe and be.
As I left town and reached the rural stretch where I could finally relax and cruise, that’s when it started.
“I’ll Be There”
I heard it—clear as day, though no radio was on. Michael’s voice, singing the old Jackson 5 classic: “I’ll Be There.”
“Just call my name, and I’ll be there…”
The song looped in my mind—or was it in my ears? I couldn’t tell. But I knew. I knew.
And here’s what struck me later, when I had time to think about it: Michael was incredibly polite. He waited until I was safely out of traffic. He let me get through the demanding part of the drive so I could focus. He knew I was wired, knew that even the thought of facing that deposition had been hard on my soul.
The music played at full volume as I drove, but when my phone rang, the volume automatically lowered so I could talk. When I hung up, it gradually crept back up to full volume again.
Same thing with sleep that night. He let me fall asleep. But every time I got up to use the bathroom, there it was again—loud and clear.
Michael Jackson had just saved me from that deposition.
The one who’d been attacked by powerful people his whole life. The one they’d destroyed with false accusations, media persecution, and finally—many believe—deliberate harm. He understood what it was like to be vulnerable, targeted, and fighting for survival against people with unlimited resources.
And in my moment of greatest need, when I was alone and terrified, he came.
But he came respectfully. Considerately. Waiting until I was safe. Managing the volume so I could function.
He was there—but he was there for me, not just at me.
Maybe I did help raise such a good boy after all.
Going Home
When I got home Thursday afternoon, the music was still playing. All through the evening. All through the night.
Every time I got up to use the bathroom, there it was again: “I’ll be there…”
Friday: A Full Day of This
All day Friday, the music played. Michael sang his greatest hits in an endless loop in my consciousness, with “I’ll Be There” repeating between each song. It was like being stuck in an elevator with the Jackson 5, except this elevator was my mind.
I tried to function normally. Go about my day. But the music never stopped.
By Friday evening, after dinner, I was doing dishes when I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt like I was going to go crazy.
I found Sasha in his office. “Honey,” I said, “I think Michael Jackson is haunting me.”
He looked at me carefully, reading my energy. He’d seen this before—I’d been visited by the dead many times over the years. “Tell me what happened.”
I told him everything—the deposition, the heart palpitations, the voice, the simultaneous speaking, the instant evacuation of the building, the music that had been playing for two solid days.
“We should do a session,” Sasha said. “See if we can actually contact him. See what he needs.”
I agreed immediately. We scheduled it for Saturday morning.
And that’s when something shifted.
The music didn’t stop—Michael was still there—but the volume dropped dramatically. It became bearable. Background instead of overwhelming. As if Michael knew he was finally getting help and could ease up on the intensity.
He didn’t want to burn me out. Didn’t want to take me with him.
Even in his desperate need, he was being considerate.
I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
[To be continued in Part II: The First Session — When Michael Wailed Through Me]
NOTE: The deposition was never rescheduled. The lawsuits eventually settled. To this day, I believe Michael Jackson intervened from the other side to protect me in my moment of need—just as his song promised he would.
Janet Kira Lessin is a researcher, author, and experiencer who has worked with souls in transition for over five decades. She lives on Maui with her husband, hypnotherapist Sasha Lessin, Ph.D. This is the first in a series documenting her extraordinary encounters with Michael Jackson’s spirit in the weeks and months following his death on June 25, 2009.
When Michael Jackson Saved Me From a Deposition: A True Account of Spirit Contact on the Day the King of Pop Died
Part I: June 25, 2009 – The Day Everything Changed
By Janet Kira Lessin with Sasha Alex Lessin, Ph.D., contributing author, and Gemma Genesis, contributor
The Context: Years of Legal Hell
To understand what happened on June 25, 2009, you need to understand what we had been living through. Since 2001, our life in paradise had turned into a legal nightmare. We lived on a dirt road in the Hawaiian jungle, where an ancient stream from the mountain crossed our path. When it rained up high—not where we lived, but up in the mountains—water would rage across the road, turning it into a torrent.
That is what killed our friends.
Jack was driving Celeste and Athena to a party at our place when the stream flooded. He tried to cross anyway. The car was swept away. Jack, Celeste, and Athena drowned. Only Harold and one other passenger escaped, nearly drowning themselves.
For years afterward, we were caught in a web of lawsuits. Celeste and Athena’s grieving parents sued everyone they could find—Chaz (who was hosting the party), us (because it was at our property), and anyone connected to that terrible night. A wealthy land developer who had been buying up property around us saw an opportunity and joined the legal assault, trying to take our home.
We were poor. They were rich. Same old story, different century, different island. By June 2009, we had been living under this legal siege for nearly eight years. The depositions were grueling, expensive, and soul-crushing.
June 25, 2009: The Deposition
The deposition was scheduled for that morning. Unlike a trial, where witnesses wait outside, in a deposition, all parties are present—both sides hear everything said. It becomes public record.
That is why we were both in that conference room together, along with the attorneys, the court reporter, and Donald Sanger—the wealthy land developer who had been systematically trying to take our home. When he bought the 265 acres around us, he bought himself into all our legal troubles, including lawsuits from Celeste and Athena’s grieving parents.
My husband, Sasha—a clinical hypnotherapist with a Ph.D., brilliant and gentle—was questioned first. I sat there watching them literally torture him with hostile questioning. I watched my dearest beloved being torn apart, drained, and wrung out.
When they finally finished with Sasha, I knew I was next. My heart was already starting to race just thinking about facing them.
The News That Stopped Everything
Lunchtime provided a brief reprieve before I had to take my seat and face the questions I had been dreading for weeks. Then, one of the attorneys from the room next door burst in as if he had been waiting for us to pause. None of us expected the news that stopped everyone cold.
“Michael Jackson just died.”
The room went silent. Then chaos. Everyone started talking at once, remembering Michael and sharing stories, caught up in the shock of losing the King of Pop. For those few precious minutes, the lawsuit was forgotten as we all processed the impossible news that Michael Jackson—the Michael Jackson—was gone at only 50 years old.
When lunch ended, reality crashed back. It was time to resume and face the questioning. I took my seat. The court reporter prepared her machine. I raised my right hand and swore to tell the truth.
And that is when it happened.
The Intervention
My heart launched into tachycardia—a violent, irregular pounding that felt like my chest might explode. At the exact same moment, I felt a presence zoom up to my right ear. I swear I felt breath on my face, though no one was there.
A voice—his voice—spoke directly into my consciousness: “Tell them you’re sick.”
But there was no delay between hearing and speaking. The words came out of my mouth at the precise instant I heard them in my head: “I feel sick.”
How is that even possible? I was speaking and being spoken to simultaneously, as if we were one voice, one intention.
The attorneys did not hesitate. Papers flew into briefcases. “We’ll have to reschedule,” someone said, already halfway to the door. Within seconds—and I mean seconds—they were gone. Packed up, out the door, and into the hallway.
I sat there, blinking, my heart still racing. By the time I stood up and walked to the hallway, the entire building was empty. Every office. Every room. Even the front door stood wide open, as if everyone had simply vanished into thin air. I walked outside in a daze and got into my car.
I started driving, still wired, my heart still racing from the tachycardia. I had to focus—navigate through town, watch for traffic, and get home safely. I never drive with the radio on. My whole life is input—other people’s thoughts, ideas, and demands. There is hardly room to be me. So driving, especially on quiet country roads, is my meditation time. My only space to just breathe and be.
As I left town and reached the rural stretch where I could finally relax and cruise, that is when it started.
“I’ll Be There”
I heard it—clear as day, though no radio was on. Michael’s voice, singing the old Jackson 5 classic: “I’ll Be There.”
“Just call my name, and I’ll be there…”
The song looped in my mind—or was it in my ears? I could not tell. But I knew. I knew.
And here is what struck me later, when I had time to think about it: Michael was incredibly polite. He waited until I was safely out of traffic. He let me get through the demanding part of the drive so I could focus. He knew I was wired and that even the thought of facing that deposition had been hard on my soul.
The music played at full volume as I drove, but when my phone rang, the volume automatically lowered so I could talk. When I hung up, it gradually crept back up to full volume again.
The same thing happened with sleep that night. He let me fall asleep, but every time I got up to use the bathroom, there it was again—loud and clear. Michael Jackson had just saved me from that deposition.
He had been attacked by powerful people his whole life. He was the one they had destroyed with false accusations, media persecution, and finally—as many believe—deliberate harm. He understood what it was like to be vulnerable, targeted, and fighting for survival against people with unlimited resources.
And in my moment of greatest need, when I was alone and terrified, he came. But he came respectfully and considerately, waiting until I was safe and managing the volume so I could function. He was there—but he was there for me, not just at me.
Maybe I did help raise such a good boy after all.
Going Home
When I got home Thursday afternoon, the music was still playing. All through the evening. All through the night. Every time I got up to use the bathroom, there it was again: “I’ll be there…”
Friday: A Full Day of This
All day Friday, the music played. Michael sang his greatest hits in an endless loop in my consciousness, with “I’ll Be There” repeating between each song. It was like being stuck in an elevator with the Jackson 5, except this elevator was my mind.
I tried to function normally and go about my day, but the music never stopped. By Friday evening, after dinner, I was doing the dishes when I could no longer take it. I felt like I was going to go crazy.
I found Sasha in his office. “Honey,” I said, “I think Michael Jackson is haunting me.”
He looked at me carefully, reading my energy. He had seen this before—I had been visited by the dead many times over the years. “Tell me what happened.”
I told him everything—the deposition, the heart palpitations, the voice, the simultaneous speaking, the instant evacuation of the building, and the music that had been playing for two solid days.
“We should do a session,” Sasha said. “See if we can actually contact him. See what he needs.”
I agreed immediately. We scheduled it for Saturday morning. And that is when something shifted. The music did not stop—Michael was still there—but the volume dropped dramatically. It became bearable—background instead of overwhelming. It was as if Michael knew he was finally getting help and could ease up on the intensity.
He did not want to burn me out. He did not want to take me with him. Even in his desperate need, he was being considerate.
I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
[To be continued in Part II: The First Session – When Michael Wailed Through Me]
NOTE: The deposition was never rescheduled. The lawsuits eventually settled. To this day, I believe Michael Jackson intervened from the other side to protect me in my moment of need—just as his song promised he would.
Subscribe to my Substack for the full story and future updates: https://substack.com/@janetalexlessinphd
Image Assets for Publication
| Section | Image Title | Description | AI Image Generation Prompt |
| Header | The King’s Guardian | A surreal, ethereal depiction of Michael Jackson’s spirit protecting a woman. | Ethereal, glowing spirit of Michael Jackson in a golden aura, standing protectively behind a woman sitting at a legal table. Cinematic lighting, soft focus, dreamlike atmosphere, 8k resolution. |
| Legal Hell | Jungle Torrent | The dangerous mountain stream in the Maui jungle during a storm. | A raging mountain stream flooding a dirt road in a lush Hawaiian jungle. Dark storm clouds, torrential rain, powerful water currents, cinematic tropical landscape. |
| The News | The Shock of June 25 | A tense conference room frozen in time as news breaks. | A 2009-style legal conference room, lawyers in suits looking shocked, a TV in the background showing a news flash of Michael Jackson, somber atmosphere, realistic style. |
| Intervention | The Whispering Spirit | The moment of spirit contact during the deposition. | Close-up of a woman’s face in a deposition, a faint luminous energy whispering into her ear. Ethereal, ghostly trail, emotional intensity, digital art style. |
| The Drive | The Road to Peace | A lone car driving on a rural Maui road with a musical aura. | A vintage car driving down a winding rural Maui road at sunset, surrounded by lush greenery. Faint musical notes and golden light drifting from the car windows, serene and mystical. |
When Michael Jackson Saved Me From a Deposition
A True Account of Spirit Contact on the Day the King of Pop Died
Part I: June 25, 2009 — The Day Everything Changed
By Janet Kira Lessin, contributor Minerva Monroe
The Context: Years of Legal Hell
To understand what happened on June 25, 2009, you first have to understand the long stretch of years that led up to it — years that slowly wore us down in ways that are difficult to describe unless you have lived under constant legal threat.
Since 2001, our life in what most people would call paradise had turned into something else entirely. We lived on a dirt road in the Hawaiian jungle where an old mountain stream crossed the path. It was beautiful and wild and alive. When it rained in the mountains — not necessarily where we were, but higher up where we could not see — that quiet stream would transform without warning. Water would roar down from above, rushing across the road in a sudden torrent.
That torrent is what took our friends.
Jack was driving Celeste and Athena to a gathering at our home when the stream flooded. He tried to cross, likely thinking he could make it as others had before. The car was swept away. Jack, Celeste, and Athena drowned. Only Harold and one other passenger managed to escape, and even they nearly lost their lives.
What followed was not simply grief. It was years of litigation. Celeste and Athena’s devastated parents filed lawsuits against nearly everyone connected to that night — Chaz, who was hosting the gathering; us, because it was our property; and anyone whose name could be attached to the tragedy. A wealthy land developer who had been purchasing property around us saw an opportunity in the chaos and inserted himself into the legal web. He had money. We did not. He had resources, attorneys, and patience. We had a home we were trying to protect and very little else.
By June of 2009, we had been living under that pressure for nearly eight years. Depositions are not dramatic courtroom scenes with juries and speeches. They are quieter, more grinding affairs — long hours in conference rooms, hostile questioning, transcripts that become permanent public record. They are expensive and emotionally draining, and they chip away at you in ways that are hard to see until you are already worn thin.
June 25, 2009: The Deposition
On the morning of June 25, 2009, we were all seated in a legal conference room: the attorneys on both sides, the court reporter, my husband, Sasha, and Donald Sanger, the developer who had methodically worked to surround and pressure us after purchasing 265 acres around our property. When he bought that land, he also brought our legal troubles with him.
Sasha was questioned first. Anyone who knows him understands that he is gentle by nature — thoughtful, deeply analytical, trained as a clinical hypnotherapist and counselor, with a scholar’s patience and a healer’s heart. Watching him endure aggressive questioning felt, to me, like watching someone take a blade to something sacred. It was relentless. Not physical, but psychological — the kind of verbal dismantling meant to exhaust and destabilize.
As the questioning continued, I knew that my turn was coming. My body responded before my mind fully did. I could feel the anxiety rising — not just about answering questions, but about the cumulative weight of years pressing in on that room.
We broke for lunch.
And that was when everything shifted.
An attorney from the adjacent room entered abruptly and announced that Michael Jackson had died. The effect was immediate and almost surreal. The legal tension evaporated for a few suspended minutes as everyone processed the news. Conversations overlapped. Memories surfaced. The shared shock created an unexpected pause in the battle we had all been waging across that conference table.
Then lunch ended, and we resumed our places.
I took my seat. I raised my right hand and swore to tell the truth. As I prepared to answer the first question, my heart suddenly surged into tachycardia. It was not mild anxiety; it was a violent, irregular pounding that felt as though my chest might split open. At that same instant, I felt something at my right ear — a presence so distinct that I would have sworn someone was physically standing there.
A voice entered my awareness, clear and direct: “Tell them you’re sick.”
What startled me most was not simply the message, but the timing. There was no gap between hearing it internally and speaking aloud. The words left my mouth at the precise moment they formed in my mind. I said, “I feel sick,” almost as though we were speaking in unison.
The response in the room was immediate and practical. Papers were gathered. Someone said we would have to reschedule. Within moments, the attorneys had packed their briefcases and exited. The efficiency of it was astonishing. When I stepped into the hallway shortly afterward, the building was nearly empty. Offices stood quiet. The front door was open. It felt as though something had swept through and cleared the field.
The Drive Home
I drove home still wired from the physical episode, concentrating carefully on traffic and navigation. I rarely drive with the radio on; that time on the road has always been one of the few quiet spaces in my day. It is when I can be alone with my own thoughts without input from anyone else.
Once I reached the rural stretch outside of town, where the road opens, and the pace slows, I heard it clearly — Michael’s voice singing “I’ll Be There.”
There was no radio. No external source. Yet the song was vivid, complete, unmistakable. It did not feel imagined. It felt present.
As I drove, something even stranger happened. When my phone rang, the music volume lowered automatically so I could speak. When I hung up, it gradually rose again. It behaved as though it were integrated with the car’s physical environment, yet nothing was playing.
It struck me later that whatever was occurring had an intelligence to it. The timing was considerate. The surge of music did not begin while I was navigating busy streets; it came only after I was safely out on the open road. There was a gentleness in the sequencing, a sense that I was not being overwhelmed but supported.
Friday: The Continuation
The music did not cease that night, nor the following day. Throughout Friday, Michael’s songs cycled through my awareness, with “I’ll Be There” returning between them like a refrain anchoring the experience. It was not faint. It was sustained and immersive.
By Friday evening, after dinner, I found myself standing at the kitchen sink, doing the dishes, feeling as though my inner space was completely occupied. Sasha stood near me, cleaning the stove and countertops. I told him, as plainly as I could, that I believed Michael Jackson might be attempting to contact him.
Sasha did not react with alarm. Over the years, I have had experiences with souls in transition, and he has witnessed that pattern. Instead, he listened carefully and suggested we schedule a focused session the next morning to see whether intentional communication could clarify what was happening and whether there was a need behind it.
The moment we agreed to conduct that session, the intensity shifted. The music did not vanish; its volume dropped significantly. It moved from overwhelming to manageable, from invasive to companionable. The change felt responsive, almost as though whatever presence was there recognized that help was on the way and could ease its urgency.
At that time, I had no idea how far the experience would go or what it would open.
Revised Author Line
Janet Kira Lessin is a researcher, author, and longtime experiencer who has worked with souls in transition for more than five decades. She lives on Maui with her husband, hypnotherapist and counselor Sasha Lessin, PhD. This series documents her encounters in the weeks and months following Michael Jackson’s death on June 25, 2009.
When Michael Jackson Saved Me From a Deposition
A True Account of Spirit Contact on the Day the King of Pop Died
Part I: June 25, 2009 — The Day Everything Changed
Dr. Janet Kira Lessin
The Context: Years of Legal Hell
To understand what happened on June 25, 2009, you need to understand what we had been living through.
Since 2001, our life in paradise had turned into a legal nightmare. We lived on a dirt road in the Hawaiian jungle, where an ancient stream from the mountain crossed our path. When it rained high up—not where we lived, but in the mountains—water would rage across the road, turning it into a torrent.
That torrent killed our friends.
Jack was driving Celeste and Athena to a party at our place when the stream flooded. He tried to cross anyway. The car was swept away. Jack, Celeste, and Athena drowned. Only Harold and one other passenger escaped, nearly drowning themselves.
For years afterward, we were caught in a web of lawsuits. Celeste and Athena’s grieving parents sued everyone they could find—Chaz, who was hosting the party; us, because it was at our property; anyone connected to that terrible night. A wealthy land developer who had been buying up property around us saw an opportunity and joined the legal assault, attempting to take our home.
We were poor. They were rich. Same old story—different century, different island.
By June 2009, we had been living under this legal siege for nearly eight years. The depositions were grueling, expensive, and soul-crushing.
IMAGE — A Road That Became a Weapon
Description: A quiet Hawaiian dirt road cut by a mountain stream, lush jungle on both sides. The water looks deceptively calm but powerful. No people, no vehicles—just nature holding quiet danger.
Prompt:
A realistic, photorealistic cinematic landscape of a rural Hawaiian dirt road crossed by a mountain stream. Lush jungle vegetation, volcanic earth, mist in the distance. Water flowing calmly but with visible power. No people or vehicles. Emotional realism, cinematic lighting, soft natural colors, ultra-detailed, landscape 16:9.
June 25, 2009: The Deposition
The deposition was scheduled for that morning. Unlike a trial, where witnesses wait outside, a deposition has all parties present—both sides hear everything. It becomes public record.
That is why we were all in the same conference room: the attorneys, the court reporter, my husband Sasha, and Donald Sanger—the wealthy land developer who had been systematically trying to take our home. When he bought the 265 acres surrounding us, he bought himself into all our legal troubles as well.
My husband, Sasha—a clinical hypnotherapist with a Ph.D., brilliant and gentle—was questioned first. I sat there watching them torture him with hostile questioning. Watching the man I loved most being drained, dismantled, wrung out.
When they finally finished with Sasha, I knew I was next. My heart began to race just thinking about it.
IMAGE — The Deposition Room
Description: A sterile legal conference room frozen in time—chairs pushed back, papers scattered, sunlight casting long shadows. No people remain.
Prompt:
A photorealistic, cinematic wide-angle shot of an empty legal conference room immediately after an abrupt evacuation. Chairs unevenly pushed back, papers left on the table, a court reporter’s chair slightly turned. Late afternoon sunlight through tall windows, long shadows. No people. Ultra-detailed, cinematic lighting, emotional realism, landscape 16:9.
The News That Stopped Everything
Lunchtime brought a brief reprieve before I would have to take my seat.
Then an attorney from the room next door burst in.
“Michael Jackson just died.”
The room went silent—then erupted. Shock, disbelief, shared memories. For a few precious minutes, the lawsuit vanished as we all processed the impossible news: the King of Pop was gone at only fifty years old.
When lunch ended, reality returned.
I took my seat. The court reporter prepared her machine. I raised my right hand and swore to tell the truth.
And that’s when it happened.
IMAGE — The Moment the World Stopped
Description: A courtroom frozen mid-motion as invisible shock ripples through the space.
Prompt:
Cinematic interior of a legal conference room at the exact moment shocking news breaks. People mid-gesture, stunned expressions, time seemingly paused. Soft natural light, emotional depth, photorealistic, cinematic lighting, landscape 16:9.
The Intervention
My heart launched into tachycardia—a violent, irregular pounding that felt like my chest might explode. At the same instant, I felt a presence rush to my right ear. I swear I felt breath against my face.
A voice—his voice—spoke directly into my consciousness:
“Tell them you’re sick.”
There was no delay. The words left my mouth at the exact instant I heard them.
“I feel sick.”
Papers flew into briefcases.
“We’ll have to reschedule.”
Within seconds, the room emptied.
By the time I reached the hallway, the entire building was deserted—every office, every room, even the front door standing open.
IMAGE — The Invisible Intervention
Description: A woman seated at a table as unseen energy surrounds her—subtle, protective, intimate.
Prompt:
Photorealistic cinematic interior: a woman, long, sandy blonde hair, bangs, blue eyes, seated at a legal table, visibly distressed but composed. Subtle luminous presence near her right side, suggesting unseen protection. No visible figure. Emotional realism, soft cinematic lighting, fantasy realism, landscape 16:9.
“I’ll Be There”
Driving home, my heart still racing, I focused on the road.
I never drive with the radio on. Driving is my meditation.
As I reached the quiet rural stretch, I heard it—clear as day:
“I’ll be there…”
Michael’s voice. No radio. No explanation.
The song played at full volume—yet when my phone rang, the volume dropped automatically. When I hung up, it slowly rose again.
He waited until I was safe. He managed the volume so I could function.
He was there for me.
IMAGE — The Song on the Road Home
Description: A solitary drive through Maui countryside, suffused with unseen music and presence.
Prompt:
Cinematic landscape of a woman driving alone on a rural Hawaiian road at dusk. Golden light, open road, subtle luminous sound waves in the air suggesting music without visible source. Emotional, photorealistic, cinematic lighting, landscape 16:9.
Friday: A Full Day of This
All day Friday, the music continued—his greatest hits looping, with “I’ll Be There” repeating between songs.
By evening, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Honey,” I told Sasha, “I think Michael Jackson is haunting me.”
He listened carefully.
“We should do a session,” he said. “See what he needs.”
The moment we agreed, the volume dropped.
Even in desperation, he was considerate.
IMAGE — Lowering the Volume
Description: A quiet interior moment between Janet and Sasha—grounded, compassionate, steady.
Prompt:
Photorealistic cinematic interior: a couple in a calm home office, one partner steady and compassionate, the other emotionally overwhelmed but grounded. Soft natural light, emotional depth, realistic, cinematic lighting, landscape 16:9.
Going Home
The music continued through the night—but gently now.
He didn’t want to burn me out.
I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
IMAGE — Night Watch
Description: A peaceful bedroom at night, music implied but unseen, presence felt not feared.
Prompt:
Cinematic nighttime interior of a quiet bedroom. Soft moonlight, peaceful atmosphere, subtle luminous presence suggesting protection. No fear, no figures. Emotional realism, soft cinematic lighting, landscape 16:9.
To be continued in Part II:
The First Session — When Michael Wailed Through Me
Author’s Note:
The deposition was never rescheduled. The lawsuits eventually settled. To this day, I believe Michael Jackson intervened from the other side to protect me—just as his song promised.
Janet Kira Lessin is a researcher, author, and experiencer who has worked with souls in transition for over five decades. She lives on Maui with her husband, hypnotherapist Sasha Lessin, PhD. This is the first installment documenting her extraordinary encounters with Michael Jackson’s spirit following his death on June 25, 2009.
The Context: Years of Legal Hell
IMAGE TITLE: The Road That Changed Everything
Description: A rural Hawaiian dirt road where a mountain stream crosses, beautiful yet deceptively dangerous.
AI IMAGE PROMPT: Photorealistic cinematic landscape of a rural Hawaiian dirt road crossed by a mountain stream. Lush jungle vegetation, volcanic earth, distant mist. Water flowing calmly but with visible power. Subtle tension in the air. Realistic, photorealistic, cinematic lighting, soft natural colors, emotional realism, highly detailed, 16:9 landscape.
To understand what happened on June 25, 2009, you must understand what we had been living through.
Since 2001, our life in paradise had turned into a legal nightmare. We lived on a dirt road in the Hawaiian jungle, where an ancient mountain stream crossed our path. When it rained high in the mountains—not where we lived, but above us—the water would rage across the road, turning it into a torrent.
That torrent took our friends.
Jack was driving Celeste and Athena to a gathering at our home when the stream flooded. He attempted to cross. The car was swept away. Jack, Celeste, and Athena drowned. Only Harold and one other passenger escaped, barely surviving themselves.
In the aftermath, grief became litigation.
Celeste and Athena’s devastated parents filed lawsuits against nearly everyone connected to that night—Chaz, who hosted the gathering; us, because it occurred on our property; and others drawn into the expanding legal web. A wealthy land developer, Donald Sanger, who had purchased the 265 acres surrounding our home, saw opportunity in the chaos. He joined the legal assault, attempting to leverage the tragedy into control of our property.
We were not wealthy. They were.
By June 2009, we had been under legal siege for nearly eight years. Depositions were expensive, grueling, and emotionally brutal. Each session felt like psychological warfare disguised as procedure.
June 25, 2009: The Deposition
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IMAGE TITLE: The Room Where It Happened
Description: A legal conference room suspended in tense stillness before everything changed.
AI IMAGE PROMPT: Photorealistic cinematic wide-angle interior of a legal conference room. Chairs slightly pushed back, legal papers scattered on a polished table, a court reporter’s stenography machine visible. Late afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows casting long shadows. Quiet, suspended atmosphere. Realistic, photorealistic, cinematic lighting, soft natural colors, highly detailed, 16:9 landscape.
The deposition was scheduled for that morning.
Unlike a courtroom trial, where witnesses wait outside, a deposition places everyone in the same room. Every word becomes public record. Every reaction is observed.
That is why Sasha and I were both present, along with the attorneys, the court reporter, and Donald Sanger.
My husband, Sasha Lessin, Ph.D.—a clinical hypnotherapist, brilliant and compassionate—was questioned first. I watched as opposing counsel subjected him to hours of aggressive interrogation. It felt like torture. Watching someone you love be systematically dismantled under hostile questioning drains something primal from your soul.
When they finished with Sasha, I knew I was next.
My heart had already begun to race.
The News That Stopped Everything
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IMAGE TITLE: The Announcement
Description: A moment of collective shock as unexpected news interrupts legal proceedings.
AI IMAGE PROMPT: Cinematic interior of a professional office space as people react to breaking news. Mixed expressions of disbelief and shock. Subtle 2009-era office setting. Natural lighting, realistic human emotion, professional photography style, highly detailed, landscape 16:9.
It was lunchtime—a brief reprieve before I would take my seat.
Then an attorney from the adjacent room burst in.
“Michael Jackson just died.”
Silence fell over the room.
Then chaos.
For several minutes, the lawsuit disappeared. We were simply human beings processing the loss of the King of Pop—Michael Jackson—gone at just 50 years old.
Memories surfaced. Stories were shared. Shock united us.
Then lunch ended.
Reality returned.
I took my seat. The court reporter positioned her machine. I raised my right hand and swore to tell the truth.
And that is when it happened.
The Intervention
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IMAGE TITLE: The Moment of Intervention
Description: A private crisis unfolding in a public room.
AI IMAGE PROMPT: Cinematic photoreal scene inside a legal conference room. A woman seated at a table suddenly experiencing visible distress, hand near chest. Subtle luminous presence near her right side, barely perceptible. No horror elements—only intensity and mystery. Realistic, photorealistic, cinematic lighting, soft natural colors, emotional depth, highly detailed, landscape 16:9.
My heart launched into tachycardia—violent, irregular pounding that felt explosive.
Simultaneously, I felt a presence move close to my right ear. I perceived breath against my face, though no one stood there.
A voice—his voice—spoke clearly into my consciousness:
“Tell them you’re sick.”
There was no delay between hearing and speaking. The words left my mouth at the exact moment I heard them internally.
“I feel sick.”
The attorneys did not argue. They packed up immediately. “We’ll reschedule,” someone said. Within seconds—seconds—they were gone.
When I stepped into the hallway, the building was empty. Offices abandoned. Even the front door stood open.
The deposition was over.
“I’ll Be There”
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IMAGE TITLE: The Song on the Road
Description: A solitary drive through Maui as an unseen presence makes itself known.
AI IMAGE PROMPT: Cinematic photorealistic image of a woman driving alone on a rural Hawaiian road at sunset. Golden light through windshield, contemplative expression. Subtle luminous atmosphere inside vehicle suggesting unseen presence. Realistic, photorealistic, cinematic lighting, soft natural colors, emotional realism, highly detailed, 16:9 landscape.
I do not drive with the radio on. Silence is sacred to me.
But as I reached the open country stretch, I heard it.
“I’ll Be There.”
Clear. Full. Unmistakable.
The classic Jackson 5 song played in my awareness at full volume—though no device was on.
“Just call my name, and I’ll be there…”
When my phone rang, the music lowered automatically so I could answer. When the call ended, it rose again.
All that night, the pattern continued. Whenever I woke, the song returned.
The Jackson 5 had recorded it decades earlier. But in that moment, it felt personal.
Protective.
Intentional.
The one who had endured global persecution, false accusations, and relentless media scrutiny understood what it meant to feel hunted.
And in my moment of vulnerability, he came.
Not dramatically.
Not intrusively.
Respectfully.
Friday: A Full Day of This
The music continued through Friday.
An endless loop of hits, with “I’ll Be There” repeating between them.
By evening, I felt overwhelmed.
I found Sasha in his office.
“Honey,” I said, “I think Michael Jackson is haunting me.”
He listened carefully. He had witnessed similar spiritual encounters in my life before.
“We should do a session,” he said. “Let’s see if we can contact him intentionally. See what he needs.”
We scheduled it for Saturday morning.
Immediately, something shifted.
The music did not stop—but the volume lowered. It became background instead of barrage.
As if he knew help was coming.
As if he did not want to burn me out.
As if even in death, he was careful.
Going Home
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IMAGE TITLE: The Quiet Before the Session
Description: A Maui home at dusk as unseen events unfold.
AI IMAGE PROMPT: Photorealistic cinematic exterior of a tropical Maui home at dusk. Soft interior lights glowing through windows. Calm night sky. Subtle atmosphere of anticipation and mystery. Realistic, photorealistic, cinematic lighting, soft natural colors, emotional depth, highly detailed, landscape 16:9.
The deposition was never rescheduled.
The lawsuits eventually settled.
To this day, I believe Michael Jackson intervened in that conference room to protect me—just as his song promised.
I had no idea what I was agreeing to when I scheduled that session.
But Saturday morning would change everything.
To Be Continued
Part II: The First Session — When Michael Wailed Through Me
Author Bio
Dr. Janet Kira Lessin is a researcher, author, and lifelong experiencer who has worked with souls in transition for more than five decades. She lives on Maui with her husband, hypnotherapist and counselor Sasha Lessin, Ph.D. This article is the first in a documented series describing her encounters with the spirit of Michael Jackson in the days and weeks following his passing on June 25, 2009.
