(This story, initially published June 21, 2009, kicked off the Times’ Truth Rundown series on the Church of Scientology. The series led to many other stories over the next four years revealing life inside the church.)
The leader of the Church of Scientology strode into the room with a boom box and an announcement: Time for a game of musical chairs.
David Miscavige had kept more than 30 members of his church’s executive staff cooped up for weeks in a small office building outside Los Angeles, not letting them leave except to grab a shower. They slept on the floor, their food carted in.
Their assignment was to develop strategic plans for the church. But the leader trashed their every idea and berated them as incompetents and enemies, of him and the church.
Prove your devotion, Miscavige told them, by winning at musical chairs. Everyone else — losers, all of you — will be banished to Scientology outposts around the world. If families are split up, too bad.
To the music of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody they played through the night, parading around a conference room in their Navy-style uniforms, grown men and women wrestling over chairs.
The next evening, early in 2004, Miscavige gathered the group and out of nowhere slapped a manager named Tom De Vocht, threw him to the ground and delivered more blows. De Vocht took the beating and the humiliation in silence — the way other executives always took the leader’s attacks.
This account comes from executives who for decades were key figures in Scientology’s powerful inner circle. Marty Rathbun and Mike Rinder, the highest-ranking executives to leave the church, are speaking out for the first time.
Two other former executives who defected also agreed to interviews with the St. Petersburg Times: De Vocht, who for years oversaw the church’s spiritual headquarters in Clearwater, and Amy Scobee, who helped create Scientology’s celebrity network, which caters to the likes of John Travolta and Tom Cruise.
One by one, the four defectors walked away from the only life they knew. That Rathbun and Rinder are speaking out is a stunning reversal because they were among Miscavige’s closest associates, Haldeman and Ehrlichman to his Nixon.
Now they provide an unprecedented look inside the upper reaches of the tightly controlled organization. They reveal:
- Physical violence permeated Scientology’s international management team. Miscavige set the tone, routinely attacking his lieutenants. Rinder says the leader attacked him some 50 times.
Rathbun, Rinder and De Vocht admit that they, too, attacked their colleagues, to demonstrate loyalty to Miscavige and prove their mettle.
- Staffers are disciplined and controlled by a multilayered system of “ecclesiastical justice.” It includes publicly confessing sins and crimes to a group of peers, being ordered to jump into a pool fully clothed, facing embarrassing “security checks” or, worse, being isolated as a “suppressive person.”
At the pinnacle of the hierarchy, Miscavige commands such power that managers follow his orders, however bizarre, with lemming-like obedience.
- Church staffers covered up how they botched the care of Lisa McPherson, a Scientologist who died after they held her 17 days in isolation at Clearwater’s Fort Harrison Hotel.
Rathbun, who Miscavige put in charge of dealing with the fallout from the case, admits that he ordered the destruction of incriminating evidence. He and others also reveal that Miscavige made an embarrassing miscalculation on McPherson’s Scientology counseling.
- With Miscavige calling the shots and Rathbun among those at his side, the church muscled the IRS into granting Scientology tax-exempt status. Offering fresh perspective on one of the church’s crowning moments, Rathbun details an extraordinary campaign of public pressure backed by thousands of lawsuits.
- To prop up revenues, Miscavige has turned to long-time parishioners, urging them to buy material that the church markets as must-have, improved sacred scripture.
That’s what the defectors are doing to Miscavige, according to a team of two church lawyers and two spokesmen.
Rathbun, Rinder, De Vocht and Scobee: All of them failed at their jobs, broke Sea Org rules and were ethically suspect, the team said. Stack these four failures against a man of Miscavige’s stature and it’s clear who is credible and who is not.
“It’s not a question of they have a version and we have a version. It’s that this never happened,” said Monique Yingling, a non-Scientologist lawyer who has represented the church for more than 20 years. “There is a story here, and it’s not what you’ve been told.”
As the lawyers and spokesmen defended Miscavige and sought to discredit his detractors, they produced materials from the four defectors’ “ethics files” — confessions, contritions, laments that the church keeps to document their failures.
The documents illuminate a world of church justice outsiders rarely see. This ethics system keeps Scientologists striving to stay productive. It relies on the notion that at any given time, every human activity can be reduced to a statistic and everything — a group, a person, someone’s job or marriage — can be measured and placed in one of 12 “conditions.”
The lower conditions include “Confusion,” “Treason” and “Enemy.” The highest condition is “Power,” followed by “Power Change” and “Affluence.”
Moving up the ethics ladder requires that the subject pen confessions or soul-searching memos called “formulas,” which are said to better the individual as he or she examines what went wrong. These memos also can give the church a ready source of written material to use against members who would turn against Scientology.
More documents are generated when a person wants to leave, or “blow.”
In 1959, Hubbard wrote a policy stating that a person leaves as a kind of noble gesture when he can’t help himself from injuring the church. To justify leaving, Hubbard believed, the person thinks up bad things to say about the church.
Anyone who leaves has committed “overts” (harmful acts) against the church and is withholding them. The church is obligated to make such people come clean, Hubbard said, because withholding overts against Scientology can lead to suicide or death by disease. They must write down their transgressions to remain in good standing when they leave.
Yingling and Davis said the church doesn’t relish using documents from ethics files. But after the four defectors spoke out against Miscavige, the lawyer and spokesman said they had no choice.
They produced documents showing Scobee violated Sea Org rules on “romantic involvement outside of marriage.” Scobee said the church is exaggerating.
She acknowledged violating the rules by committing a sexual act in a supervisor’s room, but noted the man involved was her future husband. Another document said she “started a relationship” with a man not her husband in 1988. Scobee said it was a non-Scientologist electrician who asked her to run away with him. She said she declined and reported it to a supervisor but was disciplined anyway.
A document from July 2003 cited poor performance and declared her unfit to work at the California base.
Scobee counters that the church kept her in positions of responsibility for more than 20 years. She was pictured in a 1996 church magazine as one of the “most proven” and “highly dedicated” senior executives in Scientology.
“The point is, it doesn’t matter if I was God or if I was a sloppy janitor,” Scobee said. “What I saw is what I saw.”
De Vocht was in a condition of “Treason” when he authored a memo in 2004 saying he made a land deal in Clearwater that lost the church $1 million. In a 2002 letter to Miscavige, he confessed to squandering $10 million in church funds through waste and overspending on two projects.
Asked about those documents, De Vocht said the writings in the ethics formulas reflect the distorted culture created by Miscavige, not reality. “You say whatever you have to, to appear to be cooperative. It’s not a voluntary action. It’s a cover your a--, get with the program thing or you’re going to get beat up.”
Praising Miscavige was part of the formula, De Vocht said. “He’s our pope, our leader, and he can’t do wrong… If you say, ‘I’ll do everything I can to get it right,’ then you can be okay. You don’t have an option other than to bow down and say, You’re right and I’m wrong.”
The church says that Rinder, Scientology’s top spokesman for decades, is an inveterate liar. In its ethics files, the church says, Rinder admits that he lied 43 times over the years.
“It was a real problem, Mike’s propensity to lie….Obviously he had an issue with the truth,” said Davis, Rinder’s successor as spokesman.
After denying Miscavige hit him or anyone else, Rinder is lying now, Yingling said. “He left because he was demoted… He is bitter now and he has in his bitterness latched on to the one allegation he so vehemently denied for so many years.”
Added Davis: “One of the things he was known for saying was, ‘Well, if I’m so bad, why keep asking me to do things?’ You know the answer to that question?… The ultimate answer to that question is ‘Mike, you know what, you’re right. Why keep asking.’ And we stopped asking. And then he left and nobody came for him.”
Like the other defectors, Rinder says he’s sure he wrote whatever is in the ethics files, but he says the admissions are meaningless, they were just whatever his superiors wanted to hear. “All of these things were written to try and get into good graces or curry favor.”
Davis said Rinder has not been able to deal with his fall from spokesman for an international church to his current, workaday job.
“Mike left. I think we can all agree he is bitter,” Davis said. “This is a guy who ran with the big dogs in the tall grass… it’s a very exciting life. And now he is selling cars, and it must be a hell of a shock.”
The church released numerous pages of files it kept on Rathbun. Among them: a 1994 letter that said he had completed a Truth Rundown — one of many types of confessionals — and apologizing for leaving the church briefly the year before; three confessions for striking and verbally abusing staff dozens of times; and documents where he admits that he mishandled situations.
In a 2003 document, Rathbun writes a “public announcement” detailing two decades of flubs, including: making himself out to be more important than he was, making more work for Miscavige, mismanaging staff and messing up major assignments, including the church’s long-running battle with the IRS.
Rathbun says he wrote what Miscavige wanted to hear.
The church made special note of an affidavit dated June 6, 2009 — after the Times asked the church about Rathbun — authored by a Sea Org member whose name the church blacked out. She criticized Rathbun for being violent and abusive and playing a role in her family’s recent effort to wrest her out of Scientology.
Rathbun says yes, he tried to help the family, because the woman voiced strong doubts about returning to Scientology.
Like De Vocht’s, many of Rathbun’s confessions are marked by bountiful praise of Miscavige. He writes, for example, that the leader “single-handedly salvaged Scientology.”
Scientology’s international management cadre lives and works on the church’s 500-acre compound in the arid hills opposite Mount San Jacinto from Palm Springs.
Rathbun orchestrated a “reign of terror” there in 2002 and 2003, church representatives say, masquerading as an ethics officer while Miscavige was in Clearwater handling legal and other matters. They say the leader returned in late 2003, summarily demoted Rathbun and began to clean up his mess.
Rathbun says he was away from the base for almost all of 2002 and 2003, handling lawsuits and other sensitive matters at Miscavige’s behest. When he returned to the base in late 2003, he said, it was Miscavige who had established a “reign of terror.”
The church said Rathbun has inflated his importance in Scientology; they say that after 1993, he never had a title.
But in a 1998 Scientology magazine, Rathbun is featured as the main speaker at a major event at Ruth Eckerd Hall attended by 3,000 Scientologists. The magazine said he was “inspector general” of the entity charged with safeguarding Scientology. Also, the church provided the Times a court document from March 2000 that listed Rathbun as a “director” of the same entity.
If Rathbun’s responsibility was as limited as the church says, the Times asked, how did he get people to submit to a reign of terror? Davis, the church spokesman, erupted.
“He’s the one who’s saying that Dave Miscavige beat these people,” Davis screamed. “And he’s saying that Dave Miscavige beat the exact same people that he beat. And that’s what pisses me off. Because this guy’s a f------ lunatic and I don’t have to explain how or why he became one or how it was allowable.
“The fact is he’s saying David Miscavige did what he did… And now I’m getting a little angry. Am I angry at you? Not necessarily. But I’m g-- d--- pissed at Marty Rathbun. Because he knows that he was the reign of terror.”
Landing in Clearwater
Fall 1975. An outfit calling itself the United Churches of Florida announced it would rent the Fort Harrison Hotel from the Southern Land Development Corp., a company with plans to buy the historic building.
No one — not even lawyers for the seller — could find out anything about Southern Land. Not even a phone number.
When the sale closed on Dec. 1, Southern paid $2.3 million in cash for the landmark property, where for 50 years locals held weddings, New Year’s bashes and civic events.
The newcomers promptly closed the hotel to the public. Uniformed guards armed with mace and billy clubs patrolled the entrance.
On Jan. 28, 1976, a public relations team from Los Angeles came to Clearwater and announced that the real buyer was the Church of Scientology of California.
The deception put a scare into the sleepy town with gorgeous beaches. Clearwater Mayor Gabe Cazares was incensed by the group’s evasive and then heavy-handed tactics.
“The Fort Harrison has been here for a half century and now, for the first time, it is actually a fort,” he lamented. “It’s frightening.”
Locals grew anxious as they heard that Scientology was a cult with a belligerent streak. It had sued the State Department, the Justice Department, the IRS, the CIA, the LAPD — any agency that pried or denied its requests.
Why did Hubbard choose Clearwater? He had run the church for years from a ship, the Apollo, and wanted a “land base.” He sent scouts on a mission: Find a big building, near a good airport, in a warm climate.
A property in Daytona Beach made the short list. So did the Fort Harrison.
It was to be Scientology’s “flagship.” Hubbard sent dispatches on how “Flag” should be run, everything from marketing plans to the staff’s grooming and dress. It would be “huge, posh and self-supporting,” Hubbard wrote, “a hotel of quality that puts the Waldorf Astoria to shame.”
Hubbard trademarked a motto for the hotel: “The friendliest place in the whole world.”
He would die a decade later, but already the next generation of church leaders was forming.
The Young Turks
Hubbard called it “fair game.” Those who seek to damage the church, he said, “may be deprived of property or injured by any means by any Scientologist without any discipline of the Scientologist. May be tricked, sued or lied to or destroyed.”
Mayor Cazares raised questions about the new group inhabiting the Fort Harrison, calling it a cult and trading lawsuits with the church. The Times and the Clearwater Sun investigated.
Scientologists followed Hubbard’s playbook and went after enemies. They tried to frame Cazares in a fake hit-and-run accident. They intercepted Times’ mail and falsely accused the paper’s chairman, Nelson Poynter, of being a CIA agent.
By the spring of 1976, Hubbard — the “Commodore” — was realizing his vision for the Fort Harrison. Scientologists from around the world checked in for long stays. They spent thousands on counseling called “auditing,” which seeks to rid the subconscious mind of negative experiences, leading to “higher states of spiritual awareness.”
Mike Rinder, a 20-year-old Australian, ran the hotel telex, sending and receiving dispatches from Scientology outlets around the world.
David Miscavige, a 16-year-old from suburban Philadelphia, dropped out of 10th grade on his birthday that April and came to work at the Fort Harrison. He tended the grounds, served food and took pictures for promotional brochures.
In no time, the cocksure Miscavige was supervising adults. In 1977, after just 10 months in Clearwater, he was transferred to California, where he joined the Commodore’s Messenger Organization, an esteemed group of about 20 who took on “missions” assigned by Hubbard.
Late in 1978, Miscavige was put in charge of the crew remodeling Hubbard’s home on a Southern California ranch. Among the group was a 21-year-old former college basketball player who had joined the church a year earlier in Portland.
Thirty years later, Marty Rathbun says he can picture the first time he laid eyes on the teenage boss, strutting about, “barking out orders.” No mistaking David Miscavige.
The early power plays
In the mid 1970s, the IRS hired a clerk-typist named Gerald Bennett Wolfe. What they didn’t know was that he was a Scientology plant — code name “Silver.”
He broke into an attorney’s office at IRS headquarters in Washington and copied government documents for months, with help from the Guardian’s Office, the church’s secretive intelligence arm.
The IRS had revoked Scientology’s tax exemption some 10 years earlier, saying it was a commercial enterprise. Scientology fought back, withholding tax payments, unleashing its lawyers and using Silver to infiltrate the agency.
But his undercover mission backfired. On July 8, 1977, the FBI raided Scientology headquarters in Washington and L.A., seizing burglary tools, surveillance equipment and 48,000 documents.
In October 1979, Hubbard’s wife, Mary Sue, who directed the Guardian’s Office, and 10 other Scientologists were convicted on charges of conspiring to steal government documents or obstruct justice. Her husband, named an unindicted co-conspirator, went into seclusion at his ranch near La Quinta, Calif.
By then, two of the young men from the remodeling detail were trusted aides to the self-exiled church founder. Rathbun delivered Hubbard’s mail and messages; Miscavige was his “action chief.”
In January 1981, Miscavige asked Rathbun to join him on a road trip to the Super Bowl. Driving eight-hour shifts from L.A. to New Orleans, they got to know each other along the way.
Later that year, Hubbard gave Miscavige a critical assignment: Resolve the crush of lawsuits and investigations that threatened the church. Miscavige chose Rathbun and three others to help handle the job.
Rathbun says he spent six months prioritizing cases and developing strategy.
“I put together units to handle cases, one in Clearwater, one in New York, one in Boston, one in Toronto,” he said. “They would answer to me. I was sort of becoming in charge of the legal operation.”
Miscavige, meanwhile, was disposing of internal rivals and building power. At age 21, he talked Hubbard’s wife into resigning.
It didn’t hurt to have Hubbard’s approval. His son had filed a lawsuit claiming that the company overseeing Hubbard’s assets, headed by Miscavige, was siphoning his fortune. Hubbard responded with a declaration stating that he had “unequivocal confidence in David Miscavige, who is a long-time devoted Scientologist, a trusted associate and a good friend to me.”
Rinder, in turn, became a trusted associate to the emerging leader. Miscavige pulled his childhood acquaintance out of Clearwater to help dissolve the Guardian’s Office, the arm of Scientology that had stolen the IRS files and committed other offenses.
He installed Rinder as head of the new international Office of Special Affairs. Part of Rinder’s new job was to spread a revised narrative about Scientology: The church’s new leaders were appalled to learn of the Guardian Office’s dirty tricks. That was not, they said, what Scientology was all about.
Besting his rivals
On Jan. 27, 1986, thousands of Scientologists gathered at the Hollywood Palladium in Los Angeles, where a solemn Miscavige delivered the news: The founder had moved on to a new level of research that would be “done in an exterior state… completely exterior of the body.”
At 74, L. Ron Hubbard was dead.
Miscavige yielded the microphone to church attorney Earle Cooley, who did not mention Miscavige by name, but helped cement him as future leader. Cooley disclosed that Hubbard, who had died of a stroke, left the bulk of his estate to Scientology, giving final instructions that were “his ultimate expression of his confidence in the management of the church.”
He left no explicit succession plan, leaving open the question of who would lead the church.
Months later, Miscavige, Rathbun and another executive took control of the Religious Technology Center, the RTC, which Hubbard created as the highest ecclesiastical body in the church. They dismissed the staff and pressured the head of the office to step down.
Miscavige became the RTC’s chairman of the board, a title he still holds. Rathbun took the high-ranking post of inspector general for ethics.
The last rivals for control of Scientology were Pat and Annie Broeker, who had assisted Hubbard in his last years. The founder had elevated them to “loyal officer” status, a higher rank than Miscavige, a captain.
The Broekers also had custody of Hubbard’s last writings, the cherished upper levels of Scientology auditing that he wrote by hand while in seclusion. For a church that depends in large part on auditing fees, the papers were a gold mine not only spiritually, but financially. Miscavige wanted them.
Rathbun reveals what they did:
The day Pat Broeker and Miscavige flew cross-country to meet church lawyers in Washington, Rathbun positioned a team of about 20 men outside the Broekers’ ranch in Barstow, Calif.
During a layover in Chicago, Miscavige called with the signal for Rathbun to phone the ranch caretaker. Rathbun told her that Miscavige and Broeker had called with a message: The FBI planned to raid the ranch in two hours. If they didn’t get Hubbard’s papers out, they might be lost forever.
The woman let Rathbun and his guys in.
“It worked like a charm,” he said.
Miscavige’s rise was complete. At 26, he answered to no one in Scientology.
For Rathbun, the point of the story is that Miscavige maneuvered his way to the top, he was not the chosen one. But Scientologists believe he was anointed. “And when they believe that, they’re willing to do almost anything.”
It was a conversation days after getting their hands on Hubbard’s last writings that Rathbun says showed him that Miscavige saw himself not as a political climber but as a chosen leader.
Miscavige seemed in awe of his new responsibilities, so Rathbun tried to buck him up. “I said my basketball coach in high school had these inspirational sayings. One, from Darrell Royal of the Texas Longhorns, stuck with me. He said, ‘I don’t worry about choosing a leader. He’ll emerge.’”
“That’s false data!” Miscavige shot back.
Said Rathbun: “He rejected that so fast. Boy, when I suggested he was anything other than anointed, he jumped down my throat.”
Scientology vs. the IRS
By the late 1980s, the battle with the IRS had quieted from the wild days of break-ins and indictments. But Miscavige was no less intent on getting back the church’s tax exemption, which he thought would legitimize Scientology.
The new strategy, according to Rathbun: Overwhelm the IRS. Force mistakes.
The church filed about 200 lawsuits against the IRS, seeking documents to prove IRS harassment and challenging the agency’s refusal to grant tax exemptions to church entities.
Some 2,300 individual Scientologists also sued the agency, demanding tax deductions for their contributions.
“Before you knew it, these simple little cookie-cutter suits… became full-blown legal cases,” Rathbun said.
Washington-based attorney William C. Walsh, who is now helping the church rebut the defectors claims, shepherded many of those cases. “We wanted to get to the bottom of what we felt was discrimination,” he said. “And we got a lot of documents, evidence that proved it.”
“It’s fair to say that when we started, there was a lot of distrust on both sides and suspicion,” Walsh said. “We had to dispel that and prove who we were and what kind of people we were.”
Yingling teamed with Walsh, Miscavige and Rathbun on the case. She said the IRS investigation of Miscavige resulted in a file thicker than the FBI’s file on Dr. Martin Luther King. “I mean it was insane,” she said.
The church ratcheted up the pressure with a relentless campaign against the IRS.
Armed with IRS records obtained under the Freedom of Information Act, Scientology’s magazine, Freedom, featured stories on alleged IRS abuses: lavish retreats on the taxpayers’ dime; setting quotas on audits of individual Scientologists; targeting small businesses for audits while politically connected corporations were overlooked.
Scientologists distributed the magazine on the front steps of the IRS building in Washington.
A group called the National Coalition of IRS Whistleblowers waged its own campaign. Unbeknownst to many, it was quietly created and financed by Scientology.
It was a grinding war, with Scientology willing to spend whatever it took to best the federal agency. “I didn’t even think about money,” Rathbun said. “We did whatever we needed to do.”
They also knew the other side was hurting. A memo obtained by the church said the Scientology lawsuits had tapped the IRS’s litigation budget before the year was up.
The church used other documents it got from the IRS against the agency.
In one, the Department of Justice scolded the IRS for taking indefensible positions in court cases against Scientology. The department said it feared being “sucked down” with the IRS and tarnished.
Another memo documented a conference of 20 IRS officials in the 1970s. They were trying to figure out how to respond to a judge’s ruling that Scientology met the agency’s definition of a religion. The IRS’ solution? They talked about changing the definition.
Rathbun calls it the “Final Solution” conference, a meeting that demonstrated the IRS bias against Scientology. “We used that (memo) I don’t know how many times on them,” he said.
By 1991, Miscavige had grown impatient with the legal tussle. He was confident he could personally persuade the IRS to bend. That October, he and Rathbun walked into IRS headquarters in Washington and asked to meet with IRS Commissioner Fred Goldberg. They had no appointment.
Goldberg, who did not respond to interview requests for this story, did not see them that day, but he met with them a week later.
Rathbun says that contrary to rumor, no bribes were paid, no extortion used. It was round-the-clock preparation and persistence — plus thousands of lawsuits, hard-hitting magazine articles and full-page ads in USA Today criticizing the IRS.
“That was enough,” Rathbun said. “You didn’t need blackmail.”
He and Miscavige prepped incessantly for their meeting. “I’m sitting there with three banker’s boxes of documents. He (Miscavige) has this 20-page speech to deliver to these guys. And for every sentence, I’ve got two folders” of backup.
Miscavige presented the argument that Scientology is a bona fide religion — then offered an olive branch.
Rathbun recalls the gist of the leader’s words to the IRS:
Look, we can just turn this off. This isn’t the purpose of the church. We’re just trying to defend ourselves. And this is the way we defend. We aggressively defend. If we can sit down and actually deal with the merits, get to what we feel we are actually entitled to, this all could be gone.
The two sides took a break.
Rathbun remembered: “Out in the hallway, Goldberg comes up to me because he sees I’m the right-hand guy. He goes: ‘Does he mean it? We can really turn it off?’”
“And I said,” turning his hand for effect, “ ‘Like a faucet.’”
The two sides started talks. Yingling said she warned church leaders to steel themselves, counseling that they answer every question, no matter how offensive.
Agents asked some doozies: about LSD initiation rituals, whether members were shot when they got out of line and about training terrorists in Mexico. “We answered everything,” Yingling said, crediting Miscavige for insisting the church be open, honest and cooperative.
The back and forth lasted two years and resulted in this agreement: The church paid $12.5 million. The IRS dropped its criminal investigations. All pending cases were dropped.
On Oct. 8, 1993, some 10,000 church members gathered in the Los Angeles Sports Arena to celebrate the leader’s announcement: The IRS had restored the church’s tax exemption, legitimizing Scientology as a church, not a for-profit operation.
“The war is over,” Miscavige told the crowd. “This means everything.”
Recharged on the Freewinds
The euphoria was short-lived. With the tax cases ended, court records became public. Newspapers wanted to know why Miscavige and his wife together made around $100,000 while at the time most church staffers made but $50 a week. Miscavige was furious, and got angrier still when Rathbun argued it would be an insignificant story.
Shortly after, Miscavige’s wife, Michelle, came to Rathbun’s office and, without a word, removed the gold captain’s bars from his Sea Org uniform. Miscavige called him an SP, a suppressive person, and Rathbun was forced to confess his sins before his own staff.
Rathbun was done. “I thought to myself: You know what? That’s it. What am I doing here?”
From the safe in his office at the California base he took three 1-ounce pieces of gold, worth about $500 each, slipped on a bomber jacket, ate breakfast in the mess hall and drove east toward Pensacola, to visit a friend. Miscavige tracked him down and arranged to meet in New Orleans.
“He begged me to come back,” Rathbun recalled, adding that Miscavige offered the carrot of a two-year stint aboard the Freewinds, a Scientology cruise ship where parishioners get the highest levels of counseling while sailing the Caribbean.
Rathbun said Miscavige told him:
You’ve worked hard, you deserved a reward. Go spend time on the ship. Get yourself right, get in touch with what made you love the church in the first place. Hone your skills, come back as the best auditor on the planet.
It was just what Rathbun needed to hear: “I couldn’t have been more thankful.”
He came aboard the Freewinds late in 1993. He worked odd jobs, devoured Hubbard’s writings and spent eight to 10 hours a day receiving counseling and training to be an auditor.
After two years at sea, he reported to Clearwater, to Flag, where the church bases its best auditors and offers upper levels of training. But the quality of auditing had slipped. Rathbun’s assignment was to help bring it back up.
Late in the summer of 1995, a woman exited an auditing room at the Fort Harrison Hotel, raised her arms above her head and shouted with delight — a breach of the all-quiet protocol on the auditing floor.
“Who’s that?” Rathbun asked a supervisor.
“That’s Lisa McPherson.