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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: LeClair, Michelle, author. | Fisher, Robin Gaby, author.
Title: Perfectly clear/Michelle LeClair and Robin Gaby Fisher.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017055774 | ISBN 9781101991169 | ISBN 9781101991176 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: LeClair, Michelle, author. | Scientologists—United States—Biography. | Scientology—United States—Biography. | Ex–church members—Biography. | Lesbians—United States—Biography. | Homosexuality—Religious aspects—Scientology. | Scientology—Controversial literature.
Classification: LCC BP605.S2 L43 2018 | DDC 299/.936092 [B]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017055774
First Edition: September 2018
Jacket photograph by Ross Oscar Knight Photography
Jacket design by Katie Anderson
Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences and the words are the author’s alone.
This book is the author’s account of her experience leaving the Church of Scientology. Dates, places, titles and events are all factual, but the names and identifying characteristics of certain individuals have been changed.
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This book is dedicated to the two greatest loves of my life.
T, you are the one on whose shoulder I rest, the one whose arms keep me protected, the one whose heart has never stopped loving me and the one whose soul opened mine to the greatest gift that God could give . . . the freedom to love. I will love you for the rest of our lives and beyond.
To my children, Sage, Savannah, Jadon and London, you gave me the strength to find freedom for us! Your love, sweetness and resilience pushed me to persevere when I didn’t think I had the strength to keep going. Please, never forget, my sweet darlings, that truth, love and family will always set you free.
There are only two answers for the handling of people from 2.0 down on the Tone Scale, neither one of which has anything to do with reasoning with them or listening to their justification of their acts. The first is to raise them on the Tone Scale by un-enturbulating some of their theta by any one of the three valid processes. The other is to dispose of them quietly and without sorrow.
—L. RON HUBBARD, SCIENCE OF SURVIVAL
In addition to violating and abusing its own members’ civil rights, the organization [Scientology] over the years with its “Fair Game” doctrine has harassed and abused those persons not in the Church whom it perceives as enemies. The organization clearly is schizophrenic and paranoid, and the bizarre combination seems to be a reflection of its founder LRH [L. Ron Hubbard]. The evidence portrays a man who has been virtually a pathological liar when it comes to his history, background, and achievements. The writings and documents in evidence additionally reflect his egoism, greed, avarice, lust for power, and vindictiveness and aggressiveness against persons perceived by him to be disloyal or hostile. At the same time it appears that he is charismatic and highly capable of motivating, organizing, controlling, manipulating, and inspiring his adherents.
—SUPERIOR COURT JUDGE PAUL BRECKENRIDGE,
CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY OF CALIFORNIA v. GERALD ARMSTRONG, JUNE 1984
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPHS
INTRODUCTION: The Raid
1. The Beginning
2. Down to the Dungeon
3. Sea Change
4. Indiscretions
5. Clear
6. Moving On Up
7. Meeting Dror
8. Savannah
9. Endings and Beginnings
10. Deal Broker
11. Budding Friendship
12. Found Out
13. Twist
14. Atlanta
15. Reality
16. The Office of Special Affairs
17. Trouble Ahead
18. Paul Haggis
19. Defection
20. Criminal Charges
AFTERWORD
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
INTRODUCTION
The Raid
October 2014
I awaken with a jolt. My bedside clock says six forty-five a.m. I have overslept by almost an hour. I never oversleep! Why didn’t I hear the alarm? I live in a cozy Spanish-style cottage nestled in the hills overlooking Pasadena with my partner, Charley, my kids and my mom. Charley is in bed beside me. The house is quiet. No one else is stirring. I have to get up. The kids have to be fed and dressed and gotten off to school and there isn’t much time.
The sun won’t be up for another twenty minutes. I throw off the covers, switch on the bedroom lamp and begin pulling on my workout clothes from the day before. I have one leg in my pants and am struggling with the other, but it doesn’t want to cooperate. “C’mon!” I say, fighting with the stubborn pants leg.
I am finally making progress when I hear noises that don’t belong. The hum of car engines? The squeak of the outside gate? I stop what I am doing for just a second, trying to make out the vague sounds outside. Suddenly, banging on my windows and doors shatters the morning quiet. The dogs bark frantically. What in God’s name?
A man shouts, “Open the door!” My heart is hammering in my chest as I open my bedroom door. I am still only partially dressed. My knees are knocking together, threatening to buckle. Beams of light are streaming in the front windows and crisscrossing the living room. What the hell is going on?
I can’t tell how many people are outside my house, but it sounds like an army of angry men. I hear the word “police.” Surely they have the wrong house. “I’ll handle this,” Charley says.
My mom, still dressed in her pajamas, has crept upstairs from her bedroom and stands across from me, her palms up, her face contorted in confusion and fear. She mouths her words: What’s going on?
Mom goes for the children, who are sleeping downstairs. I duck back into my bedroom. I straighten my clothes and grab a baseball cap to cover my slept-on hair. As I rush out of my room, I hear Charley. “Who are you and what do you want?” she asks, her voice firm and sure.
“Open up!” someone bellows.
Charley pulls the door open just enough for us to see a posse of scowling uniformed men on the other side. Some are wearing jackets with an LAPD insignia on the breast pocket. Some have holsters with guns. My God.
The pack storms past Charley into our home and I can smell their maleness. Testosterone mixed with sweat. The odor sickens me. A short, beefy officer with a buzz cut shows his badge and grunts, “Which one of you is Michelle Seward?”
“I am.”
He hands me a paper that says “Search Warrant,”
cuing the forces to fan out. As they scatter, they remind me of worker ants crawling over an anthill.
My children appear on the stairs with my mother. My nine-year-old daughter is whimpering. My seven-year-old twin boys are wailing. I motion for my mother to take them back downstairs.
“Mommy is okay,” I say. “Everything will be okay.”
The team sets up shop in my tiny first-floor office. This is my sanctuary, the place where Charley and I drink tea by the fireplace and read the morning papers before the kids wake. I stand by helplessly as strangers rummage through my drawers, my file cabinets, and anything else they wish. The searchers make copies of innocuous documents: divorce papers, bill stubs, medical records, tax returns. They act as though they have no regard for my belongings—not my antique chairs, my favorite family photographs, the precious artifacts I have collected on trips to Africa.
While Charley watches the searchers, I step outside to call my attorney.
“The police are here and they’re looking for something. I have no idea what . . .”
Steve Cooley is a celebrity on the Los Angeles legal scene, revered by both lawyers and cops. Before going into private practice, he spent forty years on the prosecutorial side of the California justice system. For the last twelve of those years, he headed the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office, the very office that had ordered the raid on my home. He is familiar with my trouble with the church. He listens quietly as my words spill out.
“Who’s the head deputy?” he asks. “Let me speak to him.”
The deputy looks bewildered when I hand him the phone. He puts it to his ear. “Hello? . . . Hi, sir. How are you, sir? Yes, sir.” The deputy reads the search warrant to my lawyer.
When he is finished speaking, he hands the phone back to me. I put it to my ear and Steve is already talking.
“Michelle, stay calm and cooperate with them,” he says. “Be at my office as soon as the search is over.”
After several hours of work, the officers finish turning my house upside down. The rooms are in disarray and muddy boot tracks stain the floor tiles. Before they leave, they confiscate my cell phone and my computer and search my car.
Huddled in the driveway is a clutch of people I recognize from the neighborhood. Our front gate is broken, and they’re concerned that we’ve been robbed. An officer tells them not to worry, no one has been burglarized; this is a police search. I am humiliated.
Although I wish I could disappear, I force myself to stand up straight, pull my shoulders back. “What is this all about?” I ask again, more insistently than before.
The officer who handed me the search warrant finally speaks. “Ma’am,” he says, dispassionately, “we have been informed that you have property in your possession that shows you’ve committed a felony.”
* * *
From the moment I decided to publicly leave the Church of Scientology, my life unspooled as if I were a character in a suspense novel. Strange cars idle at the curb outside my home at all hours of the day. Men wearing dark glasses follow me to the grocery store, the airport and my kids’ school. My computer and my phone have been hacked. I have to be careful about everything I say, even in the privacy of my own home. I am under siege, but my stalker is slippery and elusive. I am fighting a ghost, an adversary I cannot see. I know, though, who is behind the crusade to destroy me.
Founder L. Ron Hubbard had explicit instructions for taking down anyone who threatened the church: “This is the correct procedure,” Hubbard wrote in a 1967 policy memorandum. “Spot who is attacking us. Start investigating them promptly for felonies or worse using our own professionals, not outside agencies. Start feeding lurid, blood, sex, crime, actual evidence on the attackers to the press. Don’t ever tamely submit to an investigation of us. Make it rough, rough on attackers all the way . . . There has never yet been an attacker who was not reeking with crime. All we had to do was look for it and murder would come out.”
And so they watch, waiting for any misstep, searching for anything they can find, or twist, to use against me. Information is power, even when it is distorted. Especially when it’s distorted.
* * *
It is close to noon by the time I pull out of the driveway and head out to see my attorney. When I hit the freeway, I see that, as usual, it is choked with traffic. I merge into the right lane. Stop and go. Stop and go. I hate this about LA. No matter what time of day it is, you can’t get anywhere on time. Will I ever get there? Adrenaline courses through my veins. Fight or flight. I fight the urge to jump out of the car by gripping the steering wheel as vehemently as if my life depended on it. Deep breath, I tell myself. In, and out. In, and out.
I am trembling when I arrive at my attorney’s office. For a moment I sit in my car and try to compose myself. I think of my children. I taste my salty tears, tilt the rearview mirror toward me and wipe my eyes.
Cooley is one of a stable of attorneys I have had to employ since this nightmare began. He is an imposing figure, a large, burly man and all business. “How are you?” he asks when I walk into his office. The question sounds more like a polite refrain than an expression of genuine concern, but Cooley’s eyes are sympathetic, betraying his hard shell. I try not to cry. I know he doesn’t do well with tears.
Steve has invited a private investigator, Jon Perkins, to join us. I collapse into a chair between the two men. I can’t help it; a loud sob racks my body.
For four years, I have been the target of a witch hunt by what could only have been the very people I once trusted with my life: my fellow Scientologists. I foolishly believed my adversaries would eventually tire of harassing me and move on to the next “enemy,” but false allegations from church files landed anonymously on the desk of the Los Angeles County District Attorney and I have been fighting to clear my name ever since.
What was happening to me was straight out of a Scientology book of dirty tricks, copied from a policy written in 1965 by L. Ron Hubbard that describes “anonymous third partying,” a tactic of tipping off authorities to alleged unlawful activities or crimes committed by enemies of the church. “Show me any person who is critical of us and I’ll show you crimes and intended crimes that would stand a magistrate’s hair on end,” Hubbard wrote.
In its “Third Party Law,” the church defines “anonymous third parties” as instigators who quietly stir up trouble and stand by enjoying the shit show they cause. “The usually unsuspected and ‘reasonable’ third party, the bystander who denies any part of it, is the one that brought the conflict into existence in the first place,” the law states. Parishioners are cautioned to be on the lookout for these phantom third parties, but the church itself instigated trouble and hid behind a veil of anonymity when it was in its own interests.
My troubles began when my Scientology mentor outed me in a report to the church Ethics Department, accusing me of questioning the legitimacy of some of the church’s rules and beliefs: specifically, those that applied to homosexuality.
Parishioners routinely tattle on each other with written reports. I’d written them myself. Keeping each other in check was part of being a responsible member of the church. Hubbard, whose observations and beliefs inform church doctrine, explained the strategy of snitching in a 1982 church policy letter: “To succeed in this ‘civilization’ or any society, crude or sophisticated, one has to act continually to keep one’s own environment under some control.” I was well aware that, depending on the gravity of an allegation, a report to the church’s Ethics Department often led to severe punishment and even expulsion.
Hubbard had declared homosexuals the lowest form of life—“perverted” and “dangerous” people who should be disdained as enemies of the church. Sixty years later, homophobia was still endemic in Scientology, but people were quieter about it.
I knew the rules, but I recklessly talked myself into believing that, because I was a top donor, contributing millions to the
church, my relationship with a woman would be tolerated, or at least ignored. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.
Perkins says my case mirrors every covert Scientology smear campaign he has ever uncovered during his career as an investigator. And, like the others, he says, it will be harder than hell to prove.
I knew how vindictive the church could be. I was aware they used the courts to bleed people dry with litigation, and that lying in the name of protecting the sanctity of the church was not only condoned but also encouraged. The ends justified the means, no matter how mean-spirited or outright dishonest the tactics used to win. Still, I hadn’t been prepared for the force of their retaliation.
Now I was being accused of a felony?
Hadn’t it been enough for church members to damage my good name and sabotage my business with their innuendo and lies? Now they wanted to see me dragged through the criminal justice system, headed for prison?
My thoughts ran wild. I knew of families, friends, marriages and careers torn apart by the church’s shadowy actions. I had come to deeply regret that I participated in one of the church’s covert campaigns to discredit a reporter from the BBC.
The BBC. Now that was a story. The church was really rattled to learn that journalists from the British news organization were investigating us for a television documentary. The church loathed journalists. L. Ron Hubbard called them “merchants of chaos.” Media critics were targeted with “deflect and destroy” campaigns: Deflect bad press by destroying the credibility of the messenger. That was the plan for the BBC.
The group chosen by the church to participate in discrediting the BBC reporter was summoned to a confidential briefing at the executive offices in the Hollywood Guaranty Building. It was March 2007, long before I began having doubts about the church. The Guaranty Building is closed to the public, and even most Scientologists never get to see inside. It’s the headquarters for the church’s supersecretive Office of Special Affairs (OSA), the CIA of Scientology. Everyone who worked there at the time was dressed in uniform: navylike dress blues with gold buttons, service stripes and rank badges. Security was airtight. All guests’ trips to the bathroom were escorted. All the church’s covert operations are launched from there.
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