Most of our events were arranged and supervised by Leisa Goodman. She had a say in everything we did. I thought it odd that she was calling the shots when the foundation was supposedly separate from the church, but I knew the church was always looking for ways to enhance its public image by attaching itself to good causes, and this was one. They called it “safe-pointing,” a term for counterattacking critics by promoting a positive public image.
As L. Ron Hubbard wrote in one of his policy memorandums: “Continuous good works and effective release of material about one’s good works is vital especially in a Black Propaganda war. . . . One can’t just dedicate his life to eradicating the enemy, even when that is tempting. On the other hand, within the dictates of safety, one cannot hide continuously. One must, through his good works and actions, at least be visible. So a continual truthful and artful torrent of public relations pieces must occur.” What better way to get good publicity than working with an organization that promoted human rights?
I was surprised to discover that the mission of my new foundation involved more administrative than hands-on work. As a volunteer, I didn’t have the authority to change it, so I questioned why we weren’t getting our hands dirty more. Educating the public and printing brochures was certainly worthwhile, but the people who needed our help were starving now. While we were hosting banquets in Hollywood, children overseas were suffering from malnutrition and hunger. I took my concerns to Leisa Goodman.
“You showed me a binder of children starving and dying,” I said. “Are we providing them food?” She stared at me blankly, and I got angry. “We’re just talking; we’re not actually giving these children what they need.”
Leisa listened attentively. My concerns were well-taken, she said, but we were unique in our mission. Other organizations provided food and shelter. Our focus was educating needy children about their basic human rights. We were teaching them to save themselves as well as the generations that followed. I decided that what she said made sense. Teaching children about their rights was in some ways just as important to their survival as food and shelter.
And we were getting good PR.
At the same time that I was making a name for myself for our human rights initiatives, my career continued to flourish. I was the top manager and producer for a nationwide insurance company and bringing home more money than I could spend. I wrote a check for $100,000 to the church and promised there would be more—much more—where that came from.
* * *
My mother spent most of 2004 in New York City with the Sea Org team in charge of preparing the church there for its grand reopening in the fall. Many millions of dollars were being spent on the renovations to the building on West Forty-Sixth Street near Times Square. I tried seeing Mom that August while I was at the United Nations, but she said she was too busy.
“Not even for a dinner out?” I asked.
“Sorry, Michelle,” she said. “You know how it is.”
I knew about the rigors of Sea Org life. It certainly wasn’t the glamorous job that the crisp blue uniform implied. Although it was considered a privilege to serve in the church’s “fraternal religious order,” it was a punitive culture. The rules were strict and the punishments harsh. You never knew which of your comrades were watching and judging you until you were written up and called in to Ethics to defend yourself. It was a tough life, hailed by the church as “composed of the singularly most dedicated Scientologists—individuals who have committed their lives to the volunteer service of their religion.”
That was my mom. She worked eighteen to twenty hours a day at the New York church, six days a week. She got Sunday afternoons off for personal chores, like hand washing her clothes and her bed linens. She slept on a bunk bed with rusty springs and a stained mattress in dormitory rooms that had bedbugs and cockroaches, showered in cramped communal showers (in and out in three minutes) and ate crummy food. She didn’t seem to mind the oppressive rules, or the physical and mental stresses of the daily grind of Sea Org life, or that most of her colleagues were in their twenties. It wasn’t for everyone, she admitted, but she had known what she was doing when she signed her billion-year contract, and she wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.
Mom had always had trouble committing to anything, including her husbands and her children. But she was unwavering in her commitment to the church. I couldn’t have been prouder of her dedication and sacrifice. I think it was her way of making up for things. Every time I saw her, she was smiling. She never complained about the poor living conditions, or the slop they were fed, or the lack of sleep, or the hard labor they were often assigned. Of course, if she did, she knew either I’d have to write her up or she’d be coerced to confess it in auditing; either way, there would be hell to pay. Badmouthing the church was a punishable crime. Speaking ill of our leader was even worse. If you said things “out PR,” you were in a lot of trouble.
Which was why my mother didn’t tell me at that time, and I found out only years later, that David Miscavige had gone on a two-and-a-half-hour tirade during an inspection of the New York church. Red-faced and stomping his foot, he screamed that the project was late and over budget. Things were poorly run and sloppy. Mom and the others were stupid and incompetent. Nothing was right.
“You have twenty-three people here on mission and I could get this done with three!” he shouted at the workers. “You don’t belong in the Sea Org. You’re a bunch of worthless slobs and you’re fucking up. NOW WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?”
I’m sure it didn’t occur to Mom to complain. Her devout belief in the church and in Miscavige as a divine figure higher than God drove her to blindly accept the principles and practices of Scientology and, above all, obey our leader. She didn’t ask questions. She did what she was told, and she told me only good things that happened while she was in New York. She bought a new bedspread for her bunk with the money I gave her, she told me, and Tom Cruise, who was in the city filming, had brought his kids through the church.
“We were told not to gawk, just to nod and say hello and continue working. So many bodyguards surrounded him! He’s not very tall, but he’s taller than Mr. Miscavige.”
I pretended not to hear that last part. I knew Mom didn’t mean anything malicious by it and I didn’t want to report her and get her in trouble for something that had been said innocently.
There were times I wished I were as reverential as my mother. She’d given up so many human pleasures to serve in the Sea Org. Cars, clothes, vacations, her own toilet, a cell phone, the freedom to say and do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. I, on the other hand, was pampered and indulged because I was able to afford the celebrity status. I took any occasion to give Mom some of the creature comforts she was missing, things like chocolates, and Starbucks gift cards, and winter coats, and rain boots, and tickets home for Christmas when she could get permission for the time off. I wanted the grand reopening of the New York church to be one of those opportunities to treat her. She had worked so hard for so long on the project and I thought she deserved some reward in return.
The ribbon cutting was set for September 26, and I flew in the day before with Anne Archer and her husband, Terry Jastrow, who were in my circle of big-donor friends. I’d booked a thousand-dollar-a-night suite at the St. Regis Hotel, hoping that Mom could stay with me for at least one night. I’d planned to take her to an elegant dinner, but she declined. She was too busy, she said, tying up loose ends for the opening. She invited me over for a quick tour. When I arrived, I was brought to a special lounge and treated like royalty while I waited for Mom. She looked tense when she walked in, but, as always, she managed a smile and hug. I couldn’t imagine the stress she must have been feeling just twelve hours before the main event. After a quick tour, she said she had to get back to work, and I returned to my hotel.
The church sent a car for Anne, Terry and me the following afternoon. I loved my status as an i
mportant person in the church. I was escorted and catered to wherever I went. Anything I wanted, from a bottle of water or a glass of wine to a tour of the city or a ride to the airport—just ask, our attendants said. When the ceremony was about to begin, I was led to the front row of seats facing the stage. The stage was outdoors and the sky was a radiant blue. The church must have called in favors to get that done, I thought. While I was being fussed over and smoothing my suit in anticipation of meeting our leader, Mom was scurrying around behind the scenes, tending to last-minute details. She was checking out the uniforms of newbies to make sure they were crisp and correct. She was leading rehearsals so participants knew how to answer questions from the public. She was making sure staff members were in their assigned positions.
As I watched my mother, I remembered a story she had told me recently. She said she was at the church in Los Angles when she heard I was in the building. She’d gone to the lobby and asked where she might find me, to which the receptionist responded with disdain, “And you are?” Mom was wearing her Sea Org uniform, which usually commanded respect, and she was a bit taken aback by the young woman’s condescending attitude. “I’m in the marketing unit,” she said. “I’m Michelle’s mom.” That got the young woman’s attention, Mom said. “Oh! You’re Michelle’s mom?” she cried. “That’s awesome!” It was the first time she realized that our roles had changed, she said. Before, it was always someone asking me if I was her daughter.
Ten thousand people crowded onto West Forty-Sixth Street for the grand reopening of the church. The busy city block was cordoned off and secured by the NYPD, causing massive traffic tie-ups in Times Square. As trumpets blared, streamers and confetti rained down on the sea of people. Everyone from Tom Cruise and John Travolta to United Nations dignitaries and U.S. senators were in attendance. The roster of speakers included the vice president of the Times Square Alliance, an undersecretary of the United Nations and U.S. congressman Charles Rangel. At the last minute, David Miscavige swooped in in his blacked-out Mercedes. Flanked by bodyguards, he made his way to the front row, where I was sitting. The crowd roared.
Miscavige is a tiny man, probably five feet one, with a powerful presence. It’s almost as if he compensates for his diminutive height with his booming voice. He personified confidence. I’d heard that someone once asked him how he’d ended up running the church. He’d looked them straight in the eye and said it was all about ethics. His were stellar, he said. That’s exactly how he came across. As if he did everything right all the time. He hugged Anne warmly and shook my hand heartily. He bounded up onstage and began speaking.
“As we look out across the world, we can speak of international conflict, of economic instability, and yes, of terrorism. . . . Let us speak in terms of solutions, solutions that can solve every one of them.”
I turned to look at the crowd and glimpsed my mother standing at the back. Her face was filled with awe. Miscavige had that effect on people. He oozed charisma. Listening to him speak, I resolved to get to know him better. I wanted to please him. To let him know he could count on me. It was time for me to step up and do more for the church. To give more of my time. To donate more of my money. Looking back at our leader, I was overtaken with a feeling of euphoria. I was going to help him save the world. The crowd was chanting and I joined in. Hip-hip-hoorah! Hip-hip-hoorah!
CHAPTER SEVEN
Meeting Dror
I was making money hand over fist in insurance commissions. As a top manager at my company, I had more than thirty insurance agents working for me and I was earning in the top 10 percent of agents nationwide. My company rewarded me with free trips and bonuses. Sean and I moved to a million-dollar home in a gated community.
At the same time, my charity work was paying off. I was working with officials at the United Nations to teach human rights to children and had partnered with the America’s Schools Program to get the first human rights curriculum into a school district—Clark County, Nevada, one of the largest in the country. I told everyone that I owed all my success to the church. Because I was up on my courses and auditing (defined by the church as “on lines” and “upstat”), I was “pulling in” all good things (think “karma”).
I decided to keep the momentum going by opening my own business. With financial backing from a large insurance broker, I started my own firm. I recruited some of the top people in the field. The business took off immediately. Within months, I was selling huge insurance policies to the rich and famous. With my first multimillion-dollar sale paying a $2 million commission, I wrote my largest check ever to the church.
The church took full advantage of my good fortune by showing me off at galas and celebrity events. I was Scientology’s poster girl. Look at Michelle! She’s young and happily married with a beautiful child and a winning business! Scientology can do that for you too!
It was at one of these dog and pony shows that I was introduced to Dror Soref, a fellow Scientologist. The black-tie gala at the Celebrity Centre in Hollywood was a star-studded evening: John Travolta and his wife, Kelly Preston; Leah Remini; Anne Archer; television actors like Sofia Milos, Danny Masterson and Erika Christensen; and the musician Beck among the thousand guests. It was hardly your typical church dinner; it felt more like being at the Oscars.
I was seated next to Dror at a table purchased by a mutual acquaintance. Dror was introduced to me as an award-winning filmmaker. He was probably twenty years older than me and spoke with a slight stutter. With uncombed, spiky hair and rumpled clothing, he reminded me of my first auditor, Larry. He seemed nice enough, but he quickly monopolized my time, asking me questions about the insurance business and my human rights work. I really wanted to mingle, but I didn’t know how to extricate myself without seeming rude. Finally, about halfway through the evening, I managed to get away and do some table-hopping. At the end of the evening, Dror caught me on the way out.
“I’d love to get your information,” he said. “I would love to support your human rights foundation.”
I pulled a business card from my purse and handed it to him.
“Thank you—that’s very kind!” I said. “I’ll let you know when we have our next event.”
Dror called several times the following day while I was tied up in client meetings. When my assistant announced his fifth call, I picked up. He asked for a meeting to discuss how he could support my charity work. I said I would get back to him to set up a lunch, but time got away from me and I didn’t follow through.
A month later, I was invited to a summer party at the sprawling Hollywood Hills home of a wealthy Scientology couple. He was a business magnate and she was an aspiring actress. Sean didn’t want to go, so I was by myself. The first people I spotted when I got there were Dror and his wife. I was new to the church’s celebrity inner circle and relieved to see someone I recognized. Dror jumped to his feet when he saw me and greeted me warmly, almost in a fatherly way.
“What a coincidence!” I said. “Here we are together again!”
Dror said he’d called me many times. Had I received his messages? I told him I’d been swamped with work and apologized for not getting back to him.
He introduced me to his wife, Virginia, and the three of us ended up talking for most of the party. I especially liked Virginia. She was around my age and very “LA,” a former actress with a bohemian-chic fashion sense and a nose for where to go to “be seen.” She and I bonded quickly. We found we had a lot in common, like our Southern upbringing—mine in Oklahoma, hers in Texas. We shared stories about where each of us was on the Bridge, and the challenges of balancing career, family and kids. It turned out that Virginia was interested in adopting a child, as I was. Saying good-bye, Virginia and I promised to see each other again soon. Dror asked if we could schedule a business meeting.
“I’d love to get together with you, Michelle,” he said. “I hear your business is very, very successful.” I thought perhaps he wanted my advice
on life insurance or annuities.
“Sure!” I said, thinking I had a potential new client. “Call the office anytime.”
Two weeks later, Dror was sitting across the table from me at the Marmalade Cafe, where he spent the better part of the meeting telling me all about himself. What a fascinating man, I thought as I listened to his story.
Dror was born and raised in Israel. He attended the University of Haifa and earned degrees in economics, sociology and anthropology. When he was a student, he started a repertory theater before being drafted to serve in the Golani Brigade, an elite unit in the Israeli Defense Forces. He founded a new political party in Israel and, at the age of twenty-three, was nominated to run for the Knesset, the Israeli legislature. When he decided to pursue a film career in the late seventies, he emigrated from Israel to the U.S. to study at the cinema school at the University of Southern California.
Around that time, he was introduced to Scientology. L. Ron Hubbard was still alive then; Dror had the opportunity to get to know him and said he was one of the most charismatic men he’d ever met. Over time, Dror rose to serve under Hubbard in the Office of the Guardian, the intelligence-gathering arm of the church (later renamed the Office of Special Affairs). Oh my God, I thought. This man had worked beside LRH! How many people could say that?
We never got to talk business that day. We simply ran out of time. But I ended the meeting thinking that this was someone I liked and wanted to see again.
* * *
Over the next few months, my friendship with Virginia developed at warp speed. She was always around, inviting me to lunch or dinner with her and Dror, or to do some shopping, or offering to do whatever I needed for my human rights events. I usually brought Sage on our dates while Sean stayed at home alone, playing war games on his computer. Virginia was so attentive that sometimes it seemed as if she were courting me, and I enjoyed the attention. Virginia was an original. She smoked and cussed and you didn’t want to incite her Cuban temper, but at the same time, if she was on your side, you could do no wrong. I didn’t have many friends who were that encouraging and supportive, and I soaked it up.
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