The night after Lisa McPherson died, the leader of the Church of Scientology sent word for one of his top lieutenants to wait by a pay phone at the Holiday Inn Surfside on Clearwater Beach.
When Marty Rathbun answered the ringing phone in the lobby, David Miscavige let him have it:
Why aren't you all over this mess? The police are poking around. Do something.
"Yes sir," Rathbun said.
McPherson, a 36-year-old parishioner in apparent good health, had spent 17 days in a guarded room at the church's Fort Harrison Hotel. Scientology staffers tried to nurse her out of a mental breakdown, but she became ill. She drew her last breaths in the back seat of a van as they drove her to a hospital in the next county.
Her death on Dec. 5, 1995, triggered nine years of investigations, lawsuits and worldwide press coverage. Alive on the Internet, it stains Scientology's reputation still.
Now, for the first time, comes an inside account from the upper ranks of Scientology - from the man who directed the church's handling of the case.
Rathbun, who defected from Scientology's staff in late 2004, admits that as prosecutors and attorneys for McPherson's family prepared subpoenas, he ordered the destruction of incriminating evidence about her care at the Fort Harrison.
He and others who have left the church disclose for the first time that Miscavige was involved in McPherson's Scientology counseling. Just weeks before her mental breakdown, they say, it was the leader himself who determined that she had reached an enhanced mental state that Scientologists call "clear."
For years Rathbun was adamant that the church did nothing wrong. Now he says that McPherson's care was a debacle from the start. It was a "perfect storm of incompetence and irresponsibility" within the church, he said. "You couldn't justify it."
He disclosed that the church was prepared to pay almost any price to make the case go away. He said he sent an emissary to McPherson's funeral in Dallas with authority to give her mother, Fannie, whatever she wanted. The approach was rebuffed because the family didn't trust the church.
"Whether it was financially or any other thing, we're taking care of that woman because it was on our watch. If she needed $5 million, we would have come up with $5 million."
Church officials say Rathbun is a bitter ex-member who inflated his importance in Scientology and whose motives are suspect. They say Miscavige demoted Rathbun in 2003 in part for missteps he made in the McPherson case.
A settlement agreement with the woman's family forbids them from providing specifics, said Monique Yingling, a long-time Scientology attorney and friend of Miscavige. Still, she said that Rathbun botched the case from the start, and "possibly caused the whole thing."
A little fender-bender
McPherson joined Scientology in Dallas, her hometown, when she was 18. She worked for a marketing company owned by Scientologist friends; the company moved to Clearwater in 1994 to be near the church's spiritual headquarters, and McPherson came, too.
Shortly before 6 p.m. on Nov. 18, 1995, her Jeep Cherokee ran into a boat trailer stopped in traffic on S Fort Harrison Avenue.
McPherson, frantic, walked up to the driver pulling the trailer, put her hands on his shoulders and asked, "Where's the people? Where's the people?"
Firefighters had her move her car to the side of Belleview Boulevard. She signed a statement saying she did not want medical care. As officers and paramedics tended to other duties, they saw McPherson had stripped off her clothes and was walking along Belleview.
They took her to Morton Plant Hospital, where doctors discussed having her committed for psychiatric evaluation under Florida's Baker Act.
But Scientology considers psychiatry and psychiatric drugs evil. The church believes it offers less intrusive and more humane treatment for problems of the human mind.
Adamant that McPherson not be exposed to psychiatry, about 10 church members showed up at the hospital and said they would take care of her. She said she wanted to leave with her friends and signed out against a doctor's advice.
Church staffers checked her into the Fort Harrison and assigned her to Room 174 of the cabanas, a group of less formal rooms facing the street behind the hotel. Four members of the church's medical office were assigned to watch McPherson. Staffers from various departments were pulled in to help - including a payroll officer, a file clerk, a secretary, a personnel director, security guards and two librarians.
Supervising was Janis Johnson, a doctor unlicensed in Florida, who was a church medical officer.
For more than two weeks, they tried to calm, feed and medicate McPherson. They gave her chloral hydrate, a mild sedative. A staff dentist, unlicensed in Florida, mixed aspirin, Benadryl and orange juice in a syringe and squirted it down her throat.
The staffers kept logs of what they did. Trying to calm McPherson, a staffer tried to force three Valerian root caplets down her throat, but McPherson spit them out. "My idea of closing her nose so she has to swallow so she can breathe through her mouth is only marginally successful," the staffer wrote.
McPherson slapped and screamed at her caretakers. She babbled, she vomited her food. She destroyed the ceiling lamp and broke glass in the bathroom. She jumped off the bed, fell on the floor, ran around the room.
She pondered a light bulb, saying, "You have to follow the light, as light is life."
"She was like an ice cube," one caretaker wrote. "She refused to eat and spit out everything she took. Her breath was foul ... had a fever to my touch."
By the evening of Dec. 5, McPherson had lost about 12 pounds. Johnson, the church doctor, telephoned David Minkoff, a Scientologist and a doctor at Columbia New Port Richey Hospital. Minkoff said to take McPherson to Morton Plant Hospital down the street.
But Alain Kartuzinski, a church counseling supervisor, told Minkoff he feared that McPherson would be exposed to psychiatric care at Morton Plant, and Johnson assured Minkoff that McPherson's condition was not life-threatening.
What they didn't tell Minkoff: McPherson was limp and unable to walk. Her breathing was labored, her eyes fixed and unblinking. Her face was gaunt, a sign of severe dehydration.
Minkoff agreed to see her. With McPherson in the back seat of a van, her caretakers drove 45 minutes to the Pasco hospital, passing four other hospitals on the way.
They rolled her into the ER splayed across a wheelchair. She had no pulse, no heartbeat and was not breathing. Minkoff pronounced McPherson dead.
He took Johnson aside and yelled at her.
"I was shocked out of my wits," he said later. "I really wasn't in the mode of finding out what happened. I was more in the mode of, 'How could you bring this person up to me like this?'?"
Scientology employs a unique brand of counseling called auditing. In a quiet room, an "auditor" asks the parishioner prescribed questions while monitoring a device called an electropsychometer, or e-meter. Scientologists say there is a "charge" associated with areas of upset in a person's life, such as marital conflict or a childhood accident.
When such topics come up, the e-meter's needle responds. The act of locating the troubling episode dissipates the charge and the needle floats back and forth. The person is supposed to feel better.
One goal is to reach "clear," a state where the mind's negative images are gone and the person is said to be rid of all fears, anxieties and irrational thoughts.
John Travolta, Kirstie Alley and Tom Cruise are among the celebrities who have extolled the benefits of Scientology. Parishioners from around the globe travel to Clearwater to be audited by the best. Scientologists come for the deluxe accommodations and the top-flight, "Class 12" auditors, whose services, Rathbun said, cost $1,000 an hour.
But back in 1995, Rathbun says, even the church thought most of its Class 12 auditors were not worth the money. They were burned out, their sessions rote and uninspired, like a doctor with a poor bedside manner.
"These guys are all overweight, they're obese, they've got back problems. They don't sleep enough," he said. "And one of the problems, I realized, is for 15, 20 years they're cash cows."
He said they were "just getting milked nonstop."
Rathbun and others say Miscavige was in Clearwater in 1995 to launch "The Golden Age of Tech," an initiative aimed at raising the quality and precision of auditing at Scientology's mecca.
Rathbun said he was assigned to help. Miscavige would look in on parishioner auditing sessions from a control room with video feeds from multiple counseling rooms.
One of the parishioners was Lisa McPherson.
"He's watching live with the videocameras every session that she's in and (supervising), saying 'Do this next, do that next' and so forth," said Tom De Vocht, a top church executive in Clearwater who has since left the church and is speaking out for the first time.
The folder containing records of McPherson's auditing history came in and out of Miscavige's office, said De Vocht, whose office was next door and who had overseen a renovation of the leader's living quarters.
Don Jason, then a high-ranking officer at the Clearwater spiritual headquarters, said he saw Miscavige take off his headphones and say McPherson had achieved the state of clear in a previous session. Jason, 45, said he saw the leader write a note that McPherson's auditor would read to her, informing her of her new status.
Scientologists who are "clear" don't go psychotic, Jason said, so for a person to have a breakdown so soon after was a "huge problem."
Church officials say De Vocht and Jason are wrong. "I can tell you that's utterly, totally false," said Angie Blankenship, a top administrator in Clearwater from 1996 to 2003.
"I was here. Chairman of the board (Miscavige) wasn't even here at the Flag land base during that time. He's a liar. Never happened."
Yingling and church spokesman Tommy Davis also said Miscavige was not in Clearwater at the time, and they say they have minutes of meetings he attended in California to prove it. They also question how De Vocht and Jason, almost 14 years later, could remember anything about a woman who then was just another parishioner.
Jason said the moment stood out because staffers require special training and refresher training to be able to identify when someone becomes clear. "So it did strike me as like, 'Wow'?" that Miscavige had that expertise.
Not only that, "I was standing right next to him when it happened," said Jason, who left the church in 1996 but still finds Scientology valuable.
"This is a huge deal," De Vocht said of Miscavige's involvement. "There's no way not to remember it."
De Vocht said he worked closely with Miscavige during that time. He said the leader zeroed in on McPherson because she was having issues with her counseling and was the friend of a prominent church member.
He said he saw Miscavige view McPherson's auditing sessions through a video feed and write notations in her counseling folder.
"I watched him personally," De Vocht said. "A whole bunch of people watched him personally."
The church's representatives said there are no notations by Miscavige in McPherson's file. In any case, they say, Miscavige would have been qualified to supervise McPherson's case had he been so inclined. "He is an expert in every field," said Jessica Feshbach, a church spokeswoman.
Rathbun recalled walking through a hallway to the auditing rooms at the Fort Harrison and a woman bursting through a door.
"She's going, 'Aaaaaah! Yahoo!' She's screaming at the top of her lungs," he said.
It was McPherson, cheering about the news that she had been deemed clear.
Her accomplishment was celebrated in a ceremony at the Fort Harrison in September 1995. By mid November, she would be back at the hotel, babbling to her caretakers.
When Rathbun learned that McPherson had died, he interviewed the 15 to 20 Scientologists who had cared for her.
"It was like walking into a disaster area," he said. "They all looked devastated. They lacked sleep. Some of them had scratches and bruises from getting hit by Lisa. All of them were extremely emotionally distraught because each one of them put it on their shoulders that they had done something wrong."
Their feelings were justified, Rathbun said. "The whole thing was done wrong. I can't tell you what a technical crime this was" in terms of Scientology methods.
The caretakers had given McPherson an "introspection rundown," a procedure created by Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard. The goal is to isolate and calm a psychotic person enough to be audited. She is to be kept in a silent environment with no one around to "re-stimulate" mental images that might upset her.
Yet church staffers came and went from McPherson's room, as did guards using walkie-talkies, Rathbun said. One staffer cried in a corner. Others held McPherson down while trying to medicate and feed her.
Instead of calming, McPherson grew agitated and self-destructive during her 17-day stay.
Rathbun said he has participated in several introspection rundowns, and none lasted more than a day or two.
He said it was obvious to him that McPherson was the victim of "out-tech," a term for Scientology malpractice.
Rathbun had another problem: Kartuzinski, the auditing supervisor, and Johnson, the medical officer, had lied to Clearwater police. They said McPherson had not received an introspection rundown, and they said there was nothing unusual about her stay.
"That's the hand I'm dealt," Rathbun said. "I've got two false sworn statements to law enforcement agents" on top of how badly the Scientologists handled McPherson.
It was such a "dog's breakfast" of facts, he said, his first instinct was to do something entirely out of character.
"I really truly, sincerely wished that I was in a position where I could just follow my heart," he said. "Because my heart in December 1995 was to go straight to the state attorney's office and say, 'My God. There's been a terrible accident ... We want to take responsibility.'?"
But that wasn't in the playbook. His nearly two decades immersed in Scientology culture had taught him: When under siege, close ranks, never admit fault.
He said he wrote an internal report that concluded church procedures had been violated, but the mistakes did not contribute to McPherson's death.
He put the report in a manila envelope and sealed it the way he learned years earlier as a 20-something newbie handling Hubbard's correspondence. Slice the seams with a razor, cover them with tape and melt the tape so no one can open the envelope without tearing it. Then off the envelope went to the church's California base.
For a year, not a word about McPherson's death had appeared in the media.
But in mid December 1996, details of the Clearwater police investigation leaked to reporters. An autopsy report from Pinellas-Pasco Medical Examiner Joan Wood concluded that McPherson died of a blood clot in her left lung caused by "bed rest and severe dehydration."
Rathbun coordinated the public response, which he now acknowledges began with lies. Church spokesmen said McPherson had been at the Fort Harrison for rest and relaxation. They said she could come and go as she pleased. They denied that she had received an introspection rundown.
McPherson "suddenly fell ill" and participated in decisions about her care, church officials said. Her death was an unfortunate accident, unrelated to anything Scientology did.
Wood spoke out, saying her autopsy contradicted the church's statements. The veteran medical examiner said there was nothing sudden or accidental about McPherson's death. Her health deteriorated gradually over about 10 days, and she probably was unconscious toward the end.
The church sued Wood for access to her records. A Scientology lawyer called her: "Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. Hateful liar."
McPherson's family sued the church for wrongful death.
And the Pinellas-Pasco State Attorney's Office investigated whether to file criminal charges.
Destruction of evidence
In early 1997 as investigators closed in, Rathbun met with church staff at Scientology offices in Hollywood, Calif. They combed the daily logs that McPherson's caretakers kept during her 17 days at the Fort Harrison.
Three entries particularly troubled Rathbun.
One contained a bizarre sexual reference McPherson had made. Another revealed that no one thought to remove the mirror from the room of a psychotic woman bent on harming herself. The third was one caretaker's opinion that the situation was out of control and that McPherson needed to see a doctor.
Rathbun concluded the notes had to go.
"I said, 'Lose 'em' and walked out of the room," he recalled, adding that the decision to destroy the records was his own.
"Nobody told me to do it and I did it," he said. "The truth is the truth and right now I'm going to confession, and I really think it's something that hurt the church more than it hurt the people that were trying to get recompense.
"But it is what it is, and I know it could potentially be a crime."
In a recent interview, State Attorney Bernie McCabe said it was clear the records were missing because the church handed over entries for every day of McPherson's stay except the final two before she died. That the church appeared to be hiding something only fed McCabe's sense that something was amiss.
Prosecuting Rathbun is not an option, because the time to bring destruction of evidence charges expires after three years, McCabe said. "We're done."
Stress ratchets up
On Nov. 13, 1998, McCabe's office charged the church's Clearwater entity with two felonies: criminal neglect and practicing medicine without a license.
The church now faced the prospect of trials and embarrassing testimony in both criminal and civil court.
Miscavige delegated dealing with lawyers and reporters to Rathbun and to Scientology's chief spokesman, Mike Rinder. But the church leader kept hold of the controls, working to forge Scientology's message from behind the scenes.
Rathbun revealed that while he and Rinder conducted phone interviews, Miscavige often was at their side, directing what to say and gesturing wildly when he thought they got it wrong.
A key legal issue in the McPherson family's wrongful death lawsuit was whether Miscavige could be added as a defendant. Church lawyers argued that he should not be named in the suit because he dealt only with ecclesiastical matters. The family countered that Miscavige "totally controls" and "micromanages all of Scientology."
In December 1999, a Tampa judge ruled that Miscavige could be added as a defendant.
For the church leader, it was "a big snapping point," Rathbun said.
"That was like the explosion of all explosions that he was now potentially going to get deposed and his name would be embroiled in that litigation. He became progressively more antagonistic, violent, irrational."
William C. Walsh, a Washington, D.C., human rights lawyer who has represented Scientology for years, said the account is far-fetched.
"One thing I do know is Dave Miscavige, and I've known him from December 1999 on and way before that," Walsh said. "And I never saw any change in his personality when he became a defendant in the case. He didn't become more antagonistic. He did not become more violent. And he's never been irrational."
Said Yingling: "He wasn't happy to be a defendant. That's true. But he took it in stride with everything else that was happening in the case."
Rinder and Rathbun recall an afternoon on the third floor of a small office building overlooking N Fort Harrison Avenue, when they say Miscavige attacked Rinder. They say the leader shouted obscenities at Rinder, grabbed him and, while holding him in a headlock, twisted his neck and threw him to the floor.
Of the dozens of attacks Rinder says he endured, this one was the most painful.
"I remember my neck was out of place, and for maybe 30 minutes I couldn't speak because my larynx had been squashed against the back of my throat," he said.
Clamped in the headlock, Rinder said his thoughts tracked a familiar arc: What did I do to cause this?
When Miscavige dresses you down or, worse, punishes you physically, "You get into trying to figure out what you have done to him," Rinder said. "And that's the thing with the beatings. What did I do to cause this to happen to me?"
Overprepare. Attack, attack
Reminiscent of how Scientology fought the IRS to restore its tax exemption, the church would not be outworked defending itself from the criminal charges in the McPherson case.
Scientology spent millions of dollars, and church lawyers filed thousands of pages of medical studies and consultant reports that said McPherson's care at the Fort Harrison could not have caused her death.
The case collapsed after Wood, the medical examiner, unexpectedly changed her official finding on the manner of McPherson's death. Previously "undetermined," she changed it in February 2000 to an "accident."
Prosecutors dropped the charges four months later, citing Wood's conflicting and confused interpretations of the evidence.
Conspiracy theorists suggested that the church somehow "got to" Wood.
Rathbun denies it. He says the medical examiner changed her conclusions in the face of the reams of scientific information from church experts.
"There was no blackmail on her," Rathbun said. "There was no intelligence. It absolutely was all evidence. I swear to God."
Wood, reached at her home, declined to comment.
McCabe said it was his impression that evidence and expert testimony swayed Wood. "One thing you quickly come to realize when dealing with (Scientologists) is that they are persistent," he said. "And they were persistent with her."
In May 2004, four years after the criminal charges were dropped, the church settled with McPherson's family, ending their lawsuit. The terms remain secret.
In a speech to the International Association of Scientologists, Miscavige proclaimed victory over government officials, over the press and over others who he said tried to use McPherson's death to bring down the church.
He said the roots of the attack stretched from the German government, which opposed Scientology, to the Clearwater police, which investigated the church for two decades.
"They were just looking for anything to get us," he told the crowd. "We always knew we'd win."
Quoting Hubbard, he listed the qualities that would always hold Scientology in good stead. "Constant alertness, constant willingness to fight back."
Winning but losing
Though Scientology prevailed on the legal front, the McPherson case set back a long-running effort by the church to cultivate a benign, mainstream image.
Among the details that emerged: In McPherson's last five years, she had spent at least $176,700 on Scientology services and had $5,773 in the account she kept at the church. She died with $11 in her savings account.
The case reignited passions about Scientology and its practices, bringing pro- and antichurch protests back to the streets of Clearwater after years of relative calm.
Some people paid a price.
Minkoff, the Scientologist doctor who pronounced McPherson dead, was disciplined by the state of Florida. Without having met McPherson, he had written prescriptions for her during her stay in the Fort Harrison.
Kartuzinski, the supervisor in charge of her stay at the Fort Harrison, was banished for years to work in the church's laundry in Clearwater.
Scientology parishioners were called on to dig deeper into their pockets. The church's Clearwater entity, the Flag Service Organization, typically took in $1.5 million to $2 million a week, Rathbun and others said, providing a picture of Scientology's revenues never before disclosed.
Miscavige decided the exorbitant legal bills from the McPherson case were to be paid from the Flag operation, Rathbun said, so church registrars urged parishioners to come in for more auditing and other services.
"It was a matter of, 'Step things up, get people in,'?" he said. "They brought in a lot of money during that period."
Yet another group would pay in a different way. According to Rathbun and other high-ranking defectors, Miscavige grew more violent and erratic as the McPherson case wore on.
Said Rathbun: "Working under David Miscavige from 2000 forward was a steadily deteriorating situation."
About the story
Mark C. "Marty" Rathbun left the Church of Scientology staff in late 2004, ending a 27-year career that saw him rise to be among the organization's top leaders. For the past four years, he has lived a low-profile life in Texas. Some speculated he had died.
In February, Rathbun posted an Internet message announcing he was available to counsel other disaffected Scientologists.
"Having dug myself out of the dark pit where many who leave the church land," he wrote, "I began lending a hand to others similarly situated."
Contacted by the St. Petersburg Times, Rathbun agreed to tell the story of his years in Scientology and what led to his leaving. The Times interviewed him at his home in Texas, and he came to Clearwater to revisit some of the scenes he described.
Seeking to corroborate Rathbun's story, the newspaper contacted others who were in Scientology during the same period and have left the church: Mike Rinder, one of Rathbun's closest associates for two decades; Tom De Vocht, whom Rathbun named as key to his decision to leave; and later, Amy Scobee.
Rathbun and Rinder were well known to the reporters, who had interviewed them dozens of times, sometimes combatively, through years of controversy in Clearwater. They also hosted the reporters in Los Angeles in 1998, when Miscavige granted the only print media interview he has given.
Two reporters met Rinder in Denver, where he now lives, but he declined to be interviewed. About a month later, two Washington-based lawyers who work for the church showed up unannounced in Denver, informed Rinder that they had heard about the newspaper's visit and asked what he had revealed.
They reminded him that as one of the church's top legal officers, attorney-client privilege did not end when he left the church. They told him he could hurt the church by going public.
Weeks later, after the church provided the newspaper with a 2007 video of Rinder heatedly denying that Miscavige hit him and others, Rinder decided to talk to the Times.
De Vocht was interviewed in Winter Haven. Scobee was interviewed in Pinellas County, when she and her husband came to visit relatives.
The reporters interviewed the four defectors multiple times, and met with church spokesmen and lawyers for 25 hours.
Joe Childs, Managing Editor/Tampa Bay, ran the Times Clearwater operation dating to 1993 and supervises the newspaper's Scientology coverage.
Thomas C. Tobin has covered the Church of Scientology off and on since 1996.