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emergency room was skeletally thin and covered with scratches, bruises, and dark
brown lesions. She was also dead. She had suered a pulmonary embolism on the way
to the hospital. In the eyes of the world press, Scientology had murdered Lisa
McPherson. She was one of nine Scientologists who had died under mysterious
circumstances at the Clearwater facility.
The night after McPherson died, Rathbun got word from church ocials to wait for a
call at a pay phone at a nearby Holiday Inn. “Why aren’t you all over this mess?”
Miscavige demanded, when Rathbun answered the call. “The police are poking around.
Do something.”
Rathbun discovered that church ocials in Clearwater had already lied in two sworn
statements to the police, claiming that McPherson hadn’t been subjected to an
Introspection Rundown. The church’s ocial response, under Rathbun’s direction, was
to continue to lie, stating that McPherson had been at the church’s Fort Harrison Hotel
only for “rest and relaxation” and there was nothing unusual about her stay. In the
meantime, Rathbun went through the logs that McPherson’s attendants had kept. As
many as twenty people had been rotating in and out of McPherson’s room; some of
them were scratched and bruised from trying to subdue her; that was hardly the
isolation and absolute silence and calm that the Introspection Rundown called for.
Rathbun noted that, among other entries in the logs, one of the caretakers admitted that
the situation was out of control and that McPherson needed to see a doctor. In the
presence of a Scientology lawyer, Rathbun handed several of the most incriminating
logs to a church executive, and said, “Lose ’em.”
The McPherson case loomed over the church for ve years, with an ongoing police
investigation, protests in front of Scientology facilities, lawsuits on the part of the
family, and endless unwanted press. Embarrassing details emerged, including the fact
that McPherson had spent $176,700 on Scientology services in her last ve years, but
she had died with only $11 in her savings account. Rathbun and Mike Rinder, the
church’s spokesman, were responsible for managing the situation, but Miscavige
supervised every detail. The level of tension was nearly unbearable.
Rinder had the particularly unrewarding task of defending the church to the public.
He was articulate and seemingly unappable, and he had a talent for disarming hostile
interviewers. He had been a Scientologist since he was ve years old, in South Australia,
when the religion was banned. He had sailed with Hubbard aboard the Apollo. Few had
a deeper experience of the religion than he and no one was more publicly identied
with it. But even Rinder could not quell the furor that arose from the McPherson affair.
Perhaps because of Rinder’s lifelong service to the church, Miscavige saw him as a
rival; or perhaps the leader’s frustration with the continual bad press made his
spokesperson a particular object of his wrath. At any rate, Marty Rathbun got a call
from Shelly Miscavige around Christmas in 1997, the rst year of the protests over Lisa
McPherson’s death. Rathbun was back at Gold Base. Shelly said that Dave wanted him to
report to his quarters right away. Rathbun rushed down the hill to Miscavige’s
bungalow, where Shelly was waiting just outside the screen door. A moment later, Mike
Rinder, who had also been summoned, came racing around the corner of the house.