Blown for Good Behind the Iron Curtain of Scientology (44 page)

“Sure enough, you have a few weeks here,” Scheri says. “Your sister has a few weeks of pay here as well. I will give them to you and you can give them to her when you see her.”

“Great idea,” I say. “Jackpot” is what I think. This woman is working overtime for me here.

Between everything she gives me, I receive about $250.

I head over to CMO Int to see if I can talk to Claire. She is not around. One of the people who works with her says that she is in an interview with Tanja Lewis. Tanja’s husband, Stefan, had been kicked off the Base in 1999 and eventually left the Sea Org and now Tanja has been trying to leave to be with him, after being separated from him for years. Tanja was in RTC and was Dave’s personal secretary for 13 years. There is no way they are ever going to let her leave and be with Stefan.

My wife’s purse is sitting under her desk. I grab it and take out whatever cash she has. She has $80 and I snatch it up and shove it into my pocket. I make my way out of CMO INT and realize I still need some more cash.

Right then it comes to me, Roanne Horwich, LRH’s granddaughter lives in a small building right nearby; she will lend me some money if I ask.

I bang on her door. Even though it is around 3:30
a.m.
, she answers. I explain my plight to her about how I need to come up with some cash to sort out the whole embezzlement thing and she writes me a check for $250 on the spot. She was loaded and I was a good friend.

“Thanks, Roanne! You are awesome,” I say as I leave. I make my way back over to the manufacturing building on the other side of the property.

I grab my boxes of stuff and start walking home. As I get near the gate that leads from the Gs to the Sublet houses, I see an RTC staff member making her way through the gate. She is one of the RTC sec checkers. Perfect. I start walking faster and meet up with her there. This way if Security sees me on their cameras, they will note that I am with an RTC sec checker and will not question where I am going.

I get through the gate and nobody shows up. I walk with the RTC staff member until we get to her house. I tell her goodbye and make it to my house, which is just a few houses further down the road.

Hopefully security doesn’t get suspicious and come to pick me up. They have cameras on top of a lot of the houses on Sublet Road and if there is any kind of activity they will see it and send a guard down to check it out.

I get inside my room. There are four other people living in this two bedroom house besides my wife and I. Somehow I have to pack up what I need and not wake anybody else. I end up having to get a suitcase out of the garage and this makes a ton of noise. Nobody seems to wake up.

I spend a few hours getting my stuff together and wait around for Claire to show up. As I lay there and wait, I start wondering what she will say about me deciding to leave. Will she go along with it? Will she turn me in? Do I even tell her? Maybe she already heard about what happened?

If she comes with me, she will never see her family again. If she turns me in, I will end up on the Rehabilitation Project Force in Los Angeles and will never see her again anyway, so that would get me the same result. Well, we’ll see what happens when she gets home.

It is 8:45
a.m.
and there is someone banging on the door. I get up realizing that I fell asleep and that my wife never came home. I answer the door. It is Karsten Matthias from Security.

“Why are you late?” he says in his German accent.

“I was told to be sessionable,” I tell him.

He gets on his radio and tells the main booth what I said. I cannot hear the reply as he has an earpiece on.

“You don’t have to be sessionable and you need to come in now,” he says.

I tell him okay but that I have to shower and then I will be right in. He leaves, not suspecting anything, I hope.

Okay, I have to work fast. I bail on the shower. I get dressed and load my bike with my stuff. I have two duffle bags and a small suitcase. The gas tank is full. The bike has been sitting for awhile so hopefully it starts up okay. I have never heard of anyone blowing the Int Base by walking into town. My bike is a dual sport motorcycle, so it is like a dirt bike, but is street and highway legal. Top speed is about 70 mph. I have gotten it up to that speed once or twice. It is not exactly the most reliable form of high-speed transportation but it should work fine to get me out of here on this very significant day.

I decide that I will first head to the U-Haul place to get a truck and then once I have my bike in the truck I can call my dad and drive to Kansas City.

I get on the bike, I put my helmet on and hit the electric starter. She starts right up. This is it, I am actually going to do this. I am leaving my life behind and starting over.

I pull out of the driveway onto Sublet Road and head towards San Jacinto…

Now that I have been run off the road by the Gold Security SUV, attempted to be recovered by at least two other Golden Era staff in vehicles (that I knew of ) and very politely escorted into San Jacinto by the Riverside County Sheriff’s department, the morning is tuning out to be pretty jam packed.

The ceremonial motorcade of two police cars keep me moving and I eventually arrive to the U-Haul station in town never having broken 10 mph due to the condition of my bike after the fall. I get off my bike and thank the sheriffs so as to acknowledge that I no longer need their assistance.

“I don’t think so, pal. On the way here they sent at least three vehicles after you,” one of them says. “We’ll just hang around until you actually get into a truck with your stuff.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it,” I say.

I head inside. I am thinking I can get the $29.99 special daily rental deal for two or three days and that will give me enough time to get to Kansas City to see my dad. I can put the bike into the truck and I will be set. Should I call him? I still have my Nextel radio/phone but I do not dare turn it on. They have GPS on them and I know from my sister who was over all phone communications that they can track you in a second as long as you have the phone turned on.

The place is empty except for the lone employee at the counter.

“How can I help you?” the guy says as I walk up to the counter.

“I need your smallest truck for 3 days,” I tell him.

“Where are you headed?” he asks and starts typing info into the computer.

“Kansas City.”

He types in a few more things and then he is satisfied that he has all the info correct.

“Okay, our smallest truck is going to run you around $1500 for that trip. I just need a credit card and we will get you all ready to go,” he says.

“$1500? How could it possibly be that much? I thought it was $29.99 per day! I only need it for three days!” I argue, realizing that my loosely laid plan is falling apart rather quickly.

“That is for local rentals, man. If you are taking the truck a long distance, we charge by the mile, not by the day,” he says. “I’m sorry, but that’s what I got.”

This is a disaster. What do I do? I should probably call my dad and find out if he is even there and what he thinks I should do. I don’t even know if he will want me to come and stay with him and his wife. Maybe I really should call him. I might not even be able to go there anyway. Maybe he can send me some money. Maybe I can get a job somewhere in Hemet for a while and save up. Maybe I can sell my bike. I decide that calling will be best and then I’ll go from there based on what comes up in the call.

Luckily, my dad has had the same phone number for 10 years. I know it by heart. He was like that; the ten years he lived in LA he had the same phone number the entire time. He moved to Kansas City but he had a 1-800 number so that my sister and I could call him toll free whenever we had the chance. Although we called very infrequently, I still remember the number. Good thing for me.

If I use my Nextel, not only will they be able to find me, but they will know I am going to see my dad.

“Can I use your phone?” I ask the U-Haul guy. “It’s a 1-800 number.”

“Sure, man. Go ahead.” He takes the phone and moves it so I can dial.

I dial the number. Please pick up. Please pick up. Please be there.

“Hello,” the voice answers.

“Dad?” I say.

“Yeah. What’s up?” he asks.

“I left dad. I couldn’t take it anymore,” I tell him.

“Okay. Where are you?”

“I am at the U-Haul place in Hemet.”

“What happened? What’s going on?” he asks.

“I just could not take it anymore and had to get the hell out of there.”

“Where’s Claire?” he asks. “Is she with you?”

“No she is not with me. I had to leave her there. I don’t know what to do. I was going to try to drive out to where you are, but they want like $1500 at the U-Haul to give me a truck that I can take there.”

“Why do you need a truck?” he asks.

“I have my motorcycle.”

“Okay, let me see what we can do.”

“Can you send me $1500?”

“No, but we might be able to figure something else out. How much money do you have?”

“Not much. Maybe a few hundred.”

“Okay, do you have a place where I can call you back?”

“I’ll give you the number here at U-Haul. I will just hang out here until you call back.” I give him the number.

“Okay, I’ll call you right back.”

I hang up. Well, at least he is playing ball. I might have a chance to get out of here.

The guy at the counter has been eyeing the two sheriffs’ cars right outside that showed up with me. “Are they with you?” he asks as he motions towards the cops outside.

“Yeah, actually, they are,” I say. “I think I can tell them that I am fine now.”

I go back outside to talk to the cops.

“I am waiting for a call, but it looks like I will be fine. I am going to get a truck in just a bit and get out of here,” I tell them.

“Like we said before, once you get in a truck, we will take off. Those people seemed pretty determined to get you back over to Golden Era. We can stay here for a bit more,” the officer says.

“Okay.”

It’s not really doing me any harm, I guess. I mean I did have two Riverside County Sheriffs helping me, looks like I would get one chance to utilize the tiny amount of taxes I had been paying for the last fifteen years. I doubt the Golden Era guys are going to pull into U-Haul of all places. They were probably not sure where I would go. Having the bike actually adds a unique aspect to the blow drill. Most of the time people blew on foot or caught a cab or bus. Security would then check the local bus or train stations or airports. How could I get on a bus, train or plane with a motorcycle?

I head back inside. Just as I enter, the phone rings.

“It’s for you, man,” the guy at the counter says.

“Dad?” I say, as he hands me the receiver.

“Okay, so this is what we can do,” my dad says. “We can get you a ticket from LAX to Kansas City that leaves in a few hours.”

“Okay, what about my bike?” I ask.

“We know somebody that lives in Sherman Oaks who will keep your bike for you,” my dad answers. “At least for now until we figure out how this is all going to work out. She can also take you to the airport.”

“Okay,” I say. “I will just rent a truck here and bring the bike to Sherman Oaks and then get a ride to the airport.”

“Okay. We are going to send an email to the girl in Sherman Oaks with your picture.”

“Cool. I will call you once I get to Sherman Oaks. Thanks, dad. I really appreciate it.”

“I knew this day would come sooner or later. I’m glad you called.”

“Thanks. I’ll call you in a couple of hours.” I hang up.

“Okay, so I need a truck to get from here to Sherman Oaks,” I say to the guy behind the counter.

“That we can do,” he says as he changes a few things in the computer.

For around $50, I get the keys to a small U-Haul truck and head outside. The sun is now out and the rain has stopped. The cops are standing next to their vehicles and can see that I have keys to a truck.

“Let’s get you loaded up,” one of them says.

I open the back of the tiny truck and pull out the metal ramp on the back. I drive the bike into the back, with the help of the cops, and throw my bags inside. We tie the bike down with some rope that is in the back of the truck from the last renter.

“Thanks a lot. You guys saved me today. You really have no idea,” I tell them shaking their hands.

“Actually, I think we do. You take care and do not stop until you get where you are going,” the main cop tells me.

They get into their cars and drive off.

I climb into the U-Haul truck. I have a few last things to take care of before I leave town. I need to get some money from the bank and I need to call Claire. I try to think of the best way to do both these without being caught and dragged back. Then it comes to me. Not two blocks away are the San Jacinto Police station as well as my bank. I head to the bank first. I cash the check from Roanne. That gives me an extra $250. Then I head over to the Hemet police station. There is a pay phone right outside. I decide to call the Base from this payphone. If they track the call, it will lead them straight to the police station. Then what would they do? I call the 1-800 number. 1-800 I-WANT-HELP. That really is the number. That number rings in the main guard booth so I know I can get through to my wife because they will have her on standby somewhere waiting for my call. Matt Butler answers the phone.

“Hey, Matt. Can you put me through to my wife?” I say.

“Where are you?” Matt asks me.

“If you don’t put me through to my wife right now I am going to hang up on you and never call back. I know you don’t want that, so put me through now.”

“Okay. Hold on,” Matt says, knowing that I would hang up on him in a second. Hell, this was the guy who was in the truck that ran me off the road not an hour earlier. He knows I am in no mood to mess around.

“Marc?” my wife says through the phone.

“Hey, baby. I’m sorry about all this. I tried to get a hold of you last night but you never came home.”