By: Mike Christy Re: Scientology TIME MAGAZINE Copyright 1991 Time Inc. DATE: May 6, 1991

By: Mike Christy
Re: Scientology

                                 TIME MAGAZINE
                           Copyright 1991 Time Inc.
 
 DATE: May 6, 1991
 PAGE: 50                      LENGTH: Long
 SECTION: SPECIAL REPORT
 BYLINE: By RICHARD BEHAR
 
 COVER STORY
 The Thriving Cult of Greed and Power
 
 Ruined lives.  Lost fortunes.  Federal crimes.  
 
 Scientology poses as a religion but is really a ruthless global 
scam -- and
 aiming for the mainstream.
 
   By all appearances, Noah Lottick of Kingston, Pa.,  had  been  a 
 normal,
 happy  24-year-old  who  was looking for his place in the world. 
On the day
 last June when his parents drove to New York City to claim his  
body,  they
 were  nearly  catatonic  with  grief. The young Russian-studies 
scholar had
 jumped from a 10th-floor window of the Milford Plaza Hotel and 
bounced  off
 the  hood of a stretch limousine. When the police arrived, his 
fingers were
 still clutching $171 in cash, virtually the only money he hadn't 
yet turned
 over to the Church of Scientology, the self-help "philosophy" 
group he  had
 discovered just seven months earlier.
   His death inspired his father Edward,  a  physician,  to  start  
his  own
 investigation  of  the  church.  "We thought Scientology was 
something like
 Dale Carnegie," Lottick says. "I now believe it's a school for 
psychopaths.
 Their so-called  therapies  are  manipulations.  They  take  the  
best  and
 brightest people and destroy them." The Lotticks want to sue the 
church for
 contributing  to  their  son's death, but the prospect has them 
frightened.
 For nearly 40 years, the big business of Scientology  has  
shielded  itself
 exquisitely  behind the First Amendment as well as a battery of 
high-priced
 criminal lawyers and shady private detectives.
   The Church of Scientology,  started  by  science-fiction  writer 
 L.  Ron
 Hubbard to "clear" people of unhappiness, portrays itself as a 
religion. In
 reality  the  church  is a hugely profitable global racket that 
survives by
 intimidating members and critics in a Mafia-like manner.  At  
times  during
 the  past decade, prosecutions against Scientology seemed to be 
curbing its
 menace. Eleven top Scientologists, including Hubbard's wife, were  
sent  to
 prison  in  the  early 1980s for infiltrating, burglarizing and 
wiretapping
 more than 100 private and government agencies in attempts  to  
block  their
 investigations.  In recent years hundreds of longtime Scientology 
adherents
 -- many charging that they were mentally or physically abused -- 
have  quit
 the  church  and criticized it at their own risk. Some have sued 
the church
 and won; others have settled for amounts in excess of $500,000. In 
 various
 cases  judges  have  labeled  the  church  "schizophrenic and 
paranoid" and
 "corrupt, sinister and dangerous."
   Yet the outrage and litigation have failed to  squelch  
Scientology.  The
 group,  which  boasts 700 centers in 65 countries, threatens to 
become more
 insidious and pervasive than ever. Scientology is trying to go  
mainstream,
 a  strategy that has sparked a renewed law-enforcement campaign 
against the
 church. Many of the group's  followers  have  been  accused  of  
committing
 financial  scams,  while the church is busy attracting the unwary 
through a
 wide array of front groups in such businesses  as  publishing,  
consulting,
 health care and even remedial education.
   In  Hollywood,   Scientology  has  assembled  a  star-studded  
roster  of
 followers  by  aggressively  recruiting  and  regally pampering 
them at the
 church's "Celebrity Centers," a chain of clubhouses  that  offer  
expensive
 counseling  and  career guidance. Adherents include screen idols 
Tom Cruise
 and John Travolta, actresses Kirstie Alley, Mimi Rogers  and  Anne 
 Archer,
 Palm  Springs  mayor and performer Sonny Bono, jazzman Chick Corea 
and even
 Nancy Cartwright, the voice of cartoon  star  Bart  Simpson.  
Rank-and-file
 members, however, are dealt a less glamorous Scientology.
   According to the Cult Awareness Network, whose 23 chapters  
monitor  more
 than  200  "mind  control" cults, no group prompts more telephone 
pleas for
 help than does Scientology. Says Cynthia  Kisser,  the  network's  
Chicago-
 based  executive  director: "Scientology is quite likely the most 
ruthless,
 the most classically terroristic, the most litigious and the most 
lucrative
 cult the country has ever seen.  No  cult  extracts  more  money  
from  its
 members."  Agrees  Vicki  Aznaran,  who  was  one  of 
Scientology's six key
 leaders until she bolted from the church  in  1987:  "This  is  a  
criminal
 organization,  day  in  and day out. It makes Jim and Tammy 
((Bakker)) look
 like kindergarten."
   To explore Scientology's reach, TIME conducted more than  150  
interviews
 and  reviewed hundreds of court records and internal Scientology 
documents.
 Church officials refused to be  interviewed.  The  investigation  
paints  a
 picture  of  a depraved yet thriving enterprise. Most cults fail 
to outlast
 their founder, but Scientology has prospered since Hubbard's death 
in 1986.
 In a court filing, one of  the  cult's  many  entities  --  the  
Church  of
 Spiritual  Technology -- listed $503 million in income just for 
1987. High-
 level  defectors  say  the  parent  organization  has  squirreled  
away  an
 estimated  $400  million in bank accounts in Liechtenstein, 
Switzerland and
 Cyprus. Scientology probably has about 50,000  active  members,  
far  fewer
 than  the  8  million  the  group  claims.  But in one sense, that 
inflated
 figure rings true: millions of people have been  affected  in  one 
 way  or
 another by Hubbard's bizarre creation.

                                     2
   Scientology is now run by David Miscavige, 31, a high school 
dropout  and
 second-generation  church  member.  Defectors  describe  him  as   
cunning,
 ruthless and so paranoid about perceived enemies that he kept 
plastic  wrap
 over  his  glass  of  water.  His  obsession  is  to attain 
credibility for
 Scientology in the 1990s. Among  other  tactics,  the  group:   
 
 -- Retains public relations powerhouse Hill and Knowlton to help  
shed  the
 church's fringe-group image.
 
 -- Joined such household names as Sony and Pepsi as a main sponsor 
 of  Ted
 Turner's Goodwill Games.
 
 -- Buys massive quantities of its own books from retail  stores  
to  propel
 the titles onto best-seller lists.
 
 -- Runs full-page ads in such publications as Newsweek  and  
Business  Week
 that  call  Scientology  a  "philosophy,"  along  with a plethora 
of TV ads
 touting the group's books.
 
 --  Recruits  wealthy  and  respectable  professionals  through  a 
 web  of
 consulting groups that typically hide their ties to Scientology.
   
   
   The founder of this enterprise was part storyteller, part  
flimflam  man.
 Born  in  Nebraska  in 1911, Hubbard served in the Navy during 
World War II
 and soon afterward complained to  the  Veterans  Administration  
about  his
 "suicidal  inclinations"  and  his "seriously affected" mind. 
Nevertheless,
 Hubbard was a moderately successful writer of pulp science  
fiction.  Years
 later, church brochures described him falsely as an "extensively 
decorated"
 World  War II hero who was crippled and blinded in action, twice 
pronounced
 dead and miraculously cured through Scientology. Hubbard's 
"doctorate" from
 "Sequoia University" was a fake mail-order degree. In a 1984 case 
in  which
 the  church  sued  a  Hubbard  biographical  researcher, a 
California judge
 concluded that its founder was "a pathological liar."
   Hubbard wrote one of Scientology's sacred texts,  Dianetics:  
The  Modern
 Science  of  Mental  Health,  in  1950.  In  it  he  introduced   
a   crude
 psychotherapeutic  technique  he  called  "auditing."  He  also  
created  a
 simplified  lie detector (called an "E-meter") that was designed 
to measure
 electrical changes in the skin while subjects discussed intimate 
details of
 their past. Hubbard argued that unhappiness sprang from mental  
aberrations
 (or  "engrams")  caused  by  early traumas. Counseling sessions 
with the E-
 meter, he claimed, could knock out the engrams,  cure  blindness  
and  even
 improve a person's intelligence and appearance.
   Hubbard kept adding steps, each more costly, for his followers 
to  climb.
 In  the  1960s the guru decreed that humans are made of clusters 
of spirits
 (or "thetans") who were banished to earth some 75 million years  
ago  by  a
 cruel galactic ruler named Xenu. Naturally, those thetans had to 
be audited.
   An Internal Revenue Service ruling in 1967 stripped 
Scientology's  mother
 church  of  its  tax-exempt  status.  A  federal  court  ruled in 
1971 that
 Hubbard's medical claims were bogus and  that  E-meter  auditing  
could  no
 longer  be  called a scientific treatment. Hubbard responded by 
going fully
 religious, seeking First Amendment  protection  for  Scientology's 
 strange
 rites.  His  counselors  started  sporting  clerical  collars. 
Chapels were
 built, franchises became "missions," fees  became  "fixed  
donations,"  and
 Hubbard's comic-book cosmology became "sacred scriptures."
   During the early 1970s, the IRS conducted its own auditing  
sessions  and
 proved  that  Hubbard  was  skimming  millions  of dollars from 
the church,
 laundering the money through dummy corporations in Panama and  
stashing  it
 in Swiss bank accounts. Moreover, church members stole IRS 
documents, filed
 false  tax  returns and harassed the agency's employees. By late 
1985, with
 high-level defectors accusing Hubbard of having  stolen  as  much  
as  $200
 million  from  the church, the IRS was seeking an indictment of 
Hubbard for
 tax fraud.  Scientology members "worked day and night" shredding  
documents
 the IRS sought, according to defector Aznaran, who took part in 
the scheme.
 Hubbard,  who  had  been in hiding for five years, died before the 
criminal
 case could be prosecuted.
   Today the church invents costly new services with all  the  zeal 
 of  its
 founder.  Scientology  doctrine warns that even adherents who are 
"cleared"
 of engrams face grave spiritual dangers unless they are  pushed  
to  higher
 and  more  expensive  levels.  According to the church's latest 
price list,
 recruits -- "raw meat," as Hubbard called them --  take  auditing  
sessions
 that  cost  as  much  as  $1,000  an  hour,  or  $12,500  for a 12 
1/2-hour
 "intensive."
   Psychiatrists say  these  sessions  can  produce  a  
drugged-like,  mind-
 controlled euphoria that keeps customers coming back for more. To 
pay their
 fees,  newcomers  can  earn  commissions  by recruiting new 
members, become
 auditors themselves (Miscavige did so at age 12), or join the 
church  staff
 and  receive  free  counseling in exchange for what their written 
contracts
 describe as a "billion years" of labor. "Make sure that lots of 
bodies move
 through the shop," implored Hubbard in one of his bulletins  to  
officials.
 "Make  money.  Make  more  money. Make others produce so as to 
make money .
 ..However you get them in or why, just do it."
   Harriet Baker learned  the  hard  way  about  Scientology's  
business  of
 selling  religion.  When  Baker,  73,  lost  her  husband  to   
cancer,   a
 Scientologist turned up at her Los Angeles home peddling a $1,300  
auditing
 package  to  cure  her  grief.  Some  $15,000  later,  the   
Scientologists
 discovered that her house was debt free. They arranged a $45,000  
mortgage,
 which  they  pressured  her to tap for more auditing until Baker's 
children
 helped their mother snap out of her  daze.  Last  June,  Baker  
demanded  a
 $27,000  refund  for unused services, prompting two cult members 
to show up
 at her door unannounced with an E-meter to interrogate her. Baker 
never got
 the money and, financially strapped,  was  forced  to  sell  her  
house  in
 September.

                                    3
   Before Noah Lottick killed himself, he had  paid  more  than  
$5,000  for
 church  counseling.  His behavior had also become strange. He once 
remarked
 to his parents that his Scientology mentors could actually read 
minds. When
 his father suffered a major heart attack, Noah insisted that it 
was  purely
 psychosomatic.  Five  days  before  he jumped, Noah burst into his 
parents'
 home and demanded to know why they were spreading "false rumors" 
about  him
 -- a delusion that finally prompted his father to call a 
psychiatrist.
   It was too late. "From Noah's friends at Dianetics" read  the  
card  that
 accompanied  a  bouquet of flowers at Lottick's funeral. Yet no 
Scientology
 staff members bothered to show up. A week earlier, local  church  
officials
 had  given  Lottick's  parents  a  red-carpet  tour of their 
center. A cult
 leader told Noah's parents that their son had been at the church 
just hours
 before he disappeared -- but the church denied this story as  soon 
 as  the
 body  was identified. True to form, the cult even haggled with the 
Lotticks
 over $3,000 their son had paid for services he never used,  
insisting  that
 Noah had intended it as a "donation."
   The church has invented hundreds of goods and services for which 
 members
 are  urged  to  give "donations." Are you having trouble "moving 
swiftly up
 the Bridge" -- that is, advancing up the stepladder of 
enlightenment?  Then
 you  can have your case reviewed for a mere $1,250 "donation." 
Want to know
 "why a thetan hangs on to the physical universe?" Try 52 of 
Hubbard's tape-
 recorded speeches from 1952, titled "Ron's  Philadelphia  
Doctorate  Course
 Lectures,"  for  $2,525.  Next: nine other series of the same 
sort. For the
 collector, gold-and-leather-bound editions of 22 of  Hubbard's  
books  (and
 bookends)  on  subjects ranging from Scientology ethics to 
radiation can be
 had for just $1,900.
   To  gain   influence  and  lure  richer,  more  sophisticated  
followers,
 Scientology  has  lately  resorted  to  a  wide  array  of front 
groups and
 financial scams. Among them:
 
 CONSULTING. Sterling Management Systems, formed in 1983, has been 
ranked in
 recent years by Inc. magazine as one of America's  fastest-growing 
 private
 companies  (estimated 1988 revenues: $20 million). Sterling 
regularly mails
 a free newsletter to more than 300,000  health-care  
professionals,  mostly
 dentists, promising to increase their incomes dramatically. The 
firm offers
 seminars  and  courses that typically cost $10,000. But Sterling's 
true aim
 is to hook customers for Scientology. "The church has a rotten 
product,  so
 they  package  it  as  something else," says Peter Georgiades, a 
Pittsburgh
 attorney who represents Sterling victims. "It's a kind of bait and 
switch."
 Sterling's founder, dentist Gregory Hughes, is now under  
investigation  by
 California's  Board of Dental Examiners for incompetence. Nine 
lawsuits are
 pending against him for  malpractice  (seven  others  have  been  
settled),
 mostly for orthodontic work on children.
   Many dentists who have unwittingly been drawn into the cult are 
filing or
 threatening lawsuits as well. Dentist Robert Geary  of  Medina,  
Ohio,  who
 entered a Sterling seminar in 1988, endured "the most extreme 
high-pressure
 sales  tactics  I have ever faced." Sterling officials told Geary, 
45, that
 their firm was not linked to Scientology, he says. But  Geary  
claims  they
 eventually convinced him that he and his wife Dorothy had personal 
problems
 that  required  auditing.  Over  five  months,  the  Gearys say, 
they spent
 $130,000 for services, plus $50,000 for  "gold-embossed,  
investment-grade"
 books signed by Hubbard. Geary contends that Scientologists not 
only called
 his bank to increase his credit-card limit but also forged his 
signature on
 a  $20,000  loan application. "It was insane," he recalls. "I 
couldn't even
 get an accounting from them of what I was paying for." At  one  
point,  the
 Gearys  claim,  Scientologists  held  Dorothy  hostage  for  two 
weeks in a
 mountain cabin, after which she was hospitalized for a nervous 
breakdown.
   Last October, Sterling broke some bad news  to  another  
dentist,  Glover
 Rowe  of  Gadsden,  Ala.,  and  his wife Dee. Tests showed that 
unless they
 signed up for auditing, Glover's practice would fail, and Dee 
would someday
 abuse their child. The next month the Rowes flew to Glendale, 
Calif., where
 they shuttled daily from a local hotel to a Dianetics center.  "We 
 thought
 they  were  brilliant people because they seemed to know so much 
about us,"
 recalls Dee.  "Then we realized our hotel  room  must  have  been  
bugged."
 After  bolting  from  the  center, $23,000 poorer, the Rowes say, 
they were
 chased repeatedly by Scientologists on foot and in  cars.  
Dentists  aren't
 the  only  ones  at risk.  Scientology also makes pitches to 
chiropractors,
 podiatrists and veterinarians.
 
 PUBLIC  INFLUENCE.   One  front,  the  Way  to  Happiness  
Foundation,  has
 distributed  to  children  in thousands of the nation's public 
schools more
 than 3.5 million copies of a booklet Hubbard wrote on morality. 
The  church
 calls  the  scheme  "the  largest  dissemination  project  in   
Scientology
 history." Applied Scholastics is the name of still another front, 
which  is
 attempting  to  install  a  Hubbard  tutorial  program  in  public 
schools,
 primarily those populated by minorities. The group also plans a  
1,000-acre
 campus, where it will train educators to teach various Hubbard 
methods. The
 disingenuously  named  Citizens Commission on Human Rights is a 
Scientology
 group at war  with  psychiatry,  its  primary  competitor.  The  
commission
 typically issues reports aimed at discrediting particular 
psychiatrists and
 the  field  in  general. The CCHR is also behind an all-out war 
against Eli
 Lilly, the maker of Prozac, the nation's top-selling  
antidepression  drug.
 Despite  scant  evidence,  the  group's  members  --  who  call  
themselves
 "psychbusters" -- claim that Prozac drives people  to  murder  or  
suicide.
 Through  mass  mailings, appearances on talk shows and heavy 
lobbying, CCHR
 has hurt drug sales and helped spark dozens of lawsuits against 
Lilly.
   Another Scientology-linked group, the Concerned Businessmen's 
Association
 of America, holds antidrug contests and awards $5,000 grants to 
schools  as
 a  way  to  recruit students and curry favor with education 
officials. West
 Virginia Senator John D. Rockefeller IV unwittingly commended the  
CBAA  in
 1987  on  the  Senate  floor. Last August author Alex Haley was 
the keynote
 speaker at its annual awards banquet in Los Angeles. Says Haley: 
"I  didn't
 know  much  about  that  group  going in. I'm a Methodist." 
Ignorance about
 Scientology can be embarrassing: two  months  ago,  Illinois  
Governor  Jim
 Edgar, noting that Scientology's founder "has solved the 
aberrations of the
 human  mind,"  proclaimed  March  13 "L. Ron Hubbard Day." He 
rescinded the
 proclamation in late March, once he learned who Hubbard really was.

                                    4
 
 HEALTH CARE. HealthMed, a chain of clinics run by Scientologists,  
promotes
 a  grueling  and excessive system of saunas, exercise and vitamins 
designed
 by Hubbard to purify the body. Experts denounce the regime as 
quackery  and
 potentially  harmful, yet HealthMed solicits unions and public 
agencies for
 contracts. The chain is plugged heavily in a new book, Diet for a  
Poisoned
 Planet,  by  journalist David Steinman, who concludes that scores 
of common
 foods (among them: peanuts,  bluefish,  peaches  and  cottage  
cheese)  are
 dangerous.
   Former Surgeon General C. Everett Koop labeled the book "trash," 
and  the
 Food and Drug Administration issued a paper in October that claims 
Steinman
 distorts  his facts. "HealthMed is a gateway to Scientology, and 
Steinman's
 book is a sorting mechanism," says physician William Jarvis, who 
is head of
 the National Council Against Health Fraud. Steinman, who describes 
 Hubbard
 favorably  as  a  "researcher," denies any ties to the church and 
contends,
 "HealthMed has no affiliation that I know of with Scientology."
 
 DRUG TREATMENT. Hubbard's  purification  treatments  are  the  
mainstay  of
 Narconon,  a  Scientology-run  chain  of 33 alcohol and drug 
rehabilitation
 centers -- some in prisons under the name "Criminon" --  in  12  
countries.
 Narconon, a classic vehicle for drawing addicts into the cult, now 
plans to
 open  what  it  calls  the  world's  largest  treatment center, a 
1,400-bed
 facility on an Indian reservation near Newkirk, Okla. (pop.  
2,400).  At  a
 1989  ceremony  in Newkirk, the Association for Better Living and 
Education
 presented Narconon a check for $200,000 and a study praising its 
work.  The
 association  turned out to be part of Scientology itself. Today 
the town is
 battling to keep out the cult, which has fought back through  such 
 tactics
 as sending private detectives to snoop on the mayor and the local 
newspaper
 publisher.
 
 FINANCIAL SCAMS. Three Florida Scientologists, including Ronald  
Bernstein,
 a big contributor to the church's international "war chest," 
pleaded guilty
 in  March  to  using  their  rare-coin dealership as a money 
laundry. Other
 notorious activities by Scientologists include making the  shady  
Vancouver
 stock  exchange  even shadier (see box) and plotting to plant 
operatives in
 the World Bank, International Monetary Fund and Export-Import Bank 
 of  the
 U.S.  The  alleged  purpose  of  this scheme: to gain inside 
information on
 which countries are going to be denied credit  so  that  
Scientology-linked
 traders  can  make  illicit  profits  by  taking "short" positions 
in those
 countries' currencies.
   In the stock market the practice of "shorting" involves 
borrowing  shares
 of publicly traded companies in the hope that the price will go 
down before
 the  stocks  must  be  bought on the market and returned to the 
lender. The
 Feshbach brothers of Palo Alto, Calif. -- Kurt, Joseph and Matthew 
--  have
 become  the  leading short sellers in the U.S., with more than 
$500 million
 under management. The Feshbachs command a staff of about 60  
employees  and
 claim  to  have earned better returns than the Dow Jones 
industrial average
 for most of the 1980s. And, they say, they owe it all to the  
teachings  of
 Scientology,  whose  "war chest" has received more than $1 million 
from the
 family.
   The Feshbachs also embrace the church's tactics;  the  brothers  
are  the
 terrors  of  the  stock  exchanges.  In congressional hearings in 
1989, the
 heads of several companies claimed that  Feshbach  operatives  
have  spread
 false  information  to  government  agencies and posed in various 
guises --
 such as a Securities and Exchange Commission official -- in  an  
effort  to
 discredit  their  companies and drive the stocks down. Michael 
Russell, who
 ran a chain of business journals, testified that a Feshbach 
employee called
 his bankers and interfered with his loans.  Sometimes  the  
Feshbachs  send
 private  detectives  to  dig  up  dirt  on firms, which is then 
shared with
 business reporters, brokers and fund managers.
   The Feshbachs, who wear  jackets  bearing  the  slogan  "stock  
busters,"
 insist  they run a clean shop. But as part of a current probe into 
possible
 insider stock  trading,  federal  officials  are  reportedly  
investigating
 whether the Feshbachs received confidential information from FDA 
employees.
 The  brothers  seem  aligned  with  Scientology's  war  on  
psychiatry  and
 medicine: many  of  their  targets  are  health  and  
biotechnology  firms.
 "Legitimate  short  selling  performs  a  public service by 
deflating hyped
 stocks," says Robert Flaherty, the editor of Equities magazine and 
a  harsh
 critic  of  the  brothers.  "But  the Feshbachs have damaged 
scores of good
 start-ups."
   Occasionally a Scientologist's business antics land  him  in  
jail.  Last
 August  a  former  devotee  named  Steven Fishman began serving a 
five-year
 prison term in Florida. His crime: stealing blank 
stock-confirmation  slips
 from  his  employer, a major brokerage house, to use as proof that 
he owned
 stock entitling him to join dozens  of  successful  class-action  
lawsuits.
 Fishman  made  roughly  $1  million this way from 1983 to 1988 and 
spent as
 much as 30% of the loot on Scientology books and tapes.
   Scientology denies any tie to the Fishman scam, a claim strongly 
disputed
 by both Fishman and his longtime  psychiatrist,  Uwe  Geertz,  a  
prominent
 Florida  hypnotist.  Both men claim that when arrested, Fishman 
was ordered
 by the church to kill Geertz and then do an "EOC," or end of  
cycle,  which
 is church jargon for suicide.
 
 BOOK PUBLISHING. Scientology mischiefmaking has  even  moved  to  
the  book
 industry.  Since  1985  at least a dozen Hubbard books, printed by 
a church
 company, have made best-seller lists. They range from a  
5,000-page  sci-fi
 decology (Black Genesis, The Enemy Within, An Alien Affair) to the 
40-year-
 old  Dianetics. In 1988 the trade publication Publishers Weekly 
awarded the
 dead author a plaque commemorating the appearance of Dianetics on 
its best-
 seller list for 100 consecutive weeks.

                                    5
                                    
   Critics pan most of Hubbard's books as unreadable, while 
defectors  claim
 that  church  insiders are sometimes the real authors. Even so, 
Scientology
 has sent out armies of its followers to buy the group's books at 
such major
 chains as B. Dalton's and Waldenbooks to sustain the illusion  of  
a  best-
 selling  author.  A former Dalton's manager says that some books 
arrived in
 his store with the chain's price stickers already on them, 
suggesting  that
 copies  are  being recycled. Scientology claims that sales of 
Hubbard books
 now top 90 million worldwide. The scheme,  set  up  to  gain  
converts  and
 credibility,  is coupled with a radio and TV advertising campaign 
virtually
 unparalleled in the book industry.
   Scientology devotes vast resources to squelching its critics. 
Since  1986
 Hubbard  and his church have been the subject of four unfriendly 
books, all
 released by small yet courageous publishers. In each case, the 
writers have
 been badgered and heavily sued. One of  Hubbard's  policies  was  
that  all
 perceived  enemies  are  "fair game" and subject to being 
"tricked, sued or
 lied to or destroyed." Those  who  criticize  the  church  --  
journalists,
 doctors,  lawyers  and  even  judges  --  often find themselves 
engulfed in
 litigation, stalked by private eyes, framed for fictional crimes, 
beaten up
 or threatened with death. Psychologist Margaret Singer,  69,  an  
outspoken
 Scientology critic and professor at the University of California, 
Berkeley,
 now travels regularly under an assumed name to avoid harassment.
   After the Los Angeles Times published a negative  series  on  
the  church
 last  summer,  Scientologists  spent an estimated $1 million to 
plaster the
 reporters' names on hundreds of billboards  and  bus  placards  
across  the
 city. Above their names were quotations taken out of context to 
portray the
 church in a positive light.
   The church's most fearsome advocates are its lawyers. Hubbard 
warned  his
 followers in writing to "beware of attorneys who tell you not to 
sue ...the
 purpose  of  the  suit  is  to  harass  and discourage rather than 
to win."
 Result: Scientology has brought hundreds of  suits  against  its  
perceived
 enemies  and  today pays an estimated $20 million annually to more 
than 100
 lawyers.
   One legal goal of Scientology is to bankrupt the opposition  or  
bury  it
 under  paper.  The church has 71 active lawsuits against the IRS 
alone. One
 of them, Miscavige vs. IRS, has required the U.S. to produce  an  
index  of
 52,000  pages  of  documents.  Boston  attorney  Michael  Flynn, 
who helped
 Scientology victims from 1979 to  1987,  personally  endured  14  
frivolous
 lawsuits, all of them dismissed. Another lawyer, Joseph Yanny, 
believes the
 church  "has so subverted justice and the judicial system that it 
should be
 barred from seeking equity in any court." He should know: Yanny 
represented
 the cult until 1987, when, he says, he was asked to help  church  
officials
 steal  medical records to blackmail an opposing attorney (who was 
allegedly
 beaten up instead). Since Yanny quit representing the church, he  
has  been
 the target of death threats, burglaries, lawsuits and other 
harassment.
   Scientology's critics contend that the U.S. needs to crack  down 
 on  the
 church  in  a  major,  organized  way.  "I  want  to  know,  Where 
 is  our
 government?"  demands Toby Plevin,  a  Los  Angeles  attorney  who 
 handles
 victims.  "It  shouldn't  be  left to private litigators, because 
God knows
 most of us are afraid to get involved." But law-enforcement agents 
are also
 wary. "Every investigator is very cautious, walking on  eggshells  
when  it
 comes  to  the church," says a Florida police detective who has 
tracked the
 cult since 1988.  "It will take a federal effort with  lots  of  
money  and
 manpower."
   So far the agency giving Scientology the most grief  is  the  
IRS,  whose
 officials  have  implied  that  Hubbard's  successors  may  be  
looting the
 church's coffers. Since 1988,  when  the  U.S.  Supreme  Court  
upheld  the
 revocation  of  the cult's tax-exempt status, a massive IRS probe 
of church
 centers across the country has been under way. An IRS agent, 
Marcus  Owens,
 has  estimated  that thousands of IRS employees have been 
involved. Another
 agent, in an internal IRS memorandum,  spoke  hopefully  of  the  
"ultimate
 disintegration"  of  the church. A small but helpful beacon shone 
last June
 when a federal appeals  court  ruled  that  two  cassette  tapes  
featuring
 conversations  between church officials and their lawyers are 
evidence of a
 plan to commit "future frauds" against the IRS.
   The IRS and FBI have been debriefing Scientology defectors for  
the  past
 three  years,  in  part to gain evidence for a major racketeering 
case that
 appears to have stalled last  summer.  Federal  agents  complain  
that  the
 Justice  Department  is  unwilling  to  spend  the money needed to 
endure a
 drawn-out war with Scientology or to fend off the cult's  
notorious  jihads
 against  individual  agents.  "In my opinion the church has one of 
the most
 effective intelligence operations in the U.S., rivaling even  that 
 of  the
 FBI," says Ted Gunderson, a former head of the FBI's Los Angeles 
office.
   Foreign governments have been moving even  more  vigorously  
against  the
 organization. In Canada the church and nine of its members will be 
tried in
 June on charges of stealing government documents (many of them 
retrieved in
 an  enormous police raid of the church's Toronto headquarters). 
Scientology
 proposed to give $1 million to the needy  if  the  case  was  
dropped,  but
 Canada spurned the offer. Since 1986 authorities in France, Spain 
and Italy
 have  raided more than 50 Scientology centers. Pending charges 
against more
 than 100 of its overseas church members include fraud,  extortion, 
 capital
 flight,  coercion,  illegally  practicing  medicine and taking 
advantage of
 mentally incapacitated people. In Germany last month,  leading  
politicians
 accused the cult of trying to infiltrate a major party as well as 
launching
 an immense recruitment drive in the east.
   Sometimes even the church's biggest zealots can use a little  
protection.
 Screen  star  Travolta,  37,  has  long served as an unofficial 
Scientology
 spokesman, even though he told a magazine in 1983 that he  was  
opposed  to
 the  church's management. High-level defectors claim that Travolta 
has long
 feared that if he defected, details  of  his  sexual  life  would  
be  made
 public. "He felt pretty intimidated about this getting out and 
told me so,"
 recalls  William  Franks, the church's former chairman of the 
board. "There
 were no outright threats made, but it was  implicit.  If  you  
leave,  they
 immediately  start  digging  up  everything." Franks was driven 
out in 1981
 after attempting to reform the church.

                                    6
                                    
   The  church's   former   head   of  security,  Richard  Aznaran, 
 recalls
 Scientology  ringleader  Miscavige  repeatedly  joking  to  
staffers  about
 Travolta's allegedly promiscuous homosexual behavior.  At  this  
point  any
 threat  to  expose  Travolta  seems  superfluous: last May a male 
porn star
 collected $100,000 from a tabloid for an account of  his  alleged  
two-year
 liaison  with  the  celebrity. Travolta refuses to comment, and in 
December
 his lawyer dismissed questions about the subject as  "bizarre."  
Two  weeks
 later,  Travolta  announced  that  he  was getting married to 
actress Kelly
 Preston, a fellow Scientologist.
   Shortly after Hubbard's  death  the  church  retained  Trout  &  
Ries,  a
 respected,  Connecticut-based  firm of marketing consultants, to 
help boost
 its public image. "We were brutally honest," says Jack Trout.  "We 
 advised
 them  to  clean  up  their  act, stop with the controversy and 
even to stop
 being a church.  They didn't want to hear that." Instead, 
Scientology hired
 one of the  country's  largest  p.r.  outfits,  Hill  and  
Knowlton,  whose
 executives refuse to discuss the lucrative relationship. "Hill and 
Knowlton
 must  feel  that  these  guys  are  not  totally off the wall," 
says Trout.
 "Unless it's just for the money."
   One of Scientology's main strategies  is  to  keep  advancing  
the  tired
 argument  that  the church is being "persecuted" by 
antireligionists. It is
 supported in that position by the American Civil Liberties  Union  
and  the
 National  Council of Churches. But in the end, money is what 
Scientology is
 all about.  As  long  as  the  organization's  opponents  and  
victims  are
 successfully  squelched,  Scientology's  managers  and  lawyers  
will  keep
 pocketing millions of dollars by helping it achieve its ends.
 
 BOX: L. RON HUBBARD SPEAKS
   "In all the  broad  universe,  there  is  no  other  hope  for  
man  than
 ourselves.   This  is a tremendous responsibility. I have borne it 
too long
 alone. You share it with me now."
   "The law can be used very easily to  harass,  and  enough  
harassment  on
 somebody  who  is  simply  on  the  thin  edge anyway . ..will 
generally be
 sufficient to cause his professional decrease. If possible, of 
course, ruin
 him utterly."
   "All men are your slaves."  "Don't ever tamely submit to an 
investigation
   of us. Make it rough, rough on attackers all the way."