Sps ‘R’ Us

There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. – Lewis Carroll

Chapter Sixteen

Charlottesville rests among the eastern foothills of Virginia’s beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains. Just west of downtown, sitting beneath West Main Street, Union Station hadn’t changed much since it opened for business over a hundred years ago. Through its old wooden doors shuffled a never-ending stream of travelers. To them, Charlottesville was but a temporary stopover.

For me, however, this was the beginning of a meaningful journey. I was attending an event at the New London, Connecticut, home of Patty Moher. Also attending would be former Scientologists who were now avowedly anti-Scientology—as well as numerous critics, protestors, and activists who’d never been members—the get-together was billed by Moher as an annual “SP” party. In the jargon-filled world of this controversial religion, “SPs” are “Suppressive Persons,” enemies of the Church of Scientology (the CoS).

I felt they might be kindred spirits.

After all, my twenty-year-old son Kyle—the summer before his untimely death in Clearwater, Florida—had been called a “Suppressive Person” by his Scientologist father, my ex-husband. This was simply because Kyle was seeing a psychiatrist and taking a prescribed psychotropic medication. While this may seem innocuous to those unfamiliar with this strange church and its unsettling practices, its members believe they’re at war with the evil practice of psychiatry. They call it Nazi pseudoscience.

I stood alone on the cement passenger platform, awaiting Amtrak’s Southern Crescent that ran from New Orleans to Boston.

Summer had arrived in Virginia, and with it came the humidity. The early morning air hung heavy and motionless, clinging to the old building like a steadfast lover. Morning light daubed its dreary surroundings in mottled shades of white and gray.

The view from the platform was a study in contrasts. Fast-food wrappers, Styrofoam cups, and the remnants of crushed cigarettes clung to a nearby chain-link fence, the wet metal interlaced with honeysuckle in full bloom, delicate and graceful. Its sweet perfume intermingled with the sharp scent of creosote. Alongside the tracks, patches of weeds struggled against the gravel.

Unintelligible chatter spread from a flock of people gathering close by: weary-eyed vacationers, summer students laden with backpacks, and commuters anxious to arrive at work. The quiet ones gazed vacantly downward at their phones. Some clutched steaming cups of coffee, the rising vapor adding to the swelter. An elderly gentleman slowly pulled a neatly folded square from a front pocket and blotted pearls of sweat from his weathered face.

You could hear it and feel it before you saw it. A low rumble beneath our feet was soon followed by a whistle’s piercing shrill. Then, a long stream of rumbling metal cars snaked around the bend toward the now vibrating platform. From either side, a thin spume of dust powdered the loveless tangled weeds.   

The train slowly crept forward, then—with a harsh screech—abruptly stopped. The passengers hustled toward the soon-to-be-accessible steps, their luggage erupting into a chorus of clicking plastic wheels. Families embraced, whispering their goodbyes.

Glancing upward, we waited patiently for the narrow metal doors to open. Soon, a burly conductor stepped down onto the platform, followed by a few travelers arriving at their destination. Dazed-looking, clutching pillows—the very creature comforts that had sculpted their amazing bed hair—they rubbed the sleep from their eyes. Evidently, it had been a rough night.

“All passengers heading north to D.C. and onward to Boston, you must board here,” barked the conductor. “Get your tickets and IDs out and ready for inspection. All aboard!”

After climbing the steep, narrow steps, I hurriedly walked the cramped center aisle, glancing from side to side for an empty window seat. Finding one, I plopped my oversized handbag and the morning newspaper on the aisle seat beside me. 

The railcar was quickly overcome with noise and commotion. Passengers scrambled. Children—looking both worn-out and full of anticipation—clung to their parents. Now, a twisted tangle of arms reached overhead, positioning luggage. And soon, too soon, cellphones began humming and chirping: a dull-sounding version of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony played in the not-so-far-off distance.   

The doors slammed shut with a thud. When the train lurched forward, a few last-second boarders staggered toward power outlets to charge their fading electronics.  

Soon, we were hurtling toward Washington. At the brief intermittent stops along the way, our cramped car filled to capacity with a variety of humanity—people of every size, shape, and color.

But I was no longer interested in my immediate surroundings. Lost in contemplation, I gazed out the window at the old farmhouses, grazing horses, and endless sunburnt fields that sped by. Soon, these images blurred together as in an impressionist painting viewed too closely.

I was apprehensive. Having never been a member of the Church of Scientology, I didn’t know how I’d be received by exes. I kept asking myself a number of questions: How should I perceive them? Would I like them or despise them? After all, weren’t these the very people who’d helped create the organization that had destroyed my son and unraveled my life? My doubts rose from a deep well of ambivalence.

It was the summer of 2012. It had been five years since I’d lost Kyle, and former Scientologist Larry Brennan (who was not related to Tom Brennan, Kyle’s father) had suggested that I attend Moher’s event. After spending twenty-eight of his sixty years in the upper levels of Scientology—eventually becoming the senior executive in the organization’s legal department—Larry left the Church in 1984. He wasn’t inspired to speak out about the abuses and corruption he’d witnessed, however, until 2008, when Anonymous—the famous and infamous international hacktivist group—first began attacking Scientology. Larry was my first ex-Scientologist friend. He’d become a close confidant who gave me hope, understanding, and support in some of my darkest days.

With Kyle’s case on appeal, my lawyer, Luke Lirot, and I were looking for new evidence that could help. Having a case on appeal—that’s not an enviable place. It’s where the losers wait, a last-ditch effort so the survivors can live with themselves without the interminable questions and “what ifs.” Perhaps one of these outspoken exes would provide new information. Scientology’s world is a foreign and abstract place. How Scientologists behave and how they perceive the outside world—the place where the non-Scientologists, reside—can only be best explained by someone who’s been involved in the secretive organization. Desperate at this point, Luke and I felt there was little to lose in trying.    

Pulitzer Prize-winning author Lawrence Wright would also be at Moher’s SP party. I told myself repeatedly that this fact alone meant I needed to attend. Larry Wright had become a big deal within the ex-Scientology community—he’d become an SP of exalted stature. Wright won the Pulitzer in 2006 in the general non-fiction category for his book The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and the Road to 9/11. It wasn’t this feat alone, however, that had stirred up a whirlwind within the literary community. Wright, a staff writer for The New Yorker since 1992, had penned a controversial article for that well-respected magazine that had greatly rattled the Church of Scientology (the CoS). The piece—“The Apostate,” which appeared in February of 2011—focused on screenwriter and director Paul Haggis, who’d resigned from the CoS in 2009 after an involvement spanning thirty-five years.

Now, Wright had decided to expand that article into a book. Working with the ex-community and his assistant Lauren Wolf, Wright was seeking interviews and additional material. (This work resulted in his 2013 book Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood, & the Prison of Belief.)

In 2011, I received a letter from Michael Barger, a friend of Larry Brennan’s who was living on the West Coast. In it, he’d declared his devotion to achieving justice for Kyle. In the year that had passed, that devotion had not waned. A graduate of Georgetown University (who holds a Master of Divinity degree from the Jesuit School of Theology), Barger—who already spoke fluent Arabic and Farsi—decided to learn the language of Scientology in 2008 when he joined a protest movement against the Church’s suppression of free speech.

Called “Project Chanology,” this effort was led by Anonymous. It was the first time they’d targeted the Church of Scientology. Formed in 2003, Anonymous became widely known for its cyberattacks against corrupt government agencies—including those within the U.S., Israel, Tunisia, and Uganda—large corporations, and the infamously homophobic Westboro Baptist Church.

Michael and I had ensured that Larry Wright was coming to Moher’s party. Knowing that he was seeking information for his book, I contacted him and asked if he’d like to read files relating to Kyle’s death. When he responded in the affirmative, I shipped him a box. A bit later, Michael and I decided that Wright would benefit from being at Moher’s affair because of the number of SPs who were coming. Patty thought it was a great idea, too, so I’d written Wright, and Michael contacted Wolf.

Michael was excited about attending Moher’s much-anticipated, by-invitation-only event. Like me, he had high hopes that Lawrence Wright would include information about Kyle in his new book. Hopefully, this would help expose the wrongdoings in the police investigation of my son’s death.   

Michael had flown in from California and was meeting me at the Washington, D.C., Amtrak stop. He didn’t want me to travel alone during the last leg of my train ride. We’d been forewarned that Scientology’s much-feared OSA—their Office of Special Affairs, often compared to the CIA or even the KGB—would have someone tailing me. I had difficulty understanding what type of information they hoped to glean from following me to a house party in Connecticut.

I’d never met Michael in person, so I was concerned I wouldn’t recognize him. I’d found a few photos of him on the Internet and hoped they would suffice. As the train approached D.C., the passengers began gathering their belongings and preparing for a hasty departure.

When the train squealed to a halt and the lights dimmed, a wave of paranoia rushed over me. What if Michael were an OSA operative? When had I ever agreed to meet a stranger on a train?

Anxiety-ridden, I gazed out the window at the dingy platform where new passengers were gathering. I scanned their faces, hoping to see Michael. When they streamed onboard, I watched until—wait a minute—a vaguely familiar heavyset man with an unlined face lumbered by. 

“Michael!” I called out to his back, knowing that if I’d made a mistake, he’d keep pushing forward, sparing me any unnecessary embarrassment. In an instant, however, his head turned, and his face broke open into a broad smile: “Victoria!” Within moments, my Internet-found friend was sitting next to me. All thoughts of OSA espionage quickly dissolved. 

“I am so happy to finally meet you in person,” Michael exclaimed as the train pitched forward.  

From under his arm, Michael produced a bundle of folded-up newspapers that he quickly unfurled onto the small drop-down tray in front of him. I was surprised and quietly amused to see the National Enquirer sitting on top. I wondered, “What would compel a Georgetown University grad to purchase tabloid news?” 

“Do you believe this?” he blurted out. “This is amazing! Tom Cruise and Scientology are getting a thrashing in the papers. I’m just loving this!”

The front cover featured a bold headline—“Katie Breaks Free; Why Katie Left Tom, and Scientology’s Role in the Split”—and a colorful image of actors Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise. Holmes had filed for a divorce from her Scientology superstar husband just two weeks earlier. It made for good tabloid fodder, and the ex-Scientologist community was abuzz with speculation. Michael didn’t want to miss any part of it. To him, having Scientology in the news—even tabloid news—was important.  

With his deep voice booming across the filled-to-capacity car, Michael enlightened me as to just how significant the Cruise-Holmes breakup was to the ex and critic communities. There was hope that the split could expose new revelations about the Church. I found myself wondering what our fellow passengers must have thought of our odd conversation. After all, this bizarre subject was being discussed as if it had appeared on the front page of The Wall Street Journal.

Now tucked away, the papers were soon replaced with a large tray of unappetizing fare purchased in the food car. As bleak-looking premade food was unwrapped from its cellophane, I questioned my new friend’s culinary taste. Catching my glance, Michael asked if I’d like some. I told him I’d decided to fast that day.

As he chomped into a soggy sandwich, Michael muttered a few questions, staccato-style. He wanted to know what my plan was for the SP party, who I wanted to connect with, and how I thought they’d help Kyle’s case.

“It’s important that I meet with the two Larry’s, of course,” I said (referring to Larry Wright and Larry Brennan). “If it weren’t for Larry Brennan,” I continued with a sigh, “I wouldn’t even be here.”

I hadn’t shared this with many people, but sometimes I wasn’t overly fond of some of the exes. I’d read their stories of Church-related abuse, and I couldn’t help but think: “You went along with fair gaming, disconnection, and handling until the Church of Scientology turned against you.” 

“Fair gaming,” “disconnection,” and “handling” are three of the Church of Scientology’s most contemptible policies. The “Fair Game Law” taught members how to deal with Suppressive Persons. “A truly Suppressive Person or Group,” wrote Hubbard, “has no rights of any kind, and actions taken against them are not punishable.” They claimed Hubbard officially canceled this practice in 1968, but the Church’s ultra-aggressive response to any criticism has continued. 

“Disconnection” is a type of religious shunning that forces some members to disconnect from friends or relatives who are antagonistic to the Church. “Handling” means taking care of a situation and removing a trouble source like a Suppressive Person. According to Hubbard—in an official letter dated October 18, 1967—enemies of the Church, like Kyle, “May be deprived of property or injured by any means by any Scientologist. . . . May be tricked, sued or lied to, or destroyed.” (For “Fair Game,” see Janet Reitman’s Inside Scientology, pages 113-14. “Disconnection” is discussed in Lawrence Wright’s Going Clear, on pages xii, 311-14, and 356.)

I asked myself if these exes would have behaved any differently if they’d been in Tom Brennan’s position—under extreme pressure from the Church to “handle” my son. Kyle’s visit to Clearwater in February of 2007 had put Brennan in a precarious situation: an SP was staying in his apartment. He no doubt immediately reported this dilemma to Scientology superiors. Soon after, Brennan received an order to “handle” his son rather than “care for him.” I’d struggled with this issue, and at times, the anger rising up inside me was overwhelming. I simply could not comprehend why a parent would willingly participate in a religious organization where their children were not considered a priority.

It was because of Larry Brennan that I was willing to attend the party and mingle with former members of this controversial religion. So far, he’d been an absolute saint. So, maybe I was wrong. Perhaps there were more Larry’s in the ex-Scientologist community. I was skeptical, but maybe I could learn to forgive—let go of the anger and fill that space with understanding. “If that day ever arrived,” I thought, “it would be because of Larry.”

Suddenly, Michael became pensive. With a serious expression, he leaned over and whispered that he had something important I needed to know as he didn’t want it to shock me at the party. 

My curiosity piqued, I looked over at my new friend. “Is something wrong?”

“Larry Brennan doesn’t exist anymore,” whispered Michael.

“What are you trying to say?” I asked with a wavering voice. “Did Larry die, and nobody thought to tell me? What’s happened to Larry?”

“Larry isn’t Larry anymore,” answered Michael. “He’s now Denise.”

Bewildered, I repeated: “What are you saying?” 

“Larry realized he identified with being a woman, and now he’s in the process of becoming one,” explained Michael. “He now wants to be called Denise.”

“Jesus,” I replied, “I’m thankful we’re having this conversation. I had no idea! And yes, it certainly would have been a surprise, a shock, really.”

“Are you having problems with it?” asked Michael.

“No,” I said, “I’m just trying to imagine Larry as a woman, and it’s not coming together for me.”

“You and Larry look as if you could be brothers,” I said, gazing at Michael. “You’re about the same size. I’m trying to imagine you wearing lipstick and women’s clothing.” (Inside, I was struggling with this—it was not what you’d call a dainty visual.) “I hope I can process this by the time we reach New London.”

Michael laughed quietly and, in a chastising tone, said that I needed to try harder to stay informed; I needed to read the ex and critic message boards on the Internet. I nodded in agreement. A brief silence was soon followed by a torrent of conversation. It was like we were old friends.

New London—in the southeastern part of the state—is a small seaport city on the Thames River, two miles upriver from Long Island Sound. In times past, it was one of the world’s busiest whaling ports. Nowadays, it’s best known for being the home of the United States Coast Guard Academy. Even though I’d lived in the state for thirty years, I’d never visited New London, but I’d skirted past it many times on my way to Mystic Seaport, a more popular tourist destination. 

The exclusive, much-awaited invitation to the New London party had arrived several months earlier. Across the top, in capitalized letters, it read: “FOR SECURITY REASONS, PLEASE DO NOT FORWARD THIS INVITATION TO ANYONE ELSE.”

“Dear Suppressive Persons, Merchants of Chaos and Pawns of Psychiatry,

Due to the fact that the cult of Scientology considers you all to be Suppressive Persons, I would like to cordially invite you to attend the 2012 SP PARTY! The 2012 SP Party will be held on the weekend of July 20, 21, and 22. Last year’s party was a huge success, with SPs from all over the country attending, networking, and having gobs of fun exposing our favorite cult. There will be plenty of time and ample opportunity to sit around and stuff your face with food while plotting the destruction of ‘Mankind’s Only Hope’ [a phrase the Church uses to hype its importance]. It will be a weekend of Suppressive fun!”

As the train neared New London, Michael and I gathered up our belongings. After the inevitable jolting stop, we quickly de-trained.

In the waning light, while we stood in front of the station house, Michael pulled out his cell phone and tapped out Patty’s number. I surveyed the surroundings. New London’s waterfront was in full view, boats bobbing on the calm, briny water. From overhead, the cry of seagulls echoed through the otherwise quiet town. And in the air, too, the salty smell of the Sound awakened my senses. July is a beautiful time in coastal Connecticut.

Michael folded his phone and said Patty was on her way; she’d drive us to our hotel. He called it a low-end establishment. He also said, however, that at least all the out-of-towners going to the party would be together in the same place. It would make it harder for OSA to spy on us. (Any of their operatives hanging around would be extremely conspicuous.)

In short order, a station wagon pulled up, and a raven-haired woman in her mid-fifties hopped out. Patty has a no-nonsense attitude and a voice that denotes strength.

“Hello, Victoria and Michael,” she said excitedly in her Connecticut accent (it’s somewhere between a New Yorker’s and a Bostonian’s).

“I’m so happy to meet you finally! There’s a crowd already at the house, but there’ll be even more tomorrow.”

Patty Moher (who uses the pseudonym “Pooks” in the anti-Scientology chatrooms) got involved with the Church in 1973. Only eighteen at the time, she was already a heavy heroin user. At an all-time low, she was introduced to Narconon—the Scientology-related substance abuse treatment program—and then directly to the Church of Scientology itself, where she remained for twenty-seven years. Narconon helped her ditch her dependence on dope, but replaced that addiction with another. At the age of twenty-two, Patty—with Scientology as her new obsession—became the executive director of Narconon Connecticut. By all accounts, hers would be considered a true Narconon success story. Once she started reading online sites critical of the Church, she began drifting away from Scientology.      

The night air was crisp for July, not what I’d grown accustomed to while living in Virginia for twenty-four years. I’d forgotten how drastically different the weather could be after a four-hundred-mile journey. I was definitely in a different zone, and I felt it in other ways besides the plummet in temperature.

After checking in at the hotel, Patty drove us to a well-kept, brightly painted three-decker home situated on a narrow street. Wide wooden steps led to a large covered porch where a “Welcome SPs” sign greeted us. A pair of tethered big-headed inflatable aliens gently swayed in the porch’s far corners.

There was no turning back now. With the twist of the doorknob and a deep breath, I stepped through a portal into a new world, a new reality. I found myself in a den of thirty genuine Suppressive Persons, the real deal. Dressed in a wide array of attire, they represented many generations and every rung of the socioeconomic ladder. These SPs are the bane of every serious Scientologist. They are to be reviled, loathed, and avoided at all costs because—according to L. Ron Hubbard (in his Introduction to Scientology Ethics, page 171)—they will “knife with violence anything calculated to make human beings more powerful or more intelligent.” Hubbard also called them “Anti-Social Personalities.” 

The hum of talk spiked with laughter filled the living room and adjacent dining room as party-goers seeking the latest news played catch up with old friends. Though a hotbed of suppressiveness, an air of positivity enveloped the gathering, and it spilled over into small niches where the less outgoing—plates of food precariously balanced on their laps—appeared to be engaged in reflective debates.   

Looking intently about, I noticed a familiar face. It was Larry Wright, sitting on a long sofa surrounded by admirers plying him with questions. I recognized him from one of his back cover photos.  

Rising from the sofa, Larry walked toward me, asking, “Victoria?” He hugged me, whispering, “I’m so sorry about what happened to Kyle.” He asked if I was all right and said he’d like to talk with me that evening.

“Okay,” I answered quietly, just as the void around us was filled with a larger-than-life presence.

There, with arms outspread, stood my Facebook friend Larry Brennan, now known as Denise. I had long awaited this first meeting. Not pretty by any conventional standard, she wore her hair cropped short, a coat of pale pink lipstick spread across her smiling mouth. Purple, too, appeared to be a favorite color. Denise’s blouse—a patterned swirl of vibrant flowers—demonstrated every shade of that hue, one of which matched the polish on her perfectly manicured nails. Delicate gold rings adorned her fingers.

Tears were welling up in Denise’s eyes. As she reached to embrace me, they began to pour out.

“Oh, I’m so happy to meet you,” she cried in my ear.  

Any apprehensions I had instantly faded. Whether Larry or Denise, my dear friend, could be whoever she chose. In that moment, only love, compassion, and empathy mattered. With Denise Brennan, her “cup runneth over.

Denise quickly introduced me to a nearby circle of SPs, many revealed their online pseudonyms. This made it easier for me to place them. They had creative names—some, of course, at the expense of Scientology—such as “MoarXenu,” “Podpeople,” “Darth Xandar,” and “The Hole Does Not Exist.” (A lot of exes and critics aren’t comfortable using their real names publicly. The fear of reprisal runs deep thanks to the Church’s extremely aggressive and litigious nature.) 

Larry Wright tapped me on the shoulder and asked if it was a good time for us to talk. The room had quieted down (many of the SPs had gone outside or returned to the hotel), so Larry and I sat on the long sofa. That’s when I first noticed how much his countenance reveals his innermost thoughts. His is a thinker’s face with delicately etched lines that interconnect like those of a finely drawn map.

He wasted no time.

“What do you think happened to your son in that apartment?”

“We don’t have enough evidence to answer that question,” I replied. “The investigation was compromised. The Clearwater police never found the bullet that killed my son. There were no fingerprints on the weapon, and they never processed the gunshot residue test they’d done on Kyle’s hands. There’s no answer to your question. We’re not in the best of positions, Larry. We need someone to come forward with new information.” 

“What about the ammunition?” Wright asked with a steady gaze. “What was used when the father took Kyle and Sean to the firing range? Would it be interchangeable with the weapon found in the room with Kyle?”

This question threw me off. The bullets’ interchangeability was something we hadn’t thought of.

Why hadn’t this critical question come up sooner? I couldn’t answer it, but I knew who could.

Genial and polite, the conversation continued. Larry’s quiet questioning softened the harsh subject matter. It can’t be easy speaking to a mother who’s lost a child. Suddenly, a flash of doubt rushed through me. Was he genuinely interested, or was our tete-a-tete merely obligatory? Was our meeting something he needed to get out of the way before he moved on to more desirable stories? The thought of Kyle, once again being filed away, filled me with sorrow.   

Our conversation over, Larry left for his hotel. I headed outside.

The front porch was quiet; my only companions were the inflatable purple aliens I’d noticed earlier. Pulling my phone from my purse, I tapped out the familiar numbers. When Sean, Kyle’s older brother, picked up, I asked about the Heckler & Koch 45 handgun that he and Kyle had fired at Fowler’s Gun Range in Fort Myers, Florida.

“Could its ammunition fit into the Taurus 357 found alongside Kyle? Is it interchangeable?”

“No, Mom,” Sean quickly responded. “Absolutely not—the 45 caliber is much larger than the 357.”

“Are you sure about that?” I asked anxiously.

“Absolutely,” Sean repeated.

My concerns laid to rest, I enjoyed a moment of solitude. A soft squeak behind me announced that I was no longer alone. Turning, I saw an attractive forty-something man exiting onto the porch. His name was Ed. He asked if I was Kyle’s mom and said there was something he needed to say.

“I was in the Church for years. You and Kyle. . . . How could you have known what it was? Kyle’s death should never have happened. I was a part of it, one of the building blocks that helped create the monstrosity, and I’m sorry for it. I’m hoping you’ll forgive me.”

Ed’s sincerity and honesty dissolved any lingering tension.

“You must think we’re all pretty stupid, us exes,” he said. “One, for being talked into joining the Church, and two, for being idiots who stayed in for too long.”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t think you’re stupid. I think being in Scientology is probably a lot like being in a bad marriage. You don’t realize just how awful it is until after you leave it.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he said with a nod.  

Our heart-to-heart was interrupted by excited laughter and the repeated thud of the front door slamming. It was the end of a long day, and small groups of carpoolers were returning to the hotel. They offered up their good nights as they ambled down the wooden steps, chattering all the while.   

Michael poked his head through the doorway and asked if I was ready to head out. Denise had offered to drive us to the hotel. After saying goodbye to Ed, my newfound SP friend, I climbed into the backseat alongside Michael. When he asked how my conversation with Larry Wright had gone, I shrugged my shoulders to let him know that I was still debating it.

Denise was driving with the windows cracked. Somehow, the cool night air failed to whisk away my weariness. It had been a tiring day.   

Looking backward quickly, Denise—in a tone sprinkled with enthusiasm—asked us if we were up for a donut party. 

“Tonight?” I asked. “I’m too tired. I’ll have to take a pass. Maybe you can save me one?”

“Nope,” Michael said with a laugh. “We’re not making promises we can’t keep.”

In my hotel room, I yanked off the heavy bedcover and tossed it onto a nearby chair. The walls—hung with mass-produced Chinese artwork—were painted a rather drab beige. Not much to look at, but at least the sheets were clean.

***

Morning came quickly, and with it, brilliant sunshine—a perfect day for an SP party.

Michael and Denise couldn’t be roused. I suspected this was the result of the previous evening’s overindulgent donut party. That, along with a heaping portion of Scientology-related gossip, had most certainly kept them up until all hours.

Under the bright sun—circling seagulls overhead—I walked across the cracked and faded parking lot to the hotel’s compact lobby. 

Settling into a lonely, overstuffed chair, I reached for the latest “USA News & World Report.” Casually flipping the pages, occasionally peering through the wide window, I hoped to spy a fellow SP, preferably one with transportation. 

The car was stuffed to the gills with SPs, leaving little room for movement or comfort. When we arrived at the now-familiar street, cars parked in tight formation edged both curbs. As we pulled into one of the last spaces, a medium-built man—he had a boyish appearance and neatly trimmed hair—was stooping over a parked vehicle. He clutched tape in one hand while clumsily juggling what appeared to be craft paper in the other. Standing on the sidewalk now, our small group watched as he hurriedly covered the license plate before moving on to the next vehicle.

“What’s happening?” yelled Sign Post, a fellow SP, with concern in his voice.

“We spotted a suspicious-looking vehicle driving through the neighborhood earlier,” he replied. “They circled around the block a couple of times and slowed down near the house. It could be OSA; we don’t want them copying down the license plates. We can’t be taking any chances. Some of the people coming today don’t want to be outed by OSA.”       

Our small cell of SPs abruptly turned and disappeared inside the house, leaving me alone out front. 

You couldn’t miss Patty’s house. The ET-themed décor had been embellished since my last visit. A large bright-green alien—looking for all the world like a galactic sentinel—was now propped against a sturdy porch column flanked by several inflatable companions. Attached to the porch’s back wall, a large-lettered sign read, “Xenu Café is Open for Business.” Purple aliens gently swayed in the morning breeze.

An elderly couple out for their morning stroll came to an abrupt stop not far from the stoop where I sat. With puzzled expressions, they gawked at the brightly festooned house, carefully studying Patty Moher’s version of that iconic symbol of Americana—the front porch. Amused, I watched the gray-haired pair and called out, “Good morning!” Without responding, however, the old gentleman tightly grasped his companion’s elbow, hastily steering her down the sidewalk.

I laughed all the way up the wooden steps.

Welcoming me inside, Patty “Pooks” Moher—the queen of the SPs—looked exhausted. Across the room sat a long table covered with steaming breakfast fare, platters piled high with scrambled eggs, home fries, and crispy bacon. “When had she prepared all that?” I wondered. “She probably didn’t get much sleep.” If she was tired, however, it certainly wasn’t reflected in her mood.

“Everybody pay attention!” she called out in an upbeat and commanding voice.”

“Welcome all of you, my fellow’ Merchants of Chaos’ and ‘Pawns of Psychiatry,’ to my 2012 SP party! We’ve lots of food, and we’ll have lots of time for joking, degrading, and planning the destruction of Scientology. NBC’s ‘Rock Center with Brian Williams’ was planning on sending a reporter and camera crew to the party this evening, but at the last minute, they decided to go to Oklahoma to cover the Narconon tragedy.”

Just two days earlier, at Narconon Arrowhead in eastern Oklahoma, twenty-year-old Stacy Dawn Murphy had been found dead in her room. Two others had died at the 200-bed facility within the previous nine months; another, three years earlier. Murphy’s death finally prompted health officials and local law enforcement to investigate the Scientology-based drug rehabilitation center. (Narconon claims amazingly high success rates, but their methods—including large doses of niacin and lengthy sauna sessions—have been disputed by many health professionals.)

“Oh, well,” continued Patty. “They would’ve had a lot more fun at the party. It’s probably a good thing they’re not coming as it would have been more ‘entheta’ than we could’ve handled.”

A faux-scientific term created by Hubbard, a faux-science inventor, “entheta” is “a compound word meaning enturbulated theta, theta in a turbulent state, agitated or disturbed.” “Theta,” supposedly the energy of life, Hubbard defined as “reason, serenity, stability, happiness, cheerful emotion, persistence and the other factors which Man ordinarily considers desirable.” (See Hubbard, Introduction to Scientology Ethics, pages 419-20.)

“Last but not least,” said Patty. “The forecast for today is sunny with a 100% chance of entheta—a good time for all!”

“Let the party begin!” she exclaimed as laughter and applause filled the parlor.

A foil-wrapped, overstuffed burrito in hand, I walked through the overcrowded kitchen to the back of the house. Carefully biting into my gooey breakfast—holding a paper plate underneath it—I let out a sigh of amusement. The backyard presented quite a colorful scene. Welcoming the SPs was a collection of signage written in alien-speak. Only those denizens of Scientology’s sci-fi realm—past or present—would have been able to decipher the neon orange, pink, yellow, and green scribblings that leapt from poster boards arranged throughout the grassy setting. Obviously, the anonymous sign maker had experienced great moments of catharsis. And—armed with a handful of Sharpie highlighters—they’d taken artistic liberty with the Scientology lingo. The signage seemed to build to a crescendo. The “Welcome SPs” sign was followed by “Welcome, SMERSH Members” and “You Should Have Expected Us.” Then came “Scientology, Cult of Confusion,” my favorite, and “Xenu Caused the Wall of Fire.”

L. Ron Hubbard first wrote of SMERSH in 1968, describing it as an organization “that aspired to world domination!” The original SMERSH was a World War II Soviet military intelligence force that lasted until 1946. Later, during the mid-1950s to mid-1960s, author Ian Fleming—a former British naval intelligence officer—used SMERSH as the evil nemesis of his most famous creation, James Bond.

The Xenu story, a sacred teaching, is usually only disclosed to Scientologists after numerous costly courses have been completed. He’s the Church’s tyrannical overlord, a murderous mastermind who ruled the greatly overpopulated “Galactic Confederacy”—comprising 76 planets, including Earth, then known as “Teegeeack”—75 million years ago. The Confederacy’s human-like aliens, according to Hubbard, looked very much like earthlings from the 1950s and 1960s. He also claimed that their clothes, cars, trains, and boats “looked exactly the same” as those from that period. After Xenu and his evil minions paralyzed and froze billions of these aliens, they transported them to the Prison Planet Teegeeack—in spacecraft resembling DC-8s—where they were warehoused in volcanoes that Xenu subsequently obliterated with hydrogen bombs (in a “wall of fire”). Hubbard asserted that the immortal souls of these aliens—called “thetans”—attach themselves to the living, thus causing virtually all of the world’s ills. (See Lawrence Wright’s Going Clear, Scientology, Hollywood, and the Prison of Belief, pages 104-06 and 112-13.)

Leaning against white picket fencing was an unflattering cardboard cutout of the current Scientology leader himself, David Miscavige. Two squat legs supported an abnormally large head, above which a speech balloon blared out a darkly humorous message: “I Beat My Staff—LOL!” This was a reference to an extremely critical 2009 St. Petersburg Times exposé, which claimed that physical violence was common within Scientology management and that Miscavige himself regularly beat his staff or ordered underlings to beat certain individuals—these accusations the CoS had categorically denied.

I deposited my purse on a metal chair under an appropriate sign, “Pawns of Psychiatry.” As an outsider watching the reunion unfold, I couldn’t help but reflect on what my lawyer, Luke Lirot, told me four years earlier. He said Scientologists had been told that they’re smarter—and better— than the rest of us. They believe it and some hold onto it even after they get out. Those of us living in the real world are lesser human beings.

It’s a scary thought.

I spotted Michael and motioned for him to join me in my “Pawns of Psychiatry” corner. He asked if I’d met Lawrence Wright’s assistant, Lauren Wolf. I looked across the yard and saw a small group of people setting up camera equipment. No Lauren.

“She’s around here somewhere,” he continued. “She’s amazing, a lot younger than I would have expected. You need to talk with her and make certain you get an interview in.”

I was trying desperately to understand this strange new world. We—my family—were in desperate need of help. If we could get some much-needed publicity, there was the possibility of someone coming forward with new information. This would help lawyer Lirot petition the court to reopen discovery. He wanted to take the case our first lawyer, Ken Dandar, had created, turn it inside out, and redo it. Lirot wanted to re-depose, or re-examine, the Scientologist defendants. This couldn’t happen unless we had some new and relevant information regarding Kyle’s death. No matter how I felt about the exes that now surrounded me, didn’t matter. Luke Lirot needed them—Kyle needed them. 

“This is going to be great,” Michael whispered as we continued to eyeball the small group strategically arranging plastic lawn chairs in front of the shuttered video camera.

The yard filled up with people and small talk. Long-lost friends were reintroducing themselves, and SPs commented about the colorful posters. And then Lauren Wolf appeared. I noticed her immediately. Attractive and well-dressed, she looked like an academic, a sorority sister; she could have been a model for J. Crew.

Lauren walked over, said hello, sat down next to me, and said she wanted to speak with me before she got busy with the interviews. When I asked if she was staying at the same hotel as the other guests, she grimaced.

“I know,” I said. (I understood exactly what she was thinking.) “I did a bed bug check online before I left Virginia. I’m happy to report we’re safe in that department.”

“I was worried about that!” she exclaimed with a shudder.

Lauren asked what I thought the outcome of our appeal would be. I said that we still hoped we could turn things around for Kyle and perhaps get some accountability for his death.

The truth is, the odds were stacked against us. It was rare to get a judgment overturned by appeal. Judges don’t like to step on each other’s toes. Scientology had deep pockets and a phalanx of lawyers against our one, Luke Lirot. We were pretty much screwed. Our only chances were in finding new evidence or getting a whole lot of media attention. Without those two new developments, our appeal would fail.

I caught a glimpse of an interview being conducted in the far corner of the yard. A well-known ex-Scientologist—someone whose story had been covered in the media and shuffled through the critic community dozens of times—was speaking with lots of animation, waving his hands in the air. It helped him express himself; it added drama to his story. He’d done this many times before.

A middle-aged woman wearing a brightly colored t-shirt emblazoned with “Scientology is a Rip-Off!” approached Lauren, holding a small slip of paper. She said she had the name of an important ex, someone she and Lawrence Wright should speak to. With the sunlight shining through the paper, I could read the name. It was another well-known ex-Scientologist. Lauren said they planned on contacting him. 

“Okay; his story is really important!” she continued enthusiastically as Lauren rose from the chair next to mine. I realized then that our conversation had been mostly small talk.

“It was really nice meeting you, Victoria,” she said. “The Church of Scientology can’t be happy having a foe who can articulate as well as you do.”

Hiding my disappointment, I watched as the two walked off toward the interview area.   

I was sitting alone alongside a long metal folding table, a mere spectator, when I noticed Denise walking toward me. She certainly didn’t make for a pretty woman. But that was something you’d immediately forget the moment she started talking. Denise Brennan exuded compassion, empathy, and kindness. It enveloped her.

Adorned in purple and pink, Denise sat next to me on a cold metal chair. Asking how I was doing, she told me she had something she’d been waiting to say to me.

“I’m sorry,” she said with tears gathering in her eyes. “All of us here, us, ex-upper-level Scientologists, carry some burden for everyone who’s ever been harmed. It haunts me. You and Kyle weren’t even Scientologists. It makes what happened to your family all the more tragic. Kyle could’ve been anybody’s child.”

I swallowed hard, my emotions rising.

“Many of these people are in denial,” Denise said, gazing down at her large sandaled feet. “In Scientology, they teach you how to lie, even to yourself, and sometimes it carries over into the real world. They’re good people, these exes.”

No longer holding back, Denise began to weep. When she asked for my forgiveness, I leaned over and embraced my friend.

“Always remember that if there’s anything I can do to help you, I will,” she said. “I’ll be there for you always.”

At the back of the house, the screen door opened. Leaning out from the kitchen, “Pooks,” Moher shouted out to the crowd, asking for a volunteer to help Sign Post make her died-and-went-to-heaven trifle.

“That’s a call for me,” I said to Denise. I headed into the kitchen just as she was approached by a trio of jubilant exes she hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Here’s how you build a trifle,” exclaimed Sign Post, standing at a table loaded with ingredients. “It’s all about the layers: cake, berries, chocolate, and cream.” Of Eastern European heritage, Sign Post was a forty-year-old with brown hair and glasses. He was an amiable guy, and I immediately liked him.

I didn’t respond; my gaze was focused on the table. Large Tupperware containers held the berries, and the cake was cut into a myriad of little cubes. The whipping cream had been folded into a good-sized ceramic bowl, and the chocolate melted in a big metal pot. These individually wonderful components were to be layered into two half-gallon trifle bowls. Made of glass and stemmed, they resembled large medieval goblets. 

“This will make the process easier,” he said as we started preparing the confections assembly-line-style. The cake bits went in first.

I asked him about his experience in Scientology.

“Well,” he said matter-of-factly, “I’m sure it’s one you heard before. You join up thinking you’re getting involved in something good—you’re going to make the world a better place. Before you know it, a decade of your life has slipped by. It was a waste, a complete waste of money and, more importantly, time. I’m now living with the embarrassment that I once belonged to the Church of Scientology.”

“So, what do you do now?” I asked, scooping up a ladle of melted chocolate.

“Well, they tried to bring me back into the fold when I left. They even sent their people out looking for me. I don’t want them to find me, so it’s better not to have an address, at least for now. I live out in California in my van. I travel up and down the coastline and camp out on the beaches.”

I watched the hot chocolate seep into the crumbled cake. We layered on the berries and the whipping cream.

“What do you think?” I asked, admiring the luscious concoctions. “These are trifles to die for!”

Stepping back out into the sunlight, I noticed the Lawrence Wright interviews were still going full swing. I wondered if they’d planned on filming every party attendee except me and perhaps the New York Anons. They’d arrived while we were building the trifles.

Ten Anons, members of Anonymous, sat off to one side, assessing their surroundings. They looked uncomfortable. They’d come out against Scientology in 2008—with a bang—but this might have been one of their first direct encounters with exes of the Hubbard-, Miscavige-, and Tom Cruise-worshipping clique.

Michael and an unfamiliar female friend approached me, announcing the arrival of the Anons. They asked if I’d met them.

“No,” I replied, “but I’m going to thank them for all they’ve done. Do you want to come with me?”

“I’m not fucking doing that,” said Michael’s acquaintance. “Shit, they look weird!”

That’s when I noticed the message on her t-shirt: “Dead Space Alien Exorcism Explained Free.” Michael and I exchanged knowing glances as she stumbled across the yard toward the adult beverage table.

The Anons were what I’d expected: they were young, thin, and geeky. Not unlike past generations of youth, they were looking for a cause to believe in, a cause to fight for, something bigger than themselves. At this moment, however, this group of youngsters appeared to be looking for the exit.

I needed to talk with them. These were the kids who’d given me tremendous support after Kyle’s death. Walking over, I introduced myself, “I’m Kyle’s mom.” That was all I needed to say. They knew who I was.

I sat conversing with a young baby-faced Anon who could not have been a day over twenty, Kyle’s age, when he died. Without hesitation, my new friend began educating me on cyberworld diversionary tactics. He even related how you can make cyberattacks appear as if they originated in China and Russia instead of in the U.S. I got lost in his detailed explanation. Feigning understanding, however, I told him he should seriously consider applying for a job with the government. He nodded and said that he’d been thinking about it.

“Did you see the lady walking around here wearing the big pirate hat?” my young friend asked, changing the subject and looking me squarely in the eyes. “That’s XenuBarb!” 

“No way!” I exclaimed. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he said, “she’s a part of the group that leaked the Tom Cruise video that triggered the Anonymous revolution.”

On January 14, 2008, a Scientology-produced video of a Cruise interview had been posted on YouTube and other websites. With Mission: Impossible theme music playing in the background, a manic-looking Cruise made several outlandish statements, including that Scientologists are the experts on rehabilitating drug addicts—referring to Narconon—and the only people who can assist after a car wreck. The Church claimed that the piece had been “pirated and edited” and was, therefore, a copyright violation. Under the threat of Scientology litigation, YouTube took it down. On January 21, Anonymous launched its Project Chanology in response to this example of Internet censorship, their ominous uploaded video message asserting that the Anons would “expel the Church from the Internet.”

If there was one person at the party who shone above the rest, someone I needed to thank more than anyone else, it was XenuBarb. She’d helped get Kyle’s father served with wrongful death lawsuit papers when he was hiding out in California. She wasn’t hard to spot. Slight in frame, she looked a wee wobbly underneath a large pirate tricorn hat. At first, I couldn’t discern if her tottering was due to the oversized chapeau or if she’d been dipping too deeply into her cups. It didn’t matter to me; I wanted to seize this opportunity.

We sat side by side on rustic wooden chairs, overlooking a small fire pit, its kindling stacked and unlit. Across the yard, the interviews were still ongoing. It was now late afternoon.

“Thank you for helping me with Kyle’s case,” I said. “It meant a lot to my family, more than I can ever express.” 

We’d been looking for Tom Brennan for months. He’d remarried—to a fellow Scientologist—and the couple had been living at her parents’ home in New York. He disappeared soon after the lawsuit was filed; he was one of the defendants. Someone at the home lied repeatedly to the sheriff, attempting to serve my ex-husband, saying that no one there “knew of anyone by the name of Brennan.” We were on borrowed time to get him served with those papers.

Suspecting that he’d fled to San Diego, where he had family—and knowing that he’d frequently worked as a handyman—I searched that area’s Craigslist. Sure enough, there he was: “Tom the Handyman.”  

“It was amazing how you set it all up,” I told XenuBarb.

She’d helped us hire a private investigator who called, “Tom the Handyman,” pretending that a room in their house needed painting. When Brennan entered the home, he was shown a photo and asked if he was the person pictured. At that moment, the color drained from Brennan’s face, and he responded, “I thought you might find me.”

“Yeah,” said XenuBarb, “it was a shocker for him, alright. He didn’t see it coming. Have you seen David Miscavige since you’ve been here?”

“The cardboard cutout?” I asked.

“No, no, not that,” she replied. “He’s going to make a special appearance when the sun goes down.”

“You don’t want to miss it,” she added with a devilish smile as she walked away.

One of the SPs came over and started a fire in the fire pit. With the waning sunlight—and the waning of the good food, adult beverages, and tasty confections—the party’s mood mellowed. The corner of the yard where the interrogations had taken place now stood barren, forsaken. It saddened me to think of having to explain what had happened—and what hadn’t happened—to lawyer Lirot. There’d be no additional publicity for Kyle’s case coming from the Lawrence Wright camp.

An upbeat voice pulled me up out of my doldrums. He said his name was Dan; he was at the party with his wife. He wanted me to know that if I needed a friend, someone to talk with, they’d be there for me. Dan’s face was a billboard of sincerity, and I thanked him as he poked at the fire.

I knew I was going to like Dan. Whatever harm Scientology may have done to him, it appeared that he’d let it go.

Michael was motioning for me to join him, so I excused myself saying we’d catch up later. Michael enthusiastically asked how it was going. He always seems to carry extra reserves of hope and optimism—especially when mine have been depleted.

“It’s not going as we’d hoped,” I said. “There’s no help for Kyle here. I think we should forget about that and just enjoy ourselves.”

Then he asked about the SPs. He wanted to know what I thought of them.

“I like them a lot,” I replied, “and I like all their quirkiness, too. It’s like a family reunion.”

“The only creepy experience I’ve had,” I continued, “was with a woman who never bothered to introduce herself. She just approached me and said she’s Facebook friends with Denise Miscavige. I don’t know the reason behind that outburst, but it made me uncomfortable.”

“What did you say to her?” he asked.

“Not a thing. I slowly backed away like she had some communicable disease. She’s avoiding me now.”

A sudden commotion near the kitchen door drew our attention.

“What the hell is that?” I asked Michael, narrowing my eyes.

“It looks like a dwarf David Miscavige made of papier-mache!” said Michael, laughing. “Oh, glory be, it’s a piñata!”

This was the surprise hidden behind Xenubarb’s mischievous smile. Her talents obviously extended well beyond leaking secret Scientology tapes and helping a grieving mother serve papers on a runaway ex-husband. She was also an artist who dipped her hands in various multimedia projects.

Everyone knew who the piñata represented, even though the head was too large, the legs and arms rather stubby. What I witnessed next can only be described as Mexican tradition meets the French Revolution. The diminutive likeness of David Miscavige, Scientology’s controversial leader, was now swinging wildly above the fire pit’s leg-lapping flames. An ex-Scientologist—one whose name I’ve forgotten—took the first swing with a heavy wooden stick.

“Die, Miscavige!” he screamed as a dull thud echoed across the yard. He raised the bludgeon to strike again and was immediately stopped by an outcry of protests.

“One swing!” someone yelled. “Others want a turn!”

The next man in the queue leveled a hard blow at the papered doll.

“Fuck you, David Miscavige!” he shouted, accompanied by cheering from the captivated audience. 

More and more blows pummeled the piñata, each hit followed by a train of profanity aimed at their former master. It was as if I’d stumbled into a time machine and landed in the middle of an ancient pagan ritual.

Standing outside the circle of exes, I was taken aback by the spectacle. I spotted Lawrence Wright and moved closer to him. I wanted to see how a Pulitzer Prize-winning author reacted to the testosterone-fueled rite. On his face, I saw a look of amusement. He was enjoying it.

Frustration now rose up among the clan of club-bearing exes.

“What the fuck is this made out of?” someone shouted. It seemed that Miscavige was as impervious in piñata form as he was in real life.

“I’m going to do this, gimme that stick!” snarled a frustrated ex-Scientologist. “Take that, Miscavige,” he yelled as he wielded a heavy blow, cracking the despised leader into a hundred pieces.

“All that work and not even one fucking Tootsie Roll!” he screamed. “You piece of shit, Miscavige!”

“Salvage the head!” someone else yelled. And within moments—to the jeers of the Roman Colosseum-like crowd—the oversized head was skewered atop the stick for all to see. Broken up and crushed, Miscavige’s body was now little more than fire feed.

Out of nowhere, Denise was at my elbow, asking if I was ready to head back to the hotel. She said she’d give me a ride; she wanted to hear about my day.

“How did your interview with Larry Wright go?” she asked from the driver’s seat.

“There was no taped interview,” I replied.

“What? Are you kidding me?”

With that comment, the day’s disappointment overflowed in a gush of sobs.

“What am I going to do, Denise?” I cried. “I’m not going to survive another round in court with them without any help. Why doesn’t my son matter? They’ll get away with all of it: the lies, the perjury, all of it.”

Teary-eyed, Denise steered the car to the side of the road. She reached across the seat to hold me.  

“I’m sorry I’ve broken down in front of you,” I told her. “I was trying to hold it in until I made it back to my room.”

“And what, cry alone?” she said, handing me a tissue. “Remember what I told you earlier? I’ll always be there for you and Kyle. And promise me that you’ll never forget this.”

I nodded in agreement.  

Sunday morning came too quickly. At the party house, Patty’s laughter was as much a treat as her to-die-for trifle had been the day before. I arrived early to say goodbye to my new friends. I felt a camaraderie with the exes. I should have known. We’d all been hurt and scarred by Scientology to varying degrees. What remained was how we chose to deal with it.

A few stragglers were still at the house. Someone asked me if Lawrence Wright was coming back. In the now quiet backyard, the folding chairs were vacant. Gone were the brightly lettered posters and Miscavige’s overlarge club-mounted head. Empty bottles littered the smoldering fire pit. Sticking up from the ashes was the reviled leader’s last remaining extremity—a singed, stubby papier-mache leg.

The party was over.

In Memory of Denise (Larry) Brennan

1952-2014

Copyright©2026 Victoria L. Britton.

Why Alice in Wonderland?

https://www.lewiscarroll.org/2011/12/02/alices-adventures-in-wonderland-read-in-scientology-cruise-training-session/

Tom Cruise Scientology Video (original uncut)

https://youtu.be/UFBZ_uAbxS0?si=SXuE7jpuL-6i7mr1