Fisher Robin Gaby - Perfectly clear: escaping Scientology and fighting for the woman I love

October 2014

I awaken with a jolt. My bedside clock says six forty-five a.m. I have overslept by almost an hour. I never oversleep! Why didnt I hear the alarm? I live in a cozy Spanish-style cottage nestled in the hills overlooking Pasadena with my partner, Charley, my kids and my mom. Charley is in bed beside me. The house is quiet. No one else is stirring. I have to get up. The kids have to be fed and dressed and gotten off to school and there isnt much time.

The sun wont be up for another twenty minutes. I throw off the covers, switch on the bedroom lamp and begin pulling on my workout clothes from the day before. I have one leg in my pants and am struggling with the other, but it doesnt want to cooperate. Cmon! I say, fighting with the stubborn pants leg.

I am finally making progress when I hear noises that dont belong. The hum of car engines? The squeak of the outside gate? I stop what I am doing for just a second, trying to make out the vague sounds outside. Suddenly, banging on my windows and doors shatters the morning quiet. The dogs bark frantically. What in Gods name?

A man shouts, Open the door! My heart is hammering in my chest as I open my bedroom door. I am still only partially dressed. My knees are knocking together, threatening to buckle. Beams of light are streaming in the front windows and crisscrossing the living room. What the hell is going on?

I cant tell how many people are outside my house, but it sounds like an army of angry men. I hear the word police. Surely they have the wrong house. Ill handle this, Charley says.

My mom, still dressed in her pajamas, has crept upstairs from her bedroom and stands across from me, her palms up, her face contorted in confusion and fear. She mouths her words: Whats going on?

Mom goes for the children, who are sleeping downstairs. I duck back into my bedroom. I straighten my clothes and grab a baseball cap to cover my slept-on hair. As I rush out of my room, I hear Charley. Who are you and what do you want? she asks, her voice firm and sure.

Open up! someone bellows.

Charley pulls the door open just enough for us to see a posse of scowling uniformed men on the other side. Some are wearing jackets with an LAPD insignia on the breast pocket. Some have holsters with guns. My God.

The pack storms past Charley into our home and I can smell their maleness. Testosterone mixed with sweat. The odor sickens me. A short, beefy officer with a buzz cut shows his badge and grunts, Which one of you is Michelle Seward?

I am.

He hands me a paper that says Search Warrant, cuing the forces to fan out. As they scatter, they remind me of worker ants crawling over an anthill.

My children appear on the stairs with my mother. My nine-year-old daughter is whimpering. My seven-year-old twin boys are wailing. I motion for my mother to take them back downstairs.

Mommy is okay, I say. Everything will be okay.

The team sets up shop in my tiny first-floor office. This is my sanctuary, the place where Charley and I drink tea by the fireplace and read the morning papers before the kids wake. I stand by helplessly as strangers rummage through my drawers, my file cabinets, and anything else they wish. The searchers make copies of innocuous documents: divorce papers, bill stubs, medical records, tax returns. They act as though they have no regard for my belongingsnot my antique chairs, my favorite family photographs, the precious artifacts I have collected on trips to Africa.

While Charley watches the searchers, I step outside to call my attorney.

The police are here and theyre looking for something. I have no idea what...

Steve Cooley is a celebrity on the Los Angeles legal scene, revered by both lawyers and cops. Before going into private practice, he spent forty years on the prosecutorial side of the California justice system. For the last twelve of those years, he headed the Los Angeles County District Attorneys Office, the very office that had ordered the raid on my home. He is familiar with my trouble with the church. He listens quietly as my words spill out.