Perfectly Clear

by Michelle LeClair

  I said I’d been told, “There were many reports recently coming out on me having financial irregs. I paid no attention to this, as it was absolutely false and natter [gossip].”

  My closest friends were being punished for my alleged crime, I wrote.

  “In the past few weeks, my business partner, Dror Soref, and his wife, Virginia Soref, have been put on Sec Checks” and stopped from pursuing the next level on the Bridge “because they were told by their ethics officers that I was under ‘investigation’ re: financial irregs and because Dror was my business partner, he was being checked. . . .

  “Whatever is happening with me or NOT happening is my personal ethics and Bridge and not up for discussion or rumor.”

  The church didn’t respond, but the rumors about me—some of them insane—continued to fly! I felt like no one would come out and say that it was my relationship that was the problem, so they were trying to cook up a financial scandal. It was one thing for the church to try to control my personal life. But digging into my business dealings could only mean one thing: I had become the target of a Black Propaganda campaign.

  If I had any doubt at all, my suspicions were confirmed in an e-mail from my now ex-husband, who was still active in the church. Sean warned that I had no idea how bad things were about to get for me. He said that he’d been asked by the ethics officer at Flag to write reports on me and that reports from others about me were flying around. “Your clients will sue you and you will lose everything very soon,” he wrote. “But it will all stop if you just leave that SP”—I knew he was referring to Charley—“and get back into the church.”

  Only when I got “back on lines,” he said, would the noise stop.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Trouble Ahead

  Dror phoned in March 2011 asking for a meeting. I headed to his office at Paramount. He looked anxious but greeted me warmly. I sat on a couch and looked at him expectantly. He said he had recently been summoned to Flag in Clearwater for a Sec Check. While he was there, he’d made admissions that needed to be “handled.” His next step in the process was making a confession to me, he said. I swallowed hard. What in the world was he about to say? Dror held up a sheet of paper. “I want to read you something, but I’m not going to give it to you,” he said. “My ethics officer said that once I have read it, it needs to be put back in my file.” I thought it odd, but I nodded in agreement.

  First of all, he read, he should have told me earlier, but the international distributor of Not Forgotten had breached its commitment to get the movie proper marketing and distribution overseas.

  Dror had said from the beginning that it would take around two years for the movie to show a profit and we were only just nearing that mark, so I hadn’t really been focused on it. As far as I knew—as Dror had consistently told me—everything was going as planned. He hadn’t given me any indication that there was a problem that could affect our profit margin. My heart was pumping furiously. I was headed toward panic. My clients! “You promised, Dror. I saw the contracts. You said there was no risk, that it was a guaranteed investment. What does this mean for my clients?”

  Dror quickly backpedaled. I was getting upset over nothing, he said. It was a setback, that was all. He was working with the distributor to work things out. Everything would be fine. I recognized that he was using the Scientology mind-set: “There are no problems; only situations and solutions.”

  I believed Dror when he said he was on top of things. Still, I called a meeting with members of my staff whose clients had invested with Dror to warn them that there might be a problem. I said, honestly, that I was consulting with an attorney to make sure our clients’ interests were protected, but I believed we were okay.

  Two weeks later, I was at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel for an event with Charley when my assistant Monica called.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but this is urgent,” Monica said. “A guy came knocking on the door and you just got a subpoena.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Will you open it, please?”

  I could hear Monica ripping open the envelope.

  The subpoena was from the State of California, Monica said. “They want financial records for Not Forgotten.”

  “What? A subpoena for financial records? Oh my God. What does that mean?”

  My heart leapt to my throat.

  I called Dror immediately and told him about being served. He sounded surprised, but said he wasn’t worried. If it was something serious, he would have received a subpoena too, he said.

  Standing there alone, I felt the walls closing in on me. I was certain the church had something to do with the government subpoena. It wasn’t a coincidence that Dror had made whatever “admissions” he did while he was being interrogated at Flag—and now the government was knocking. What in the world had he said? I had seen how the church deflected attention from itself by coercing others to do its dirty work—even when others didn’t know that that was what they were doing. In this case, we were talking about the State of California. What in the world did they think they knew?

  My friend Ken had warned me. The drumbeat had begun.

  Dror was served with a subpoena after me. I persuaded him to join me in a meeting with corporate attorneys that Charley recommended. He balked at first, but I insisted. “You own the company,” I said. “You handle the money. You make the decisions. I am the sales agent. Our deal was that you provide all paperwork and handle the productions and the finances. What I told clients about the movie deal came directly from you. So do I expect you to be there? Yes, I do.”

  Dror finally gave in. During the two-hour meeting, he said he was close to getting the distribution deal back on course. Once that happened, Not Forgotten would have an international release and we would be able to pay back our investors. He didn’t know what the government was looking for, but he was confident that everything would check out. The lawyers seemed satisfied with Dror’s explanation. Before we left, they requested he submit to them all contracts relating to the film, as well as a certified financial audit from the distributor. “Anything you need,” Dror said. I agreed to put up $1 million to cover attorney fees and any past-due interest that our clients were owed.

  When I left the meeting, I felt relief. If the lawyers weren’t too concerned and Dror was willing to get them whatever they needed to satisfy the state, there didn’t seem to be any need to worry. Whatever the government thought it had would be resolved and we could all move on.

  * * *

  In May, with just weeks until Twist’s Pasadena premiere, Dror dropped a bombshell. Windsor wasn’t in a position to honor its $2 million commitment to the play, he said. I was stunned. We had to keep our commitment, I cried. We had Broadway producers coming to the opening. The future of the play was at stake. Dror said the problem was in the timing. Windsor’s money was tied up in the movie projects he had in preproduction. He’d just sunk $1 million plus into Selma alone, he said. I was frustrated and angry with him—and with myself. The numbers weren’t adding up and there were too many red flags.

  Dror couldn’t explain the discrepancy except to say that once the other projects he had going got off the ground, we would be on firm footing again.

  I was tired of his excuses.

  I called our attorneys. In poring over copies of the early documents that Dror had turned over, they discovered he had been paying himself a $50,000-a-month salary out of the Windsor account—more than twice the $20,800 we’d agreed upon and a hefty sum to be taking from a fledgling company that wasn’t yet making a profit. Dror had not yet delivered the certified financial audit he’d promised, the lawyers said, so it was impossible to tell if there were other discrepancies. We would have to wait for the certified financial audit to be completed.

  I met with Dror and asked about the salary. He insisted that I had approved the increase. Nice try, but I had done no such thing, I said, nor had we even d
iscussed it.

  “I’m okay with you being paid as a producer on a project,” I said. “But to be paid that much as an executive of a company that isn’t making money yet isn’t practical. I would never have approved something like that and I certainly would remember if I had.”

  After a heated discussion, Dror agreed to cut his salary to match what we’d agreed upon initially. He then suggested we bring in an experienced film industry executive to manage the business so he could focus solely on what he did best, which was directing and producing. He seemed surprised when I agreed, but I was comforted by the idea of having someone else run the business side of Windsor.

  Charley was troubled by my conversation with Dror. “I pray to God he’s not stringing you along for money the way the church has,” she said.

  If what she was suggesting was true, it would mean that I had been duped, and the thought of that was too terrifying to acknowledge even to myself.

  Instead, I reacted defensively, responding to Charley with what I had learned by rote in the church. “It is not up to me or you to determine what is a good religion and what is not,” I said. “Just because Scientology may not be working for me right now, it is working for many others.”

  As for Dror, I said, “He just wants to make films. He’s handling the international distribution problem. Selma is moving along. We have other projects in preproduction. Our lawyers are looking over everything and soon we’ll have someone with experience running the business side of things. I appreciate your concern, but everything will be fine.”

  If Charley was surprised at my reaction, she didn’t show it, but she was unconvinced. “I don’t know,” she said warily, “but I hope you’re right.”

  * * *

  We began interviewing candidates for the Windsor job immediately. One was a highly respected film producer named Leah Cummings. Leah had been Steven Spielberg’s producing partner and had to her credit big hits, including Saving Private Ryan, Jurassic Park and Minority Report. The three of us met in Dror’s office on the Paramount lot.

  I liked Leah right away. She was a lesbian and a Southerner. She asked all the right questions and it was obvious that she really knew her stuff.

  After the meeting, when Leah and I walked to our cars together, she turned to me and asked, “Michelle, how did you meet Dror?”

  I told her that we’d met at a Scientology fund-raiser and that Dror had relentlessly pursued me as a financial backer.

  “I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds, but may I ask how much you raised for him?” she asked.

  “Well, between the first movie and the projects he has on deck, maybe $18 to $20 million,” I said.

  Leah shook her head. Her expression was incredulous.

  “I could have made five pictures with that by now!” she said. “I have to be honest. I’m worried about you.”

  Alarm bells sounded. First Charley and now Leah, both of them experienced businesswomen who knew the entertainment business. I felt as if my legs might buckle under me. How could I continue to ignore what seemed obvious to two very smart businesswomen whose judgment I trusted?

  I told Leah not to worry; my hope was that she would join our team and together we could figure everything out. “I’ll be in touch,” I said.

  Sitting in my car in the parking lot, I thought back to the beginning of my relationship with Dror. About how he’d dominated my time at the Scientology fund-raiser. How he’d happened to be at the same party with me the following week. How he and Virginia had both courted me the way a smitten lover would.

  If Dror had set me up—had Virginia known from the beginning? I wondered. Had our friendship been a sham?

  I never had the chance to ask.

  * * *

  With the state subpoena hanging over our heads, Dror took Virginia on a vacation to Europe in late June. I was afraid he wouldn’t return. He said he’d be gone for ten days, but instead traveled from Europe to Israel—to make a short film, he said. In his absence, I was left to fund Windsor’s overhead and find the extra money needed to keep Twist on schedule. My main concern was my clients. They had entrusted me with their savings and I was prepared to do whatever it took to keep Twist and Windsor afloat so that their investments would pay off the way Dror had promised.

  He finally returned to the States at the end of July and immediately asked for more money for Windsor’s expenses. I didn’t understand, I said. I had covered all the expenses with my own money while he was gone. Why not pay the bills from his Windsor account? He reiterated what he had said two months earlier: Everything was tied up in projects. I put my foot down. I understood how important it was to keep the production roster moving forward, I said, but I wasn’t going to contribute another cent to Windsor until he submitted the certified audit he’d promised the attorneys, and until we brought on Leah Cummings or someone else with experience in the film industry to help get our financial ducks in a row.

  In mid-August, while I was watching rehearsals for Twist with Charley, I received a call from Mitch Lampert, one of my attorneys.

  “Michelle, have you seen the e-mail we just received from Dror’s personal attorney?” he asked, his voice hollow.

  I walked outside the theater to continue the call.

  “I haven’t seen it,” I said. “What does it say?”

  “Dror is filing for bankruptcy on both Windsor and Not Forgotten—unless you want to take over and assume all liabilities.”

  It took a moment for what he had said to sink in.

  “What do you mean, bankruptcy?” I cried. “How can he bankrupt a company with assets?”

  “Well,” Mitch said haltingly, “according to this letter, it doesn’t look like there are any assets.”

  Dror was claiming that Not Forgotten had not earned any revenue and there was no expectation of future returns. Windsor was $10 million in debt “with no income and no potential for income in the immediate or near future,” the letter said.

  “No assets? No potential for income?” What about the other projects he had in the works?

  My hands were shaking uncontrollably. I was in disbelief, but at the same time I wasn’t totally shocked. I hadn’t allowed myself to listen to my instincts whenever I felt something wasn’t right with Dror. During those moments of doubt, I had reverted back to Scientology—the rule that said you never question a fellow Scientologist—rather than face my fears. Charley had warned me and I’d defended Dror. I’d never imagined, not for a single moment, that he was capable of deception of this magnitude.

  Mitch’s voice brought me back from my thoughts. He sounded angry. “From reading this, it looks like he is trying to place the burden on you,” he said.

  “Me?”

  Mitch promised to phone Dror’s lawyer immediately to figure out what was happening and what could be done. When we hung up, I stood outside the Pasadena Playhouse and, for a moment, glanced up at the banner for Twist. What does this mean for the play? I wondered. For Selma and the other projects that are on the runway? What does this mean for my clients? Oh my God—what about the subpoena? Did the state know something I didn’t?

  The following week I called a meeting with all my insurance agents and staff, some of whom had also invested their clients’ money in Dror’s ventures. Everyone was seated around the large conference table. The room was silent when I walked in. Everyone knew that, whatever was about to happen, it was serious. I pulled out the black leather chair at the head of the table and sat down.

  “Some of you may know what this is about and some of you may have heard rumors,” I said. “Dror Soref has declared bankruptcy and walked away from Not Forgotten and Windsor Pictures.” The statement was met with a collective gasp.

  I was working with my team of lawyers to get on top of the situation, I said. Our clients who had invested in Dror’s projects were about to be notified. I was doing everything possible to g
ain control of whatever assets were available from Not Forgotten and Windsor. We did not yet have a complete financial picture because Dror had never delivered on the financial audit he’d promised, but I felt confident we could recover a good portion of Windsor’s assets. I didn’t know what all of this meant for our investors, or me, or my company, I said. But the insurance business was strong, with millions of dollars in underwriting, and I would personally make good on any losses suffered by our clients.

  Most important, I said, was that each of them be available to take questions from investors. The lawyers were drawing up a letter and we needed to prepare them for what was coming. Everyone was handed a list of clients to call and a script of what to say, and I adjourned the meeting.

  Returning to my office, I closed the door, rested my head on my desk and fought back tears. How could he do this? I asked myself. How could Dror be so callous as to walk away from the good people who had trusted him—trusted me—with their financial futures? Some of those people were my friends. My own father had invested!

  There was a soft knock on my door. I patted my eyes dry. “Yes, come in!” I said. My assistant Monica walked in and took a seat facing me. Her sister had invested in Windsor and I knew how concerned Monica had to be, but, at that moment, she was there for me.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I smiled at her. In many ways, Monica was more like a daughter to me than an assistant. “Thank you. I’m okay,” I said. “I’m in shock, but I’m going to figure this out. I just have to get a handle on it all.”

  “I have faith in you. Everyone does,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Just let me know what I need to do to help.”

  “Well, you can start by getting me a list of the clients you think need to be called first,” I said, buoyed by her faith in me.