SPT: The CEO and his Church (text)
The CEO and his church
Months of interviews and thousands of pages of court papers show the
effect that influential church members had on a Clearwater company that
was a darling of the dot-com boom.
Bryan Zwan designed some of the architectural features in igital
Lightwave's $19-million headquarters in Clearwater.
By DEBORAH O'NEIL and JEFF HARRINGTON
St. Petersburg Times
June 2, 2002
http://www.sptimes.com/2002/06/02/TampaBay/The_CEO_and_his_churc.shtml
It was New Year's Eve 1997 when Digital Lightwave's chief, Bryan Zwan,
made his biggest deal: a $9-million contract for his signature product, a
10-pound device that tests telephone lines.
At 5:30 p.m., Zwan phoned his production staff and gave them a tall order:
Ship the 308 units right away. It would help prop up dismal sales numbers.
But his overtaxed workers -- they had put in 100-hour weeks during the
holidays -- didn't have enough time or materials.
As the night wore on, the crew sent incomplete and unassembled units to a
shipping warehouse, giving the impression the order was filled. Digital
had done this before. The company even had shipped units to salesmen's
homes for storage and booked them as sales.
A manufacturing manager named Chuck Anderson became fed up. Most company
whistleblowers typically alert the Securities and Exchange Commission to
possible wrongdoing. But Anderson reported the trouble to his own higher
authority: the Church of Scientology.
[photo caption:
Bryan Zwan founded Digital Lightwave and is now its chairman, CEO and
president. He has donated millions of dollars to Scientology, but says the
church has no connections to the company.]
He wrote a "knowledge report," addressed to church leaders, warning that
the New Year's Eve shipments were the latest in a troubling pattern in
Digital that could create a "huge potential flap" for Scientology.
"What happens if someone goes to the newspapers, the investors, the SEC?"
Anderson, a Scientologist, wrote in his report.
"Not to mention putting Scientology and Scientologists at risk."
Zwan, a longtime Scientologist who has given millions to the church, had
moved his high-tech startup company from Santa Monica, Calif., to downtown
Clearwater two years earlier, locating it just two blocks from the
church's international spiritual headquarters.
He has long insisted that Digital has no connection to the controversial
church. Zwan said he never hired people because they are Scientologists
and never sought church advice on company matters.
"We are a public company," Zwan said. "We have nothing to do with the
Church of Scientology. It has no role in this company."
But a four-month review by the St. Petersburg Times, drawing on thousands
of pages of court documents and dozens of interviews, makes it clear that
the fortunes and the misfortunes of Digital Lightwave have been profoundly
affected by influential Scientologists with close ties to the church.
Zwan's stewardship of Digital has been tumultuous, marked by wild success
that made the Belleair physicist one of America's richest men, and by a
debacle that badly wounded the company.
Other local companies are run by Scientologists with little scrutiny. But
Digital's high profile as a publicly traded company subject to federal
regulation yields a rare look at how Scientology factors into the
workplace when the CEO is a church follower and major contributor.
Digital's inside story is one of Scientologists emerging at critical
points to play key roles. A Scientologist helped Zwan develop Digital's
fiber-optic technology. Scientology facilities, including the landmark
Fort Harrison Hotel in Clearwater, were backdrops for important company
negotiations. Zwan tapped Scientologists for his early management team.
And fellow Scientologists were Zwan's early backers, many reaping riches
from Digital's run on Wall Street.
To further understand Scientology's tie to Digital Lightwave, consider
that Zwan hired as one of his top executives Denise Licciardi, the sister
of Scientology's worldwide leader, David Miscavige.
Quickly promoted and given a six-figure salary, Licciardi was widely
regarded as Zwan's right hand at Digital. She urged him to run day-to-day
operations by following Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard's business
practices known as "LRH Tech."
Digital could "become a showcase of LRH Tech," Licciardi wrote in one memo
to Zwan. "This was what you communicated to each of us was your dream."
But when federal regulators investigated Digital in the late 1990s for
allegedly inflating its sales, Licciardi escaped blame. Her central role
remained under wraps for years. The church was spared the "huge flap"
feared in the knowledge report.
[photo caption:
Scientology's $50-million Super Power building, top, in downtown
Clearwater is under construction across the street from the church's Fort
Harrison Hotel. Digital Lightwave's Bryan Zwan and his wife, June, have
donated at least $5-million to the Super Power building.]
Scientology's leaders insist the church neither acted on the knowledge
report nor protected Licciardi. They emphatically say they play no part in
Digital Lightwave and never have.
"The church doesn't get involved in managing their business," said Marty
Rathbun, a high-ranking church leader based in Los Angeles.
But Zwan's interest in and devotion to Scientology was front and center in
his creation of Digital Lightwave. One of his earliest investors, onetime
Scientologist Brian Haney, recalls Zwan's can't-miss pitch to join him in
building the company.
"We were going to keep some for ourselves and live like kings, of course,"
Haney said. "The main amount of money was going to end up in Scientology's
hands."
Inside the light
As a boy in East Texas, Bryan Zwan surprised his parents by buying a
secondhand, 40-foot radio tower and erecting it in his back yard. In high
school, the future physicist impressed his friends by hooking up a ham
radio in his car to contact people halfway around the world.
Zwan, 54, earned his doctorate at Rice University in the same field of
science that once interested Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard. The
Scientology patriarch used physics to design an experiment with sound
waves that led to one of his first conclusions about the mind. Zwan used
physics to design an instrument that led to one of the hottest lightwave
products on the digital market.
Fiber optics -- high-speed, hair-thin lines that use light waves to
transmit data -- were emerging as the technology of the future in 1990.
Zwan and a co-developer came up with a portable, lightweight device for
technicians in the field to test fiber-optic lines.
Phone companies, cable companies and Internet providers all soon would
look to fiber-optic lines to handle burgeoning voice and data traffic.
Zwan coined the name "Digital Lightwave" and created a logo of
multicolored rectangles seemingly in motion. "Pretty cool, huh? I came up
with that," Zwan said with a dimpled grin.
Gushing about Digital's technology, Zwan goes from CEO to professor. It
uses logic. Algebra is involved. And voltages and polarities.
It's "40 colors of light pulsing at 2 1/2-billion times a second in one
little fiber the size of a human hair," Zwan says, tugging on an arm hair.
Digital's technology can reach in, pick one of those colors and separate
it out for inspection. Or as Zwan puts it, "This is technology to reach
inside the light."
Super Power -- worldwide
In 1993, Zwan needed investors to take Digital Lightwave out of the
incubator. He found a wealthy business partner while visiting
Scientology's international spiritual retreat, the Fort Harrison Hotel in
Clearwater.
One day over lunch in the hotel's Hibiscus room, a Scientology staff
member introduced Zwan to Brian Haney, a fellow entrepreneur visiting from
Columbus, Ohio. Haney had become a millionaire in his 20s selling toys
through his Great American Fun Corp.
Digital Lightwave was no more than a startup then, fueled by Zwan's
enthusiasm and vision. He had yet to manufacture a product and had just a
handful of employees. Haney was intrigued.
Days later, Zwan traveled to Columbus to discuss a deal, meeting Haney at
the Scientology facility there. But there was a twist: Zwan had a
Scientology staff member in tow. Haney had plenty of questions about
Digital, but they would have to wait.
First on the agenda was Scientology. The church wanted $100,000 for its
planned Super Power building in Clearwater, a massive, $50-million complex
now under construction. Haney balked. He had already given the project
$200,000. But Zwan and the church staffer kept asking. Eventually, Haney
wrote the check.
The businessmen then turned to Digital Lightwave. The two Scientologists
discussed using Hubbard's teachings to run the company.
They had an unspoken understanding, Haney said: No one would mention
Scientology and Digital in the same breath. "It was known people would
frown upon it," Haney said. Investors and potential customers might be
leery of a company with ties to a controversial church.
As Digital grew, Haney said, they planned to donate millions back to the
church.
"We were going to be two Scientologists who ran a Scientology company that
would bring in a ton of money that would get donated to Scientology so
Scientology could put up Super Power buildings all over the globe," said
Haney, now 43.
Zwan refuses to talk about his early days with Haney. But he insists: "I
did not start Digital Lightwave with the aspiration of it as a vehicle to
invest in Scientology." Further, he says Scientology's business principles
were never used at Digital.
The entrepreneurs made a pact. For $5-million, Haney said, he wound up
with 49 percent of the company and left daily operations to Zwan.
More knowledge reports
With Haney's millions, Zwan moved his small company to Clearwater in 1995,
renting space in the green glass Atrium Building on Cleveland Street near
Scientology headquarters.
The move, Zwan said, had nothing to do with the church. The Tampa Bay area
topped an 11-city survey because it was near water and in a state with no
income tax.
Haney believes otherwise: "One of his reasons for moving the company to
Florida was ... he could hire Scientologists. It was a given that all
Scientologist employees were superior to all non-Scientologist employees."
By late 1995, Digital was ready to debut its flagship optic tester: the
ASA 312.
The relationship between Haney and Zwan had frayed, though. Haney and his
wife, Linda, had grown disillusioned with Scientology and left the church.
The church labeled Mrs. Haney a "suppressive person," a name given to
people the church believes are working against it. Church members are not
to associate with a suppressive person.
Haney said Zwan summoned him to a meeting at the Fort Harrison with church
staff member Mary Voegeding Shaw, now president of FLAG, Scientology's
spiritual retreat in Clearwater. Haney recalled the conversation:
"Mary Voegeding says to me because my wife is a declared (suppressive)
person I cannot be a partner in business with Bryan Zwan and that I only
have two choices: I have to either divorce my wife or stop being Bryan
Zwan's partner."
Haney looked at Zwan.
"That's right," Zwan said to Haney. "Those are the two choices."
Haney thought: "I'm in a room with crazy people."
Church officials bristle at Haney's account, describing it as "completely
fabricated" and "out there." They say he has no credibility. His funding
of anti-Scientology efforts in recent years is evidence he targets
Scientology to "drag it through the mud," Rathbun said.
Haney says Zwan told him that the company's future was rocky and that he
should get out while he could. Haney agreed.
Needing money to buy out Haney, Zwan turned to Scientologists Leon
Meekcoms and Gerald Ellenburg, both real estate investors.
The two agreed to help raise the cash. But within a few months, they were
complaining Zwan had not repaid investors and had not followed through on
other promises.
Ellenburg and Meekcoms detailed their complaints in March 1996 in two
knowledge reports addressed to high-ranking church officials.
Ellenburg requested an immediate review by the church. He warned that
while he, Zwan and Meekcoms were "bound" to settle their disputes through
"church channels," other investors were not. Those "not bound by the rules
of our church" could go to court, he noted.
A church ethics officer told Ellenburg and Zwan to settle their dispute
themselves.
Taking it to The Street
Despite the friction among investors, Digital started selling its product,
recording $6-million in sales in 1996. Zwan decided to sell stock to the
public, a bold move to generate cash so his young company could grow
faster.
To help navigate the expansion, Zwan recruited Seth Joseph, a 41-year-old
securities lawyer from Miami, as his No. 2. One of the few
non-Scientologists in Digital management, Joseph was given a $250,000
salary and up to 656,666 stock options, potentially worth millions.
Another executive came aboard then, too: Denise Licciardi, a 36-year-old
Scientologist and sister of the church's leader, Miscavige.
While she had no formal education beyond high school, Licciardi was a
go-getter with administrative experience at other companies, including a
New Hampshire firm run by Scientologists who followed L. Ron Hubbard
business principles.
Zwan soon promoted Licciardi to vice president of administration, paid her
a $123,000 salary and gave her 60,000 stock options.
Her authority bothered Joseph, who questioned her qualifications. "She was
very, very close to Bryan beyond what her skills would warrant," he said.
"It was because of her relationship with Bryan in Scientology."
Zwan said he "didn't know her, (she) wasn't a friend." Licciardi applied
for the job after hearing about it from her mother, who lives in
Clearwater.
With Zwan's management team in place, the once-tiny private company had
grown to 90 employees and was about to become a Wall Street player.
But first, a personnel matter needed tidying up before the company could
go public. Digital's investment banker asked company brass if it was true
that executive vice president Elizabeth Weigand was, indeed, a felon. She
was. In 1980, Weigand was convicted of trying to extort money from her
uncle, former U.S. Sen. Thomas Eagleton, D-Mo., who said at the time that
he believed his niece intended to give the money to Scientology. She
resigned from Digital.
On Feb. 6, 1997, Digital Lightwave staged a successful initial public
offering, trading at $12 a share. For Zwan, that meant his 20-million
shares were suddenly worth $240-million.
After Zwan, the biggest stakeholder was Norton Karno, L. Ron Hubbard's
former personal attorney attorney, whose shares jumped to more than
$7-million in value.
Also hitting the jackpot was Scientologist Doug Dohring, who served as
Digital's president for just eight months. When he cashed out his stock
options in late 1997, long after leaving the company, he made more than
$1-million.
Left out of the millionaire's jubilee was Haney, the early investor who
had left Scientology. Saying he had been tricked into selling back his
shares, Haney later sued Zwan, claiming his stock would eventually have
been worth $235-million.
Not visible to Wall Street were the atmospherics at Digital Lightwave.
Just months after coming aboard, a frustrated Licciardi wanted more of
Hubbard's "Admin tech" in the workplace. She wrote Zwan a nine-page memo
reminding him that in recruiting her and other Scientologists, he had
promised to use the Scientology methods.
"We left our lives behind for a reasonable salary (and) a small ... amount
of stock to help you attain your goal," she wrote. "Here all we are trying
to do is get to be a billion-dollar company in the telecom industry. Why
don't we just apply the tech?"
Though Hubbard's practices were not formally adopted, the aura of
Scientology was present at Digital. The company's organizational chart
closely resembled Scientology's "org boards," where departments are
referred to as divisions.
Former controller Mike Tinsley said he didn't understand the company's
structure until he visited a Clearwater drugstore run by a Scientologist.
"They had the exact same org chart on their wall as we had in our
company," Tinsley said.
Gossiping and joking about Scientology even got workers in trouble.
Tinsley said he was instructed to fire an accounting clerk who mentioned
to a co-worker that she had seen credit card statements detailing how much
some Scientologists had donated to the church.
Technical writer Sean Ward was fired as a contractor after e-mailing three
Digital employees and saying about Scientology: "Can you believe people in
your company really believe this?"
'Scientology ... at risk'
In early 1997, the newly public Digital was being directed by Zwan from
his Clearwater "war room." Employees said he set unrealistic goals: Double
sales every quarter; quadruple sales by the end of the year.
The aggressive efforts came after first quarter sales missed the targets
and the stock tumbled as low as $3 a share.
In the following months, Digital reported overblown sales numbers.
Salesmen loaned to clients demonstration units that were counted as sales.
Units were stored at employees' homes, but counted as sold goods.
Documents obtained by the Times detail another messy episode not revealed
to investors. At the center: Zwan's fellow Scientologist, Licciardi.
It was December 1997, and Digital was racing to fill orders before the
year-end closing of the books.
Customers were returning Digital's product. Manufacturing employees were
working late, filling orders that had already been booked as sales in the
previous quarter. Without a big contract, the company might have to
declare fourth-quarter "negative sales" -- a nearly unheard-of admission
that more product was returned than sold.
Then that big contract arrived, literally at the last moment: New Year's
Eve. Pac Pacific of California ordered $9-million worth of Digital's
testing units.
Zwan turned to Licciardi to get the shipment out ASAP.
Company records suggested all the units were assembled and shipped New
Year's Eve. In fact, only 71 of the 308 units were finished despite the
scrambling.
Some workers labored until 3 a.m., then grudgingly came back in later on
New Year's Day. One was Chuck Anderson. His wife was five months pregnant
and fed up with his overtime. Moreover, Anderson was tired of Licciardi's
bossy ways. He just had to tell somebody.
So days later, he did. He wrote an 11-page, single-spaced knowledge report
to Scientology leaders and Zwan, detailing all he had seen the last few
months.
Anderson wrote that Licciardi was out of control. She was hurting morale
by screaming, cursing and pushing people too far, he said. She was
bypassing the chain of command. It was Licciardi, he wrote, who came up
with the idea of putting half-built, half-tested units into boxes to give
the impression production was done.
Digital Lightwave was "vulnerable" because too many people knew what was
happening, he wrote, and bad publicity could put "Scientology and
Scientologists at risk given the local scene."
The "local scene" in January 1998 was the rancorous controversy over the
death of Scientologist Lisa McPherson. A month before, police had taken
the unprecedented step of recommending criminal charges in connection with
her death while in the care of fellow Scientologists. The case was making
headlines around the world.
Anderson also reminded church officials of a Scientology-related business
scandal: "Look what happened with TradeNet."
A Dunedin company owned and run by Scientologists, TradeNet was
investigated by state regulators as a possible pyramid scheme. State
records showed that Scientologists at TradeNet also were keeping the
church in the loop. One communication said church officials were "s----
bricks" over the company's bad press.
Zwan said he relayed Anderson's report to Licciardi without reading it.
Later, he ordered Anderson to shred it.
In a recent interview, Zwan said he never has written any knowledge
reports to the church about company business and he found the fact
Anderson did "extremely odd."
"It's never been done before, never done since," he said.
Church officials say there is no record they ever received Anderson's
report. "We could spend hours and hours and hours going and checking this
to say with absolute certainty that nobody ever got any copy of that,"
said Scientology official Mike Rinder. "We can't guarantee that there may
not be a person out there that may have seen something."
As it turned out, all the commotion on that memorable New Year's Eve ended
in a whimper. Digital's board of directors refused Zwan's plea to count
the Pac Pacific sale as revenue.
But the overblown sales had caught up to Digital. Three weeks after the
New Year's Eve episode, the company issued a "restatement" of its earnings
to investors, publicly acknowledging earlier financial reports were not
accurate.
Nearly half the sales Digital reported in the second quarter of 1997
involved deals that either never happened or were not closed. A stunning
79 percent of third quarter sales were wiped off the books.
The restatement triggered SEC and Nasdaq investigations, and more than 20
shareholder lawsuits. And as the company was reeling from the bad
publicity, it was facing another crisis internally.
Licciardi told higherups that on New Year's Eve she had shipped out a
couple of dozen partly filled boxes to be counted as sales. And co-workers
said she had done it before. The company's top brass was astounded.
"It was clear she had to go," said Joseph, the lawyer who served as Zwan's
No. 2. "She had committed criminal conduct. She admitted to it. ... It was
devastating."
A fateful Monday
Tensions came to a head on Jan. 26, an overcast Monday just four days
after the restatement.
Scientologists and non-Scientologists turned on each other as the
company's top two financial officers, Joseph and Steve Grant, called for
Zwan to fire Licciardi.
A group of Scientologists in the company went to Zwan to rally support for
Licciardi.
That morning, some said they saw Scientologists in distinctive naval
uniforms in the corridors. Others said it was hired security.
But the effect was the same, particularly on Grant, the company's chief
financial officer. Grant, who is not a Scientologist, feared retribution
if a prominent Scientologist like Licciardi was asked to leave. He removed
photos of his family from his desk.
"There were some very, very angry shareholders (because of the
restatement) and now there were some very, very angry Scientologists,"
Grant said.
The skittish financial officer even arranged for a security guard at his
home. Grant wasn't the only one taking precautions. Zwan signed off on a
$1,500 request for an electronic sweep for eavesdropping devices in
Digital's offices.
Licciardi said she was shocked when Zwan started pointing fingers at her.
She felt "like I'm in the f--- twilight zone," Licciardi would later tell
SEC investigators. "Suddenly he was making it seem like I was running wild
over the organization unbeknownst to him."
But Licciardi saw Zwan soften, and by day's end she was helping him
coordinate a legal strategy to combat the SEC investigation. For help, she
contacted widely known broadcaster and fellow Scientologist Greta Van
Susteren, who recommended a former SEC attorney.
"She said we should say we are friends of Greta Van Susteren's," Licciardi
wrote in an e-mail to Zwan.
Joseph said he received the unexpected news that Licciardi was still part
of the team from Zwan himself. Zwan reminded him "whose sister she is" and
said it would be "excruciating" to try to terminate her, Joseph said. Zwan
won't discuss his conversations with Joseph and Licciardi.
Three days later, it was non-Scientologist Joseph who was forced out. Zwan
said Joseph's firing was part of a companywide restructuring. Joseph cried
foul, filing an arbitration complaint to recoup thousands of stock
options. An arbitrator later sided with Joseph, ordering Digital to pay
him $3.8-million.
Joseph's attorney accused Zwan of orchestrating a "coverup" in which "the
person who wouldn't go along with it was terminated and the people who
went along get enriched."
But Licciardi didn't survive either. In two weeks, she was gone too. Yet
her departure was largely on her own financial terms, which she spelled
out in an e-mail to Zwan titled "Ending Cycle," a Scientology term. She
told Zwan she was "without a doubt guilty of executing on orders without
question."
Licciardi wrote she applied "Simon Bolivar to a "T,' " a Scientology
phrase referring to loyalty.
She promised Zwan she would not bail on him. "For you," she added, "I will
take the fall."
Other than receiving one year's salary instead of three, Licciardi
received the severance package she demanded: vesting of her 70,000 stock
options; forgiveness of a $71,000 Digital loan; three cell phones; and a
laptop computer.
She also successfully pleaded with Zwan not to publicly mention her
departure or connect her with any wrongdoing. Her fear: "In the public
eye, I will take the heat for the mistakes made at Digital Lightwave Inc.
and due to my familial connections, will pay for this dearly on my road to
spiritual freedom," she wrote.
With Joseph and Licciardi gone, Digital's board zeroed in on Zwan, worried
the company was faltering under his stewardship.
Board member Bill Seifert, a Boston-area venture capitalist, said he urged
Zwan to turn Digital over to a professional manager or "his baby would
die."
Jeff Marshall, another director at the time, called Zwan "incompetent."
"He was a big shareholder and I wish we had had the guts to fire him right
then and there," he said, "but we didn't."
New leader, big bucks
Digital's stock continued its slump through 1998. By year's end, the
shares traded at $2.31 a share, an 83 percent annual decline. Sales were
up, but so were losses. The board's dissatisfaction mounted.
That December, Zwan stepped aside as CEO, and the board found a
replacement with no ties to Scientology.
Gerry Chastelet, CEO of Wandel & Goltermann Technologies in North
Carolina, arrived on a self-described mission to build up Digital's
reputation with customers and play down ties to Scientology.
With Digital's stock hovering around $2 a share, Chastelet believed he
could pump up the stock tenfold.
Raised on a farm in Niagara Falls, Ontario, Chastelet wasn't averse to
hard work. As a youth, he spent summers stacking 100-pound bags of flour
in a mill and sweating inside a steaming-hot nickel refinery.
Digital was moving into new headquarters, a $19-million building at the
south end of the Bayside Bridge. Yet, old ghosts lingered.
Tension between Scientologists and non-Scientologists was still palpable.
Employees complained their e-mails were being read, although Chastelet
never found proof.
"There was a general mistrust between certain factions about what other
factions may be thinking, saying or doing," Chastelet recalled. "Some felt
every action they did was being watched."
Seeking to defuse tension, he held a companywide briefing to declare any
infringements on privacy would not be tolerated. He ordered an electronic
sweep looking for bugs. Nothing was found, he said.
He told his human resources director to remove and destroy any
Scientology-related documents in personnel files. The purge included some
"statistics reports," a Scientology business tool used to track employee
productivity.
Scientology-based organizational charts were used when he arrived,
Chastelet said, but not for long. "Divisions" such as sales and
manufacturing were renamed "departments." The treasury division under Zwan
became the finance department under Chastelet.
Chastelet brought analysts and customers to Digital's new offices for
PowerPoint briefings.
He thought: "If we do a good job ... all of the chattering about
Scientology will no longer absorb the Internet pages," Chastelet said.
"And people will start to recognize the company for what it is."
In May 1999, Digital landed Lucent as a customer; a month later, Cisco
placed its first order. Then came Nextel and Level 3.
By July, Digital showed signs of weathering the restatement fiasco,
recording a profit amid the dot-com bull market.
Sales continued to surge, and by January 2000, Digital shares were trading
at a lofty $62.75. The company was profiled as a poster child of
overpriced tech stocks in a front-page article in the Wall Street Journal.
Two months later, Digital's stock reached $150 a share, giving it a
remarkable value of $4-billion. The Clearwater enterprise, with about 200
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