Author Archives: Garry Rodgers

About Garry Rodgers

After three decades as a Royal Canadian Mounted Police homicide detective and British Columbia coroner, International Best Selling author and blogger Garry Rodgers has an expertise in death and the craft of writing on it. Now retired, he wants to provoke your thoughts about death and help authors give life to their words.

IS SCIENTOLOGY A CRAZY CULT AND BIG FAT GLOBAL SCAM?

Scientology. Just the sound can send shivers through your spine. Likely, you already have a bad opinion about it. If you’re with the majority, you’ll think Scientologists are a brainwashing bunch with devious designs to con your cash. But if you’re with a small minority, you’ll see Scientology as a vastly misunderstood new-age religion offering you spiritual enlightenment, inner peace, and a path towards universal knowledge. Both these views can’t be right.

I knew nothing about Scientology except for Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s couch and John Travolta’s disastrously-bad flick called Battlefield Earth. It wasn’t until a few years ago that our then-fourteen-year-old son and I were cutting through mid-town Manhattan from Hell’s Kitchen to our hotel in Times Square. There, on our left along 46th, was the Scientology Church of New York City.

“Hey, look at that!” I pointed and said to Alan. “Scientology. Let’s check it out.”

“Da-ad…” Alan shook his head. “Everyone knows Scientology is a crazy cult and a big fat global scam.”

I looked down on him. “Whadda you know about Scientology?”

“A guy called L. Ron Hubbard started it in the nineteen-fifties from a science fiction book, and he sucked hundreds of thousands of people into believing humans were planted on Earth seventy-five million years ago by a giant space alien named Xenu who was the evil tyrant ruler or dark lord of the Galactic Confederacy. Hubbard said Xenu brought zillions of early humans to this planet and blasted them with hydrogen bombs in volcano craters to free them of their souls which he called Thetans. Scientologists believe Thetans still hang around and use engrams to make people dumb, and if you pay their church enough money they’ll audit you with E-Meters and sell you books, counseling, and courses to clear you of bad stuff and help you reach Operating Thetan Level III where you’re supposed to know everything that’s secret about the universe. By then, they got all your money and screwed your mind.”

“Whaat? That’s preposterous! Where’d you hear that?”

“South Park. They just did an episode on Scientology.”

“You don’t believe everything on South Park, do you? Look at how many times they killed Kenny.”

“Da-ad. South Park is satire. That’s what they do. Trash stupid idiots like Scientologists.”

“Well, I wanna see this for myself.” I headed for the door. “C’mon. We’re goin’ in.”

“O-kay, but I’m warning you.” Alan dithered four paces back. “First thing they’re going to do is show you around, then try sell you some of their shit and get you to join.”

We entered through the well-lit lobby leading into an expansive reception area. It wasn’t what I expected, although I had no idea what to expect. This place appeared first-class and professional in every way.

Immediately, Alan and I were warmly greeted by an attractive lady named Adriana who was the epitome of youth and exuberance. Adriana was conservatively dressed in casual business attire and her persona radiated with confidence and commitment. She asked a few comfortable qualifiers, then welcomed us on a personal facility tour.

Adriana explained the Church of Scientology was unlike any other organized religion. Always making eye contact with me, and trying to do so with Alan, Adriana led us through the Public Information Center and said her organization was all about spiritually enlightening people so they can live free and healthy lives. I noticed there was no mention of God or any reference to Christianity which is what I thought a church was all about.

Adriana took us through the Dianetics and Scientology Bookstore where a wall-to-wall materials guide chart offered “millions of published words and thousands of lectures” personally written and spoken by the organization’s founder, L. Ron Hubbard. I noticed a wall plaque with the message, “Free Introductory Lectures are Available. Come as Often as You Like. Bring Your Friends”. Then I sat, and Alan squirmed, through a short audio-visual presentation which was convincingly prepared and with no money spared in production.

Adriana offered Alan and I more of her time. She guided us to the mezzanine overlooking the Chapel and invited us into the Field Activities Center. Here, Adriana said, Scientologists practiced ceremonies ranging from weddings to namings to commencements to funerals. To me, this appeared more of an intertwined family of individual betterment than a conventional religion where it was a parishioner’s blind duty to pray to an unseen supernatural deity and unquestioningly adhere to prescribed dogma. I remained open-minded, but I can’t say the same for Alan.

Adriana looked around, then quietly asked if we’d like a look behind the scenes at the Church’s operational area. I wasn’t going to pass that up, and Alan had no choice. We entered a room called the Testing Center. Here, newbies like us were exposed to an “introductory service” that allowed an “understanding of personal capabilities and a directional path toward spiritual awareness”.

Discreetly, Adriana let us know that Scientology had an entire array of life improvement courses beyond their basic books and lectures. I murmured that might be interesting. Alan gave me a hard left elbow, and we moved on to the Purification Centre.

This was an unusual place. It was a cross between a gym, a video arcade, and a no-host bar. One wall was a massive mural of the Manhattan skyline. In front were these treadmill-like machines with personalized screens where you could watch Scientology films while hooked into earphones.

Adriana explained this room was a place where “preclears” could mentally and spiritually purify themselves of drug and alcohol toxins as well as psychological damage from misleading input due to conventional religious exposure. I said I could have used this when I used to work out with a hangover. Alan cringed, and we proceeded to the Guidance Center where one-on-one spiritual counseling took place.

Next, we followed our host to the third-floor Auditing Room. Here, for the first time, I saw a real live E-Meter. I was most curious as I’d never heard of this thing and, apparently, it was the mechanized heart of Scientology indoctrination.

The official name for this testing device is an electropsychometer. It’s somewhat like a one-lane polygraph than measures your electrodermal activity (EDA) which is your galvanic skin reaction to controlled questions. Taking an E-Meter evaluation, I was told, was a first step in “auditing” a preclear before advancing in incremental Scientology stages.

I asked Alan if he wanted to give it a whirl. He cowered as if hiding behind his momma’s apron with his thumb in his mouth. Adriana tactfully explained they didn’t conduct audits before a preclear was properly prepared. We left the E-Meter room for the Scientology Academy where budding Scientologists who’ve attained a “clear” state train to be “Auditors” themselves.

By now, we were a good half-hour into this place. Adriana seemed to be comfortable with this Canadian skeptic and his captive son. She offered us a rare opportunity. Adriana had the keys to L. Ron Hubbard’s original office on the executive floor.

I wasn’t turning that down for a second. Neither could Alan. We rode the elevator and exited into a plush hallway with two massive wood doors at one end. I shoved Alan along behind Adriana. Slowly, methodically, and respectfully, she unlocked the boss’s private sanctuary and gave us passage.

It was impressive, I’ll admit. The tastes were exquisite and the appointments classy. The Founder’s desk was an exotic hardwood with matching chairs padded in leather. To one side was a magnificent bookcase filled with bound editions and prized possessions. There was even the touch of fresh flowers in a vase, the scent of something mixed with soft music, and a glass statue of the Empire State Building.

I remarked that it wouldn’t be hard to spend time in this place. I thought Alan might vomit. Adriana smiled and agreed. She suggested we go back to the main floor’s bookstore where she wished to share some literature about the Church of Scientology.

Adriana produced two publications personally penned by L. Ron Hubbard. One was Dianetics – The Modern Science of Mental Health. The other was Scientology – The Fundamentals of Thought. She explained these were the two best groundings for initiation into the Church of Scientology, and we’d best start with the basics before moving on to more advanced material.

During our time, Adriana was most inclusive of Alan. She acknowledged him throughout and treated him as a valued addition to the Church despite his junior age. Adriana reassuringly said everyone was accepted into the Scientology sphere without discrimination for age or race.

Then, she proved Alan right. I could have the two books for fifty bucks and was encouraged to select more – preferably the whole series for a one-time discount. Alan kicked me, and I had to go into damage control, desperately trying to save face.

My comeback was that no other religious organization, that I knew of, outright profited from their works. Hell, I said, even the Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons gave their propaganda for free. I went so far as to say I bet if I walked into a Catholic Church they’d give me a complimentary bible.

Adriana fidgeted. She’d thought she’d built a solid report and a sale. Now, we were turning on her. I’ll give her credit, though, as she quickly compromised. She put away the two new copies of Dianetics and Scientology and came back with some used books with dog-eared pages. She offered a trade with a caveat. I had to give Adriana my email address.

Alan didn’t say a word as we departedly shook hands with Adriana. He remained mute as we moved through the hustle and bustle of Times Square. He stayed quiet as we rode to our 17th-floor room in the Marriott, and he never again mentioned our Scientology experience. Alan grinned, however, while he gamed as I laid on the bed and browsed through Dianetics and Scientology. #@!#$! – I was determined to figure out what made these guys tick.

The best I could find glean is L. Ron Hubbard was a depressed science fiction writer sick of scribing short stories for a penny-per-word. Another starving artist told Hubbard that, if he really wanted to get rich, he should start a religion. The light went on in Hubbard’s head when he realized the religious market was far bigger than Sci-Fi and that churches were tax-exempt.

Ron Hubbard capitalized on an earlier SF piece he’d been successful with. It involved a made-up space warlord he called Xenu from whom he’d developed the Thetan storyline of disembodied human souls seeded on earth in prehistoric times. Hubbard seemed to think that if it grabbed one small niche audience, it might work with a mass religious market, provided it was convincingly sold to the gullible.

To sell the Xenu saga, Hubbard expanded the Thetan characters. He had to make them relate to living souls looking for guidance and meaning to life. Hubbard came up with a measuring stick he called Dianetics. That came from the Greek words dia, meaning through, and nous, meaning mind or soul – or what the mind or soul does through the body.

In 1950, Hubbard published his first edition of Dianetics: A New Science of Mind in the popular print magazine Astounding Science Fiction. The magazine title should have told people something about the content, but such is the power of belief. It took off and Hubbard had his ups and downs with the publicity.

He fell on financial frailty. By 1952, L. Ron Hubbard realized he needed a bigger vehicle to transport his Dianetics sales so he invented an organization around it called the Church of Scientology. That term also originated in Greek from scio, meaning knowing, and logos, meaning study of. Therefore, Scientology was the academic study of knowledge and Dianetics was its practical back-up to prove it right.

It wasn’t long before two things happened. One was Scientology snowballed into a big deal with many post-war people rejecting conventional religion and moving towards new-age gurus. The other was Scientology began to make serious money which attracted the tax and law-enforcement folks.

By the 60s and 70s, Hubbard built his Scientology club into the proverbial well-oiled machine. He was a good delegator and allowed a committed downline to run day-to-day operations while he focused on pumping out new material. This included prolific writings which became Scientology scriptures and he filmed or recorded volumes of doctrine lectures.

Scientology got away on L. Ron Hubbard. It came under a lot of negative pressure – media, religious, entertainment, and legal bodies. His group’s defense modus operandi (MO) was aggressively litigating anyone who criticized the Church of Scientology. That included dissenters within the organization, outside religious competitors, and the United States Internal Revenue Service. Some suits Scientology won. Some they lost. And one big one with the IRS was settled with Scientology secretly paying back taxes and being allowed to carry on as a “not-for-profit recognized religion in the US. This was despite almost every non-banana republic seeing Scientology as a purely commercial enterprise bordering on criminal fraud.

Ron Hubbard was a marketing guy if he was nothing else. He recognized the power of celebrity status as a force-multiplier, and he turned his recruitment sights on Hollywood. Over the years, A-listers like Travolta and Cruise championed the cause and were joined by names like Kirstie Alley, Lisa Marie Presley, and Leah Remini who turned out to be a twenty-first-century public relations disaster for Scientology.

You can’t dispute Scientology’s financial and congregational success during the 50s through 90s. Figures are foggy, but it appears they amassed well north of the billion mark in assets, much of that liquid cash. Scientology also asserted a prominent presence around the globe and claimed a multi-million membership.

All empires have their rise and fall. L. Ron Hubbard was an internationally-charged criminal fugitive by the 1980s. By unofficial accounts, Hubbard died on January 24, 1986. He was alone, hiding in a filthy room on a secluded California ranch with matted hair and rotten teeth.

David Miscavige – Church of Scientology Leader

However, L. Ron Hubbard was smart enough to earlier evoke an attrition plan. Back in the 60’s, he mentored a protégé named David Miscavige who now heads the Church of Scientology. Now, here’s a slick little operator – he makes Tom Cruise look tall and a novice actor. Just watch the promo videos. David Miscavige comes across as the smoothest and most sincere televangelist to hit the screen since Tammy Faye died and Jimmy Swaggart cried.

David Miscavige is far from fart-free. He has a tremendous albatross hanging over his head, and that’s because his wife, Michele Miscavige, has been missing since 2007. It’s been twelve years since anyone’s seen hide nor hair of her.

But, David Miscavige has been a force in holding the Church of Scientology together through its troubles. Miscavige fought off crushing collaborative claims of Scientology being a crazy cult and a big fat global scam.  Despite Miscavige’s ministering, Scientology’s future is uncertain. Membership is way down despite grossly exaggerated claims on its website.

Scientology’s biggest threat is itself. It’s also the power of the internet that leaves Scientology vulnerable to exposure beyond is litigious control. Today, people are far more in-tune, connected, and less likely to accept recruitment pitches without first fact-checking. That’s an Achilles Heel to the Church of Scientology.

So, is the Church of Scientology a crazy cult and big fat global scam? Let’s look at a couple of things starting with the Scientology website and how they present their position.

If you click on Scientology.org, you’ll enter a first-class site that has a lot of money invested in it. There’s nothing apparently misleading, on the surface, and the information walks you through what they present as a world-leading movement addressing “the spirit – not the body or mind – and that Man is far more than a product of his environment or his genes”.

Hold it. “Man?” As in male? When you page through Scientology’s website, you can’t help but notice it’s written in the masculine. That, in its self, should tell you something – particularly if you’re female or other non-male identifier.

The website section What Is Scientology? continues with this: “Scientology comprises a body of knowledge which extends from fundamental truths. Prime among these are:

  • Man is an immortal spiritual being.
  • His experience extends well beyond a single lifetime.
  • His capabilities are unlimited, even if not presently realized.

Scientology further holds Man to be basically good, and that his spiritual salvation depends upon himself, his fellows and his attainment of brotherhood with the universe. Scientology is not a dogmatic religion in which one is asked to accept anything on faith alone. On the contrary, one discovers for himself that the principles of Scientology are true by applying its principles and observing or experiencing the results. The ultimate goal of Scientology is true spiritual enlightenment and freedom for all.”

The site information continues to explain that Scientology is a workable technology. It’s a methodology that draws on 50,000 years of wisdom bridging Eastern philosophy with Western thought. According to Scientology promotional literature, this religion is something a “Man” does to better himself.

The official Scientology website doesn’t say exactly how a “Man” does this, but it does pay particular homage to L. Ron Hubbard. The site claims Hubbard was the first to scientifically isolate, measure, and describe the human spirit. Hubbard block-quotes like this frequent the site as credibility:

I dug deep into Scientology’s website. Nowhere did I find any reference to Xenu and the soul-seeding story. However, they’re quite open about their term Thetan which, they say, is a spiritual state of being oneself. They refer to achieving levels of Operating Thetan that are self-reliant existence. The information indicates that the higher the Operating Thetan level (which seems to go from one to maybe even eight) the more spiritually aware a Scientologist is and the more influence they have on those below them.

To me, it sounds a bit like a multi-level marketing organization or pyramid scheme. I had a brush with Amway in a former life. Amway makes really good soap, but I was uncomfortable with their psychological system. While I don’t believe there’s anything crooked at all about Amway, my experience was it’s definitely a clique that rewards and promotes top sellers while shunning low-performers. Amway makes no bones that it’s a free-enterprise outfit bent on making the all-American buck.

I’m not so sure about Scientology.  On one hand, Scientology proudly describes itself as a religion. By definition, religion structures are not-for-profit applications that enjoy tax breaks. On the other hand, if you go through the Scientology site, there are scads of products and services for sale like books, lectures, films, and online courses. Most have prices attached, and this is clearly for profit.

In my opinion, Scientology seems far more cult-like than soap-selling Amway that doesn’t claim to be, or flagrantly flog, religion. There’s no doubt Scientology has a hidden agenda and operates on a bait-and-switch method. That’s precisely what Adriana was doing with Alan and me. She carried on with follow-up emails until I blocked her.

I did some Googling and found lots of stuff about cults. Some are/were dangerous public menaces like the Branch Davidians who shot-it-out with the ATF in Waco, Texas. Others are more nuisances like Hari Krishna and door-knocking J-Dubs. To see if Scientology fits within the classic cult framework, I sourced this checklist from Skeptic Magazine’s 2011 article on cults. True cults have these characteristics:

  • Veneration of the leader
  • Inerrancy of the leader
  • Dissent is discouraged
  • Truth is absolute
  • Morality is absolute
  • In-group/out-group mentality
  • Ends justify the means
  • Deceit and hidden agendas
  • Financial and/or sexual exploitation
  • Mind-altering practices
  • Lack of accountability
  • Isolation from friends and family
  • Aggressive recruitment practices
  • Persuasive techniques

I’ve spent a lot of time researching Scientology for this post and, to me, this “religion” checks off most of the boxes. If Scientology is not a cult, then nothing is a cult, and the term has no meaning.

Is Scientology a Crazy Cult?

If you accept that Scientology is a cult, then you have to wonder how crazy their beliefs and methods are. I couldn’t find anything whatsoever on the Scientology site about Xenu, the galactic warrior, but there are many, many accounts from ex-Scientologists corroborating this as being slowly divulged as a Man rises through Operating Thetan levels.

But, I did see an E-Meter with my own eyes and have to say this is the biggest bunch of pseudoscience bullshit I’ve ever encountered. To think an “auditor” can read you by asking controlled questions while you hold two steel cylinders is crazy. When you apply this craziness within a cult, it certainly meets the criteria for step one.

Is Scientology a Big Fat Global Scam?

This is step two of analyzing Scientology. There’s no question it’s big. In fact, at one time Scientology was enormous. Today, it seems to be losing ground with diminishing membership, weak recruitment, and cash-flow issues which cause Scientology administers to trim the fat where they can.

But, is Scientology a scam? That’s a subjective question, as Scientology legitimately provides material products and services while charging a fee. While that takes Scientology out of the true religion arena – and that’s for the revenuers – it still lets a person pay-to-play if they so choose.

Stop. If Scientology is a real cult, then how much individual choice and free will does an indoctrinated individual have once they’ve swallowed the Kool-Aid? Very little, as most recovering Scientologists attest. You’ll find all kinds of internet support sites to deprogram the Scientology-brainwashed and help them readjust to normal life.

Websters Dictionary describes a scam as “a fraudulent or deceptive act or operation“. Putting it in context, it’s one thing to try sell someone like me fifty dollars worth of worthless stuff that I fundamentally disagree with and simply refuse. It’s something else to suck an innocent and vulnerable person into draining their bank account and pledging total subservience.

In my mind, Scientology, at its core, is founded on dishonesty and deceit. That makes it a scam. I think the founding story of alien intervention and the current practice of auditing with an oscilloscope is crazy. I also think Scientology is a secular and restrictively-inclusive global enterprise – a cult – that may still be fat with riches.

In that case, Alan was right. Scientology is a crazy cult and a big fat global scam.

THE OLD STONE BUTTER CHURCH

*Note* I originally wrote this piece for the 2018 CBC Short Story Contest.

It called to me—the Old Stone Butter Church. It’ll call to you, too… if you’re ready.

The Old Stone Butter Church called from a rise, where it stands on Comiaken Hill keeping forlorn watch over Canada’s Cowichan River estuary and traditional lands of the Khowutzun First Nations People on British Columbia’s southern Vancouver Island. It’s stood fifteen decades—the Old Stone Butter Church—and it’s built to withstand fifteen more.

They handcrafted the Old Stone Butter Church with local basalt and sandstone—they being Khowutzun workers and Christian settlers paid with churned butter from the priest’s dairy herd. A half-pound of butter for a day’s laying stone. Fair trade, you could say, for those confirmed in Catholic faith and those cautiously caring their indigenous values.

It called to me on a November day when Quamichan winds blew plate-sized, golden maple leaves from soaking-wet branches, and browned evergreen needles fell from hulking firs mixed with over-protective cedars. I parked at the hill’s base along Tzouhalem Road. Step by slippery step over leaf-covered moss, I ascended the flagstone pathway, unsurely gripping the iron pipe handrail and passing a gauntlet of tree-bark faces independently judging my passage.

The Old Stone Butter Church loomed above, silhouetting what’s left of its classic cruciform architecture—masonry walls with embedded buttresses and a high-pitch, split-shake roof matching the backdrop of a gray fall sky. Its tired facade of vacant gothic window frames and a long-gone wooden front door gave a sad look compared to what was a once-thriving, nineteenth-century pretense happily beckoning parishioners within.

Outside, overgrowth of green salal and red salmonberry elbowed the church’s rock structure, inviting that sacred place back within the fold of nature’s harmony. Beyond the church, in a grassy field, a lone concrete cross marked the resting space of an elder in eternity, amid a grazing flock of wet, woolly sheep. And overhead, a ruling osprey screeched, outshouting the mass of raven and crow disciples perched below.

I stopped at the open doorway. It still called—the Old Stone Butter Church. Now louder… and longer… with its clear and definite message.

Shifting foot to foot, I surveyed the open vestibule and peered through cold, lonely dampness beyond the rotting jack arch that once welcomed worshipers to the warmth within. What is it? A move forth. What does the church want of me? With short and calculated steps, I crossed the narthex threshold and passed between the light and the dark.

I shivered, yet sweated. My sixty-year-old eyes adjusted to the dim, and they scanned the nave where bench rows once sat a gathered assembly under the pious approval of a scissor-vault ceiling. The floor—it was solid—like some form of mixed concrete pressed from the earth and emitting a gaseous odor not like old eggs but more as old soul.

Daylight shafted through openings that stained glass once filled and an oak door once barred. In ethereal twilight, I saw how a generation of vandals desecrated the old church making mockery of its teachings through graffiti sprayed in yellow and blue and red and black-upon-white with two offensive letters acting as parentheses enclosing the hallowed entrance—one a block-lettered “S” topped with a circular halo, the other a “B” crowned by devil horns.

I turned, facing the crossing leading to the apse and the altar. More graffiti defaced this sanctuary and some brute force had ripped rocks from the transcept, callously throwing them about with no regard for the past and what this sacristy symbolized.

I hear it shut—the vestibule door. It wasn’t a shove. Certainly not a slam. It was a solid and securing sound coinciding with a reassuring temperature change where the chill subsided as the light manifested from dismal dim to calming clarity. I looked back, and I watched as the circular window space above the now-present, paneled oak door turned from a clearing sky to a marvelous consecrational cross consumed with an enlightened rose-colored glow.

To my right and to my left, the gothic arches morphed into leaded stained glass windows of sun-filtered images showing Christian stories from Testaments new and old. Around me, the pews transformed, becoming clear-grained fir boards waxed to a shine with their backs holding leather-bound books filled with good words. Below, the gritty floor transpired into turquoise and lavender and emerald mosaics telling their version of millennia’s history.

And ahead, a crucifix appeared beyond the crossing, before the chancel, mounted on the east wall above the now-formed, maple-wood pulpit draped in a ruby cloth with virginal white braids. Radiant light illuminated the old rugged cross from the cedar-paneled barrel vault—the full-sized cross supporting an exquisite supernatural figure cruelly spiked through the wrists and ankles—His face a balanced chastity of agony and ecstasy, perfectly representing the sins of the incarnate here on earth and the resurrected world of salvation far beyond our prison of mortal comprehension.

“Friend, it’s good to see you. It’s nice to know you care.”

The voice was around me. Not over, not under, not behind, nor ahead. It was everywhere within and without me. It was not male. It was not female. The best I can describe—a neutral voice with the feminine intelligence and majestic confidence of Meryl Streep and the beautiful baritone authority of Morgan Freeman. It was the voice of the Old Stone Butter Church.

 

“You… you called…” Humbly, I responded. I wasn’t scared nor alarmed. Not surprised or astounded. It felt natural to accept and submit, realizing some profound life change was occurring—I was entering an epiphany—and I was duty-bound to listen. “Why? Why have you called?”

“Because you are ready.” The voice was matter-of-fact. Straight-to-the-point. Kind of like Spock.

“Ready for… what? I… I don’t understand.” Perplexity stifled my speech.

“When the student is ready, the teacher shall appear.” The church’s voice confidently quoted a proverb. “You are ready to accomplish a task for me. I’ve called to instruct you.”

It was instinct to find the mouth—to look at the lips—that uttered my calling. I looked aside, viewing a black cast iron stove now convecting heat waves with the sensual smell of burning coal. Candle flickers accented gas lamps, allowing an ideal taste of comfort with glory. Only a parish remained to assemble, and this virtual reality of a bygone era would be consciously complete.

“How can… What can… I possibly do?”

“I need your help spreading a message.” The church was clear and concise, but firm. “To connect with people like yourself who are ready to receive the message. Several messages, actually, wrapped into one.”

“I… I… I’ll do what I can.”

An apprehensive urge overwhelmed me. I’m not Catholic, not baptized or raised in the faith. And I’m not a practicing Christian, but I had an instant respect for this church’s voice. There was something here I’d missed in my life. Now, coming into a period of retirement and retrospection, it was time. Time to listen. Unconsciously, I knelt at the crossing—genuflecting, I’m told they call it—and I opened my mind.

“I’ll outline my message…” The church paused, as if reflecting upon itself. “First, a bit of my background… how I came to present the physical state you walked to… how I lost tangible dignity but retained the inner strength and self-respect you see now.”

I stood, turning about and taking in a marvelous blend of tradition, order and décor. How something, someone, of such splendor could be so maliciously neglected seemed incomprehensible. And, how a bastion of civilization like a carefully crafted church could miraculously survive, despite infernal attempts to destroy it. Clearly, there was an answer in the message I was about to pass on.

“I had ten years of good run.” The church mused. “My builders were mixed. Local native people and immigrant Europeans. It’s much like how the country, the continent, was civilized… if you choose to use that term. But, like all organizations, there has to be mutual respect for every culture, faith, and belief involved. That’s a grounded principle in every society, regardless if Christian based, traditional native, or any type of religion based on history, doctrine and decent human principles. That didn’t happen with me, now called the Old Stone Butter Church.”

I detected emotion. The voice reminisced as if struggling to resolve the past and conform to, yet help shape the present and future. I listened.

“My decline began with a culture clash. Mistrust and suspicion. As you saw, my crafters had considerable skills and built my structure soundly with what they had. Rock. Wood. Mortar. They appointed me with handsome glass and hand-wrought iron. They built me as they saw fit, according to one-sided specifications. That was the Christian spectral view. Not the vision of spirituality from the Khowutzun people who have their own teachings to be respected.”

“What happened?” I was enthralled. “How did you fall into such shamble?”

“After ten years, the division between Caucasian settlers and indigenous landowners became unbearably stressed. Intolerance, by some in my Christian congregation, of native beliefs and values… not all by any means… forced my aboriginal followers to evict the parish from their lands. Oh, there were falsehoods spread of me being haunted and possessed by dark forces, but the reason… the truth… remains as often is… cultures are ignorantly disrespectful of each other despite a clear interconnectedness, and universal value, of all humanity.”

“And?”

“They stripped me of possessions… leaving me to stand bare… a witness to the world of religious strife and the resilience to represent truth for those wishing to find it. They… the Christian parishioners… took my stained glass windows, my oak doors, my pews, my altar, and my beloved crucifix away to a new location on non-native land and erected a new church to represent their clique. I remained empty… the Old Stone Butter Church… a vulnerable victim to vandals.”

“This is a shameful story.” I felt a throat lump, a sense of pity, yet profound curiosity. What do you want me to do?

“But, they didn’t take my spirit…

“…no…”

“… and you’re wondering what I want you to do. I need to confide before revealing my message. There is nothing holy about me. I’m just a human-built old rubble block, but I’m symbolic of a timeless truth. You don’t need me as a physical building to worship in or pray to. You can do that anywhere, and that’s what today’s masses are discovering… what they’re seeking. But most haven’t received the message, yet they’re ready. Many describe themselves as ‘Nones’. That being they don’t subscribe to any set religion.”

“Yes.”

“These are the ones I want to reach. It’s not that they’re atheist or agnostic, and they’re not so indoctrinated in religious dogma that they can’t be reached. No. Most Nones are too busy with life’s concerns to stop and reflect on what’s really important… what the core truth is in mortal existence and how I… an old relic… can help them ground.”

“I follow your past. And think I understand where you’re going.” I stayed fast, waiting for revelation. “But why call on me?”

“Because you are one of the most powerful people in society. Your kind has always been the most influential. The most persuasive force.”

“What? How am I powerful? I’m not an emperor, a politician… business tycoon. And I’m by no means an entertainment or religious icon.”

“Remind me of what you do for a living.”

“I’m… I’m a writer. I write books. Articles. Web pages. Do op-eds for the HuffPost. Like, whatever pays the bills.”

“Precisely. You’re a scribe. Scribes have always been the most powerful force in humanity. Emperors? Politicians? Tycoons? And religious icons and pop-entertainers? They come and they go and they’re at the mercy of scribes. They beg scribes for exposure… favorable, if they can get it. Otherwise, they fall at the scribes’ peril. Not at a foe’s sword but at a scribe’s quill.”

“You want me to write for you?” I wasn’t sure. “I am… honored… privileged… what is your message… how do you want my approach?”

“Getting my word out has never been easier. But…” The church calculated. “Telling it properly is the challenge. Today, you, the scribe, have unlimited access to the masses. You have your blog and website. You have social media platforms. You have connections with mainstream media you’ve built through years of credibility as a respected scribe. People will listen to you. If you present my message in a way they understand, it will help them function in the world as productive and contributing society members. And they will spread it through word of mouth… rather, today, word of mouse.“

“Word-of-mouse…”

“It starts with something being in it for them… especially the vulnerable Nones who have limited grounding or conviction in conventional spiritual health and worship-prescribed happiness.”

“What should I tell them?”

“Start my message by reassuring people that no religion has a monopoly on truth. But, most of the world’s religions have universal core concepts in their doctrine. Your human nature… it’s the cyclical nature of the universe… like the Khowutzen people knew and taught. You move forward from birth to death, after which you go back where you came from. It’s what you do unto, with, and for others during your earthly life now that matters. Not stocking-up self-important spirituality for some later event. As a side note, the concepts of heaven and hell are what you make for yourself while you exist here in human form.”

I nodded. There was no need for note taking.

“There is no limit to your human potential, but there is a limit to the time you have in your ethereal lifespan. It’s incumbent for you to use your precious time as wisely as you can. That means enlightening… knowing… your internal world of health and welfare so you can help others to help themselves. That’s my core message… it’s your purpose. Know yourself and be healthy in yourself. Then help others to help themselves. Build your placid world not with vain material assets… ultimately, build your internal peace with placid external relationships. Doing so… you make yourself and others… happy. And you don’t need a church for that.”

The church said no more. I heard what was in it for the Nones and the Scribes. It was now time to go.

Its candles and lamps extinguished. Its coal stove went out. Its stained glass turned back to open sky, and its oak front door released. Its pews were gone as was its crucifix holding the representation of human divinity. And its smell… the smell of old soul… returned.

I left the Old Stone Butter Church with a purpose—a purpose I suppose was there all along. I’ve new-found happiness and reinvigorated spiritual health. My mission is sharing the message with those receptive to hearing timeless truth. Now, I’m at my keyboard with the power of the internet—billions of interconnected souls potentially at my reach—and I start by scribing these words:

It called to me—the Old Stone Butter Church. It’ll call to you, too… if you’re ready.

DID LIZZIE BORDEN REALLY AX-MURDER HER PARENTS?

On August 4th in 1892, wealthy businessman Andrew Borden and his wife, Abby, were savagely slaughtered inside their home at Fall River, Massachusetts. The murder weapon was a multi-edged instrument thought to be an ax or a hatchet. Suspicion soon fell on their 32-year-old spinster daughter, Lizzie Borden. Lizzie was indicted, tried by a jury, and acquitted of the slayings. Today, the Borden homicide case remains officially unsolved, and some still don’t believe Lizzie Borden really ax-murdered her parents.

On the other hand, many are convinced Lizzie Borden was the sole culprit. They’ve suggested many possible motives and rightly note that judges held back crucially incriminating evidence from the New England jurors. Professional detectives and armchair sleuths alike point out that no one else ever seriously surfaced as a viable suspect. That, they say, tightens the noose around Lizzie Borden’s long-deceased neck.

It’s been 127 years since the Borden family tragedy. Over time, Lizzie Borden’s story elevated to one of the highest-profile killings in American history. There’ve been countless books, articles, movies, plays, songs, and even poems written about Lizzie Borden. One take is a famous skip-rope rhyme that goes like this:

That’s all fun and games on the playground but, the truth is, the Bordens were only struck twenty-nine times rather than the exaggerated eighty-one. Autopsies revealed 70-year-old Andrew Borden received ten hits to his face while 64-year-old Abby Borden suffered nineteen blows to her back and about her head. Regardless of counts, the murders were classic overkill—like the sign of pent-up anger. The question is… who did it and why. Let’s look at the Borden file facts, examine the motive, and determine whether or not Lizzie Borden really did ax-murder her parents.

The Borden Family History

Lizzie Andrew Borden was born on July 19, 1860, at Fall River which was a textile mill town about fifty miles south of Boston near the Cape Cod area of America’s upper Atlantic coast. Her christened name was Lizzie, not Elizabeth, and her middle name honored her father. He was a self-made financier with interests in the mills, real estate, and banking.

Lizzie Borden – Photo Date About 1890

Lizzie Borden’s birth-mother was Sarah Borden who died when Lizzie was two. That left her only sibling—a nine year older sister named Emma—to help care for Lizzie. Andrew Borden remarried in 1865 to Abby Gray who took on the Borden last name and became Lizzie and Emma’s step-mother. They raised Lizzie in a Central Congregational Protestant church environment and valued their heritage of being native-born to New England and not immigrants like the “lesser-class” mass of Irish Catholics and French Canadians who flocked to the area for mill work.

The Borden family resided at 92 Second Street in Fall River which is in the downtown area known as “The Flats”. The location was not as ritzy as “The Hill” which was a not-to-distant region where the wealthy resided. That included the extended Borden family and Lizzie’s cousins who enjoyed a more affluent and upscale life lifestyle with prestige afforded to the rich.

Bridget Sullivan – Photo Date Unknown

It wasn’t that Andrew Borden couldn’t afford to live and house his family in “The Hill”. By today’s currency value, Borden’s estimated portfolio was over eight million dollars. However, Andrew Borden was well known to be a frugal man who valued amassing money over spending it. As such, Lizzie Borden lived with her family in an older house that had no modern amenities like indoor plumbing or electricity.

The Borden family did splurge on having a live-in housekeeper. She was Bridget Sullivan, who was an Irish immigrant without a family of her own. Lizzie and Emma called their housekeeper “Maggie” who was 26-years-old when the murders happened.

The Borden Family Murders

On the morning of August 4th, 1892, Bridget Sullivan rose early to prepare breakfast for the Borden family. That included Andrew Borden, Abby Borden, Lizzie Borden and a house guest named John Morse who was the brother of Lizzie’s biological mother and Lizzie’s natural uncle. Morse had come to Fall River to discuss business dealings with Andrew Borden.

Breakfast was light for the Borden group as they all had come down with sudden intestinal problems over the past two days. Bridget Sullivan was also affected, but she carried on housekeeping duties which involved after-breakfast window washing. Lizzie was not employed, and she remained about the house doing some ironing, wearing a blue dress, while Abby did some dusting.

Borden House at 92 Second Street, Fall River, MS

Andrew Borden and John Morse left the house about 9 am and went on business errands. Emma Borden was not at home. Rather, she was still in nearby Fairhaven where she and Lizzie had gone a week earlier after a family disagreement. Lizzie returned to Fall River, but she’d stayed a few nights in a local rooming house before reconnecting with her folks at 92 Second Street on August 2nd.

According to evidence presented at Lizzie Borden’s trial, Abby Borden was last seen at about 9:30 am. She’d apparently gone upstairs to make-up the spare bedroom where John Morse overnighted. Bridget moved in and out of the house doing windows while it’s recorded that Lizzie stayed inside—her precise whereabouts unknown.

At about 10:30 am, Andrew Borden unexpectedly returned to the house as he was still unwell. Normally, he’d be gone until noon and come back for lunch. Andrew Borden attempted to get in through the formal front entry door which opened into a foyer. Here, a curved staircase led directly from the entryway to an upstairs landing off which was the spare bedroom and the doors to Lizzie and Emma’s private rooms.

Andrew Borden found the front door locked by a bolt from the inside. This was unusual, and it prevented him from accessing the foyer with his house key. He then rang the bell which got Bridget’s attention, and she let her employer inside. Bridget later testified she’d cussed the lock for sticking which prompted an unexpected laugh. Bridget said it came from Lizzie who was above and behind her on the formal staircase, perhaps as high as the upper landing.

Andrew Borden went straight from the foyer into the adjacent sitting room where he sat on a sofa and rested. Bridget left Andrew Borden alone and returned to the kitchen which is to the rear of the house off the sitting room. At this time, Bridget reported that Lizzie suddenly appeared in the sitting room and that she must have come down from upstairs via the main staircase. Bridget overheard a conversation between Lizzie and her father about Abby’s whereabouts. Lizzie told Andrew that a messenger had arrived with a note that a friend was sick and Abby left the house to attend.

Bridget’s testimony then states she had a wave of nausea from her intestinal illness and went outside to vomit. Bridget returned through the kitchen side door and went up the back staircase to her room in the attic for a break. She states the time was about 10:55 am, and she laid down just before the eleven o’clock bell rang at the town hall.

Bridget stated she did not doze off, rather laid and rested. About ten to fifteen minutes later—at approximately 11:10 to 11:15 am—she heard a loud call from Lizzie who was at the bottom of the back stairs. This is the quote from the Borden trial transcript of Bridget Sullivan’s testimony before the jury:

“Miss Lizzie hollered, ‘Maggie, come down!’ I said, ‘What’s the matter?’ She says, ‘Come down quick; father’s dead, somebody come in and killed him.’”

Bridget rushed down and met Lizzie in the kitchen. She did not look in the sitting room and see Andrew Borden’s body which was on the sofa with his top half on the upholstery and his legs extended over the side with his feet on the floor. This is another quote is from Bridget Sullivan’s evidence:

“I went around to go in the sitting room and she (Lizzie) says, ‘Oh Maggie, don’t go in. I have got to have a doctor quick. Go over. I have to have the doctor.’ So I went over to Dr. Bowen’s right away, and when I come back I says, ‘Miss Lizzie, where was you?’ I says, ‘Didn’t I leave the screen door hooked?’ She (Lizzie) says, ‘I was out in the back yard and heard a groan, and came in and the screen door was wide open.’”

Andrew Borden’s Body on the Sitting Room Sofa

Dr. Seabody Bowen arrived within approximately fifteen minutes and was the first outsider to view the scene and Andrew Borden’s body. All the wounds were directed in his head region with most to the left side of his face. Dr. Bowen requested a sheet to cover the body, and Bridget went up through the back staircase to Mr. and Mrs. Borden’s bedroom. She returned with a sheet just as the police and others arrived, including Mrs. Whitehead, who was Abby Borden’s sister, and a neighbor, Mrs. Churchill.

According to Bridget Sullivan’s testimony, when Dr. Bowen left the body aand came into the kitchen where people amassed, the doctor said, “He is murdered; he is murdered.” A discussion then took place about finding Abby Borden and delivering her the news that her husband was dead. Bridget’s evidence continues:

“She (Lizzie) says, ‘Maggie, I am almost positive I heard her (Abby) coming in. Won’t you go upstairs to see.’ I said, ‘I am not going upstairs alone.’ Lizzie says again, ‘Maggie, I am positive I heard her come in. I am sure she is upstairs. Go and look.’”

Abby Borden’s Body in Upstairs Guest Room

Bridget stated that she and Mrs. Churchill went to the foyer and began to ascend the front formal staircase. When they got to the level where their eyeline met the upper floor, Bridget looked to her left and saw Abby Borden’s body lying face down by the far bedside of the spare room. She and Mrs. Whitehead could clearly view the corpse through the gap between the floor and the bedframe. Bridget went into the room, closely observed Abby Borden’s body to verify she was dead, and then returned to the group in the kitchen.

The Borden Murder Investigation

By all historical accounts, the local police were unprepared for a crime of this magnitude. They were slow off the line to investigate, and it took them several days to form a cohesive game plan. One historian commented that, initially, the police were looking for a man as the killer—preferably one with a foreign accent—who broke in. It didn’t occur to them that the killer might be a woman who lived in the house.

Several police officers spoke with Lizzie Borden and Bridget Sullivan at the scene while the bodies were still in their original position. There does not seem to be any record of their conversations such as formal statements or even hand-written notes. However, there are strong references in later documentation that Lizzie Borden offered conflicting accounts of her actions and whereabouts during the period of 9:30 am when Abby Borden was last seen and just after 11:00 am when Andrew Borden was killed at 92 Second Street in Fall River, Massachusetts.

History indicates Bridget Sullivan has been entirely consistent with her statements and evidence. There was no serious suggestion at the time, or over the years, that anyone considered Bridget as the murderess. That’s not the case with Lizzie, and certain people suspected her right from the start.

The police didn’t treat the Borden house like an off-limits crime scene such as would happen today. Once word of this heinous crime hit the Fall River streets, people paraded by in the hundreds. Many—police and public—traipsed through the house to view the gore. It got so congested that local authorities erected temporary fencing around the property.

Dr. Bowen, along with another physician and an undertaker, conducted limited autopsies on the Borden bodies. They brought in mortuary slabs and examined them on the dining room table. These weren’t full dissections as a modern forensic pathologist would do. However, they did open both Abby’s and Andrew’s stomachs because there was already a rumor of poison.

Dr. Bowen knew there was more to this picture than two mutilated corpses in the Borden house. He had a conversation the previous day with Abby Borden when she came to him reporting their intestinal distress and stated she thought someone was trying to poison her family. She told Dr. Bowen her husband had made certain enemies in the business community and she thought their sudden illness was due to intentionally poisoned food.

The doctor dismissed it as common food contamination that might have been in the milk or leftover meat. It was, after all, an exceptionally warm spell even for early August. Now, Dr. Bowen suspected something sinister was going on within the Borden household.

Other people also began believing the murders happened inside the family circle. Alice Russell, a close acquaintance of the Borden girls, told of a strange conversation she’d had with Lizzie two days earlier. Alice Russell testified that Lizzie said:

“Something is hanging over me… I cannot tell what it is. I feel afraid something is going to happen. I want to sleep with one eye open as I feel someone will hurt father as he is so discourteous to people.”

Prussic Acid is Hydrogen Cyanide

Another highly-suspicious incident reached police ears. Two men at a downtown drugstore in Fall River swore that on August 3rd—the day before the murders—Lizzie Borden came in and requested to buy a vial of prussic acid. They asked her for what purpose as it was a restricted substance. Lizzie replied she wanted it for cleaning her sealskin bags, and they refused to sell her any. Prussic acid is a common name for hydrogen cyanide which is a highly toxic substance that’s lethal to humans in minute doses.

Because of Lizzie’s peculiar behavior, and the fact no other suspect surfaced, the police conducted a thorough search of the Borden house on August 6th. Up to this point, they merely asked a few questions, dealt with the bodies, and generally looked about. Now, the police asked Lizzie to produce clothes she was wearing on the morning of August 4th. She provided them with a heavy fabric dress, blue in color, which they visually examined and found no evidence of blood staining.

After a postmortem  on the Borden bodies, physicians’ opinion suggested the murder weapon was a multi-edged instrument like an ax or a hatchet. The police searched the home’s cellar where the furnace and wood supply sat. They found a bin with several axes and hatchets were stored. One implement, in particular, caught their eye.

Shingling Hatchet Found in Cellar

The police seized a small tool called a shingling hammer or hatchet. It had a round head on one end for driving roofing nails and a sharp blade on the other designed for splitting wooden shingles. The handle was freshly broken off and the metal appeared to be recently cleaned but then scattered with ash to intentionally make it appear old. The broken end of the handle was never found.

The police left the house with the hatchet and a few other items. The following day, on August 7th, Alice Russell unexpectedly walked into the Borden house and found Lizzie in the act of burning a blue dress in the kitchen stove. Alice was taken aback, She questioned Lizzie who replied her dress had brown paint stains on it and it was ruined so she was destroying it. Alarmed, Alice Russell went to the police and informed.

The Borden Murder Inquest

With evidence like Lizzie Borden’s inconsistent statements to investigating police officers and civilian witnesses, the burnt dress, the attempt to buy poison, and Lizzie’s generally detached demeanor through finding the bodies and during the following days, the Fall River magistrate ordered an inquest.

Borden Skulls and Presumed Murder Weapon

He also ordered the Borden bodies exhumed and examined by a Boston-based physician experienced with homicide investigations. This doctor beheaded the bodies and physically compared the seized hatchet with the skull wounds. It was his opinion the cellar hatchet was consistent with causing both Borden’s wounds. Therefore, it was likely the murder weapon concealed in the cellar after the Bordens were dead.

There was another medical fact established by the medical examiners. That was time of the deaths. There was no doubt Andrew Borden was killed shortly after 11:00 am. This was supported by Bridget Sullivan seeing him alive before then and that his wounds were fresh. Abby Borden, on the other hand, was dead for some time before she was discovered at approximately 11:30 am. Abby’s blood had congealed, her temperature dropped, and she exhibited early signs of rigor mortis.

The Borden murder inquest began on August 9th and lasted three days. It was closed to the public, but the proceedings were recorded and the transcripts are available online today. Lizzie Borden was the star witness and subject to close examination. Her testimony was inconsistent, exculpatory, and evasive.

Lizzie Borden repeatedly changed her story of her whereabouts within and without the house during the period of 9:30 am to 11:00 am. She wavered between being in the kitchen ironing clothes and reading a magazine to being upstairs folding and mending clothes. After her father returned, Lizzie Borden stated she went out of the house and into the backyard barn’s upper loft on the pretext of finding lead to make sinkers (weights) for a fishing trip she planned the following week.

When the inquest lawyer examining Lizzie Borden tried to pin her to specifics, she became evasive and declined to answer certain questions. The best the lawyer could establish is that Lizzie Borden had an erratic alibi for the period Abby Borden was murdered and she’d spent the approximately 18-minute period—from when Bridget Sullivan went upstairs to her attic room until Lizzie summoned Bridget—rummaging about in a stifling-hot barn loft looking for lead and eating pears.

The inquest lawyer also challenged Lizzie Borden on her details of finding her father’s body. Lizzie claimed to have come down from the barn loft to find the kitchen’s back door wide open. She entered and went to check on her father. Here’s an excerpt from Lizzie Borden’s inquest testimony:

Q. When you came down from the barn, what did you do then?
A. Came into the kitchen.

Q. What did you do then?
A. Opened the sitting room door and went into the sitting room; or pushed it open. It was not latched.

Q. What did you do then?
A. I found my father and rushed to the foot of the stairs.

Q. When you saw your father, where was he?
A. On the sofa.

Q. What was his position?
A. Lying down.

Q. Describe anything else you noticed at that time.
A. I did not notice anything else, I was so frightened and horrified. I ran to the foot of the stairs and called Maggie.

Q. Did you notice that he had been cut?
A. Yes, that is what made me afraid.

Q. Did you notice that he was dead?
A. I did not know whether he was or not.

Q. Did you make any search for your mother?
A. No sir.

Q. Why not?
A. I thought she was out of the house. I thought she had gone out. I called Maggie to go to Dr. Bowen’s. When they came in, I said, “I don’t know where Mrs. Borden is.” I thought she had gone out.

Q. Did you tell Maggie you thought your mother had come in?
A. No sir.

Q. Did you say to anybody that you thought she was killed upstairs?
A. No sir.

Q. You made no effort to find your mother at all?
A. No sir.

Q. Who did you send Maggie for?
A. Dr. Bowen. She came back and said Dr. Bowen was not there.

Q. What did you tell Maggie?
A. I told her he was hurt. I says, “Go for Dr. Bowen as soon as you can. I think father is hurt.”

Q. Did you then know that he was dead?
A. No sir.

Q. You saw him? Saw his face?
A. No, I did not see his face because he was all covered with blood.

Q. You saw where the face was bleeding?
A. Yes sir.

Q. And with those injuries you couldn’t tell he was dead?
A. No, sir.

Q. But you told Maggie, “Come down quick; father’s dead, somebody come in and killed him.”
A. No, sir. I said he was hurt, not dead.

When the Borden murder inquest wrapped up, the magistrate was satisfied of sufficient grounds to believe Lizzie Borden killed her father and step-mother. The issue of motive never came up in the proceedings. However, establishing motive is not an elemental fact in pursuing murder charges. The inquest magistrate ordered Lizzie Borden arrested and held in custody for trial.

Lizzie Borden’s Murder Trial

Lizzie Borden’s prosecution ran according to Massachusetts law of the time. First, a grand jury impaneled. They returned an indictment on December 2nd, 1892, and a preliminary hearing followed where the evidence against Lizzie Borden was found suitable to withstand a jury trial. At no time during the investigation or legal procedures was there any suggestion Lizzie Borden was mentally ill and not suitable to be tried. Even during the trial, neither the defense team nor the prosecution ever raised a sanity issue.

Lizzie Borden could afford the best legal defense possible, and she got it. Because her father had no will and his wife was also dead, the Borden estate immediately fell to the sole survivors—Emma and Lizzie Borden—and they evenly split it. In today’s value, Lizzie Borden had about $4 million in assets to work with.

She hired ex-three times Massachusetts governor, George Robinson, who later billed Lizzie today’s equivalent of a half-million dollars. The District Attorney’s office also put out a heavy-hitter with William Moody leading the prosecution team. Moody went on to be a United States Supreme Court judge. The dueling balance was offset by three panel judges sitting on the Borden trial. One was Justin Dewey—personally appointed to the bench by then-governor George Robinson.

There was a change of venue for the Lizzie Borden trial. To ensure fair and impartial jurors, the trial took place in New Bedford, Massachusetts instead of Fall River. It convened on June 5th, 1893 and ended on June 20th.

Lizzie Borden’s defense team scored two vitally important legal victories. One was having Lizzie’s inquest testimony discarded which they argued was involuntary and taken without legal representation. The other defense win was getting the prussic acid—hydrogen cyanide—evidence ruled irrelevant and inadmissible.

This left the prosecution with a purely circumstantial case. They had no established murder weapon, no eye-witnesses, and a reasonable doubt raised by an unlocked back door. The prosecution did not offer any motive as to why Lizzie Borden ax-murdered her folks, and the defense convincingly argued that a hatchet was a man’s weapon—something a fine upstanding Victorian woman of class would ever use to commit such gruesome crimes.

Lizzie Borden never took the witness stand. She sat in the dock impeccably dressed in flowing black clothes with a fan and a handkerchief. Lizzie stayed stoic when proper, teared at the right time, and fainted when Andrew and Abby Borden’s skulls were brought into the courtroom for a hands-on demonstration of how the handle-less hatchet fit.

At the trial’s conclusion, the defense summed the prosecution’s case as such:

“There is not one particle of direct evidence in this case from beginning to end against Lizzie A. Borden. There is not a spot of blood, there is not a weapon that they have connected with her in any way, shape, or fashion. The state has utterly failed to meet its burden of proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”

The trial judges were also sympathetic towards Lizzie Borden. As one reporter at the time put it, Judge Dewey acted like the senior defense counsel when he told the jury:

“You must take into account the defendant’s exceptional Christian character which she is entitled to every influence in her favor. If the evidence falls short of providing such conviction in your minds, although it may raise a suspicion of guilt, or even a strong probability of guilt, it would be your plain duty to return a verdict of not guilty. Seeking only the truth, you will lift this case above the range of passion and prejudice and excited feeling, into the clear atmosphere of reason and law.”

The jury was out for an hour and a half before returning with a not guilty verdict. Jurors later reported they’d decided fate on the first ballot but stayed out long enough to make it look like they’d fairly deliberated. Lizzie Borden walked out of the courtroom a free woman. That didn’t absolve a cloud forming over her in the public arena.

Lizzie Borden’s Later Years

Within two months of her acquittal, Lizzie Borden changed her name to Lizbeyh Borden. She used her father’s estate inheritance to buy a modern mansion in the heart of “The Hill”. Her impressive home came with all conveniences money could buy as the Guilded Age in America approached the twentieth century. Lizzie Borden now had indoor plumbing with flush toilets and running hot water. No longer did she have to empty a chamber pot or light a wood stove to burn a dress.

Lizzie Borden’s new abode, which she elegantly named Maplecroft, had electric lights and central heating with individual room radiators. She had servant quarters and a dedicated suite for her older sister. Lizzie had an art room for her crafts and a drawing room to entertain friends. However, her one-time friends on “The Hill” and in “The Flats” shunned Lizzie one-by-one.

Maplecroft – Mansion in “The Hills” bought by Lizzie Borden after her Parents Death

Her welcome in the Central Congregational Protestant church dissipated as people talked and realized Lizzie Borden probably got away with murder. She was ostracized and left to sit in a pew of her own. Lizzie’s service groups shut their doors and shops discouraged her visit. Bit-by-bit and little-by-little, she became a social outcast—a moral leper.

Lizzie, or Lizbeyh, retained her magnificent Maplecroft home on “The Hill” but she spent most of her time away in Boston and New York where Lizzie lavishly entertained the Bohemian theater crowd. Eventually, her older sister had enough. Emma moved out and refused to speak to Lizzie for the rest of their lives.

Lizzie Borden died of pneumonia in 1927. She was sixty-six years old and still a spinster—truly an old maid. She bequeathed what was left of her money to animal welfare.

Did Lizzie Borden Really Ax-Murder Her Parents?

The question whether Lizzie Borden really did ax-murder her parents teased public fascination since the day the murders went down. Like a Greek tragedy, or a Victorian melodrama, the Borden murders had all the right elements of intrigue, suspense, and mystery. It was a true who-dunnit that sparked a sensational spectacle not paralleled in United States history.

Lizzie Borden’s case put the Victorian concept of a well-bred and virtuous woman of white Protestant class on trial for its life. The notion that a daughter—anyone of upper society’s daughter—could commit the unspeakable act of ax-murdering patricide was unthinkable. Lizzie Borden’s defense team knew this, and they deprived the prosecution of proving premeditation by suggesting jurors were to foolishly believe the accused before them—facing the death penalty—somehow magically metamorphosed into a maniacal murderess.

Lizzie Borden Trial Jurors – Twelve Good Men

The twelve good men on the jury sympathized with the pious prisoner in the docket holding a flower bouquet. Although she was described by the press as the “sphynx of coolness”, Lizzie had been carefully coached to silently suggest innocence. The jury never directly heard from Lizzie Borden. She exercised her right not to take the stand.

Given what the jurors heard and saw, it’s no surprise they chose acquittal. But, that doesn’t excuse the court of ages from independently assessing Lizzie Borden’s guilt or innocence. A big factor indicating murder-culpable is her inconsistent statements to the police and at the inquest.

Lizzie Borden sometimes places herself upstairs while her step-mother lay dead on the floor beside her and sometimes does not. It’s inconceivable Lizzie was on the upper landing without seeing Abby’s body. Lizzie Borden’s alibi for being in the barn while her father died is nonsense. By any rational acceptance, a woman dressed in Victorian clothing would not stay fifteen minutes in an environment exceeding well over one hundred degrees in Fahrenheit.

But, the jury never heard Lizzie’s alibis or conflicting statements. They never heard about the poison. And, the jurors were never offered any motive why a daughter would cold bloodily hatchet her family members to death.

Lizzie Borden’s Motive For Murder

On the balance of probabilities and totalitarian of evidence, logic proves Lizzie Borden ax-murdered her parents. To think otherwise defies common sense. Lizzie had exclusive opportunity and immediate means to commit the crimes, and there simply was no one else there to do it. But, what motive did she have?

During Lizzie Borden’s trial, her defense cleverly maneuvered around a story that, if known, would have shaken their very foundation. That was the reality of the Borden household being a dysfunctional cold war of family unrest. Lizzie was barely on speaking terms with Abby who, for years, she referred to as Mrs. Borden. Tension in that home was tight.

Andrew Borden was aging fast. He had no legal will and last testament, and he made no provision of setting forth how his estate would divide upon his death. Massachusetts common law dictated that wealth should flow from the husband to the wife and then accordingly down as the immediate benefactor sees fit. Should Andrew have died first, his estate would naturally have gone to Abby. It would be entirely up to Abby to bequeath Andrew’s wealth as she desired. Lizzie might not have been in Abby’s sights a designated recipient.

In the weeks before the Borden murders, Andrew Borden seemed to be making plans of disposing property outside Lizzie’s entitlement. He’d already awarded a house to one of Abby’s family members. Some historians speculate the reason for John Morse’s visit on the eve of the murders was to secure a piece of Andrew Borden’s holdings. Undoubtedly, Lizzie would have been in tune with this.

There was a family blow-out a week before the murders. Lizzie and Emma left the Fall River house and went to New Bedford to cool off. When Lizzie returned on August 2nd, Andrew Borden, Abby Borden, and Bridget Sullivan suddenly became sick from something foul in their food.

That contaminant only made them ill. It can’t be a coincidence that the next day Lizzie went looking for cyanide. When that poison plan fell through, it was time for Plan-B. One way or the other, Lizzie knew Abby Borden had to die before she cut into Lizzie’s inheritance which Andrew was giving away. Once that was done by hatcheting Abby’s head with an ax on the morning of August 4th, 1892, it was a sensible step for Lizzie Borden to finish-off the old man and cash in.

There’s no longer reasonable doubt. Lizzie Borden ax-murdered her parents, and her motive was pure greed. It was all about entitlement and change—from precariously surviving in “The Flats” to securely thriving high on “The Hill”.

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Post Note of 07 August 2020: Dark Zone Productions of Los Angeles is doing a 4-Day Live Streaming program on the Lizzie Borden case from August 28-31, 2020. Here’s their press release:

https://wm-no.glb.shawcable.net/service/home/~/?auth=co&loc=en&id=523805&part=2