Mortal Danger

become aware of what should be obvious. They simply had to “get it.” The simplicity of it all, Erhard promised, would “blow their minds.” In no time, est became immensely popular, as its followers proclaimed they “got it,” even though many of them didn’t.
    The program’s training sessions cost $250 a person, and there were waiting lists for trainee classes that usually numbered 250 people. The take for Erhard and his organization was $60,000 a class. This was no small sum in the seventies. The classes were not fun: they were marathon sessions with no amenities and virtually no creature comforts. Attendees were not allowed to eat, smoke, read, take notes, chew gum, or even go to the restroom during their sessions. Those first seven-hour classes were torture for those with weak bladders, so Erhard eventually modified the bathroom breaks and permitted them every four hours.
    For a time, the est movement was a huge success, drawing both celebrities and average people who expected to change their lives overnight—or, rather, over two weekends.
    It wasn’t Werner Erhard, however, that John Branden chose to follow; instead, it was a man who was originally close to Erhard: Bill Thaw. John would often refer to Thaw as “the father I never had,” or, more grandly, he would say, “Bill Thaw was my god.”
    When Werner Erhard moved headquarters to San Francisco, he and Thaw split up. Thaw spearheaded the “psi experience,” a very general term for paranormal communication occuring during dreams, or through psychic connections between people when no words are spoken. Thaw found that most humans are fascinated with messages from “beyond,” psychic foreshadowing of things yet to come, and communication that cannot be easily explained.
    One of Thaw’s early disciples still recalls him with the kind of wonder only associated with slavishly devoted groupies.
    How much of it is true is anyone’s guess, but Bill Thaw was allegedly a quarterback alongside Jim Brown for the Cleveland Browns in the late fifties or early sixties, then worked for the fledgling Dairy Queen chain and made a million dollars. It’s said he went to Rome and gambled much of it away. He was reportedly a very handsome, well-muscled man who was a “great dresser” and wore expensive suits. Women were fascinated with Bill Thaw, and he responded. His wife divorced him because she could no longer put up with his affairs.
    According to his former follower, Bill Thaw worked at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital in Miami from 1976 until the early eighties as a psychotherapist.
    John Branden, the teenager who mowed lawns, the young father who worked for the tax assessor’s office, and the man who sought status in local politics, learned much from Bill Thaw and tried to emulate him.
    Kate Jewell would always feel that Thaw was the person who inspired John to become the charismatic doctor with scores of grateful patients, and the would-be entrepreneur whose goal was to make a fortune and be widely admired. Perhaps he was. And, quite likely, Thaw taught John Branden shortcuts and even con games that would pave the way for who he was to become.
    Who Bill Thaw really was is perhaps more puzzling than who John Branden was, and the details of Branden’s connection to Thaw are clouded. Thaw was about ten years older than the young man who saw him as a mentor, and at that point he was far more charismatic than John Branden. Bill Thaw was an enigma, the kind of person whose secrets probably followed him to the grave.
    William Michael Thaw, aka Michael William Thaw, was born in 1933, and he was probably the consummate con man. He was an accomplished smooth talker and snake-oil salesman extraordinaire. He could convince almost anyone of almost anything.
    In May 1962, when John Branden was still a teenager and years away from meeting Bill Thaw, Thaw was hired by a company called Micronics Corporation of America, with headquarters in Philadelphia. The company made miniature tools for the burgeoning electronics industry, and Thaw was hired to find distributors for these products. He impressed the officers at Micronics, and they agreed when he suggested that he set up his center of operations in Hampton, Virginia.
    In his late twenties, Bill Thaw set out with enthusiasm. He began by taking out an ad in the Newport News Daily Press, where he offered franchises for Micronics.
    A Hampton man named Leon Felcher* contacted Thaw. After he checked out the Philadelphia