One of Elim's newer members was Jacob Cotan. Cotan had known Druhora in Romania, and at first had respected the pastor's oratorical and leadership prowess. In November 1999, the church elected Cotan as an associate pastor, an honor he embraced.
But Cotan was one of a growing number of parishioners soured by what he considered Druhora's machinations: "The lies, the manipulations of good people, the twisting of things by this guy became apparent to me. He was keeping a grip the Communist way, Romanian-style, which is something else again."
Dan Huff
Ted Oprea helped start the Elim church in the early 1980s.
Elim church pastors Dorel Michula, left, and Dorin Druhora baptized Eva Farkas during a 1997 ceremony at Estrella Lake.
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Then, that December, a Romanian evangelist named John Pop sent the first of three inflammatory e-mails to the Elim church. He alleged that, while in seminary school during the late 1980s, Pastor Druhora -- a onetime colleague -- had spied on fellow students and others for the Securitate.
Pop claimed he'd happened upon Druhora's name while researching old Securitate files in Bucharest. Someone at Elim later distributed an anonymous letter that summarized Pop's allegations:
"Mr. Pop found out from the secret police files that Mr. Druhora was not a true brother in Christ, but one that betrayed so many of their [religious] meetings, brothers and sisters and, ultimately, Christ to torture, prison, loss of employment, and public shame."
Druhora's woes were escalating. On September 8, 2000, a daily newspaper in Romania's Transylvania district ran a front-page story headlined "The Red Reverends Incriminate Each Other: Feud Among Security's Evangelists."
The story said former Securitate officer Marius Matei had filed a court "declaration" saying he had been in charge of working Druhora as a spy. Matei was a former chief of the Securitate's "Neo-Protestant cults department," and his allegations carried weight.
"Mr. Druhora was admitted to the Seminary under the condition of informing, working for the secret police," Matei wrote in an affidavit. "Under the code name, 'The Hawk,' [Druhora] supplied, over the four years as student at the Pentecostal Seminary, activities of the seminary . . . and of foreign evangelicals and dignitaries. . . . The information provided about them was used to blackmail, to compromise and recruit them as informants."
Matei later retracted his statement, allegedly after one of Druhora's supporters paid him to do so.
On December 3, 2000, tensions at Elim escalated to a new level. As often happens in highly charged situations, almost everyone has a different spin.
Druhora and his supporters say a pack of parishioners barred him from entering Elim for the 6 p.m. Sunday service. The pastor claimed one detractor, Emanuel Farkas, told him, "You're going in over my dead body."
Farkas admits he said that, but only after Druhora allegedly "charged into me like it was a football game." To the contrary, Alex Westwood, one of the church's founders, later testified at a court hearing that Druhora literally had crawled under his foes into the church.
The mood at Elim was anything but pacific.
"They call you a crook and they call you pig," recalls Druhora supporter Leo Isfan, speaking of the pastor's enemies. "A church relationship is to love and trust each other to the death. But once you say, 'I'm right, and nobody is right but me,' there are problems. How can people who worship the same God who loves them be pushing, shoving, taunting their pastor over and over?"
Within days, Druhora requested a court injunction against harassment against eight members of Elim. He alleged that, on December 2, 2000, his enemies had held an "illegal meeting inside the church . . . rebelling to overthrow the pastor (me)."
As for the December 3 clash, Druhora accused his adversaries of "pushing the pastor, to stop him [from going] inside the church to start the service."
The injunction form included a standard question, "If the Court does not grant your request today, what serious harm may occur?"
"More emotional and physical harassment," the pastor wrote. "Potential for violence."
Phoenix city court judge Karyn Klausner had a daunting task on the morning of January 7, 2001. Her job was to decide whether to order the eight parishioners -- including the Oprea brothers, Ted and Zack -- to stay away from the church and from Pastor Druhora.
"This is a very sad day for the Romanian community here, for the church, and for the Gospel of Christ," Jacob Cotan testified during the tempestuous hearing.
Cotan told the judge about eggs and stones that someone -- he suspected the pro-Druhora camp -- had been hurling at his home, and of vicious late-night calls from the pastor's supporters.
Druhora's 16-year-old daughter sobbed from the stand as she described how an adult parishioner had berated her in the parking lot on the evening of December 3.
"He said, 'Aren't you ashamed of your father? Aren't you?'"
Later in the hearing, Rad Vucichevich, a Phoenix attorney representing the anti-Druhora camp, raised the specter of the pastor's alleged stint as a Romanian spy.
"Everyone is free to write whatever they want in the newspaper," Druhora responded during his cross-examination. "It was proven I wasn't a spy. I was found not guilty."
After eight hours, Judge Klausner announced her decision.
"This is a very sad time for this community, no matter which side you fall on," she said. "At the minimum, it's a hostile environment. I'm not trying to say what should be done. The peace is not being kept at the church. People are on the verge of being hurt because tempers are hot. The situation is so at the risk of becoming riotous. I feel it could endanger other people at this point."
