The Witness Wore Red: The 19th Wife Who Brought Polygamous Cult Leaders to Justice

by Musser, Rebecca

  My cousins picked me up, and as we made our way up the canyon, I was awed by the changing colors. We spent the day hiking, picking wildflowers, and laughing. When it was time to turn back around and hike down the mountain, I felt suddenly heavy and exhausted. There was such an element of expectation in being one of the Prophet’s wives. My future seemed joyless, and I was afraid of letting everyone down—not just my family, but all of my people. After I said good-bye to my cousins, I watched their taillights disappear into the distance.

  Upon entering the house, I discovered that the Prophet was flying out to Short Creek that Monday, and I was to go with him. It had been determined in my absence that I would move to Rulon’s Hildale mansion because they had run out of room in his Salt Lake residence. Christine told me Rulon said he wanted to show off his new bride to the people.

  I felt a strange glow, and while I was packing I got excited, in spite of myself. Even though this marriage wasn’t what I had dreamed of, perhaps I was genuinely appreciated. I remembered my father’s words and realized I had a choice—I could enjoy being married to Rulon or I could be miserable. I pondered that for a while, and my gaze rested on some flowers on the dresser. For my wedding, I had amassed a very large number of long-stemmed red rose buds, every stem wrapped with a note from each one of Rulon Jeffs’s children who were still at home, my students, and each of my seventeen living new sister-wives. The roses were beginning to bloom, and I realized it could represent a bouquet of love. I read several seemingly heartfelt messages from women I deeply admired and loved, including Christine and Ora. I was not used to people making such a fuss over me, but note by note, I began to feel accepted into the Jeffses’ home.

  Christine, who thankfully would be accompanying me, suggested I bring the bouquet with me, to enjoy the beauty of the roses while it lasted. I felt like royalty holding them as Warren’s older brother from the same mother, LeRoy Jeffs, picked us up at the door in Rulon’s Lincoln Town Car to take us to the airport. There we would board the Learjet the FLDS leased for the Prophet to fly back and forth between Salt Lake City and Colorado City.

  The pilots and staff were very respectful, and Wendell Loy Nielsen, known as Uncle Wendell, watched over the whole process carefully. While I had been on a Cessna with my dad, who was a pilot, I had never before traveled on a large plane—much less a jet. This one was stocked with an array of sodas and sugary junk food that most FLDS members were discouraged from stocking their cupboards with, which somehow added to the thrill.

  Uncle Wendell fixed Rulon a Bloody Mary, and we settled in for the short flight. As we landed, movement outside caught my eye. Security guards lined up to greet Rulon, and I was soberly reminded of my duties as the Prophet’s wife. I decided I would do everything I could to be a caring Prophet’s wife among the people. Holding my bouquet, I carefully descended the stairs into the hot stillness of the southern Utah sun, secretly praying I wouldn’t trip.

  We drove straight to the Jeffs property, where the Prophet’s home was located, a sprawling mansion, which, over the next seven years, would eventually entail six massive wings built into the shape of a giant letter P. Several hundred thousand square feet, the mansion was surrounded by a lush green lawn and hundreds of trees—an oasis of sorts in the middle of the desert town, totally encircled by gates, tall hedges, privacy fences, and security cameras. Eventually Seth, Nephi, and Warren would build houses on the property, creating a Jeffs family estate even more colossal than the Salt Lake City one. A prominent citizen of Hildale and member of the church had built much of the original mansion with his own money and labor for his family. I came to understand that Rulon acquired the house much as he had acquired his new home in SLC. He saw it, he wanted it, and despite the fact the man had built it to house his own family, Rulon got what he wanted—another perfect reminder that no one said no to the Prophet.

  At dinner that night, all of Uncle Rulon’s “Hildale wives,” the overflow wives who did not fit in his Salt Lake City home, were just as kind and gracious as their city counterparts had been.

  “Sit here by Father!” they cried, guiding me to the place of honor at his side. Again, the atmosphere during the meal was grimly quiet as we ate the fine food, but afterward there was plenty of chatter and revelry. I still didn’t know quite what to say, so I remained silent.

  Abruptly, Rulon pounded the table to get our attention.

  “So, ladies,” he drawled, patting his belly. “Are you ready for two more?” Marjorie and Christine, along with the other women, exchanged puzzled looks.

  “What, Father?” someone asked. “Two more of what?”

  “Two more wives!” he boasted, and beamed at us.

  I felt astonishment ripple over me and through the room as I looked at the shocked faces around me.

  “Yes, this Saturday,” he continued, “we’ve got two more coming: Helen and Rebecca Steed, daughters of Lawrence Steed.” He turned to me. “Three young ’uns! Isn’t that great? I told them you were on deck, and that they had to wait.”

  I just sat there, mute. Christine stared, still horrified.

  Marjorie glanced at us nervously. “How… exciting, Father!” she said, her enthusiasm sounding contrived. “I went to school with Helen.” The rest of the wives murmured niceties and congratulations to Rulon, but they kept glancing my way. Christine’s expression changed to one of pity and sorrow, but I couldn’t look at her any longer. My head felt like it was about to explode.

  I turned my anger inward, on myself. You fool! You damn fool! And you thought you mattered? And what is this “on deck”? What the hell is that? Why had there been this great rush for me, then? Just when I had begun to think that I could do this—that I could fulfill my role as the Prophet’s wife—it’d been made clear that in my five-day-old marriage, I was simply another number. And there’d be another Rebecca? I wondered if I would be given a different name just like Ora had.

  Staring down at my cup, my heart ached with a kind of pain I had never known. But I couldn’t show it. I knew quite well what was expected of me. As the Prophets taught, there was no room for jealousy in an eternal, Celestial marriage. Doing all the right things meant an increase in blessings in the world to come. In fact, not only was my husband likely to obtain even more wives on this earth; that number would increase exponentially in the hereafter, as it would for every man faithful to the Work. As the Prophet, then, he would marry thousands, if not millions, more women in the Celestial Kingdom of God.

  I looked at the examples these women had already set for me—their kindness and charity. I had been taught that envy was a manifestation of evil, and the last thing I wanted was to be an ungrateful sister-wife, or anything resembling Mother Irene. I tried to alleviate the crushing sadness inside of me. Christine reached underneath the table and gripped my hand. I held on to it for comfort.

  A little later I numbly helped wash dishes, eager to be excused. I left the room with as much dignity as I could muster, but as soon as I was out of sight, I fled down the stairs to my room. Flinging myself on the bed, I sobbed into my pillow like a little child, tears soaking the fabric. Not long after, Christine quietly let herself in.

  “I don’t know why this happened, Becky,” she said, her expression filled with compassion. “God never gives you something you can’t get through.” Though she meant well, her words felt empty. God seemed to be overestimating my abilities.

  A few days later, the entire Jeffs family came down to Short Creek. I was happy to see Paula, Cecilia, and Naomi, three of my sister-wives from Salt Lake. They were kind and bright to my face, but Christine told me later they had quietly asked, “How is Becky?” Not one of them openly expressed sorrow or indignation, though. Decorum wouldn’t allow that.

  I was shocked by my own sadness. I certainly didn’t love Rulon Jeffs as anything more than my Prophet, and I had never wanted to be married to him. But something in my heart died that day. I had to throw away the authentic Becky, keep sweet, and do what was expected.

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nbsp; When Saturday night arrived, I joined my sister-wives in singing to the Prophet and his new brides: “We Are Blessed of the Lord to Be the Prophet’s Family.” My voice faltered, but I carefully mouthed the words. Rulon’s daughter Rachel, whom I had always looked up to as Warren’s assistant and a teacher, held my hand as we sang. We never spoke about it, then or even later, but I loved her forever for that gesture of kindness.

  The weekend of the wedding, I helped out where I could, though I ducked out of much of the socializing. Later, I happened to walk past the kitchen, where I overheard my sister-wife Mother Ruth commenting to Mother LaRue that the two of them had been put out to pasture.

  “It’s only a matter of time for the others,” she said plainly. That struck me hard. I could see how they were suffering from the pain of growing older as their husband added these new, exciting young brides to the family. They had done their duty—even bore him children and raised them. Yet day in and day out, he rarely acknowledged them.

  As I pondered this, I realized I didn’t want to set myself up to be hurt like them—nor did I want to hurt another wife. I decided to set aside my own desire for love. That night I slammed the door shut on my heart and locked it tight.

  Rulon and I headed to Salt Lake City with Helen and her sister to make their debut there. My honeymoon was over, and I would be heading back to Alta to teach. It had been decided that Rebecca Fern Steed would go by “Fern” because she had a middle name. I didn’t let it hurt to have the young wives come up to Salt Lake with us. I didn’t let it hurt that I was to be a Hildale overflow wife because Rulon had so many wives. I consoled myself with the fact that now that there were twenty-one wives, I would have to be on duty with the Prophet even less often. This unrealistic expectation would prove to be my downfall. I soon learned I would be forced to be with my aging husband twice a month or more. Out of the twenty-one wives, thirteen of us were among the group of Rulon’s “young wives.” It made me sick and a little angry inside to realize that he stayed only with his young wives at night—from Ora on down. He didn’t bother to bed or sleep with or even hold any of his older wives.

  Warren Jeffs picked us up from the airport in the Town Car, and we settled into the backseat. My new relationship with my former principal was awkward. He was now my son, but I still called him Uncle Warren. It was strange to hear him call me “Mother Becky.”

  Warren peered into the rearview mirror to see me sitting beside Rulon.

  “Ooooh, Father!” he snickered, “there you are with your new young bride! Why don’t you give her a big kiss?”

  I was shocked by Uncle Warren’s words, but even more so when Rulon put his arm around me and began to kiss me in front of everyone—and not the matter-of-fact kisses I had experienced so far. I pulled back from his slobbery lips and tongue with hot embarrassment and shame, as the girls to the side of me giggled nervously. I kept my eyes to the floor of the car almost the entire ride home, but at one point I glanced up to see Warren grinning lasciviously at me in the rearview mirror. The man who taught me that men and boys were snakes! I hated the confusion in my brain, but also I hated him in that moment, and how he made me feel dirty.

  CHAPTER 7

  For the Pleasure of the Gods

  Once I’d settled into the Hildale house, I turned my attention back to Alta Academy, where I continued to help out as an assistant teacher, flying back and forth weekly in the Learjet with Rulon. I was still considered a Hildale overflow wife, since I had to share a room in Salt Lake when I came up to teach.

  All too soon, my next turn on duty with Rulon arrived, which provided a crash course of a different sort. That evening, after getting Rulon settled into bed, I climbed in, and again he demanded that I lie right beside him. This time he tried to reach his hand down my nightgown, which I had sewn very carefully and modestly in accordance with church teachings. He became angry that the neckline allowed access only above the top bra line, but I was relieved until he began to fondle and pinch me through the fabric. Not only was it painful; I was embarrassed and felt dirty again. The next morning after I went off duty, I took the longest shower I had ever taken in my life. I went about my day as a zombie, pitching in where I could and wanting the buzzing in my head to stop.

  The following morning I woke up late and lay for a long time in my own bed, the pillow covering my face. Throughout my life, despite all of the trauma and abuse I’d faced, I had never felt without hope. Not until now.

  An hour later I looked at the clock. It was almost noon and I was still in bed. And yet there was no reason to rise. I was not on duty with Rulon. I was not on kitchen duty or expected at school. In fact, if I died right there in that bed, I thought, no one except Christine would even think to come looking for me. I knew I was being overdramatic, but it didn’t ease the loneliness.

  Finally, I made a decision. I realized that whether my life was going to matter to anyone, anywhere, it was up to me. Somehow, somewhere, I would give meaning to others.

  For the next several months, I threw myself into teaching as a measure of sanity. I was trying to decipher my purpose in the Jeffs family, especially what role I had to play with my husband. Every time I was on duty, he took more and more liberties, demanding I do as he asked. I could not wait for each shift to be over, and to be able to breathe for a week or two.

  Seeming to appreciate my decorum at church and in meetings, Rulon frequently asked me to accompany him in public. I was happy to please him in this safe capacity, and when we were in the midst of the people, I loved being able to interact with them. It was about this time, however, that I discovered a deeper, darker truth about the Jeffs family and the hierarchy of the Priesthood leadership.

  One of these telling episodes occurred in 1996, the week after all our people gathered together for our annual April Conference in Short Creek. The sermons from the pulpit with Rulon and the other leaders were just what I had expected: we were admonished to be a God-like people. Every one of the talks contained calls for repentance and continued morality, and the day was generally concluded with exhortations to be the caliber of people that would please the Lord—and the stern warnings of what would happen if we were not.

  Before the leaders scattered back to their homes, I accompanied the Prophet to a luncheon for our leaders at his favorite Chinese restaurant, located near 8600 South and 1300 East in Sandy. The proprietors of the restaurant called him “Grandpa” and scurried about to cater to his needs. Rulon; LeRoy Jeffs; Warren Jeffs; Winston Blackmore; another well-known Priesthood leader, Ron Rohbock; and my sister-wife Naomi and I were ushered over to a private table in an isolated corner of the restaurant. As soon as we sat down, our waitress rushed to fill our water glasses and take our order. She was wearing bright red lipstick, which was doubly banned in our religion because it was makeup and it was red. She was also extremely well-endowed, which was clear from her tightly fitted shirt. To make matters worse, as she bent over to talk to Rulon, who was hard of hearing, her cleavage was on display.

  Our orders taken, she rushed to the kitchen, and Warren and LeRoy were suddenly at it, saying things like “Did you see how big her boobs are?” and “Did you see those things in my face?” I was shocked. Warren Jeffs, who for all of these years had been piously telling my cousins, brothers, and friends never to look at any part of a woman’s body or allow lascivious thoughts to enter their minds, was speaking in a way I had never heard before.

  Ten minutes later, every one of these “holy, God-like men” was still on the same topic.

  “My wife’s boobs are so big,” chuckled LeRoy, “she says she has to buy an over-the-shoulder boulder-holder.” Everyone, including Rulon, joined in the laughter.

  “Make mine a pebble holder,” giggled Naomi. The Prophet, still laughing, turned to me.

  “Hers are pretty good!” he said, and proceeded to grab my breasts and begin fondling them. I pushed his hands away, trembling with shame and embarrassment, as everyone else at the table erupted in laughter.

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sp; Weren’t these the same men who in conference on Sunday had been condemning people for their immoral desires? And yet my husband, the great “man of God,” had publicly humiliated me. I was sickened by the double standard the powerful benefited from. Had they caught a group of young men talking like that at Alta Academy, those boys would have been expelled immediately—not just from school, but from the church and society, too.

  The men continued, now talking about the bodies of other FLDS men’s wives, many of them women I was related to by blood or friendship. I sat there silently fuming until the waitress brought the food and they finally shut up. What do they say about me when I’m not here? I wondered.

  From that point on, I busied myself with teaching school so I always had a reason not to accompany the Prophet to any more meetings. And whenever possible, I slipped out of being on duty with my husband.

  When I didn’t have to deal with Priesthood leadership or Rulon in the bedroom, I found that I could enjoy much of life as the Prophet’s wife. I started teaching with Mother Paula, my sister-wife, and I could tell we were having an impact on the schoolchildren we worked with. Paula, my first cousin and Uncle Merrill Jessop’s daughter, confided stories to me of her early life. Her father married four women, and Paula and I had both seen ugly ramifications of sister-wife jealousy and vicious infighting. Sometimes, like in the case of Merrill, men used these jealousies to gain further control over their wives and children. Paula once stood up to her father, calling him out on his treatment of her mother, Ruth. While this altercation didn’t change the dynamics of her home, it had changed something inside of her. She carried a level of self-respect that most FLDS women did not.

  I think having come from similar circumstances, we had great compassion for the children in our classroom who reminded us of our siblings. Together we sought to love, validate, and strengthen all the children in whatever way we could.