As I watched my baby sister being driven away to the Caliente Motel in Nevada, which was now seeing a steady flow of child brides, I wanted to run, scream, yell, and beat on the car. But I had to hold on to the only power I had—the buffer of my husband. If I acted rashly or disobediently, the little help I could give my mother and sisters would come to a screeching halt. Choking back tears, my mother and I soberly decorated the “honeymoon hideout”—a bedroom next to Mom’s in Fred’s house that was set aside for Allen and Elissa. What she was being forced to face that night was not right. It had been horrible for me at nineteen, and she was still a little girl.
Despite the promise he’d made to give her time, Allen forced Elissa to consummate the marriage almost immediately. Though she didn’t say anything for several weeks, we could tell something was drastically wrong. Amelia, whose husband was much younger than mine, knew precisely the questions to ask when she called from Canada, especially, “What does he do when you say no?” Elissa opened up to Amelia on the phone, and Mom relayed certain details to me when I snuck over to visit. I confronted Elissa. She finally admitted to Mom and me that when she told Allen she hated him to touch her, he played on her gullibility, saying he would grow physically ill—even die—if she didn’t allow him to have sex. Then she finally broke down and admitted that Allen was raping her nearly every night, often violently.
“I went to Warren about what he is doing to me,” Elissa said, tears welling in her eyes again. “He said, ‘Go home and follow your Priesthood Head.’ ” Neither Mom nor I was at liberty to tell Elissa otherwise, especially since we were married to the Bishop and the Prophet, respectively. But when I left to go back to my home and was finally alone in my room, I threw up repeatedly, so nauseated at what Allen was doing to my little sister—and Warren’s callous disregard for the young girl’s pain and grief.
Over the next several months, Elissa spent more and more time in Mom’s room at Uncle Fred’s massive house, when she could get away with not being at her husband’s trailer. I visited, too, in order to get away from Warren, Rulon, and the morose thoughts that consumed me at home. It seemed like Warren had started tracking my every move, so I had to slip in and out as surreptitiously as possible. He started having spies at Fred’s check on me, which made me furious. I knew because I would come home and Warren would have “reports” on me—details that other people would report to him about me whenever I left the Jeffses’ estate if I wasn’t with only immediate Jeffs family members with Warren’s knowledge. It wasn’t just at Uncle Fred’s house. Soon the God Squad was watching me around town, noting my comings and goings. I was certainly not the only one the Gestapo-type guards had their eye on, but if I wasn’t where Warren thought I was supposed to be, I would hear about it.
Warren had a penchant for taking away all the things he knew gave a person joy. Soon all of my privileges had been taken. No more horses. No more four-wheeling. Warren had made sure the keepers of my keys to freedom knew to never allow me access again, at the risk of their souls.
Soon he restricted everything else near and dear to my heart, forbidding dances, operettas, plays, and even parades. From the pulpit, Warren demanded stricter rules among the people, like completely forbidding anyone to wear the color red, and reiterating that passion and pleasure in the bedroom were for men only. As holders of the Priesthood their passion was meant to fulfill God’s will. Men could have that, as far as I was concerned, but it felt like Warren was taking every last thing from the community that gave a sense of purpose or joy.
“Times have changed,” Warren said at church. “We as a people must focus on preparing. Father says we are being too light-minded. We must cut down on the laughter. We must restrict traveling for fancy and entertainment. Restrict your camping trips and remind your families that this is a time of focus and preparation.”
I didn’t want to be rebellious, but I was so tired of being controlled. If I could be involved in any activity outside the Jeffses’ home, I would ask my husband for permission. One day I asked Rulon if I could help Christine and some ladies put on a small holiday program for the seniors in the community. Although it contained music, Rulon allowed it, and Warren couldn’t override his decision. Arriving home exhausted from rehearsal one night, Christine went directly to her room, not feeling well. Heading over to check our kitchen schedule, I walked through the living room, where eight of my sister-wives, including Cecilia and Sylvia, were speaking in low voices. It seemed like cause for concern, so I quickly sat down to see what was wrong.
“I don’t like it when he touches me,” Andrea was saying. “And he’s getting really weird and demanding.”
“Yes, he is,” said another, and most of the group nodded. They were obviously talking about Rulon, who had resorted to even more bizarre behavior, if that was possible. Worse, he had lost whatever minor inhibitions he once had, and was behaving in gross and lewd ways—with no regard as to who was around while he did these things.
Sylvia explained that she and another sister-wife had been in a room with Rulon when he had started to undress her, making her go bare all the way down to the waist, and expecting her to be open to his caresses.
“I kept saying, ‘Father, no, no!’ but he kept pushing my hands away,” she said. “When the other wife went to leave, Father wouldn’t let her and demanded she stay in the room as he was doing this to me!” She burst into tears.
“I can’t stand him to touch me,” said Emma, nodding. She was one of Rulon’s newer wives. “He’s so far past childbearing age, how can he be allowed to touch me?”
“What do you think, Becky?” Diana asked.
I stood up abruptly. I had to get out of there.
“I think you guys are going to get in severe trouble! I am going, because I don’t get away with anything.” I left without saying another word. While it was a relief to know that several of my sister-wives felt as I did, I couldn’t take the chance of stirring up more trouble with Warren.
The next day flu and pneumonia hit our house and Fred’s with a vengeance. I was nursing Elissa, who was in my room, and Christine in her own. They were both so sick, I spent most of the morning running back and forth between the kitchen, the bathroom, and their rooms.
“Mother Becky, call 600.” That was Warren’s extension. I reacted with my usual Oh, what did I do now? and dialed from the kitchen phone. Warren’s voice came over the line.
“Mother Becky, I need to see you in my office.”
“Why?” I asked. “I’m in the kitchen.”
“I heard you were involved in a conversation.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I said. “I just came upon the conversation. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“You didn’t say anything?”
“Nope.”
“I want you to come talk to me right now.” He was fishing.
“I can’t. I’m getting some enemas ready for some very sick people,” I replied. It was true, but I hoped that comment would gross him out. “I’m going to have to talk to you later. I don’t have time right now.” I hung up on him, too sleep-deprived to care. Yes, I could have added plenty to the wives’ discussion, but I was determined to be a good Prophet’s wife. I might not have liked what had been dished out on my plate, but I was committed to show God that I would endure it. That day, I left the kitchen, armed with enemas, compresses, and a little more grit and determination to endure. My mother would be so proud.
CHAPTER 12
From the Frying Pan into the Fire
On the morning of September 11, 2001, my friend Samantha paged me while I was with the family waiting for breakfast prayer. Terrorists had used commercial airplanes to attack the World Trade Center and the Pentagon in the eastern part of the United States, she told me. Thousands were dying, both in the planes and in the buildings. Before we’d even had time to react, the national tragedy played right into the fears by which Warren manipulated our people.
“We should be rejoicing!” Warren annou
nced jubilantly to his father and all of us present as he bounced in for breakfast. “Terrorists are attacking the government and are leading to the weakening and demise of the evil it has become!” I had been terribly saddened by the bits and pieces of coverage filtering in, and my heart was filled with compassion for the families whose loved ones were in the planes and the towers. Was God that heartless in his plan to bring about the end of the world? That thought didn’t add much to my faith in this God. Or was it just that people were heartless—people like terrorists? People like Warren?
Every day, Warren was rescinding more of our personal freedoms. We had been a strict, God-fearing people, but we had been joyful, too. Now, fear, suspicion, and paranoia consumed the community, and it worsened as Warren pitted person against person in his power games. A vast, nearly tangible spiritual darkness seemed to settle over us all.
At home, there was no way for me to avoid Warren. He was the teacher for Good Words Class at six a.m. and Morning Class at eight a.m. and he taught his father’s wives at family class in the evening, too. He was at nearly every meal. While the house was massive, it seemed like I would run into him or get called in to his office every day. I felt smothered, unable to quietly slip out to see my family or my friend Samantha.
One rare day when I was able to sneak away from the Jeffses’ property, I went to the bike shop where my mother was having her bike repaired. I stepped inside to see that she and a young man were injecting a green, gooey slime into her tires so they wouldn’t go flat, despite the nasty goat head “stickers,” or puncture vines, prevalent throughout town. Suddenly the green goo spewed everywhere and I watched in amazement as my mother erupted into laughter. It was the first time I had seen her laugh in years! All I could think of was, God bless that young man.
His name was Benjamin Jeffs Musser. I had met him soon after I was married to Rulon, but I didn’t know him well at all. Although I was known as “Grandmother Becky” to most young people in town, Ben actually was my grandson, in that he was the grandson of Rulon and my sister-wife Ruth Jessop Jeffs. He was a tall and lanky redhead, with the most brilliant blue eyes and the longest eyelashes I had ever seen on a man. But it was his kind countenance I really noticed. As my mother no longer had any sons to help her, Ben and his brother had gone out of their way to do special things for her on several occasions. I was most grateful for how he had made her smile. How I had missed her smile—and the smiles of all the women I loved.
Several days later was I called into Warren’s office because he had “received a report” that I had been playing soccer with members of the community. Oh, I had seen the game all right. Oh, and I had longed to stop and play with three or four of my sister-wives I saw out there having a blast. And, oh, I had considered the consequences because of all the trouble I had been in, and how Warren had been clamping down on outdoor activities and sports. I had come home, only to be shamed and in distress for something I had not done when I was fighting with all my strength to do things right.
“Your reports are wrong,” I said adamantly. “I did not stop and play. I knew I would get in trouble for it, so I kept driving, and came back home to my room.”
“I’m glad you were not playing, then. Remember, there are no competitive games in Heaven.”
I nodded, hoping he was done and I could be excused. He stared at me hard for a moment. “How have you been doing at getting close to Father?” he asked.
I shot him a look. I was incapable of lying and Warren knew it. I had to drop my eyes as he began reciting to me scripture after scripture and Prophets’ quotes on obedience to your husband in every capacity.
“ ‘Wives, submit yourselves to your husbands, as unto the Lord, for he is your lord.’ ‘Wives, seek not to set in order your husbands.’ ” He went on and on…
I couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t pin something on me I hadn’t done, so he had to push the button of authority as far as sexual acquiescence and obedience to my husband. I kept my head down, biting my cheek during his twenty-minute discourse. Thoroughly pleased that he had reduced me to nothing again, he let me go.
I fled to my room to stew, but after an hour I snuck out, got permission from Nephi to borrow a family car, and drove over to Uncle Fred’s, where I stormed angrily into my mother’s room. Her door was already open, and as soon as I had shut it behind me to ensure I was out of earshot of Fred’s family, I began whispering angrily.
“You would not believe what that big jerk said to me today, Mom! Warren is now dictating that I—”
My mother gave me a mortified look and frantically motioned around the corner. I’d had no idea that Ben Musser was in her room, putting up some shelving for her. Immediately I was struck dumb, not just with embarrassment but with fear. Warren had his spies everywhere.
Ben just smiled at me, then went back to work. I left for home not long after to await the fallout. But Ben never betrayed me—he just kept showing up to help my mother. I blessed him again for his character and integrity. Anyone else would have run straight to Warren in the hopes of getting into his good graces so he wouldn’t be crucified himself.
In the meantime, our people in Canada were facing a variety of challenges. Calls from Amelia in Bountiful, as well as reports that Warren would read to Rulon, kept us abreast of what was happening. A few years in a row, resources had been scarce, and Winston was testing the mettle of his people so that they would be ready to endure the end of the world, the destruction of governments, and all of Warren’s doomsday predictions. Amelia and her family had to survive temperatures below zero with no electricity, no gas, and little wood. Food was rationed as if a famine existed. They were growing weak.
Mom and I sent extra supplies of material, diapers, vitamins, and simple things like hair spray, which we brought in cases to the Jeffses’ property; FLDS women used so much to strictly maintain the tidy yet elaborate styles that were encouraged by Warren and the rest of the FLDS leaders. Mom and I weren’t allowed to compromise their fast, so we sent no food. I was furious with Winston, especially because the last time I had seen him, he was no thinner than before. He and his wives and his children did not appear weak or emaciated like Amelia and the rest of the people. I loved many of Winston’s wives, and I was sure that watching their relatives suffer was just as painful for them as it was for us.
During the spring of 2002, the following year, Warren and Winston had a great falling-out. Although they had been strong allies for quite some time, both were young leaders with greatly developed egos, and they had begun to battle for control of the church. Now Winston had found a weak spot. After the world did not end in 1999, Warren had foretold the destruction of the earth at a time when all eyes would be on Salt Lake City for the Olympics: February 8 through 24, 2002. He said it would be fitting for the Lord to plan it then, when so much attention was being placed on the Mormon faith. God would smite the apostates and the wicked together, showing once and for all that the Celestial Law was the only pure law upon the earth!
Once the Olympics had come and gone, most of the people were placated—and relieved—by Warren’s similar pronouncement that we were “too wicked to be lifted up” and the Lord had granted us time to repent again. I couldn’t help but agree as Winston pointed out the number of times Warren had wrongly prophesied the destruction of the earth. He also publicly called Warren out for usurping authority from the Prophet. Like the Barlow boys, Winston had had direct access to the Prophet until Rulon’s stroke, access that had been cut off as Rulon’s health deteriorated. Winston had been forced to go through Warren to get any answers, and he was no dummy.
When we heard about Winston’s pronouncements, we were all shocked, as we had been frozen into a state of mere survival. The bishop could say things firmly and boldly, with the buffer of the hundreds of physical miles between him and Warren, and his own seat of power firmly set in Canada. I don’t think Winston was fully aware of Rulon’s compromised mental state, or how much power Warren had gained over the local people.
Warren told Winston it was the Prophet’s will that he was out, stripped of his title and membership. It was clear who was winning in Short Creek—no one had the courage or authority to question the Prophet’s son. But our relatives in British Columbia were faced with a very uncomfortable dilemma: Warren or Winston?
I was alarmed for our people and especially concerned for Amelia and Brittany. As a student of FLDS history, I knew that it was generally the families and the children who suffered most when people were forced to choose one leader over another. Just like the battle over “one-man rule” that had ripped families apart, I knew this wasn’t just a battle over personalities. It was a bloody, spiritual civil war.
Rulon struggled through another series of ministrokes. His health situation was dire, and Warren mandated that my sister-wives and I stay with him 24/7. Once again we were on house arrest, left to stay with our husband while we fasted and prayed for his recovery. Warren pounded into our heads that it was our immoral desires and lack of fervent prayer keeping him ill. We had to be more righteous in our prayers, fasting, and suffering.
Warren and Rulon ate, while the rest of us fasted, having only sips of water, weak tea, or apple juice. I felt like we were the Egyptian wives of the Pharaoh, doomed to be buried alive until we perished alongside our husband. The Jeffses’ home already felt like a tomb, and wherever I turned in the gloomy corridors, the darkened, sunken eyes of my sister-wives stared back at me. Several of the ladies started fainting and having severe digestive and other health problems. We spent as much time in nursing one another as we did attempting to nurse Rulon.
The Witness Wore Red: The 19th Wife Who Brought Polygamous Cult Leaders to Justice Page 16
