Insidiously, when men would disappear without their wives or families, people were unsure if they had “made it to Zion” or if they had undergone Blood Atonement, a term Warren bandied about as a holy way for a man to absolve an otherwise unpardonable sin. It was a Priesthood ordinance that involved ritually giving up one’s life at the hands of a Priesthood official. The details had to remain secret, however, because of the ramifications of the law for murder. The mystery surrounding the disappearance and the mention of this ordinance also caused people to be strictly obedient in fear for their lives.
It was this secrecy that compelled me to take action. If Ora was so faithful she had made it to Zion, I doubted her disappearance would have caused such a stir and so many calls. I had to be sure. If the roles were reversed, I hoped she would do the same for me.
In Eldorado, Texas, a tiny town of three thousand inhabitants over 1,100 miles and seventeen hours from Short Creek, Randy and Kathy Mankin, a couple who owned a local newspaper, reported a new FLDS development just north of town. The Eldorado Success had reported that the FLDS had bought land through my cousin, David Allred, and had begun building what David called a “hunting retreat.” Intrigued, Kathy had begun flying over the property to take photos, and from her pictures and the local residents’ reports of bulldozers and construction into all hours of the night, she had deduced that the FLDS was actually building a large, self-sustaining compound. In the spring of 2004, a series of ten-thousand-square-foot buildings sprang up almost overnight on the property. Kathy’s reports had made national news, or Ben and I would probably not have known about it. Warren had kept it so secret that most of the people in Short Creek were clueless about it.
Under a lot of public pressure, David Allred was forced to admit that the land wasn’t ever intended as a hunting retreat but as a small residential compound. He said two hundred members were living there, and that the secrecy had been an attempt to stave off the media frenzy surrounding the FLDS.
The name of the property listed with the Texas secretary of state was YFZ, LLC. The acronym stood for “Yearning for Zion,” the title and line from a church hymn I remembered as being one of Warren’s favorites. People from the local community were very concerned. The Waco tragedy that had occurred at the Branch Davidian compound a decade before was only a couple of hundred miles away. Kathy began an intensive investigation, some of which she and Randy shared with their community. I realized that because of the remote location, and the fact that the local minimum age for marriage was fourteen, Warren had found himself a little spot of Heaven.
I’d heard enough to realize I might find Ora there in Texas. However, tracking her down would mean contacting the authorities. Just the word made me tremble. How many times had I been taught of their wicked cruelty and the genocide they wanted to commit upon my people? I gathered as much courage as I could, and called the Texas attorney general’s office. I got the runaround until someone finally referred me to the Schleicher County sheriff’s office.
“I’m concerned about some people living close to you there…,” I began, being purposefully vague. “I have a family member—one that may be in protective custody. Or at least I hope she is. Her name is Ora Bernice Jeffs, or Bonnie. We called her ‘Ora.’ Would you know anything about her?”
Across the line came the voice of a Texan who knew his business. Although the FLDS were newcomers to this area, Sheriff David Doran had studied up on my people and had even traveled to Short Creek to meet them and talk with local, state, and federal law enforcement. In his measured drawl, he asked me if Ora was FLDS, and mentioned that he had visited the ranch in person in an attempt to establish a relationship with them. “I essentially went out to welcome them and get to know them,” Doran said. “I brought Ranger Brooks Long and a book of Texas law to the leaders there. We said, ‘As long as you keep to these laws, y’all are welcomed here.’ ”
I was impressed by his careful research, and found myself strangely trusting this officer of the law. Having read up on Officer Rodney Holm’s bigamy and sex charges from 2003 that had put FLDS underage marriages in the spotlight, Doran realized Warren was looking for a place away from prying eyes. But he wasn’t ready to believe anything I said at face value.
He was testing me. I wasn’t offended. I was testing him, too.
“I notice there are never any women present when I go out to the ranch,” he said. “But Kathy Mankin and Judge David Doyle and a few others have snapped some pictures during flyovers. If you are at your computer, I can e-mail some and see if you recognize Ora in any of them.” My heart beat rapidly, and I knew I had a choice—to risk or not to risk. It took courage, but I finally gave him my real name and e-mail address.
When I saw the photos, my heart melted. Someone had captured a couple of pictures of women working the ranch garden before they ran inside. In one photo, I recognized Asenath, and in another the beautiful, silvery-white hair of Mother Gloria, poking out of her straw sun hat. How I missed her! It seemed that no matter how much time went by, my heart still longed for my people—and for them to be free.
Gingerly I asked, “Do you ever talk to any of them?”
“We see a few of the men in town,” he replied carefully.
I was sorely disappointed not to discover anything more about Ora’s whereabouts, but I filed an official missing person report with the sheriff. It took an even bigger risk to give out all of the personal information required on a missing person report, but Sheriff Doran gave me his word that anything I said was off-limits to other agencies and investigators.
Some months went by; then Doran called with some additional questions. The Mankins had reported that building on the Texas YFZ compound was continuing at a feverish pace, and people in the surrounding community were increasingly anxious. Then he asked me about a possible temple.
A temple! My mind recalled scriptures as ancient as the Old Testament, concerning the proud and beautiful Temple of Solomon, wherein lay the Ark of the Covenant; the very dwelling place of God. Brought back into Christian practice in the LDS church during Joseph Smith’s time of the Saints, temples had been meant as pure and holy places to seal families together here and in Heaven. I told the sheriff that the sacred ordinances and covenants necessary for FLDS eternal salvation were meant to be made within the walls of a temple, and our people had dreamed of having our very own again. At the thought of such a building sprouting up in the Texas desert, I was actually happy for them. Perhaps a temple could bring the people hope and pride, and be a catalyst for positive and lasting change.
After that conversation, the sheriff checked in with me at least once a month. Although I was always careful with my words, I gave him honest answers. I was careful neither to exaggerate nor to extrapolate from my experiences, and I was open about the peculiarities of my people. Sheriff Doran could tell that I still considered the FLDS my family and loved them. When he gave me news about people dear to my heart, he could hear genuine delight in my voice.
I was grateful for the sheriff’s information, but I didn’t have a lot of time to speculate on what was happening in Short Creek or anywhere else. As soon as Kyle started crawling, Ben and I knew we were in trouble. It was obvious from the trail of scattered home and toy remnants that our son could take nearly anything apart. He was incredibly smart, and it was a full-time job just keeping up with him. Parenthood had been as life-changing for Ben as for me. While it was so rewarding, we were constantly asking ourselves, Are we doing it right?
That summer of 2004, Elissa came to visit. She had finally left Allen and was determined to start a new life. That was a huge step, and her courage made me proud. She had gotten involved with a young man named Lamont in the process of getting divorced from Allen, and she seemed genuinely happy for the first time in years. Cole and I spent some tender time with her and had many candid conversations that were healing for all of us.
Still, as Cole and I learned more details of her situation with Allen, we became bitterly angry. Just
as Warren had controlled the intimate activities of his father’s wives, he was controlling what happened in the bedrooms of all his people. Even after I had left he had admonished Elissa to “submit” to Allen sexually, and he didn’t consider Allen’s violence against her to be rape. At the end of her visit, Cole talked to Elissa about pressing charges against Warren and Allen. Law enforcement in Arizona was already putting a lot of pressure on her. She was now eighteen and didn’t have to worry about getting Mom and Dad’s permission, which they never would have granted. Although in our minds it was grossly apparent that someone had to do something, Elissa was reticent, and we couldn’t blame her.
That September, I received a call from my uncle Dan Fischer, from Salt Lake. Uncle Dan was well loved among those who had left the Work, because he had boldly sought to assist those wronged by Warren Jeffs and the FLDS leadership. He had taken in countless lost boys and assisted Carolyn Jessop and her children with their frightening escape. Over the phone, Dan gave me a short update on recent human rights violations in Short Creek and other FLDS enclaves.
“Becky,” he said soberly, “it’s been said that ‘all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.’ You and I, we know what’s going on among our people. We know who is behind it. He will flourish unless we stand up.”
He was right. But I remained silent on my end of the line. It was one thing to depart from the church, and quite another to stand up to the tyranny of its leaders.
“Becky, when anyone leaves, their hearts are so tender. They don’t want to hurt anyone. When they finally get past their own hurt, and start to live and to educate themselves, they begin to realize the atrocities that happened to them and others. Once they’re in a strong enough position to realize they could do something about it, however, it’s past the statute of limitations.”
I gasped. He was right.
“We have the opportunity to do something,” Dan stated emphatically. “This is not about being hateful toward Warren. It’s about stopping the atrocities.”
Dan told me that Warren had skipped town amid allegations that he had repeatedly raped his nephew, Brent Jeffs, a boy we both knew. He was Ben’s cousin, and I remembered him as a young, sweet kid. Brent had bravely come forward with information against Warren, along with several other young men. Strangely, some of the other accusers had died, either by suicide or under suspicious circumstances. I thought of the young men I had taught and of the young girls who had been hurt by Warren. Reports said that Warren was still sneaking into town to perform marriages, and sneaking back out in different vehicles, making sure his presence loomed large enough to keep some of the townspeople in fear of going to the authorities, and to make everyone feel that they needed to stay on his good side.
I wanted to help but wasn’t sure I had anything that would stand up in court. I was also afraid of being forced into something. Despite my respect for Sheriff Doran, my distrust for all other law enforcement and government officials lingered.
Before we hung up, Dan told me about Joanne Suder, an exceptional lawyer in Baltimore who had successfully prosecuted cases against religious leaders who overstepped their boundaries, namely some officials in the Catholic Church. She was coming to Utah, and he assured me she was very warm and professional. On his assurances, I traveled to Salt Lake to meet with her, and she was everything he had said—respectful, kind, considerate of my rights and desires. She seemed brilliant and exceptionally fair as she asked a lot of deep, probing questions and gave me clear-cut options for what I might pursue to protect my mother and my little sisters.
I had good reason to be worried about them. Shortly before her sixteenth birthday, Amber Jessop, a young girl I had known from Short Creek, simply poofed in the middle of the night. Her sister Suzanne couldn’t get her parents to divulge where she’d gone. Later Suzanne got one call from Amber, saying she was on a ranch in Texas and up early to feed the chickens. “You know that I’ve been married, don’t you?” she said, but wouldn’t reveal who her husband was. That November, Amber called Suzanne again, this time frightened and unhappy. She admitted she was the bride of Warren Jeffs and was in Short Creek. She said she wanted to escape. Suzanne tried to help her, but their parents pressured Suzanne to stay quiet. Local police who didn’t want to cause a stir said because their parents reported that Amber was “fine” they wouldn’t pursue it. I realized nothing had changed in Short Creek, and that made me afraid for my little sisters. Though they didn’t seem in immediate danger, there were times I felt as helpless as Suzanne.
That fall, Ben had visited a town in Idaho, where he saw significant growth and opportunity in construction. He decided we should live there. Before we packed up, however, he asked me to take care of some unfinished business.
On November 7, 2004, Ben and I were married at the Cedar Grill. They had an elegant, winding staircase, which I descended in a lovely white dress, into a room Michelle had decorated beautifully.
I knew I should have been gloriously happy. Still, doubts kept nagging at me. Ben partied almost every night. It made him happy, but since I had no desire to participate, we had drifted apart emotionally.
I pushed these thoughts aside and did my best to enjoy the night’s celebrations. For our honeymoon we went to Newport, Oregon, before returning home to Kyle. Immediately Ben moved to Fruitland to begin working, while Kyle and I stayed in Coos Bay to finish Christmas Opry and to give Dr. Bob time to find a replacement for me to train before I left. As Kyle and I crossed the border into Idaho on New Year’s Day 2005, I prayed it would be a fresh, new start for our family. I gave my close Oregon friends my new number, and with a prayer of hope, I decided to leave it with Sheriff Doran as well.
Late in the evening of January 19, my mother called out of the blue. We had spoken very rarely, as the only safe way for me to contact her now was through Amelia, and that had only happened on one or two rare occasions. She assured us she was happy but could give us no more information. I was so surprised and delighted to hear from her. I readied myself for her usual judgmental comments, but this time her voice was soft and tender. She began talking about Kyle, telling me not to work too hard, and to avoid raising him in day care because he needed his mommy.
Her message seemed especially sweet and nurturing. I had missed being able to throw myself into her arms for comfort when life got hard. I missed our talks and our laughter. I thought perhaps she was finally accepting my choices as a wife and mother and giving me her blessing. I hung up the phone, holding it against my chest for a moment before setting it back in its cradle.
A week later Amelia called me, panicked. She had phoned Uncle Fred’s house, as usual, asking for Mother Sharon.
“Mother Sharon?” a high and sweet voice responded. “There’s no Mother Sharon here.” Amelia had shaken her head, looked at the number, and dialed it again. Once again, she received the same answer, so she had me call.
“You must have the wrong number. We’ve never had a Mother Sharon here,” I was told. Now, that was disconcerting.
Anxiously, Amelia and I both called people who might have known where Mom was, but to no avail. For a couple of very anxious weeks, my siblings and I tried contacting different friends and relatives. Amelia was the only one who could do so without setting off alarms. She tried talking to my mother’s former coworkers and her friends in town, and she even sent some friends to visit “Mother Sharon” at her former home. The FLDS had always been closemouthed, but usually someone would let something slip. But now Mom, Sherrie, and Allyson were all gone. POOF!
I was beside myself with worry. On Valentine’s Day 2005, I filed missing person reports for the three of them. After years of mostly trying to remove myself emotionally from the drama of Short Creek, I now kept my ear to the ground to catch any news I could. I cried many nights, wondering: Were they in one of Warren’s houses of hiding? Had they made it to “Zion”? Were they being auctioned off in political trade for some old man’s pleasure?
From bit
s of news and scuttlebutt, I gathered Warren was still on the run from Brent’s lawsuit, but many of the people felt that he must be spending a large portion of his time on the YFZ ranch. Authorities in the United States and British Columbia had continued to collect criminal evidence against him. Jon Krakauer, the author who explored Mormon extremism in the book Under the Banner of Heaven, had been quoted in the Eldorado Success saying, “I don’t know whether it will happen in a week or in a month or in six months, but I am confident that a felony warrant will soon be issued for Warren’s arrest, which is going to make him afraid to venture beyond the YFZ gates. It also means, for better or worse, that Eldorado is going to be ground zero in the effort to bring Warren to justice.” To me, those were very sobering words. Texans were not the only ones with lingering nightmares of Waco.
The week before, Sheriff Doran and Schleicher County appraisal district personnel had measured new buildings but were denied access to the temple site. The two new buildings that they documented, one a meeting hall and the other a residence, were each larger than twenty-eight-thousand square feet. All of the homes were built in a very handsome, log-cabin style, while the commercial buildings and trailers were much plainer.
Warren had turned the efforts of the faithful toward building a temple at the YFZ, as he was the only one with the authority to direct such projects. Within days of the New Year, furious and frenzied construction began, often going twenty-four hours a day and using the labor of FLDS members from as far away as Canada. Within one month of what appeared to be dedication of the grounds, the structure was totally up and framed in. Randy Mankin used a photo to determine a rough estimate of the size of the temple foundation, and guessed that it closely mirrored the original Mormon temple in Nauvoo, Illinois.
The Witness Wore Red: The 19th Wife Who Brought Polygamous Cult Leaders to Justice Page 23
